Don Quixote (tr John Ormsby)
by Cervantes
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Go to Part 2 of 4

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

I: ABOUT THIS TRANSLATION

It was with considerable reluctance that I abandoned in favour of
the present undertaking what had long been a favourite project: that
of a new edition of Shelton's "Don Quixote," which has now become a
somewhat scarce book. There are some- and I confess myself to be
one- for whom Shelton's racy old version, with all its defects, has
a charm that no modern translation, however skilful or correct,
could possess. Shelton had the inestimable advantage of belonging to
the same generation as Cervantes; "Don Quixote" had to him a
vitality that only a contemporary could feel; it cost him no
dramatic effort to see things as Cervantes saw them; there is no
anachronism in his language; he put the Spanish of Cervantes into
the English of Shakespeare. Shakespeare himself most likely knew the
book; he may have carried it home with him in his saddle-bags to
Stratford on one of his last journeys, and under the mulberry tree
at New Place joined hands with a kindred genius in its pages.

But it was soon made plain to me that to hope for even a moderate
popularity for Shelton was vain. His fine old crusted English would,
no doubt, be relished by a minority, but it would be only by a
minority. His warmest admirers must admit that he is not a
satisfactory representative of Cervantes. His translation of the First
Part was very hastily made and was never revised by him. It has all
the freshness and vigour, but also a full measure of the faults, of
a hasty production. It is often very literal- barbarously literal
frequently- but just as often very loose. He had evidently a good
colloquial knowledge of Spanish, but apparently not much more. It
never seems to occur to him that the same translation of a word will
not suit in every case.

It is often said that we have no satisfactory translation of "Don
Quixote." To those who are familiar with the original, it savours of
truism or platitude to say so, for in truth there can be no thoroughly
satisfactory translation of "Don Quixote" into English or any other
language. It is not that the Spanish idioms are so utterly
unmanageable, or that the untranslatable words, numerous enough no
doubt, are so superabundant, but rather that the sententious terseness
to which the humour of the book owes its flavour is peculiar to
Spanish, and can at best be only distantly imitated in any other
tongue.

The history of our English translations of "Don Quixote" is
instructive. Shelton's, the first in any language, was made,
apparently, about 1608, but not published till 1612. This of course
was only the First Part. It has been asserted that the Second,
published in 1620, is not the work of Shelton, but there is nothing to
support the assertion save the fact that it has less spirit, less of
what we generally understand by "go," about it than the first, which
would be only natural if the first were the work of a young man
writing currente calamo, and the second that of a middle-aged man
writing for a bookseller. On the other hand, it is closer and more
literal, the style is the same, the very same translations, or
mistranslations, occur in it, and it is extremely unlikely that a
new translator would, by suppressing his name, have allowed Shelton to
carry off the credit.

In 1687 John Phillips, Milton's nephew, produced a "Don Quixote"
"made English," he says, "according to the humour of our modern
language." His "Quixote" is not so much a translation as a travesty,
and a travesty that for coarseness, vulgarity, and buffoonery is
almost unexampled even in the literature of that day.

Ned Ward's "Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote, merrily
translated into Hudibrastic Verse" (1700), can scarcely be reckoned
a translation, but it serves to show the light in which "Don
Quixote" was regarded at the time.

A further illustration may be found in the version published in 1712
by Peter Motteux, who had then recently combined tea-dealing with
literature. It is described as "translated from the original by
several hands," but if so all Spanish flavour has entirely
evaporated under the manipulation of the several hands. The flavour
that it has, on the other hand, is distinctly Franco-cockney. Anyone
who compares it carefully with the original will have little doubt
that it is a concoction from Shelton and the French of Filleau de
Saint Martin, eked out by borrowings from Phillips, whose mode of
treatment it adopts. It is, to be sure, more decent and decorous,
but it treats "Don Quixote" in the same fashion as a comic book that
cannot be made too comic.

To attempt to improve the humour of "Don Quixote" by an infusion
of cockney flippancy and facetiousness, as Motteux's operators did, is
not merely an impertinence like larding a sirloin of prize beef, but
an absolute falsification of the spirit of the book, and it is a proof
of the uncritical way in which "Don Quixote" is generally read that
this worse than worthless translation -worthless as failing to
represent, worse than worthless as misrepresenting- should have been
favoured as it has been.

It had the effect, however, of bringing out a translation undertaken
and executed in a very different spirit, that of Charles Jervas, the
portrait painter, and friend of Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and Gay.
Jervas has been allowed little credit for his work, indeed it may be
said none, for it is known to the world in general as Jarvis's. It was
not published until after his death, and the printers gave the name
according to the current pronunciation of the day. It has been the
most freely used and the most freely abused of all the translations.
It has seen far more editions than any other, it is admitted on all
hands to be by far the most faithful, and yet nobody seems to have a
good word to say for it or for its author. Jervas no doubt
prejudiced readers against himself in his preface, where among many
true words about Shelton, Stevens, and Motteux, he rashly and unjustly
charges Shelton with having translated not from the Spanish, but
from the Italian version of Franciosini, which did not appear until
ten years after Shelton's first volume. A suspicion of incompetence,
too, seems to have attached to him because he was by profession a
painter and a mediocre one (though he has given us the best portrait
we have of Swift), and this may have been strengthened by Pope's
remark that he "translated 'Don Quixote' without understanding
Spanish." He has been also charged with borrowing from Shelton, whom
he disparaged. It is true that in a few difficult or obscure
passages he has followed Shelton, and gone astray with him; but for
one case of this sort, there are fifty where he is right and Shelton
wrong. As for Pope's dictum, anyone who examines Jervas's version
carefully, side by side with the original, will see that he was a
sound Spanish scholar, incomparably a better one than Shelton,
except perhaps in mere colloquial Spanish. He was, in fact, an honest,
faithful, and painstaking translator, and he has left a version which,
whatever its shortcomings may be, is singularly free from errors and
mistranslations.

The charge against it is that it is stiff, dry- "wooden" in a word,-
and no one can deny that there is a foundation for it. But it may be
pleaded for Jervas that a good deal of this rigidity is due to his
abhorrence of the light, flippant, jocose style of his predecessors.
He was one of the few, very few, translators that have shown any
apprehension of the unsmiling gravity which is the essence of Quixotic
humour; it seemed to him a crime to bring Cervantes forward smirking
and grinning at his own good things, and to this may be attributed
in a great measure the ascetic abstinence from everything savouring of
liveliness which is the characteristic of his translation. In most
modern editions, it should be observed, his style has been smoothed
and smartened, but without any reference to the original Spanish, so
that if he has been made to read more agreeably he has also been
robbed of his chief merit of fidelity.

Smollett's version, published in 1755, may be almost counted as
one of these. At any rate it is plain that in its construction
Jervas's translation was very freely drawn upon, and very little or
probably no heed given to the original Spanish.

The later translations may be dismissed in a few words. George
Kelly's, which appeared in 1769, "printed for the Translator," was
an impudent imposture, being nothing more than Motteux's version
with a few of the words, here and there, artfully transposed;
Charles Wilmot's (1774) was only an abridgment like Florian's, but not
so skilfully executed; and the version published by Miss Smirke in
1818, to accompany her brother's plates, was merely a patchwork
production made out of former translations. On the latest, Mr. A. J.
Duffield's, it would be in every sense of the word impertinent in me
to offer an opinion here. I had not even seen it when the present
undertaking was proposed to me, and since then I may say vidi
tantum, having for obvious reasons resisted the temptation which Mr.
Duffield's reputation and comely volumes hold out to every lover of
Cervantes.

From the foregoing history of our translations of "Don Quixote,"
it will be seen that there are a good many people who, provided they
get the mere narrative with its full complement of facts, incidents,
and adventures served up to them in a form that amuses them, care very
little whether that form is the one in which Cervantes originally
shaped his ideas. On the other hand, it is clear that there are many
who desire to have not merely the story he tells, but the story as
he tells it, so far at least as differences of idiom and circumstances
permit, and who will give a preference to the conscientious
translator, even though he may have acquitted himself somewhat
awkwardly.

But after all there is no real antagonism between the two classes;
there is no reason why what pleases the one should not please the
other, or why a translator who makes it his aim to treat "Don Quixote"
with the respect due to a great classic, should not be as acceptable
even to the careless reader as the one who treats it as a famous old
jest-book. It is not a question of caviare to the general, or, if it
is, the fault rests with him who makes so. The method by which
Cervantes won the ear of the Spanish people ought, mutatis mutandis,
to be equally effective with the great majority of English readers. At
any rate, even if there are readers to whom it is a matter of
indifference, fidelity to the method is as much a part of the
translator's duty as fidelity to the matter. If he can please all
parties, so much the better; but his first duty is to those who look
to him for as faithful a representation of his author as it is in
his power to give them, faithful to the letter so long as fidelity
is practicable, faithful to the spirit so far as he can make it.

My purpose here is not to dogmatise on the rules of translation, but
to indicate those I have followed, or at least tried to the best of my
ability to follow, in the present instance. One which, it seems to me,
cannot be too rigidly followed in translating "Don Quixote," is to
avoid everything that savours of affectation. The book itself is,
indeed, in one sense a protest against it, and no man abhorred it more
than Cervantes. For this reason, I think, any temptation to use
antiquated or obsolete language should be resisted. It is after all an
affectation, and one for which there is no warrant or excuse.
Spanish has probably undergone less change since the seventeenth
century than any language in Europe, and by far the greater and
certainly the best part of "Don Quixote" differs but little in
language from the colloquial Spanish of the present day. Except in the
tales and Don Quixote's speeches, the translator who uses the simplest
and plainest everyday language will almost always be the one who
approaches nearest to the original.

Seeing that the story of "Don Quixote" and all its characters and
incidents have now been for more than two centuries and a half
familiar as household words in English mouths, it seems to me that the
old familiar names and phrases should not be changed without good
reason. Of course a translator who holds that "Don Quixote" should
receive the treatment a great classic deserves, will feel himself
bound by the injunction laid upon the Morisco in Chap. IX not to
omit or add anything.

II: ABOUT CERVANTES AND DON QUIXOTE

Four generations had laughed over "Don Quixote" before it occurred
to anyone to ask, who and what manner of man was this Miguel de
Cervantes Saavedra whose name is on the title-page; and it was too
late for a satisfactory answer to the question when it was proposed to
add a life of the author to the London edition published at Lord
Carteret's instance in 1738. All traces of the personality of
Cervantes had by that time disappeared. Any floating traditions that
may once have existed, transmitted from men who had known him, had
long since died out, and of other record there was none; for the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were incurious as to "the men of
the time," a reproach against which the nineteenth has, at any rate,
secured itself, if it has produced no Shakespeare or Cervantes. All
that Mayans y Siscar, to whom the task was entrusted, or any of
those who followed him, Rios, Pellicer, or Navarrete, could do was
to eke out the few allusions Cervantes makes to himself in his various
prefaces with such pieces of documentary evidence bearing upon his
life as they could find.

This, however, has been done by the last-named biographer to such
good purpose that he has superseded all predecessors. Thoroughness
is the chief characteristic of Navarrete's work. Besides sifting,
testing, and methodising with rare patience and judgment what had been
previously brought to light, he left, as the saying is, no stone
unturned under which anything to illustrate his subject might possibly
be found. Navarrete has done all that industry and acumen could do,
and it is no fault of his if he has not given us what we want. What
Hallam says of Shakespeare may be applied to the almost parallel
case of Cervantes: "It is not the register of his baptism, or the
draft of his will, or the orthography of his name that we seek; no
letter of his writing, no record of his conversation, no character
of him drawn ... by a contemporary has been produced."

It is only natural, therefore, that the biographers of Cervantes,
forced to make brick without straw, should have recourse largely to
conjecture, and that conjecture should in some instances come by
degrees to take the place of established fact. All that I propose to
do here is to separate what is matter of fact from what is matter of
conjecture, and leave it to the reader's judgment to decide whether
the data justify the inference or not.

The men whose names by common consent stand in the front rank of
Spanish literature, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Quevedo, Calderon,
Garcilaso de la Vega, the Mendozas, Gongora, were all men of ancient
families, and, curiously, all, except the last, of families that
traced their origin to the same mountain district in the North of
Spain. The family of Cervantes is commonly said to have been of
Galician origin, and unquestionably it was in possession of lands in
Galicia at a very early date; but I think the balance of the
evidence tends to show that the "solar," the original site of the
family, was at Cervatos in the north-west corner of Old Castile, close
to the junction of Castile, Leon, and the Asturias. As it happens,
there is a complete history of the Cervantes family from the tenth
century down to the seventeenth extant under the title of "Illustrious
Ancestry, Glorious Deeds, and Noble Posterity of the Famous Nuno
Alfonso, Alcaide of Toledo," written in 1648 by the industrious
genealogist Rodrigo Mendez Silva, who availed himself of a
manuscript genealogy by Juan de Mena, the poet laureate and
historiographer of John II.

The origin of the name Cervantes is curious. Nuno Alfonso was almost
as distinguished in the struggle against the Moors in the reign of
Alfonso VII as the Cid had been half a century before in that of
Alfonso VI, and was rewarded by divers grants of land in the
neighbourhood of Toledo. On one of his acquisitions, about two leagues
from the city, he built himself a castle which he called Cervatos,
because "he was lord of the solar of Cervatos in the Montana," as
the mountain region extending from the Basque Provinces to Leon was
always called. At his death in battle in 1143, the castle passed by
his will to his son Alfonso Munio, who, as territorial or local
surnames were then coming into vogue in place of the simple
patronymic, took the additional name of Cervatos. His eldest son Pedro
succeeded him in the possession of the castle, and followed his
example in adopting the name, an assumption at which the younger
son, Gonzalo, seems to have taken umbrage.

Everyone who has paid even a flying visit to Toledo will remember
the ruined castle that crowns the hill above the spot where the bridge
of Alcantara spans the gorge of the Tagus, and with its broken outline
and crumbling walls makes such an admirable pendant to the square
solid Alcazar towering over the city roofs on the opposite side. It
was built, or as some say restored, by Alfonso VI shortly after his
occupation of Toledo in 1085, and called by him San Servando after a
Spanish martyr, a name subsequently modified into San Servan (in which
form it appears in the "Poem of the Cid"), San Servantes, and San
Cervantes: with regard to which last the "Handbook for Spain" warns
its readers against the supposition that it has anything to do with
the author of "Don Quixote." Ford, as all know who have taken him
for a companion and counsellor on the roads of Spain, is seldom
wrong in matters of literature or history. In this instance,
however, he is in error. It has everything to do with the author of
"Don Quixote," for it is in fact these old walls that have given to
Spain the name she is proudest of to-day. Gonzalo, above mentioned, it
may be readily conceived, did not relish the appropriation by his
brother of a name to which he himself had an equal right, for though
nominally taken from the castle, it was in reality derived from the
ancient territorial possession of the family, and as a set-off, and to
distinguish himself (diferenciarse) from his brother, he took as a
surname the name of the castle on the bank of the Tagus, in the
building of which, according to a family tradition, his
great-grandfather had a share.

Both brothers founded families. The Cervantes branch had more
tenacity; it sent offshoots in various directions, Andalusia,
Estremadura, Galicia, and Portugal, and produced a goodly line of
men distinguished in the service of Church and State. Gonzalo himself,
and apparently a son of his, followed Ferdinand III in the great
campaign of 1236-48 that gave Cordova and Seville to Christian Spain
and penned up the Moors in the kingdom of Granada, and his descendants
intermarried with some of the noblest families of the Peninsula and
numbered among them soldiers, magistrates, and Church dignitaries,
including at least two cardinal-archbishops.

Of the line that settled in Andalusia, Deigo de Cervantes,
Commander of the Order of Santiago, married Juana Avellaneda, daughter
of Juan Arias de Saavedra, and had several sons, of whom one was
Gonzalo Gomez, Corregidor of Jerez and ancestor of the Mexican and
Columbian branches of the family; and another, Juan, whose son Rodrigo
married Dona Leonor de Cortinas, and by her had four children,
Rodrigo, Andrea, Luisa, and Miguel, our author.

The pedigree of Cervantes is not without its bearing on "Don
Quixote." A man who could look back upon an ancestry of genuine
knights-errant extending from well-nigh the time of Pelayo to the
siege of Granada was likely to have a strong feeling on the subject of
the sham chivalry of the romances. It gives a point, too, to what he
says in more than one place about families that have once been great
and have tapered away until they have come to nothing, like a pyramid.
It was the case of his own.

He was born at Alcala de Henares and baptised in the church of Santa
Maria Mayor on the 9th of October, 1547. Of his boyhood and youth we
know nothing, unless it be from the glimpse he gives us in the preface
to his "Comedies" of himself as a boy looking on with delight while
Lope de Rueda and his company set up their rude plank stage in the
plaza and acted the rustic farces which he himself afterwards took
as the model of his interludes. This first glimpse, however, is a
significant one, for it shows the early development of that love of
the drama which exercised such an influence on his life and seems to
have grown stronger as he grew older, and of which this very
preface, written only a few months before his death, is such a
striking proof. He gives us to understand, too, that he was a great
reader in his youth; but of this no assurance was needed, for the
First Part of "Don Quixote" alone proves a vast amount of
miscellaneous reading, romances of chivalry, ballads, popular
poetry, chronicles, for which he had no time or opportunity except
in the first twenty years of his life; and his misquotations and
mistakes in matters of detail are always, it may be noticed, those
of a man recalling the reading of his boyhood.

Other things besides the drama were in their infancy when
Cervantes was a boy. The period of his boyhood was in every way a
transition period for Spain. The old chivalrous Spain had passed away.
The new Spain was the mightiest power the world had seen since the
Roman Empire and it had not yet been called upon to pay the price of
its greatness. By the policy of Ferdinand and Ximenez the sovereign
had been made absolute, and the Church and Inquisition adroitly
adjusted to keep him so. The nobles, who had always resisted
absolutism as strenuously as they had fought the Moors, had been
divested of all political power, a like fate had befallen the
cities, the free constitutions of Castile and Aragon had been swept
away, and the only function that remained to the Cortes was that of
granting money at the King's dictation.

The transition extended to literature. Men who, like Garcilaso de la
Vega and Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, followed the Italian wars, had
brought back from Italy the products of the post-Renaissance
literature, which took root and flourished and even threatened to
extinguish the native growths. Damon and Thyrsis, Phyllis and Chloe
had been fairly naturalised in Spain, together with all the devices of
pastoral poetry for investing with an air of novelty the idea of a
dispairing shepherd and inflexible shepherdess. As a set-off against
this, the old historical and traditional ballads, and the true
pastorals, the songs and ballads of peasant life, were being collected
assiduously and printed in the cancioneros that succeeded one
another with increasing rapidity. But the most notable consequence,
perhaps, of the spread of printing was the flood of romances of
chivalry that had continued to pour from the press ever since Garci
Ordonez de Montalvo had resuscitated "Amadis of Gaul" at the beginning
of the century.

For a youth fond of reading, solid or light, there could have been
no better spot in Spain than Alcala de Henares in the middle of the
sixteenth century. It was then a busy, populous university town,
something more than the enterprising rival of Salamanca, and
altogether a very different place from the melancholy, silent,
deserted Alcala the traveller sees now as he goes from Madrid to
Saragossa. Theology and medicine may have been the strong points of
the university, but the town itself seems to have inclined rather to
the humanities and light literature, and as a producer of books Alcala
was already beginning to compete with the older presses of Toledo,
Burgos, Salamanca and Seville.

A pendant to the picture Cervantes has given us of his first
playgoings might, no doubt, have been often seen in the streets of
Alcala at that time; a bright, eager, tawny-haired boy peering into
a book-shop where the latest volumes lay open to tempt the public,
wondering, it may be, what that little book with the woodcut of the
blind beggar and his boy, that called itself "Vida de Lazarillo de
Tormes, segunda impresion," could be about; or with eyes brimming over
with merriment gazing at one of those preposterous portraits of a
knight-errant in outrageous panoply and plumes with which the
publishers of chivalry romances loved to embellish the title-pages
of their folios. If the boy was the father of the man, the sense of
the incongruous that was strong at fifty was lively at ten, and some
such reflections as these may have been the true genesis of "Don
Quixote."

For his more solid education, we are told, he went to Salamanca. But
why Rodrigo de Cervantes, who was very poor, should have sent his
son to a university a hundred and fifty miles away when he had one
at his own door, would be a puzzle, if we had any reason for supposing
that he did so. The only evidence is a vague statement by Professor
Tomas Gonzalez, that he once saw an old entry of the matriculation
of a Miguel de Cervantes. This does not appear to have been ever
seen again; but even if it had, and if the date corresponded, it would
prove nothing, as there were at least two other Miguels born about the
middle of the century; one of them, moreover, a Cervantes Saavedra,
a cousin, no doubt, who was a source of great embarrassment to the
biographers.

That he was a student neither at Salamanca nor at Alcala is best
proved by his own works. No man drew more largely upon experience than
he did, and he has nowhere left a single reminiscence of student life-
for the "Tia Fingida," if it be his, is not one- nothing, not even
"a college joke," to show that he remembered days that most men
remember best. All that we know positively about his education is that
Juan Lopez de Hoyos, a professor of humanities and belles-lettres of
some eminence, calls him his "dear and beloved pupil." This was in a
little collection of verses by different hands on the death of
Isabel de Valois, second queen of Philip II, published by the
professor in 1569, to which Cervantes contributed four pieces,
including an elegy, and an epitaph in the form of a sonnet. It is only
by a rare chance that a "Lycidas" finds its way into a volume of
this sort, and Cervantes was no Milton. His verses are no worse than
such things usually are; so much, at least, may be said for them.

By the time the book appeared he had left Spain, and, as fate
ordered it, for twelve years, the most eventful ones of his life.
Giulio, afterwards Cardinal, Acquaviva had been sent at the end of
1568 to Philip II by the Pope on a mission, partly of condolence,
partly political, and on his return to Rome, which was somewhat
brusquely expedited by the King, he took Cervantes with him as his
camarero (chamberlain), the office he himself held in the Pope's
household. The post would no doubt have led to advancement at the
Papal Court had Cervantes retained it, but in the summer of 1570 he
resigned it and enlisted as a private soldier in Captain Diego
Urbina's company, belonging to Don Miguel de Moncada's regiment, but
at that time forming a part of the command of Marc Antony Colonna.
What impelled him to this step we know not, whether it was distaste
for the career before him, or purely military enthusiasm. It may
well have been the latter, for it was a stirring time; the events,
however, which led to the alliance between Spain, Venice, and the
Pope, against the common enemy, the Porte, and to the victory of the
combined fleets at Lepanto, belong rather to the history of Europe
than to the life of Cervantes. He was one of those that sailed from
Messina, in September 1571, under the command of Don John of
Austria; but on the morning of the 7th of October, when the Turkish
fleet was sighted, he was lying below ill with fever. At the news that
the enemy was in sight he rose, and, in spite of the remonstrances
of his comrades and superiors, insisted on taking his post, saying
he preferred death in the service of God and the King to health. His
galley, the Marquesa, was in the thick of the fight, and before it was
over he had received three gunshot wounds, two in the breast and one
in the left hand or arm. On the morning after the battle, according to
Navarrete, he had an interview with the commander-in-chief, Don
John, who was making a personal inspection of the wounded, one
result of which was an addition of three crowns to his pay, and
another, apparently, the friendship of his general.

How severely Cervantes was wounded may be inferred from the fact,
that with youth, a vigorous frame, and as cheerful and buoyant a
temperament as ever invalid had, he was seven months in hospital at
Messina before he was discharged. He came out with his left hand
permanently disabled; he had lost the use of it, as Mercury told him
in the "Viaje del Parnaso" for the greater glory of the right. This,
however, did not absolutely unfit him for service, and in April 1572
he joined Manuel Ponce de Leon's company of Lope de Figueroa's
regiment, in which, it seems probable, his brother Rodrigo was
serving, and shared in the operations of the next three years,
including the capture of the Goletta and Tunis. Taking advantage of
the lull which followed the recapture of these places by the Turks, he
obtained leave to return to Spain, and sailed from Naples in September
1575 on board the Sun galley, in company with his brother Rodrigo,
Pedro Carrillo de Quesada, late Governor of the Goletta, and some
others, and furnished with letters from Don John of Austria and the
Duke of Sesa, the Viceroy of Sicily, recommending him to the King
for the command of a company, on account of his services; a dono
infelice as events proved. On the 26th they fell in with a squadron of
Algerine galleys, and after a stout resistance were overpowered and
carried into Algiers.

By means of a ransomed fellow-captive the brothers contrived to
inform their family of their condition, and the poor people at
Alcala at once strove to raise the ransom money, the father
disposing of all he possessed, and the two sisters giving up their
marriage portions. But Dali Mami had found on Cervantes the letters
addressed to the King by Don John and the Duke of Sesa, and,
concluding that his prize must be a person of great consequence,
when the money came he refused it scornfully as being altogether
insufficient. The owner of Rodrigo, however, was more easily
satisfied; ransom was accepted in his case, and it was arranged
between the brothers that he should return to Spain and procure a
vessel in which he was to come back to Algiers and take off Miguel and
as many of their comrades as possible. This was not the first
attempt to escape that Cervantes had made. Soon after the commencement
of his captivity he induced several of his companions to join him in
trying to reach Oran, then a Spanish post, on foot; but after the
first day's journey, the Moor who had agreed to act as their guide
deserted them, and they had no choice but to return. The second
attempt was more disastrous. In a garden outside the city on the
sea-shore, he constructed, with the help of the gardener, a
Spaniard, a hiding-place, to which he brought, one by one, fourteen of
his fellow-captives, keeping them there in secrecy for several months,
and supplying them with food through a renegade known as El Dorador,
"the Gilder." How he, a captive himself, contrived to do all this,
is one of the mysteries of the story. Wild as the project may
appear, it was very nearly successful. The vessel procured by
Rodrigo made its appearance off the coast, and under cover of night
was proceeding to take off the refugees, when the crew were alarmed by
a passing fishing boat, and beat a hasty retreat. On renewing the
attempt shortly afterwards, they, or a portion of them at least,
were taken prisoners, and just as the poor fellows in the garden
were exulting in the thought that in a few moments more freedom
would be within their grasp, they found themselves surrounded by
Turkish troops, horse and foot. The Dorador had revealed the whole
scheme to the Dey Hassan.

When Cervantes saw what had befallen them, he charged his companions
to lay all the blame upon him, and as they were being bound he
declared aloud that the whole plot was of his contriving, and that
nobody else had any share in it. Brought before the Dey, he said the
same. He was threatened with impalement and with torture; and as
cutting off ears and noses were playful freaks with the Algerines,
it may be conceived what their tortures were like; but nothing could
make him swerve from his original statement that he and he alone was
responsible. The upshot was that the unhappy gardener was hanged by
his master, and the prisoners taken possession of by the Dey, who,
however, afterwards restored most of them to their masters, but kept
Cervantes, paying Dali Mami 500 crowns for him. He felt, no doubt,
that a man of such resource, energy, and daring, was too dangerous a
piece of property to be left in private hands; and he had him
heavily ironed and lodged in his own prison. If he thought that by
these means he could break the spirit or shake the resolution of his
prisoner, he was soon undeceived, for Cervantes contrived before
long to despatch a letter to the Governor of Oran, entreating him to
send him some one that could be trusted, to enable him and three other
gentlemen, fellow-captives of his, to make their escape; intending
evidently to renew his first attempt with a more trustworthy guide.
Unfortunately the Moor who carried the letter was stopped just outside
Oran, and the letter being found upon him, he was sent back to
Algiers, where by the order of the Dey he was promptly impaled as a
warning to others, while Cervantes was condemned to receive two
thousand blows of the stick, a number which most likely would have
deprived the world of "Don Quixote," had not some persons, who they
were we know not, interceded on his behalf.

After this he seems to have been kept in still closer confinement
than before, for nearly two years passed before he made another
attempt. This time his plan was to purchase, by the aid of a Spanish
renegade and two Valencian merchants resident in Algiers, an armed
vessel in which he and about sixty of the leading captives were to
make their escape; but just as they were about to put it into
execution one Doctor Juan Blanco de Paz, an ecclesiastic and a
compatriot, informed the Dey of the plot. Cervantes by force of
character, by his self-devotion, by his untiring energy and his
exertions to lighten the lot of his companions in misery, had endeared
himself to all, and become the leading spirit in the captive colony,
and, incredible as it may seem, jealousy of his influence and the
esteem in which he was held, moved this man to compass his destruction
by a cruel death. The merchants finding that the Dey knew all, and
fearing that Cervantes under torture might make disclosures that would
imperil their own lives, tried to persuade him to slip away on board a
vessel that was on the point of sailing for Spain; but he told them
they had nothing to fear, for no tortures would make him compromise
anybody, and he went at once and gave himself up to the Dey.

As before, the Dey tried to force him to name his accomplices.
Everything was made ready for his immediate execution; the halter
was put round his neck and his hands tied behind him, but all that
could be got from him was that he himself, with the help of four
gentlemen who had since left Algiers, had arranged the whole, and that
the sixty who were to accompany him were not to know anything of it
until the last moment. Finding he could make nothing of him, the Dey
sent him back to prison more heavily ironed than before.

The poverty-stricken Cervantes family had been all this time
trying once more to raise the ransom money, and at last a sum of three
hundred ducats was got together and entrusted to the Redemptorist
Father Juan Gil, who was about to sail for Algiers. The Dey,
however, demanded more than double the sum offered, and as his term of
office had expired and he was about to sail for Constantinople, taking
all his slaves with him, the case of Cervantes was critical. He was
already on board heavily ironed, when the Dey at length agreed to
reduce his demand by one-half, and Father Gil by borrowing was able to
make up the amount, and on September 19, 1580, after a captivity of
five years all but a week, Cervantes was at last set free. Before long
he discovered that Blanco de Paz, who claimed to be an officer of
the Inquisition, was now concocting on false evidence a charge of
misconduct to be brought against him on his return to Spain. To
checkmate him Cervantes drew up a series of twenty-five questions,
covering the whole period of his captivity, upon which he requested
Father Gil to take the depositions of credible witnesses before a
notary. Eleven witnesses taken from among the principal captives in
Algiers deposed to all the facts above stated and to a great deal more
besides. There is something touching in the admiration, love, and
gratitude we see struggling to find expression in the formal
language of the notary, as they testify one after another to the
good deeds of Cervantes, how he comforted and helped the weak-hearted,
how he kept up their drooping courage, how he shared his poor purse
with this deponent, and how "in him this deponent found father and
mother."

On his return to Spain he found his old regiment about to march
for Portugal to support Philip's claim to the crown, and utterly
penniless now, had no choice but to rejoin it. He was in the
expeditions to the Azores in 1582 and the following year, and on the
conclusion of the war returned to Spain in the autumn of 1583,
bringing with him the manuscript of his pastoral romance, the
"Galatea," and probably also, to judge by internal evidence, that of
the first portion of "Persiles and Sigismunda." He also brought back
with him, his biographers assert, an infant daughter, the offspring of
an amour, as some of them with great circumstantiality inform us, with
a Lisbon lady of noble birth, whose name, however, as well as that
of the street she lived in, they omit to mention. The sole
foundation for all this is that in 1605 there certainly was living
in the family of Cervantes a Dona Isabel de Saavedra, who is described
in an official document as his natural daughter, and then twenty years
of age.

With his crippled left hand promotion in the army was hopeless,
now that Don John was dead and he had no one to press his claims and
services, and for a man drawing on to forty life in the ranks was a
dismal prospect; he had already a certain reputation as a poet; he
made up his mind, therefore, to cast his lot with literature, and
for a first venture committed his "Galatea" to the press. It was
published, as Salva y Mallen shows conclusively, at Alcala, his own
birth-place, in 1585 and no doubt helped to make his name more
widely known, but certainly did not do him much good in any other way.

While it was going through the press, he married Dona Catalina de
Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano, a lady of Esquivias near Madrid, and
apparently a friend of the family, who brought him a fortune which may
possibly have served to keep the wolf from the door, but if so, that
was all. The drama had by this time outgrown market-place stages and
strolling companies, and with his old love for it he naturally
turned to it for a congenial employment. In about three years he wrote
twenty or thirty plays, which he tells us were performed without any
throwing of cucumbers or other missiles, and ran their course
without any hisses, outcries, or disturbance. In other words, his
plays were not bad enough to be hissed off the stage, but not good
enough to hold their own upon it. Only two of them have been
preserved, but as they happen to be two of the seven or eight he
mentions with complacency, we may assume they are favourable
specimens, and no one who reads the "Numancia" and the "Trato de
Argel" will feel any surprise that they failed as acting dramas.
Whatever merits they may have, whatever occasional they may show, they
are, as regards construction, incurably clumsy. How completely they
failed is manifest from the fact that with all his sanguine
temperament and indomitable perseverance he was unable to maintain the
struggle to gain a livelihood as a dramatist for more than three
years; nor was the rising popularity of Lope the cause, as is often
said, notwithstanding his own words to the contrary. When Lope began
to write for the stage is uncertain, but it was certainly after
Cervantes went to Seville.

Among the "Nuevos Documentos" printed by Senor Asensio y Toledo is
one dated 1592, and curiously characteristic of Cervantes. It is an
agreement with one Rodrigo Osorio, a manager, who was to accept six
comedies at fifty ducats (about 6l.) apiece, not to be paid in any
case unless it appeared on representation that the said comedy was one
of the best that had ever been represented in Spain. The test does not
seem to have been ever applied; perhaps it was sufficiently apparent
to Rodrigo Osorio that the comedies were not among the best that had
ever been represented. Among the correspondence of Cervantes there
might have been found, no doubt, more than one letter like that we see
in the "Rake's Progress," "Sir, I have read your play, and it will not
doo."

He was more successful in a literary contest at Saragossa in 1595 in
honour of the canonisation of St. Jacinto, when his composition won
the first prize, three silver spoons. The year before this he had been
appointed a collector of revenues for the kingdom of Granada. In order
to remit the money he had collected more conveniently to the treasury,
he entrusted it to a merchant, who failed and absconded; and as the
bankrupt's assets were insufficient to cover the whole, he was sent to
prison at Seville in September 1597. The balance against him, however,
was a small one, about 26l., and on giving security for it he was
released at the end of the year.

It was as he journeyed from town to town collecting the king's
taxes, that he noted down those bits of inn and wayside life and
character that abound in the pages of "Don Quixote:" the Benedictine
monks with spectacles and sunshades, mounted on their tall mules;
the strollers in costume bound for the next village; the barber with
his basin on his head, on his way to bleed a patient; the recruit with
his breeches in his bundle, tramping along the road singing; the
reapers gathered in the venta gateway listening to "Felixmarte of
Hircania" read out to them; and those little Hogarthian touches that
he so well knew how to bring in, the ox-tail hanging up with the
landlord's comb stuck in it, the wine-skins at the bed-head, and those
notable examples of hostelry art, Helen going off in high spirits on
Paris's arm, and Dido on the tower dropping tears as big as walnuts.
Nay, it may well be that on those journeys into remote regions he came
across now and then a specimen of the pauper gentleman, with his
lean hack and his greyhound and his books of chivalry, dreaming away
his life in happy ignorance that the world had changed since his
great-grandfather's old helmet was new. But it was in Seville that
he found out his true vocation, though he himself would not by any
means have admitted it to be so. It was there, in Triana, that he
was first tempted to try his hand at drawing from life, and first
brought his humour into play in the exquisite little sketch of
"Rinconete y Cortadillo," the germ, in more ways than one, of "Don
Quixote."

Where and when that was written, we cannot tell. After his
imprisonment all trace of Cervantes in his official capacity
disappears, from which it may be inferred that he was not
reinstated. That he was still in Seville in November 1598 appears from
a satirical sonnet of his on the elaborate catafalque erected to
testify the grief of the city at the death of Philip II, but from this
up to 1603 we have no clue to his movements. The words in the
preface to the First Part of "Don Quixote" are generally held to be
conclusive that he conceived the idea of the book, and wrote the
beginning of it at least, in a prison, and that he may have done so is
extremely likely.

There is a tradition that Cervantes read some portions of his work
to a select audience at the Duke of Bejar's, which may have helped
to make the book known; but the obvious conclusion is that the First
Part of "Don Quixote" lay on his hands some time before he could
find a publisher bold enough to undertake a venture of so novel a
character; and so little faith in it had Francisco Robles of Madrid,
to whom at last he sold it, that he did not care to incur the
expense of securing the rights for Aragon or Portugal, contenting
himself with that for Castile. The printing was finished in
December, and the book came out with the new year, 1605. It is often
said that "Don Quixote" was at first received coldly. The facts show
just the contrary. No sooner was it in the hands of the public than
preparations were made to issue pirated editions at Lisbon and
Valencia, and to bring out a second edition with the additional
rights for Aragon and Portugal, which he secured in February.

No doubt it was received with something more than coldness by
certain sections of the community. Men of wit, taste, and
discrimination among the aristocracy gave it a hearty welcome, but the
aristocracy in general were not likely to relish a book that turned
their favourite reading into ridicule and laughed at so many of
their favourite ideas. The dramatists who gathered round Lope as their
leader regarded Cervantes as their common enemy, and it is plain
that he was equally obnoxious to the other clique, the culto poets who
had Gongora for their chief. Navarrete, who knew nothing of the letter
above mentioned, tries hard to show that the relations between
Cervantes and Lope were of a very friendly sort, as indeed they were
until "Don Quixote" was written. Cervantes, indeed, to the last
generously and manfully declared his admiration of Lope's powers,
his unfailing invention, and his marvellous fertility; but in the
preface of the First Part of "Don Quixote" and in the verses of
"Urganda the Unknown," and one or two other places, there are, if we
read between the lines, sly hits at Lope's vanities and affectations
that argue no personal good-will; and Lope openly sneers at "Don
Quixote" and Cervantes, and fourteen years after his death gives him
only a few lines of cold commonplace in the "Laurel de Apolo," that
seem all the colder for the eulogies of a host of nonentities whose
names are found nowhere else.

In 1601 Valladolid was made the seat of the Court, and at the
beginning of 1603 Cervantes had been summoned thither in connection
with the balance due by him to the Treasury, which was still
outstanding. He remained at Valladolid, apparently supporting
himself by agencies and scrivener's work of some sort; probably
drafting petitions and drawing up statements of claims to be presented
to the Council, and the like. So, at least, we gather from the
depositions taken on the occasion of the death of a gentleman, the
victim of a street brawl, who had been carried into the house in which
he lived. In these he himself is described as a man who wrote and
transacted business, and it appears that his household then
consisted of his wife, the natural daughter Isabel de Saavedra already
mentioned, his sister Andrea, now a widow, her daughter Constanza, a
mysterious Magdalena de Sotomayor calling herself his sister, for whom
his biographers cannot account, and a servant-maid.

Meanwhile "Don Quixote" had been growing in favour, and its author's
name was now known beyond the Pyrenees. In 1607 an edition was printed
at Brussels. Robles, the Madrid publisher, found it necessary to
meet the demand by a third edition, the seventh in all, in 1608. The
popularity of the book in Italy was such that a Milan bookseller was
led to bring out an edition in 1610; and another was called for in
Brussels in 1611. It might naturally have been expected that, with
such proofs before him that he had hit the taste of the public,
Cervantes would have at once set about redeeming his rather vague
promise of a second volume.

But, to all appearance, nothing was farther from his thoughts. He
had still by him one or two short tales of the same vintage as those
he had inserted in "Don Quixote" and instead of continuing the
adventures of Don Quixote, he set to work to write more of these
"Novelas Exemplares" as he afterwards called them, with a view to
making a book of them.

The novels were published in the summer of 1613, with a dedication
to the Conde de Lemos, the Maecenas of the day, and with one of
those chatty confidential prefaces Cervantes was so fond of. In
this, eight years and a half after the First Part of "Don Quixote" had
appeared, we get the first hint of a forthcoming Second Part. "You
shall see shortly," he says, "the further exploits of Don Quixote
and humours of Sancho Panza." His idea of "shortly" was a somewhat
elastic one, for, as we know by the date to Sancho's letter, he had
barely one-half of the book completed that time twelvemonth.

But more than poems, or pastorals, or novels, it was his dramatic
ambition that engrossed his thoughts. The same indomitable spirit that
kept him from despair in the bagnios of Algiers, and prompted him to
attempt the escape of himself and his comrades again and again, made
him persevere in spite of failure and discouragement in his efforts to
win the ear of the public as a dramatist. The temperament of Cervantes
was essentially sanguine. The portrait he draws in the preface to
the novels, with the aquiline features, chestnut hair, smooth
untroubled forehead, and bright cheerful eyes, is the very portrait of
a sanguine man. Nothing that the managers might say could persuade him
that the merits of his plays would not be recognised at last if they
were only given a fair chance. The old soldier of the Spanish
Salamis was bent on being the Aeschylus of Spain. He was to found a
great national drama, based on the true principles of art, that was to
be the envy of all nations; he was to drive from the stage the
silly, childish plays, the "mirrors of nonsense and models of folly"
that were in vogue through the cupidity of the managers and
shortsightedness of the authors; he was to correct and educate the
public taste until it was ripe for tragedies on the model of the Greek
drama- like the "Numancia" for instance- and comedies that would not
only amuse but improve and instruct. All this he was to do, could he
once get a hearing: there was the initial difficulty.

He shows plainly enough, too, that "Don Quixote" and the
demolition of the chivalry romances was not the work that lay next his
heart. He was, indeed, as he says himself in his preface, more a
stepfather than a father to "Don Quixote." Never was great work so
neglected by its author. That it was written carelessly, hastily,
and by fits and starts, was not always his fault, but it seems clear
he never read what he sent to the press. He knew how the printers
had blundered, but he never took the trouble to correct them when
the third edition was in progress, as a man who really cared for the
child of his brain would have done. He appears to have regarded the
book as little more than a mere libro de entretenimiento, an amusing
book, a thing, as he says in the "Viaje," "to divert the melancholy
moody heart at any time or season." No doubt he had an affection for
his hero, and was very proud of Sancho Panza. It would have been
strange indeed if he had not been proud of the most humorous
creation in all fiction. He was proud, too, of the popularity and
success of the book, and beyond measure delightful is the naivete with
which he shows his pride in a dozen passages in the Second Part. But
it was not the success he coveted. In all probability he would have
given all the success of "Don Quixote," nay, would have seen every
copy of "Don Quixote" burned in the Plaza Mayor, for one such
success as Lope de Vega was enjoying on an average once a week.

And so he went on, dawdling over "Don Quixote," adding a chapter
now and again, and putting it aside to turn to "Persiles and
Sigismunda" -which, as we know, was to be the most entertaining book
in the language, and the rival of "Theagenes and Chariclea"- or
finishing off one of his darling comedies; and if Robles asked when
"Don Quixote" would be ready, the answer no doubt was: En breve-
shortly, there was time enough for that. At sixty-eight he was as full
of life and hope and plans for the future as a boy of eighteen.

Nemesis was coming, however. He had got as far as Chapter LIX, which
at his leisurely pace he could hardly have reached before October or
November 1614, when there was put into his hand a small octave
lately printed at Tarragona, and calling itself "Second Volume of
the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha: by the Licentiate
Alonso Fernandez de Avellaneda of Tordesillas." The last half of
Chapter LIX and most of the following chapters of the Second Part give
us some idea of the effect produced upon him, and his irritation was
not likely to be lessened by the reflection that he had no one to
blame but himself. Had Avellaneda, in fact, been content with merely
bringing out a continuation to "Don Quixote," Cervantes would have had
no reasonable grievance. His own intentions were expressed in the very
vaguest language at the end of the book; nay, in his last words,
"forse altro cantera con miglior plettro," he seems actually to invite
some one else to continue the work, and he made no sign until eight
years and a half had gone by; by which time Avellaneda's volume was no
doubt written.

In fact Cervantes had no case, or a very bad one, as far as the mere
continuation was concerned. But Avellaneda chose to write a preface to
it, full of such coarse personal abuse as only an ill-conditioned
man could pour out. He taunts Cervantes with being old, with having
lost his hand, with having been in prison, with being poor, with being
friendless, accuses him of envy of Lope's success, of petulance and
querulousness, and so on; and it was in this that the sting lay.
Avellaneda's reason for this personal attack is obvious enough.
Whoever he may have been, it is clear that he was one of the
dramatists of Lope's school, for he has the impudence to charge
Cervantes with attacking him as well as Lope in his criticism on the
drama. His identification has exercised the best critics and baffled
all the ingenuity and research that has been brought to bear on it.
Navarrete and Ticknor both incline to the belief that Cervantes knew
who he was; but I must say I think the anger he shows suggests an
invisible assailant; it is like the irritation of a man stung by a
mosquito in the dark. Cervantes from certain solecisms of language
pronounces him to be an Aragonese, and Pellicer, an Aragonese himself,
supports this view and believes him, moreover, to have been an
ecclesiastic, a Dominican probably.

Any merit Avellaneda has is reflected from Cervantes, and he is
too dull to reflect much. "Dull and dirty" will always be, I
imagine, the verdict of the vast majority of unprejudiced readers.
He is, at best, a poor plagiarist; all he can do is to follow
slavishly the lead given him by Cervantes; his only humour lies in
making Don Quixote take inns for castles and fancy himself some
legendary or historical personage, and Sancho mistake words, invert
proverbs, and display his gluttony; all through he shows a
proclivity to coarseness and dirt, and he has contrived to introduce
two tales filthier than anything by the sixteenth century novellieri
and without their sprightliness.

But whatever Avellaneda and his book may be, we must not forget
the debt we owe them. But for them, there can be no doubt, "Don
Quixote" would have come to us a mere torso instead of a complete
work. Even if Cervantes had finished the volume he had in hand, most
assuredly he would have left off with a promise of a Third Part,
giving the further adventures of Don Quixote and humours of Sancho
Panza as shepherds. It is plain that he had at one time an intention
of dealing with the pastoral romances as he had dealt with the books
of chivalry, and but for Avellaneda he would have tried to carry it
out. But it is more likely that, with his plans, and projects, and
hopefulness, the volume would have remained unfinished till his death,
and that we should have never made the acquaintance of the Duke and
Duchess, or gone with Sancho to Barataria.

From the moment the book came into his hands he seems to have been
haunted by the fear that there might be more Avellanedas in the field,
and putting everything else aside, he set himself to finish off his
task and protect Don Quixote in the only way he could, by killing him.
The conclusion is no doubt a hasty and in some places clumsy piece
of work and the frequent repetition of the scolding administered to
Avellaneda becomes in the end rather wearisome; but it is, at any
rate, a conclusion and for that we must thank Avellaneda.

The new volume was ready for the press in February, but was not
printed till the very end of 1615, and during the interval Cervantes
put together the comedies and interludes he had written within the
last few years, and, as he adds plaintively, found no demand for among
the managers, and published them with a preface, worth the book it
introduces tenfold, in which he gives an account of the early
Spanish stage, and of his own attempts as a dramatist. It is
needless to say they were put forward by Cervantes in all good faith
and full confidence in their merits. The reader, however, was not to
suppose they were his last word or final effort in the drama, for he
had in hand a comedy called "Engano a los ojos," about which, if he
mistook not, there would be no question.

Of this dramatic masterpiece the world has no opportunity of
judging; his health had been failing for some time, and he died,
apparently of dropsy, on the 23rd of April, 1616, the day on which
England lost Shakespeare, nominally at least, for the English calendar
had not yet been reformed. He died as he had lived, accepting his
lot bravely and cheerfully.

Was it an unhappy life, that of Cervantes? His biographers all
tell us that it was; but I must say I doubt it. It was a hard life,
a life of poverty, of incessant struggle, of toil ill paid, of
disappointment, but Cervantes carried within himself the antidote to
all these evils. His was not one of those light natures that rise
above adversity merely by virtue of their own buoyancy; it was in
the fortitude of a high spirit that he was proof against it. It is
impossible to conceive Cervantes giving way to despondency or
prostrated by dejection. As for poverty, it was with him a thing to be
laughed over, and the only sigh he ever allows to escape him is when
he says, "Happy he to whom Heaven has given a piece of bread for which
he is not bound to give thanks to any but Heaven itself." Add to all
this his vital energy and mental activity, his restless invention
and his sanguine temperament, and there will be reason enough to doubt
whether his could have been a very unhappy life. He who could take
Cervantes' distresses together with his apparatus for enduring them
would not make so bad a bargain, perhaps, as far as happiness in
life is concerned.

Of his burial-place nothing is known except that he was buried, in
accordance with his will, in the neighbouring convent of Trinitarian
nuns, of which it is supposed his daughter, Isabel de Saavedra, was an
inmate, and that a few years afterwards the nuns removed to another
convent, carrying their dead with them. But whether the remains of
Cervantes were included in the removal or not no one knows, and the
clue to their resting-place is now lost beyond all hope. This
furnishes perhaps the least defensible of the items in the charge of
neglect brought against his contemporaries. In some of the others
there is a good deal of exaggeration. To listen to most of his
biographers one would suppose that all Spain was in league not only
against the man but against his memory, or at least that it was
insensible to his merits, and left him to live in misery and die of
want. To talk of his hard life and unworthy employments in Andalusia
is absurd. What had he done to distinguish him from thousands of other
struggling men earning a precarious livelihood? True, he was a gallant
soldier, who had been wounded and had undergone captivity and
suffering in his country's cause, but there were hundreds of others in
the same case. He had written a mediocre specimen of an insipid
class of romance, and some plays which manifestly did not comply
with the primary condition of pleasing: were the playgoers to
patronise plays that did not amuse them, because the author was to
produce "Don Quixote" twenty years afterwards?

The scramble for copies which, as we have seen, followed immediately
on the appearance of the book, does not look like general
insensibility to its merits. No doubt it was received coldly by
some, but if a man writes a book in ridicule of periwigs he must
make his account with being coldly received by the periwig wearers and
hated by the whole tribe of wigmakers. If Cervantes had the
chivalry-romance readers, the sentimentalists, the dramatists, and the
poets of the period all against him, it was because "Don Quixote"
was what it was; and if the general public did not come forward to
make him comfortable for the rest of his days, it is no more to be
charged with neglect and ingratitude than the English-speaking
public that did not pay off Scott's liabilities. It did the best it
could; it read his book and liked it and bought it, and encouraged the
bookseller to pay him well for others.

It has been also made a reproach to Spain that she has erected no
monument to the man she is proudest of; no monument, that is to say,
of him; for the bronze statue in the little garden of the Plaza de las
Cortes, a fair work of art no doubt, and unexceptionable had it been
set up to the local poet in the market-place of some provincial
town, is not worthy of Cervantes or of Madrid. But what need has
Cervantes of "such weak witness of his name;" or what could a monument
do in his case except testify to the self-glorification of those who
had put it up? Si monumentum quoeris, circumspice. The nearest
bookseller's shop will show what bathos there would be in a monument
to the author of "Don Quixote."

Nine editions of the First Part of "Don Quixote" had already
appeared before Cervantes died, thirty thousand copies in all,
according to his own estimate, and a tenth was printed at Barcelona
the year after his death. So large a number naturally supplied the
demand for some time, but by 1634 it appears to have been exhausted;
and from that time down to the present day the stream of editions
has continued to flow rapidly and regularly. The translations show
still more clearly in what request the book has been from the very
outset. In seven years from the completion of the work it had been
translated into the four leading languages of Europe. Except the
Bible, in fact, no book has been so widely diffused as "Don
Quixote." The "Imitatio Christi" may have been translated into as many
different languages, and perhaps "Robinson Crusoe" and the "Vicar of
Wakefield" into nearly as many, but in multiplicity of translations
and editions "Don Quixote" leaves them all far behind.

Still more remarkable is the character of this wide diffusion.
"Don Quixote" has been thoroughly naturalised among people whose ideas
about knight-errantry, if they had any at all, were of the vaguest,
who had never seen or heard of a book of chivalry, who could not
possibly feel the humour of the burlesque or sympathise with the
author's purpose. Another curious fact is that this, the most
cosmopolitan book in the world, is one of the most intensely national.
"Manon Lescaut" is not more thoroughly French, "Tom Jones" not more
English, "Rob Roy" not more Scotch, than "Don Quixote" is Spanish,
in character, in ideas, in sentiment, in local colour, in
everything. What, then, is the secret of this unparalleled popularity,
increasing year by year for well-nigh three centuries? One
explanation, no doubt, is that of all the books in the world, "Don
Quixote" is the most catholic. There is something in it for every sort
of reader, young or old, sage or simple, high or low. As Cervantes
himself says with a touch of pride, "It is thumbed and read and got by
heart by people of all sorts; the children turn its leaves, the
young people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise
it."

But it would be idle to deny that the ingredient which, more than
its humour, or its wisdom, or the fertility of invention or
knowledge of human nature it displays, has insured its success with
the multitude, is the vein of farce that runs through it. It was the
attack upon the sheep, the battle with the wine-skins, Mambrino's
helmet, the balsam of Fierabras, Don Quixote knocked over by the sails
of the windmill, Sancho tossed in the blanket, the mishaps and
misadventures of master and man, that were originally the great
attraction, and perhaps are so still to some extent with the
majority of readers. It is plain that "Don Quixote" was generally
regarded at first, and indeed in Spain for a long time, as little more
than a queer droll book, full of laughable incidents and absurd
situations, very amusing, but not entitled to much consideration or
care. All the editions printed in Spain from 1637 to 1771, when the
famous printer Ibarra took it up, were mere trade editions, badly
and carelessly printed on vile paper and got up in the style of
chap-books intended only for popular use, with, in most instances,
uncouth illustrations and clap-trap additions by the publisher.

To England belongs the credit of having been the first country to
recognise the right of "Don Quixote" to better treatment than this.
The London edition of 1738, commonly called Lord Carteret's from
having been suggested by him, was not a mere edition de luxe. It
produced "Don Quixote" in becoming form as regards paper and type, and
embellished with plates which, if not particularly happy as
illustrations, were at least well intentioned and well executed, but
it also aimed at correctness of text, a matter to which nobody
except the editors of the Valencia and Brussels editions had given
even a passing thought; and for a first attempt it was fairly
successful, for though some of its emendations are inadmissible, a
good many of them have been adopted by all subsequent editors.

The zeal of publishers, editors, and annotators brought about a
remarkable change of sentiment with regard to "Don Quixote." A vast
number of its admirers began to grow ashamed of laughing over it. It
became almost a crime to treat it as a humorous book. The humour was
not entirely denied, but, according to the new view, it was rated as
an altogether secondary quality, a mere accessory, nothing more than
the stalking-horse under the presentation of which Cervantes shot
his philosophy or his satire, or whatever it was he meant to shoot;
for on this point opinions varied. All were agreed, however, that
the object he aimed at was not the books of chivalry. He said
emphatically in the preface to the First Part and in the last sentence
of the Second, that he had no other object in view than to discredit
these books, and this, to advanced criticism, made it clear that his
object must have been something else.

One theory was that the book was a kind of allegory, setting forth
the eternal struggle between the ideal and the real, between the
spirit of poetry and the spirit of prose; and perhaps German
philosophy never evolved a more ungainly or unlikely camel out of
the depths of its inner consciousness. Something of the antagonism, no
doubt, is to be found in "Don Quixote," because it is to be found
everywhere in life, and Cervantes drew from life. It is difficult to
imagine a community in which the never-ceasing game of
cross-purposes between Sancho Panza and Don Quixote would not be
recognized as true to nature. In the stone age, among the lake
dwellers, among the cave men, there were Don Quixotes and Sancho
Panzas; there must have been the troglodyte who never could see the
facts before his eyes, and the troglodyte who could see nothing
else. But to suppose Cervantes deliberately setting himself to expound
any such idea in two stout quarto volumes is to suppose something
not only very unlike the age in which he lived, but altogether
unlike Cervantes himself, who would have been the first to laugh at an
attempt of the sort made by anyone else.

The extraordinary influence of the romances of chivalry in his day
is quite enough to account for the genesis of the book. Some idea of
the prodigious development of this branch of literature in the
sixteenth century may be obtained from the scrutiny of Chapter VII, if
the reader bears in mind that only a portion of the romances belonging
to by far the largest group are enumerated. As to its effect upon
the nation, there is abundant evidence. From the time when the
Amadises and Palmerins began to grow popular down to the very end of
the century, there is a steady stream of invective, from men whose
character and position lend weight to their words, against the
romances of chivalry and the infatuation of their readers. Ridicule
was the only besom to sweep away that dust.

That this was the task Cervantes set himself, and that he had
ample provocation to urge him to it, will be sufficiently clear to
those who look into the evidence; as it will be also that it was not
chivalry itself that he attacked and swept away. Of all the
absurdities that, thanks to poetry, will be repeated to the end of
time, there is no greater one than saying that "Cervantes smiled
Spain's chivalry away." In the first place there was no chivalry for
him to smile away. Spain's chivalry had been dead for more than a
century. Its work was done when Granada fell, and as chivalry was
essentially republican in its nature, it could not live under the rule
that Ferdinand substituted for the free institutions of mediaeval
Spain. What he did smile away was not chivalry but a degrading mockery
of it.

The true nature of the "right arm" and the "bright array," before
which, according to the poet, "the world gave ground," and which
Cervantes' single laugh demolished, may be gathered from the words
of one of his own countrymen, Don Felix Pacheco, as reported by
Captain George Carleton, in his "Military Memoirs from 1672 to
1713." "Before the appearance in the world of that labour of
Cervantes," he said, "it was next to an impossibility for a man to
walk the streets with any delight or without danger. There were seen
so many cavaliers prancing and curvetting before the windows of
their mistresses, that a stranger would have imagined the whole nation
to have been nothing less than a race of knight-errants. But after the
world became a little acquainted with that notable history, the man
that was seen in that once celebrated drapery was pointed at as a
Don Quixote, and found himself the jest of high and low. And I
verily believe that to this, and this only, we owe that dampness and
poverty of spirit which has run through all our councils for a century
past, so little agreeable to those nobler actions of our famous
ancestors."

To call "Don Quixote" a sad book, preaching a pessimist view of
life, argues a total misconception of its drift. It would be so if its
moral were that, in this world, true enthusiasm naturally leads to
ridicule and discomfiture. But it preaches nothing of the sort; its
moral, so far as it can be said to have one, is that the spurious
enthusiasm that is born of vanity and self-conceit, that is made an
end in itself, not a means to an end, that acts on mere impulse,
regardless of circumstances and consequences, is mischievous to its
owner, and a very considerable nuisance to the community at large.
To those who cannot distinguish between the one kind and the other, no
doubt "Don Quixote" is a sad book; no doubt to some minds it is very
sad that a man who had just uttered so beautiful a sentiment as that
"it is a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and Nature made
free," should be ungratefully pelted by the scoundrels his crazy
philanthropy had let loose on society; but to others of a more
judicial cast it will be a matter of regret that reckless
self-sufficient enthusiasm is not oftener requited in some such way
for all the mischief it does in the world.

A very slight examination of the structure of "Don Quixote" will
suffice to show that Cervantes had no deep design or elaborate plan in
his mind when he began the book. When he wrote those lines in which
"with a few strokes of a great master he sets before us the pauper
gentleman," he had no idea of the goal to which his imagination was
leading him. There can be little doubt that all he contemplated was
a short tale to range with those he had already written, a tale
setting forth the ludicrous results that might be expected to follow
the attempt of a crazy gentleman to act the part of a knight-errant in
modern life.

It is plain, for one thing, that Sancho Panza did not enter into the
original scheme, for had Cervantes thought of him he certainly would
not have omitted him in his hero's outfit, which he obviously meant to
be complete. Him we owe to the landlord's chance remark in Chapter III
that knights seldom travelled without squires. To try to think of a
Don Quixote without Sancho Panza is like trying to think of a
one-bladed pair of scissors.

The story was written at first, like the others, without any
division and without the intervention of Cide Hamete Benengeli; and it
seems not unlikely that Cervantes had some intention of bringing
Dulcinea, or Aldonza Lorenzo, on the scene in person. It was
probably the ransacking of the Don's library and the discussion on the
books of chivalry that first suggested it to him that his idea was
capable of development. What, if instead of a mere string of
farcical misadventures, he were to make his tale a burlesque of one of
these books, caricaturing their style, incidents, and spirit?

In pursuance of this change of plan, he hastily and somewhat
clumsily divided what he had written into chapters on the model of
"Amadis," invented the fable of a mysterious Arabic manuscript, and
set up Cide Hamete Benengeli in imitation of the almost invariable
practice of the chivalry-romance authors, who were fond of tracing
their books to some recondite source. In working out the new ideas, he
soon found the value of Sancho Panza. Indeed, the keynote, not only to
Sancho's part, but to the whole book, is struck in the first words
Sancho utters when he announces his intention of taking his ass with
him. "About the ass," we are told, "Don Quixote hesitated a little,
trying whether he could call to mind any knight-errant taking with him
an esquire mounted on ass-back; but no instance occurred to his
memory." We can see the whole scene at a glance, the stolid
unconsciousness of Sancho and the perplexity of his master, upon whose
perception the incongruity has just forced itself. This is Sancho's
mission throughout the book; he is an unconscious Mephistopheles,
always unwittingly making mockery of his master's aspirations,
always exposing the fallacy of his ideas by some unintentional ad
absurdum, always bringing him back to the world of fact and
commonplace by force of sheer stolidity.

By the time Cervantes had got his volume of novels off his hands,
and summoned up resolution enough to set about the Second Part in
earnest, the case was very much altered. Don Quixote and Sancho
Panza had not merely found favour, but had already become, what they
have never since ceased to be, veritable entities to the popular
imagination. There was no occasion for him now to interpolate
extraneous matter; nay, his readers told him plainly that what they
wanted of him was more Don Quixote and more Sancho Panza, and not
novels, tales, or digressions. To himself, too, his creations had
become realities, and he had become proud of them, especially of
Sancho. He began the Second Part, therefore, under very different
conditions, and the difference makes itself manifest at once. Even
in translation the style will be seen to be far easier, more
flowing, more natural, and more like that of a man sure of himself and
of his audience. Don Quixote and Sancho undergo a change also. In
the First Part, Don Quixote has no character or individuality
whatever. He is nothing more than a crazy representative of the
sentiments of the chivalry romances. In all that he says and does he
is simply repeating the lesson he has learned from his books; and
therefore, it is absurd to speak of him in the gushing strain of the
sentimental critics when they dilate upon his nobleness,
disinterestedness, dauntless courage, and so forth. It was the
business of a knight-errant to right wrongs, redress injuries, and
succour the distressed, and this, as a matter of course, he makes
his business when he takes up the part; a knight-errant was bound to
be intrepid, and so he feels bound to cast fear aside. Of all
Byron's melodious nonsense about Don Quixote, the most nonsensical
statement is that "'t is his virtue makes him mad!" The exact opposite
is the truth; it is his madness makes him virtuous.

In the Second Part, Cervantes repeatedly reminds the reader, as if
it was a point upon which he was anxious there should be no mistake,
that his hero's madness is strictly confined to delusions on the
subject of chivalry, and that on every other subject he is discreto,
one, in fact, whose faculty of discernment is in perfect order. The
advantage of this is that he is enabled to make use of Don Quixote
as a mouthpiece for his own reflections, and so, without seeming to
digress, allow himself the relief of digression when he requires it,
as freely as in a commonplace book.

It is true the amount of individuality bestowed upon Don Quixote
is not very great. There are some natural touches of character about
him, such as his mixture of irascibility and placability, and his
curious affection for Sancho together with his impatience of the
squire's loquacity and impertinence; but in the main, apart from his
craze, he is little more than a thoughtful, cultured gentleman, with
instinctive good taste and a great deal of shrewdness and
originality of mind.

As to Sancho, it is plain, from the concluding words of the
preface to the First Part, that he was a favourite with his creator
even before he had been taken into favour by the public. An inferior
genius, taking him in hand a second time, would very likely have tried
to improve him by making him more comical, clever, amiable, or
virtuous. But Cervantes was too true an artist to spoil his work in
this way. Sancho, when he reappears, is the old Sancho with the old
familiar features; but with a difference; they have been brought out
more distinctly, but at the same time with a careful avoidance of
anything like caricature; the outline has been filled in where filling
in was necessary, and, vivified by a few touches of a master's hand,
Sancho stands before us as he might in a character portrait by
Velazquez. He is a much more important and prominent figure in the
Second Part than in the First; indeed, it is his matchless mendacity
about Dulcinea that to a great extent supplies the action of the
story.

His development in this respect is as remarkable as in any other. In
the First Part he displays a great natural gift of lying. His lies are
not of the highly imaginative sort that liars in fiction commonly
indulge in; like Falstaff's, they resemble the father that begets
them; they are simple, homely, plump lies; plain working lies, in
short. But in the service of such a master as Don Quixote he
develops rapidly, as we see when he comes to palm off the three
country wenches as Dulcinea and her ladies in waiting. It is worth
noticing how, flushed by his success in this instance, he is tempted
afterwards to try a flight beyond his powers in his account of the
journey on Clavileno.

In the Second Part it is the spirit rather than the incidents of the
chivalry romances that is the subject of the burlesque. Enchantments
of the sort travestied in those of Dulcinea and the Trifaldi and the
cave of Montesinos play a leading part in the later and inferior
romances, and another distinguishing feature is caricatured in Don
Quixote's blind adoration of Dulcinea. In the romances of chivalry
love is either a mere animalism or a fantastic idolatry. Only a
coarse-minded man would care to make merry with the former, but to one
of Cervantes' humour the latter was naturally an attractive subject
for ridicule. Like everything else in these romances, it is a gross
exaggeration of the real sentiment of chivalry, but its peculiar
extravagance is probably due to the influence of those masters of
hyperbole, the Provencal poets. When a troubadour professed his
readiness to obey his lady in all things, he made it incumbent upon
the next comer, if he wished to avoid the imputation of tameness and
commonplace, to declare himself the slave of her will, which the
next was compelled to cap by some still stronger declaration; and so
expressions of devotion went on rising one above the other like
biddings at an auction, and a conventional language of gallantry and
theory of love came into being that in time permeated the literature
of Southern Europe, and bore fruit, in one direction in the
transcendental worship of Beatrice and Laura, and in another in the
grotesque idolatry which found exponents in writers like Feliciano
de Silva. This is what Cervantes deals with in Don Quixote's passion
for Dulcinea, and in no instance has he carried out the burlesque more
happily. By keeping Dulcinea in the background, and making her a vague
shadowy being of whose very existence we are left in doubt, he invests
Don Quixote's worship of her virtues and charms with an additional
extravagance, and gives still more point to the caricature of the
sentiment and language of the romances.

One of the great merits of "Don Quixote," and one of the qualities
that have secured its acceptance by all classes of readers and made it
the most cosmopolitan of books, is its simplicity. There are, of
course, points obvious enough to a Spanish seventeenth century
audience which do not immediately strike a reader now-a-days, and
Cervantes often takes it for granted that an allusion will be
generally understood which is only intelligible to a few. For example,
on many of his readers in Spain, and most of his readers out of it,
the significance of his choice of a country for his hero is completely
lost. It would he going too far to say that no one can thoroughly
comprehend "Don Quixote" without having seen La Mancha, but
undoubtedly even a glimpse of La Mancha will give an insight into
the meaning of Cervantes such as no commentator can give. Of all the
regions of Spain it is the last that would suggest the idea of
romance. Of all the dull central plateau of the Peninsula it is the
dullest tract. There is something impressive about the grim
solitudes of Estremadura; and if the plains of Leon and Old Castile
are bald and dreary, they are studded with old cities renowned in
history and rich in relics of the past. But there is no redeeming
feature in the Manchegan landscape; it has all the sameness of the
desert without its dignity; the few towns and villages that break
its monotony are mean and commonplace, there is nothing venerable
about them, they have not even the picturesqueness of poverty; indeed,
Don Quixote's own village, Argamasilla, has a sort of oppressive
respectability in the prim regularity of its streets and houses;
everything is ignoble; the very windmills are the ugliest and
shabbiest of the windmill kind.

To anyone who knew the country well, the mere style and title of
"Don Quixote of La Mancha" gave the key to the author's meaning at
once. La Mancha as the knight's country and scene of his chivalries is
of a piece with the pasteboard helmet, the farm-labourer on ass-back
for a squire, knighthood conferred by a rascally ventero, convicts
taken for victims of oppression, and the rest of the incongruities
between Don Quixote's world and the world he lived in, between
things as he saw them and things as they were.

It is strange that this element of incongruity, underlying the whole
humour and purpose of the book, should have been so little heeded by
the majority of those who have undertaken to interpret "Don
Quixote." It has been completely overlooked, for example, by the
illustrators. To be sure, the great majority of the artists who
illustrated "Don Quixote" knew nothing whatever of Spain. To them a
venta conveyed no idea but the abstract one of a roadside inn, and
they could not therefore do full justice to the humour of Don
Quixote's misconception in taking it for a castle, or perceive the
remoteness of all its realities from his ideal. But even when better
informed they seem to have no apprehension of the full force of the
discrepancy. Take, for instance, Gustave Dore's drawing of Don Quixote
watching his armour in the inn-yard. Whether or not the Venta de
Quesada on the Seville road is, as tradition maintains, the inn
described in "Don Quixote," beyond all question it was just such an
inn-yard as the one behind it that Cervantes had in his mind's eye,
and it was on just such a rude stone trough as that beside the
primitive draw-well in the corner that he meant Don Quixote to deposit
his armour. Gustave Dore makes it an elaborate fountain such as no
arriero ever watered his mules at in the corral of any venta in Spain,
and thereby entirely misses the point aimed at by Cervantes. It is the
mean, prosaic, commonplace character of all the surroundings and
circumstances that gives a significance to Don Quixote's vigil and the
ceremony that follows.

Cervantes' humour is for the most part of that broader and simpler
sort, the strength of which lies in the perception of the incongruous.
It is the incongruity of Sancho in all his ways, words, and works,
with the ideas and aims of his master, quite as much as the
wonderful vitality and truth to nature of the character, that makes
him the most humorous creation in the whole range of fiction. That
unsmiling gravity of which Cervantes was the first great master,
"Cervantes' serious air," which sits naturally on Swift alone,
perhaps, of later humourists, is essential to this kind of humour, and
here again Cervantes has suffered at the hands of his interpreters.
Nothing, unless indeed the coarse buffoonery of Phillips, could be
more out of place in an attempt to represent Cervantes, than a
flippant, would-be facetious style, like that of Motteux's version for
example, or the sprightly, jaunty air, French translators sometimes
adopt. It is the grave matter-of-factness of the narrative, and the
apparent unconsciousness of the author that he is saying anything
ludicrous, anything but the merest commonplace, that give its peculiar
flavour to the humour of Cervantes. His, in fact, is the exact
opposite of the humour of Sterne and the self-conscious humourists.
Even when Uncle Toby is at his best, you are always aware of "the
man Sterne" behind him, watching you over his shoulder to see what
effect he is producing. Cervantes always leaves you alone with Don
Quixote and Sancho. He and Swift and the great humourists always
keep themselves out of sight, or, more properly speaking, never
think about themselves at all, unlike our latter-day school of
humourists, who seem to have revived the old horse-collar method,
and try to raise a laugh by some grotesque assumption of ignorance,
imbecility, or bad taste.

It is true that to do full justice to Spanish humour in any other
language is well-nigh an impossibility. There is a natural gravity and
a sonorous stateliness about Spanish, be it ever so colloquial, that
make an absurdity doubly absurd, and give plausibility to the most
preposterous statement. This is what makes Sancho Panza's drollery the
despair of the conscientious translator. Sancho's curt comments can
never fall flat, but they lose half their flavour when transferred
from their native Castilian into any other medium. But if foreigners
have failed to do justice to the humour of Cervantes, they are no
worse than his own countrymen. Indeed, were it not for the Spanish
peasant's relish of "Don Quixote," one might be tempted to think
that the great humourist was not looked upon as a humourist at all
in his own country.

The craze of Don Quixote seems, in some instances, to have
communicated itself to his critics, making them see things that are
not in the book and run full tilt at phantoms that have no existence
save in their own imaginations. Like a good many critics now-a-days,
they forget that screams are not criticism, and that it is only vulgar
tastes that are influenced by strings of superlatives, three-piled
hyperboles, and pompous epithets. But what strikes one as particularly
strange is that while they deal in extravagant eulogies, and ascribe
all manner of imaginary ideas and qualities to Cervantes, they show no
perception of the quality that ninety-nine out of a hundred of his
readers would rate highest in him, and hold to be the one that
raises him above all rivalry.

To speak of "Don Quixote" as if it were merely a humorous book would
be a manifest misdescription. Cervantes at times makes it a kind of
commonplace book for occasional essays and criticisms, or for the
observations and reflections and gathered wisdom of a long and
stirring life. It is a mine of shrewd observation on mankind and human
nature. Among modern novels there may be, here and there, more
elaborate studies of character, but there is no book richer in
individualised character. What Coleridge said of Shakespeare in
minimis is true of Cervantes; he never, even for the most temporary
purpose, puts forward a lay figure. There is life and individuality in
all his characters, however little they may have to do, or however
short a time they may be before the reader. Samson Carrasco, the
curate, Teresa Panza, Altisidora, even the two students met on the
road to the cave of Montesinos, all live and move and have their
being; and it is characteristic of the broad humanity of Cervantes
that there is not a hateful one among them all. Even poor
Maritornes, with her deplorable morals, has a kind heart of her own
and "some faint and distant resemblance to a Christian about her;" and
as for Sancho, though on dissection we fail to find a lovable trait in
him, unless it be a sort of dog-like affection for his master, who
is there that in his heart does not love him?

But it is, after all, the humour of "Don Quixote" that distinguishes
it from all other books of the romance kind. It is this that makes it,
as one of the most judicial-minded of modern critics calls it, "the
best novel in the world beyond all comparison." It is its varied
humour, ranging from broad farce to comedy as subtle as
Shakespeare's or Moliere's that has naturalised it in every country
where there are readers, and made it a classic in every language
that has a literature.

SOME COMMENDATORY VERSES

URGANDA THE UNKNOWN

To the book of Don Quixote of la Mancha

If to be welcomed by the good,
   O Book! thou make thy steady aim,
No empty chatterer will dare
   To question or dispute thy claim.
But if perchance thou hast a mind
   To win of idiots approbation,
Lost labour will be thy reward,
   Though they'll pretend appreciation.

They say a goodly shade he finds
   Who shelters 'neath a goodly tree;
And such a one thy kindly star
   In Bejar bath provided thee:
A royal tree whose spreading boughs
   A show of princely fruit display;
A tree that bears a noble Duke,
   The Alexander of his day.

Of a Manchegan gentleman
   Thy purpose is to tell the story,
Relating how he lost his wits
   O'er idle tales of love and glory,
Of "ladies, arms, and cavaliers:"
   A new Orlando Furioso-
Innamorato, rather- who
   Won Dulcinea del Toboso.

Put no vain emblems on thy shield;
   All figures- that is bragging play.
A modest dedication make,
   And give no scoffer room to say,
"What! Alvaro de Luna here?
   Or is it Hannibal again?
Or does King Francis at Madrid
   Once more of destiny complain?"

Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee
   Deep erudition to bestow,
Or black Latino's gift of tongues,
   No Latin let thy pages show.
Ape not philosophy or wit,
   Lest one who cannot comprehend,
Make a wry face at thee and ask,
   "Why offer flowers to me, my friend?"

Be not a meddler; no affair
   Of thine the life thy neighbours lead:
Be prudent; oft the random jest
   Recoils upon the jester's head.
Thy constant labour let it be
   To earn thyself an honest name,
For fooleries preserved in print
   Are perpetuity of shame.

A further counsel bear in mind:
   If that thy roof be made of glass,
It shows small wit to pick up stones
   To pelt the people as they pass.
Win the attention of the wise,
   And give the thinker food for thought;
Whoso indites frivolities,
   Will but by simpletons be sought.

             AMADIS OF GAUL
       To Don Quixote of la Mancha

SONNET

Thou that didst imitate that life of mine
   When I in lonely sadness on the great
   Rock Pena Pobre sat disconsolate,
In self-imposed penance there to pine;
Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine
   Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate
   Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state
Off the bare earth and on earth's fruits didst dine;
Live thou, of thine eternal glory sure.
   So long as on the round of the fourth sphere
   The bright Apollo shall his coursers steer,
In thy renown thou shalt remain secure,
Thy country's name in story shall endure,
   And thy sage author stand without a peer.

DON BELIANIS OF GREECE
To Don Quixote of la Mancha

SONNET

In slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed,
   I was the foremost knight of chivalry,
   Stout, bold, expert, as e'er the world did see;
Thousands from the oppressor's wrong I freed;
Great were my feats, eternal fame their meed;
   In love I proved my truth and loyalty;
   The hugest giant was a dwarf for me;
Ever to knighthood's laws gave I good heed.
My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned,
   And even Chance, submitting to control,
     Grasped by the forelock, yielded to my will.
Yet- though above yon horned moon enthroned
     My fortune seems to sit- great Quixote, still
   Envy of thy achievements fills my soul.

THE LADY OF ORIANA
To Dulcinea del Toboso

SONNET

Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be!
   It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so-
   Could Miraflores change to El Toboso,
And London's town to that which shelters thee!
Oh, could mine but acquire that livery
   Of countless charms thy mind and body show so!
   Or him, now famous grown- thou mad'st him grow so-
Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see!
Oh, could I be released from Amadis
   By exercise of such coy chastity
As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss!
     Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy;
   None would I envy, all would envy me,
     And happiness be mine without alloy.

GANDALIN, SQUIRE OF AMADIS OF GAUL,
To Sancho Panza, squire of Don Quixote

SONNET

All hail, illustrious man! Fortune, when she
   Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade,
   Her care and tenderness of thee displayed,
Shaping thy course from misadventure free.
No longer now doth proud knight-errantry
   Regard with scorn the sickle and the spade;
   Of towering arrogance less count is made
Than of plain esquire-like simplicity.
I envy thee thy Dapple, and thy name,
   And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff
With comforts that thy providence proclaim.
     Excellent Sancho! hail to thee again!
     To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain
   Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff.

   FROM EL DONOSO, THE MOTLEY POET,

On Sancho Panza and Rocinante

ON SANCHO

I am the esquire Sancho Pan-
Who served Don Quixote of La Man-;
But from his service I retreat-,
Resolved to pass my life discreet-;
For Villadiego, called the Si-,
Maintained that only in reti-
Was found the secret of well-be-,
According to the "Celesti-:"
A book divine, except for sin-
By speech too plain, in my opin-

ON ROCINANTE

I am that Rocinante fa-,
Great-grandson of great Babie-,
Who, all for being lean and bon-,
Had one Don Quixote for an own-;
But if I matched him well in weak-,
I never took short commons meek-,
But kept myself in corn by steal-,
A trick I learned from Lazaril-,
When with a piece of straw so neat-
The blind man of his wine he cheat-.

ORLANDO FURIOSO
To Don Quixote of La Mancha

SONNET

If thou art not a Peer, peer thou hast none;
   Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer;
   Nor is there room for one when thou art near,
Unvanquished victor, great unconquered one!
Orlando, by Angelica undone,
   Am I; o'er distant seas condemned to steer,
   And to Fame's altars as an offering bear
Valour respected by Oblivion.
I cannot be thy rival, for thy fame
   And prowess rise above all rivalry,
     Albeit both bereft of wits we go.
But, though the Scythian or the Moor to tame
   Was not thy lot, still thou dost rival me:
    Love binds us in a fellowship of woe.

THE KNIGHT OF PHOEBUS

To Don Quixote of La Mancha

My sword was not to be compared with thine
   Phoebus of Spain, marvel of courtesy,
Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine
   That smote from east to west as lightnings fly.
   I scorned all empire, and that monarchy
The rosy east held out did I resign
   For one glance of Claridiana's eye,
The bright Aurora for whose love I pine.
A miracle of constancy my love;
   And banished by her ruthless cruelty,
     This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame.
But, Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove,
     For thou dost live in Dulcinea's name,
   And famous, honoured, wise, she lives in thee.

FROM SOLISDAN
To Don Quixote of La Mancha

SONNET

Your fantasies, Sir Quixote, it is true,
   That crazy brain of yours have quite upset,
   But aught of base or mean hath never yet
Been charged by any in reproach to you.
Your deeds are open proof in all men's view;
   For you went forth injustice to abate,
   And for your pains sore drubbings did you get
From many a rascally and ruffian crew.
If the fair Dulcinea, your heart's queen,
   Be unrelenting in her cruelty,
     If still your woe be powerless to move her,
   In such hard case your comfort let it be
That Sancho was a sorry go-between:
     A booby he, hard-hearted she, and you no lover.

DIALOGUE
Between Babieca and Rocinante

SONNET

B. "How comes it, Rocinante, you're so lean?"
R. "I'm underfed, with overwork I'm worn."
B. "But what becomes of all the hay and corn?"
R. "My master gives me none; he's much too mean."
B. "Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween;
  'T is like an ass your master thus to scorn."
R. He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born;
  Why, he's in love; what's what's plainer to be seen?"
B. "To be in love is folly?"- R. "No great sense."
B. "You're metaphysical."- R. "From want of food."
B. "Rail at the squire, then."- R. "Why, what's the good?
    I might indeed complain of him,I grant ye,
  But, squire or master, where's the difference?
    They're both as sorry hacks as Rocinante."

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would
this book, as it is the child of my brain, were the fairest, gayest,
and cleverest that could be imagined. But I could not counteract
Nature's law that everything shall beget its like; and what, then,
could this sterile, illtilled wit of mine beget but the story of a
dry, shrivelled, whimsical offspring, full of thoughts of all sorts
and such as never came into any other imagination- just what might
be begotten in a prison, where every misery is lodged and every
doleful sound makes its dwelling? Tranquillity, a cheerful retreat,
pleasant fields, bright skies, murmuring brooks, peace of mind,
these are the things that go far to make even the most barren muses
fertile, and bring into the world births that fill it with wonder
and delight. Sometimes when a father has an ugly, loutish son, the
love he bears him so blindfolds his eyes that he does not see his
defects, or, rather, takes them for gifts and charms of mind and body,
and talks of them to his friends as wit and grace. I, however- for
though I pass for the father, I am but the stepfather to "Don
Quixote"- have no desire to go with the current of custom, or to
implore thee, dearest reader, almost with tears in my eyes, as
others do, to pardon or excuse the defects thou wilt perceive in
this child of mine. Thou art neither its kinsman nor its friend, thy
soul is thine own and thy will as free as any man's, whate'er he be,
thou art in thine own house and master of it as much as the king of
his taxes and thou knowest the common saying, "Under my cloak I kill
the king;" all which exempts and frees thee from every consideration
and obligation, and thou canst say what thou wilt of the story without
fear of being abused for any ill or rewarded for any good thou
mayest say of it.

My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and unadorned,
without any embellishment of preface or uncountable muster of
customary sonnets, epigrams, and eulogies, such as are commonly put at
the beginning of books. For I can tell thee, though composing it
cost me some labour, I found none greater than the making of this
Preface thou art now reading. Many times did I take up my pen to write
it, and many did I lay it down again, not knowing what to write. One
of these times, as I was pondering with the paper before me, a pen
in my ear, my elbow on the desk, and my cheek in my hand, thinking
of what I should say, there came in unexpectedly a certain lively,
clever friend of mine, who, seeing me so deep in thought, asked the
reason; to which I, making no mystery of it, answered that I was
thinking of the Preface I had to make for the story of "Don
Quixote," which so troubled me that I had a mind not to make any at
all, nor even publish the achievements of so noble a knight.

"For, how could you expect me not to feel uneasy about what that
ancient lawgiver they call the Public will say when it sees me,
after slumbering so many years in the silence of oblivion, coming
out now with all my years upon my back, and with a book as dry as a
rush, devoid of invention, meagre in style, poor in thoughts, wholly
wanting in learning and wisdom, without quotations in the margin or
annotations at the end, after the fashion of other books I see, which,
though all fables and profanity, are so full of maxims from Aristotle,
and Plato, and the whole herd of philosophers, that they fill the
readers with amazement and convince them that the authors are men of
learning, erudition, and eloquence. And then, when they quote the Holy
Scriptures!- anyone would say they are St. Thomases or other doctors
of the Church, observing as they do a decorum so ingenious that in one
sentence they describe a distracted lover and in the next deliver a
devout little sermon that it is a pleasure and a treat to hear and
read. Of all this there will be nothing in my book, for I have nothing
to quote in the margin or to note at the end, and still less do I know
what authors I follow in it, to place them at the beginning, as all
do, under the letters A, B, C, beginning with Aristotle and ending
with Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one was a slanderer and
the other a painter. Also my book must do without sonnets at the
beginning, at least sonnets whose authors are dukes, marquises,
counts, bishops, ladies, or famous poets. Though if I were to ask
two or three obliging friends, I know they would give me them, and
such as the productions of those that have the highest reputation in
our Spain could not equal.

"In short, my friend," I continued, "I am determined that Senor
Don Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of his own La Mancha
until Heaven provide some one to garnish him with all those things
he stands in need of; because I find myself, through my shallowness
and want of learning, unequal to supplying them, and because I am by
nature shy and careless about hunting for authors to say what I myself
can say without them. Hence the cogitation and abstraction you found
me in, and reason enough, what you have heard from me."

Hearing this, my friend, giving himself a slap on the forehead and
breaking into a hearty laugh, exclaimed, "Before God, Brother, now
am I disabused of an error in which I have been living all this long
time I have known you, all through which I have taken you to be shrewd
and sensible in all you do; but now I see you are as far from that
as the heaven is from the earth. It is possible that things of so
little moment and so easy to set right can occupy and perplex a ripe
wit like yours, fit to break through and crush far greater
obstacles? By my faith, this comes, not of any want of ability, but of
too much indolence and too little knowledge of life. Do you want to
know if I am telling the truth? Well, then, attend to me, and you will
see how, in the opening and shutting of an eye, I sweep away all
your difficulties, and supply all those deficiencies which you say
check and discourage you from bringing before the world the story of
your famous Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight-errantry."

"Say on," said I, listening to his talk; "how do you propose to make
up for my diffidence, and reduce to order this chaos of perplexity I
am in?"

To which he made answer, "Your first difficulty about the sonnets,
epigrams, or complimentary verses which you want for the beginning,
and which ought to be by persons of importance and rank, can be
removed if you yourself take a little trouble to make them; you can
afterwards baptise them, and put any name you like to them,
fathering them on Prester John of the Indies or the Emperor of
Trebizond, who, to my knowledge, were said to have been famous
poets: and even if they were not, and any pedants or bachelors
should attack you and question the fact, never care two maravedis
for that, for even if they prove a lie against you they cannot cut off
the hand you wrote it with.

"As to references in the margin to the books and authors from whom
you take the aphorisms and sayings you put into your story, it is only
contriving to fit in nicely any sentences or scraps of Latin you may
happen to have by heart, or at any rate that will not give you much
trouble to look up; so as, when you speak of freedom and captivity, to
insert

Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro;

and then refer in the margin to Horace, or whoever said it; or, if you
allude to the power of death, to come in with-

Pallida mors Aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
   Regumque turres.

If it be friendship and the love God bids us bear to our enemy, go
at once to the Holy Scriptures, which you can do with a very small
amount of research, and quote no less than the words of God himself:
Ego autem dico vobis: diligite inimicos vestros. If you speak of
evil thoughts, turn to the Gospel: De corde exeunt cogitationes malae.
If of the fickleness of friends, there is Cato, who will give you
his distich:

Donec eris felix multos numerabis amicos,
    Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris.

With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for a
grammarian at all events, and that now-a-days is no small honour and
profit.

"With regard to adding annotations at the end of the book, you may
safely do it in this way. If you mention any giant in your book
contrive that it shall be the giant Goliath, and with this alone,
which will cost you almost nothing, you have a grand note, for you can
put- The giant Golias or Goliath was a Philistine whom the shepherd
David slew by a mighty stone-cast in the Terebinth valley, as is
related in the Book of Kings- in the chapter where you find it
written.

"Next, to prove yourself a man of erudition in polite literature and
cosmography, manage that the river Tagus shall be named in your story,
and there you are at once with another famous annotation, setting
forth- The river Tagus was so called after a King of Spain: it has its
source in such and such a place and falls into the ocean, kissing
the walls of the famous city of Lisbon, and it is a common belief that
it has golden sands, &c. If you should have anything to do with
robbers, I will give you the story of Cacus, for I have it by heart;
if with loose women, there is the Bishop of Mondonedo, who will give
you the loan of Lamia, Laida, and Flora, any reference to whom will
bring you great credit; if with hard-hearted ones, Ovid will furnish
you with Medea; if with witches or enchantresses, Homer has Calypso,
and Virgil Circe; if with valiant captains, Julius Caesar himself will
lend you himself in his own 'Commentaries,' and Plutarch will give you
a thousand Alexanders. If you should deal with love, with two ounces
you may know of Tuscan you can go to Leon the Hebrew, who will
supply you to your heart's content; or if you should not care to go to
foreign countries you have at home Fonseca's 'Of the Love of God,'
in which is condensed all that you or the most imaginative mind can
want on the subject. In short, all you have to do is to manage to
quote these names, or refer to these stories I have mentioned, and
leave it to me to insert the annotations and quotations, and I swear
by all that's good to fill your margins and use up four sheets at
the end of the book.

"Now let us come to those references to authors which other books
have, and you want for yours. The remedy for this is very simple:
You have only to look out for some book that quotes them all, from A
to Z as you say yourself, and then insert the very same alphabet in
your book, and though the imposition may be plain to see, because
you have so little need to borrow from them, that is no matter;
there will probably be some simple enough to believe that you have
made use of them all in this plain, artless story of yours. At any
rate, if it answers no other purpose, this long catalogue of authors
will serve to give a surprising look of authority to your book.
Besides, no one will trouble himself to verify whether you have
followed them or whether you have not, being no way concerned in it;
especially as, if I mistake not, this book of yours has no need of any
one of those things you say it wants, for it is, from beginning to
end, an attack upon the books of chivalry, of which Aristotle never
dreamt, nor St. Basil said a word, nor Cicero had any knowledge; nor
do the niceties of truth nor the observations of astrology come within
the range of its fanciful vagaries; nor have geometrical
measurements or refutations of the arguments used in rhetoric anything
to do with it; nor does it mean to preach to anybody, mixing up things
human and divine, a sort of motley in which no Christian understanding
should dress itself. It has only to avail itself of truth to nature in
its composition, and the more perfect the imitation the better the
work will be. And as this piece of yours aims at nothing more than
to destroy the authority and influence which books of chivalry have in
the world and with the public, there is no need for you to go
a-begging for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts from Holy
Scripture, fables from poets, speeches from orators, or miracles
from saints; but merely to take care that your style and diction run
musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and
well-placed words, setting forth your purpose to the best of your
power, and putting your ideas intelligibly, without confusion or
obscurity. Strive, too, that in reading your story the melancholy
may be moved to laughter, and the merry made merrier still; that the
simple shall not be wearied, that the judicious shall admire the
invention, that the grave shall not despise it, nor the wise fail to
praise it. Finally, keep your aim fixed on the destruction of that
ill-founded edifice of the books of chivalry, hated by some and
praised by many more; for if you succeed in this you will have
achieved no small success."

In profound silence I listened to what my friend said, and his
observations made such an impression on me that, without attempting to
question them, I admitted their soundness, and out of them I
determined to make this Preface; wherein, gentle reader, thou wilt
perceive my friend's good sense, my good fortune in finding such an
adviser in such a time of need, and what thou hast gained in
receiving, without addition or alteration, the story of the famous Don
Quixote of La Mancha, who is held by all the inhabitants of the
district of the Campo de Montiel to have been the chastest lover and
the bravest knight that has for many years been seen in that
neighbourhood. I have no desire to magnify the service I render thee
in making thee acquainted with so renowned and honoured a knight,
but I do desire thy thanks for the acquaintance thou wilt make with
the famous Sancho Panza, his squire, in whom, to my thinking, I have
given thee condensed all the squirely drolleries that are scattered
through the swarm of the vain books of chivalry. And so- may God
give thee health, and not forget me. Vale.

DEDICATION OF PART I

TO THE DUKE OF BEJAR, MARQUIS OF GIBRALEON, COUNT OF BENALCAZAR
AND BANARES, VICECOUNT OF THE PUEBLA DE ALCOCER, MASTER OF THE TOWNS
OF CAPILLA, CURIEL AND BURGUILLOS

In belief of the good reception and honours that Your Excellency
bestows on all sort of books, as prince so inclined to favor good
arts, chiefly those who by their nobleness do not submit to the
service and bribery of the vulgar, I have determined bringing to light
The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la Mancha, in shelter of Your
Excellency's glamorous name, to whom, with the obeisance I owe to such
grandeur, I pray to receive it agreeably under his protection, so that
in this shadow, though deprived of that precious ornament of
elegance and erudition that clothe the works composed in the houses of
those who know, it dares appear with assurance in the judgment of some
who, trespassing the bounds of their own ignorance, use to condemn
with more rigour and less justice the writings of others. It is my
earnest hope that Your Excellency's good counsel in regard to my
honourable purpose, will not disdain the littleness of so humble a
service.

Miguel de Cervantes

CHAPTER I

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

In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to
call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that
keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a
greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a
salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a
pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his
income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet
breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a
brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper
past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and
market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the
bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty;
he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and
a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or
Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the
authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable
conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This,
however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough
not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it.

You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he
was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up
to reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he
almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even
the management of his property; and to such a pitch did his
eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of
tillageland to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought home as many
of them as he could get. But of all there were none he liked so well
as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva's composition, for their
lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his
sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and
cartels, where he often found passages like "the reason of the
unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that
with reason I murmur at your beauty;" or again, "the high heavens,
that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render
you deserving of the desert your greatness deserves." Over conceits of
this sort the poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake
striving to understand them and worm the meaning out of them; what
Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted had he come
to life again for that special purpose. He was not at all easy about
the wounds which Don Belianis gave and took, because it seemed to
him that, great as were the surgeons who had cured him, he must have
had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars. He
commended, however, the author's way of ending his book with the
promise of that interminable adventure, and many a time was he tempted
to take up his pen and finish it properly as is there proposed,
which no doubt he would have done, and made a successful piece of work
of it too, had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him.

Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a
learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the
better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas,
the village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came
up to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if there was any that could
compare with him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul,
because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no
finikin knight, nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter
of valour he was not a whit behind him. In short, he became so
absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise,
and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little
sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits.
His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books,
enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves,
agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his
mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true,
that to him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to
say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knight, but that he was not to be
compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke
cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of
Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of
enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he
strangled Antaeus the son of Terra in his arms. He approved highly
of the giant Morgante, because, although of the giant breed which is
always arrogant and ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and
well-bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially
when he saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he
met, and when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as
his history says, was entirely of gold. To have a bout of kicking at
that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his housekeeper, and his
niece into the bargain.

In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest
notion that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he
fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own
honour as for the service of his country, that he should make a
knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on
horseback in quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself
all that he had read of as being the usual practices of
knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself
to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal
renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might
of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the
intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself
forthwith to put his scheme into execution.

The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged
to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a
corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and
polished it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it,
that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This
deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind
of half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked
like a whole one. It is true that, in order to see if it was strong
and fit to stand a cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of
slashes, the first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a
week to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces
disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set
to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was
satisfied with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more
experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the
most perfect construction.

He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than
a real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that "tantum
pellis et ossa fuit," surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of
Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in
thinking what name to give him, because (as he said to himself) it was
not right that a horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with
such merits of his own, should be without some distinctive name, and
he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before
belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only
reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he should take a
new name, and that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding one,
befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow. And so,
after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and
remade a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he decided
upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his thinking, lofty,
sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he
became what he now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the
world.

Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious
to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this
point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself "Don Quixote,"
whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious
history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt
Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting,
however, that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself
curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom
and country to make it famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul,
he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of his, and to
style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he
described accurately his origin and country, and did honour to it in
taking his surname from it.

So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a
helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to
the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for
a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a
tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said
to himself, "If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across
some giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and
overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist,
or, in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have
some one I may send him to as a present, that he may come in and
fall on his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive
voice say, 'I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of
Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently
extolled knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to
present myself before your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me
at your pleasure'?" Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of
this speech, especially when he had thought of some one to call his
Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very
good-looking farm-girl with whom he had been at one time in love,
though, so far as is known, she never knew it nor gave a thought to
the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought
fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search
for a name which should not be out of harmony with her own, and should
suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided
upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso -she being of El Toboso- a name,
to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all those he had
already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.

CHAPTER II

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

These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer
the execution of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all
the world was losing by his delay, seeing what wrongs he intended to
right, grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses to
remove, and duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his
intention to anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning
before the dawning of the day (which was one of the hottest of the
month of July) he donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante with
his patched-up helmet on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and by
the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the
highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had
made a beginning with his grand purpose. But scarcely did he find
himself upon the open plain, when a terrible thought struck him, one
all but enough to make him abandon the enterprise at the very
outset. It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight, and
that according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to
bear arms against any knight; and that even if he had been, still he
ought, as a novice knight, to wear white armour, without a device upon
the shield until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflections
made him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than any
reasoning, he made up his mind to have himself dubbed a knight by
the first one he came across, following the example of others in the
same case, as he had read in the books that brought him to this
pass. As for white armour, he resolved, on the first opportunity, to
scour his until it was whiter than an ermine; and so comforting
himself he pursued his way, taking that which his horse chose, for
in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.

Thus setting out, our new-fledged adventurer paced along, talking to
himself and saying, "Who knows but that in time to come, when the
veracious history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who
writes it, when he has to set forth my first sally in the early
morning, will do it after this fashion? 'Scarce had the rubicund
Apollo spread o'er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden
threads of his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted
plumage attuned their notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous
harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of
her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and
balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated
steed Rocinante and began to traverse the ancient and famous Campo
de Montiel;'" which in fact he was actually traversing. "Happy the
age, happy the time," he continued, "in which shall be made known my
deeds of fame, worthy to be moulded in brass, carved in marble, limned
in pictures, for a memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician,
whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this
wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee, my good Rocinante, the
constant companion of my ways and wanderings." Presently he broke
out again, as if he were love-stricken in earnest, "O Princess
Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou
done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy
banish me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in
remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for
love of thee."

So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in
the style of those his books had taught him, imitating their
language as well as he could; and all the while he rode so slowly
and the sun mounted so rapidly and with such fervour that it was
enough to melt his brains if he had any. Nearly all day he travelled
without anything remarkable happening to him, at which he was in
despair, for he was anxious to encounter some one at once upon whom to
try the might of his strong arm.

Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that
of Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the windmills; but what
I have ascertained on this point, and what I have found written in the
annals of La Mancha, is that he was on the road all day, and towards
nightfall his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry,
when, looking all around to see if he could discover any castle or
shepherd's shanty where he might refresh himself and relieve his
sore wants, he perceived not far out of his road an inn, which was
as welcome as a star guiding him to the portals, if not the palaces,
of his redemption; and quickening his pace he reached it just as night
was setting in. At the door were standing two young women, girls of
the district as they call them, on their way to Seville with some
carriers who had chanced to halt that night at the inn; and as, happen
what might to our adventurer, everything he saw or imaged seemed to
him to be and to happen after the fashion of what he read of, the
moment he saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with its
four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the
drawbridge and moat and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles
of the sort. To this inn, which to him seemed a castle, he advanced,
and at a short distance from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some
dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and by sound of trumpet
give notice that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing
that they were slow about it, and that Rocinante was in a hurry to
reach the stable, he made for the inn door, and perceived the two
gay damsels who were standing there, and who seemed to him to be two
fair maidens or lovely ladies taking their ease at the castle gate.

At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through
the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology,
that is what they are called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them
together, and forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was
expecting, the signal of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so
with prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the
ladies, who, seeing a man of this sort approaching in full armour
and with lance and buckler, were turning in dismay into the inn,
when Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their flight, raising his
pasteboard visor, disclosed his dry dusty visage, and with courteous
bearing and gentle voice addressed them, "Your ladyships need not
fly or fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of
knighthood which I profess to offer to anyone, much less to highborn
maidens as your appearance proclaims you to be." The girls were
looking at him and straining their eyes to make out the features which
the clumsy visor obscured, but when they heard themselves called
maidens, a thing so much out of their line, they could not restrain
their laughter, which made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say,
"Modesty becomes the fair, and moreover laughter that has little cause
is great silliness; this, however, I say not to pain or anger you, for
my desire is none other than to serve you."

The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our
cavalier only increased the ladies' laughter, and that increased his
irritation, and matters might have gone farther if at that moment
the landlord had not come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very
peaceful one. He, seeing this grotesque figure clad in armour that did
not match any more than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or
corselet, was not at all indisposed to join the damsels in their
manifestations of amusement; but, in truth, standing in awe of such
a complicated armament, he thought it best to speak him fairly, so
he said, "Senor Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, bating the
bed (for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of everything
else here." Don Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of the
Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes),
made answer, "Sir Castellan, for me anything will suffice, for

'My armour is my only wear,
My only rest the fray.'"

The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a
"worthy of Castile," though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from
the strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of
tricks as a student or a page. "In that case," said he,

"'Your bed is on the flinty rock,
Your sleep to watch alway;'

and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of
sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a
single night." So saying, he advanced to hold the stirrup for Don
Quixote, who got down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had
not broken his fast all day), and then charged the host to take
great care of his horse, as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate
bread in this world. The landlord eyed him over but did not find him
as good as Don Quixote said, nor even half as good; and putting him up
in the stable, he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest,
whom the damsels, who had by this time made their peace with him, were
now relieving of his armour. They had taken off his breastplate and
backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his gorget or
remove his make-shift helmet, for he had fastened it with green
ribbons, which, as there was no untying the knots, required to be cut.
This, however, he would not by any means consent to, so he remained
all the evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure
that can be imagined; and while they were removing his armour,
taking the baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree
belonging to the castle, he said to them with great sprightliness:

Oh, never, surely, was there knight
  So served by hand of dame,
As served was he, Don Quixote hight,
  When from his town he came;
With maidens waiting on himself,
  Princesses on his hack-

-or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse's name, and Don
Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of
declaring myself until my achievements in your service and honour
had made me known, the necessity of adapting that old ballad of
Lancelot to the present occasion has given you the knowledge of my
name altogether prematurely. A time, however, will come for your
ladyships to command and me to obey, and then the might of my arm will
show my desire to serve you."

The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had
nothing to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything
to eat. "I would gladly eat a bit of something," said Don Quixote,
"for I feel it would come very seasonably." The day happened to be a
Friday, and in the whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of
the fish they call in Castile "abadejo," in Andalusia "bacallao,"
and in some places "curadillo," and in others "troutlet;" so they
asked him if he thought he could eat troutlet, for there was no
other fish to give him. "If there be troutlets enough," said Don
Quixote, "they will be the same thing as a trout; for it is all one to
me whether I am given eight reals in small change or a piece of eight;
moreover, it may be that these troutlets are like veal, which is
better than beef, or kid, which is better than goat. But whatever it
be let it come quickly, for the burden and pressure of arms cannot
be borne without support to the inside." They laid a table for him
at the door of the inn for the sake of the air, and the host brought
him a portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfish, and a piece of
bread as black and mouldy as his own armour; but a laughable sight
it was to see him eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver
up, he could not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless
some one else placed it there, and this service one of the ladies
rendered him. But to give him anything to drink was impossible, or
would have been so had not the landlord bored a reed, and putting
one end in his mouth poured the wine into him through the other; all
which he bore with patience rather than sever the ribbons of his
helmet.

While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgelder, who,
as he approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and
thereby completely convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous
castle, and that they were regaling him with music, and that the
stockfish was trout, the bread the whitest, the wenches ladies, and
the landlord the castellan of the castle; and consequently he held
that his enterprise and sally had been to some purpose. But still it
distressed him to think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was
plain to him he could not lawfully engage in any adventure without
receiving the order of knighthood.

CHAPTER III

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

Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty
pothouse supper, and having finished it called the landlord, and
shutting himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees before
him, saying, "From this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your
courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one that will redound to your
praise and the benefit of the human race." The landlord, seeing his
guest at his feet and hearing a speech of this kind, stood staring
at him in bewilderment, not knowing what to do or say, and
entreating him to rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed to
grant the boon demanded of him. "I looked for no less, my lord, from
your High Magnificence," replied Don Quixote, "and I have to tell
you that the boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that
you shall dub me knight to-morrow morning, and that to-night I shall
watch my arms in the chapel of this your castle; thus tomorrow, as I
have said, will be accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me
lawfully to roam through all the four quarters of the world seeking
adventures on behalf of those in distress, as is the duty of
chivalry and of knights-errant like myself, whose ambition is directed
to such deeds."

The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag,
and had already some suspicion of his guest's want of wits, was
quite convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from him, and to
make sport for the night he determined to fall in with his humour.
So he told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in
view, and that such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers
as distinguished as he seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to
be; and that he himself in his younger days had followed the same
honourable calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of
the world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles of
Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the
Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar,
the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other quarters,
where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of
his fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining maids
and swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself under the notice
of almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at
last he had retired to this castle of his, where he was living upon
his property and upon that of others; and where he received all
knights-errant of whatever rank or condition they might be, all for
the great love he bore them and that they might share their
substance with him in return for his benevolence. He told him,
moreover, that in this castle of his there was no chapel in which he
could watch his armour, as it had been pulled down in order to be
rebuilt, but that in a case of necessity it might, he knew, be watched
anywhere, and he might watch it that night in a courtyard of the
castle, and in the morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies
might be performed so as to have him dubbed a knight, and so
thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so. He asked if he had any
money with him, to which Don Quixote replied that he had not a
farthing, as in the histories of knights-errant he had never read of
any of them carrying any. On this point the landlord told him he was
mistaken; for, though not recorded in the histories, because in the
author's opinion there was no need to mention anything so obvious
and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be supposed
therefore that they did not carry them, and he might regard it as
certain and established that all knights-errant (about whom there were
so many full and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished purses in
case of emergency, and likewise carried shirts and a little box of
ointment to cure the wounds they received. For in those plains and
deserts where they engaged in combat and came out wounded, it was
not always that there was some one to cure them, unless indeed they
had for a friend some sage magician to succour them at once by
fetching through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial
of water of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured
of their hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if they
had not received any damage whatever. But in case this should not
occur, the knights of old took care to see that their squires were
provided with money and other requisites, such as lint and ointments
for healing purposes; and when it happened that knights had no squires
(which was rarely and seldom the case) they themselves carried
everything in cunning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse's
croup, as if it were something else of more importance, because,
unless for some such reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very
favourably regarded among knights-errant. He therefore advised him
(and, as his godson so soon to be, he might even command him) never
from that time forth to travel without money and the usual
requirements, and he would find the advantage of them when he least
expected it.

Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was
arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a large yard
at one side of the inn; so, collecting it all together, Don Quixote
placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a well, and bracing
his buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately
air to march up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his
march night began to fall.

The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze
of his guest, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing ceremony
he contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange a form of madness,
they flocked to see it from a distance, and observed with what
composure he sometimes paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his
lance, gazed on his armour without taking his eyes off it for ever
so long; and as the night closed in with a light from the moon so
brilliant that it might vie with his that lent it, everything the
novice knight did was plainly seen by all.

Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to
water his team, and it was necessary to remove Don Quixote's armour as
it lay on the trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a
loud voice, "O thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to
lay hands on the armour of the most valorous errant that ever girt
on sword, have a care what thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst
lay down thy life as the penalty of thy rashness." The carrier gave no
heed to these words (and he would have done better to heed them if
he had been heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps flung
the armour some distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote raised his
eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently, upon his lady
Dulcinea, exclaimed, "Aid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter
that presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection;
let not thy favour and protection fail me in this first jeopardy;"
and, with these words and others to the same purpose, dropping his
buckler he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a
blow on the carrier's head that he stretched him on the ground, so
stunned that had he followed it up with a second there would have been
no need of a surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armour
and returned to his beat with the same serenity as before.

Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for
the carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object of
giving water to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the armour
in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a
word or imploring aid from anyone, once more dropped his buckler and
once more lifted his lance, and without actually breaking the second
carrier's head into pieces, made more than three of it, for he laid it
open in four. At the noise all the people of the inn ran to the
spot, and among them the landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his
buckler on his arm, and with his hand on his sword exclaimed, "O
Lady of Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it is time for
thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight on
the brink of so mighty an adventure." By this he felt himself so
inspired that he would not have flinched if all the carriers in the
world had assailed him. The comrades of the wounded perceiving the
plight they were in began from a distance to shower stones on Don
Quixote, who screened himself as best he could with his buckler, not
daring to quit the trough and leave his armour unprotected. The
landlord shouted to them to leave him alone, for he had already told
them that he was mad, and as a madman he would not be accountable even
if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don Quixote, calling
them knaves and traitors, and the lord of the castle, who allowed
knights-errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and a low-born
knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he would call to
account for his treachery. "But of you," he cried, "base and vile
rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come on, do all ye can
against me, ye shall see what the reward of your folly and insolence
will be." This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness that he
filled his assailants with a terrible fear, and as much for this
reason as at the persuasion of the landlord they left off stoning him,
and he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with the same
calmness and composure as before resumed the watch over his armour.

But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the
landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at
once the unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure
could occur; so, going up to him, he apologised for the rudeness
which, without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these low
people, who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he
had already told him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle,
nor was it needed for what remained to be done, for, as he
understood the ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being
dubbed a knight lay in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder,
and that could be administered in the middle of a field; and that he
had now done all that was needful as to watching the armour, for all
requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours only, while he had
been more than four about it. Don Quixote believed it all, and told
him he stood there ready to obey him, and to make an end of it with as
much despatch as possible; for, if he were again attacked, and felt
himself to be dubbed knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul
alive in the castle, except such as out of respect he might spare at
his bidding.

Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a
book in which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to
the carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle-end, and the two
damsels already mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and
bade him kneel down. Then, reading from his account-book as if he were
repeating some devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he
raised his hand and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with
his own sword, a smart slap on the shoulder, all the while muttering
between his teeth as if he was saying his prayers. Having done this,
he directed one of the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with
great self-possession and gravity, and not a little was required to
prevent a burst of laughter at each stage of the ceremony; but what
they had already seen of the novice knight's prowess kept their
laughter within bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy
lady said to him, "May God make your worship a very fortunate
knight, and grant you success in battle." Don Quixote asked her name
in order that he might from that time forward know to whom he was
beholden for the favour he had received, as he meant to confer upon
her some portion of the honour he acquired by the might of his arm.
She answered with great humility that she was called La Tolosa, and
that she was the daughter of a cobbler of Toledo who lived in the
stalls of Sanchobienaya, and that wherever she might be she would
serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote said in reply that she
would do him a favour if thenceforward she assumed the "Don" and
called herself Dona Tolosa. She promised she would, and then the other
buckled on his spur, and with her followed almost the same
conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her name, and she
said it was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a
respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote
requested that she would adopt the "Don" and call herself Dona
Molinera, making offers to her further services and favours.

Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these
never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw
himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and
saddling Rocinante at once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he
returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in
language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of
it or report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with
no less rhetoric though with shorter words, and without calling upon
him to pay the reckoning let him go with a Godspeed.

CHAPTER IV

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN

Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so
gay, so exhilarated at finding himself now dubbed a knight, that his
joy was like to burst his horse-girths. However, recalling the
advice of his host as to the requisites he ought to carry with him,
especially that referring to money and shirts, he determined to go
home and provide himself with all, and also with a squire, for he
reckoned upon securing a farm-labourer, a neighbour of his, a poor man
with a family, but very well qualified for the office of squire to a
knight. With this object he turned his horse's head towards his
village, and Rocinante, thus reminded of his old quarters, stepped out
so briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.

He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed
to come feeble cries as of some one in distress, and the instant he
heard them he exclaimed, "Thanks be to heaven for the favour it
accords me, that it so soon offers me an opportunity of fulfilling the
obligation I have undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my
ambition. These cries, no doubt, come from some man or woman in want
of help, and needing my aid and protection;" and wheeling, he turned
Rocinante in the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He
had gone but a few paces into the wood, when he saw a mare tied to
an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a
youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor
were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him with a
belt and following up every blow with scoldings and commands,
repeating, "Your mouth shut and your eyes open!" while the youth
made answer, "I won't do it again, master mine; by God's passion I
won't do it again, and I'll take more care of the flock another time."

Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry voice,
"Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot
defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance" (for there was a
lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied), "and I will
make you know that you are behaving as a coward." The farmer, seeing
before him this figure in full armour brandishing a lance over his
head, gave himself up for dead, and made answer meekly, "Sir Knight,
this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch
a flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so careless that I
lose one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and
knavery he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying him the
wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies."

"Lies before me, base clown!" said Don Quixote. "By the sun that
shines on us I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay him
at once without another word; if not, by the God that rules us I
will make an end of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him
instantly."

The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant,
of whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him.

He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it
up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, and told the farmer to
pay it down immediately, if he did not want to die for it.

The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he
had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so much; for
there were to be taken into account and deducted three pairs of
shoes he had given him, and a real for two blood-lettings when he
was sick.

"All that is very well," said Don Quixote; "but let the shoes and
the blood-lettings stand as a setoff against the blows you have
given him without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the
shoes you paid for, you have damaged that of his body, and if the
barber took blood from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he
was sound; so on that score he owes you nothing."

"The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let
Andres come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real."

"I go with him!" said the youth. "Nay, God forbid! No, senor, not
for the world; for once alone with me, he would ray me like a Saint
Bartholomew."

"He will do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; "I have only
to command, and he will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the
order of knighthood which he has received, I leave him free, and I
guarantee the payment."

"Consider what you are saying, senor," said the youth; "this
master of mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order of
knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar."

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

"That is true," said Andres; "but this master of mine- of what works
is he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?"

"I do not refuse, brother Andres," said the farmer, "be good
enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of
knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by
real, and perfumed."

"For the perfumery I excuse you," said Don Quixote; "give it to
him in reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you
have sworn; if not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you
out and punish you; and I shall find you though you should lie
closer than a lizard. And if you desire to know who it is lays this
command upon you, that you be more firmly bound to obey it, know
that I am the valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of
wrongs and injustices; and so, God be with you, and keep in mind
what you have promised and sworn under those penalties that have
been already declared to you."

So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The
farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared
the wood and was no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres,
and said, "Come here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe you, as
that undoer of wrongs has commanded me."

"My oath on it," said Andres, "your worship will be well advised
to obey the command of that good knight- may he live a thousand years-
for, as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque, if you do not pay
me, he will come back and do as he said."

"My oath on it, too," said the farmer; "but as I have a strong
affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to add to the
payment;" and seizing him by the arm, he tied him up again, and gave
him such a flogging that he left him for dead.

"Now, Master Andres," said the farmer, "call on the undoer of
wrongs; you will find he won't undo that, though I am not sure that
I have quite done with you, for I have a good mind to flay you alive."
But at last he untied him, and gave him leave to go look for his judge
in order to put the sentence pronounced into execution.

Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he would go to
look for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly
what had happened, and that all would have to be repaid him sevenfold;
but for all that, he went off weeping, while his master stood
laughing.

Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly
satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered he had made a
very happy and noble beginning with his knighthood, he took the road
towards his village in perfect self-content, saying in a low voice,
"Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all on
earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen
to thy lot to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and
pleasure a knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La
Mancha, who, as all the world knows, yesterday received the order of
knighthood, and hath to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance
that ever injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day
plucked the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly
lashing that tender child."

He now came to a road branching in four directions, and
immediately he was reminded of those cross-roads where
knights-errant used to stop to consider which road they should take.
In imitation of them he halted for a while, and after having deeply
considered it, he gave Rocinante his head, submitting his own will
to that of his hack, who followed out his first intention, which was
to make straight for his own stable. After he had gone about two miles
Don Quixote perceived a large party of people, who, as afterwards
appeared, were some Toledo traders, on their way to buy silk at
Murcia. There were six of them coming along under their sunshades,
with four servants mounted, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely
had Don Quixote descried them when the fancy possessed him that this
must be some new adventure; and to help him to imitate as far as he
could those passages he had read of in his books, here seemed to
come one made on purpose, which he resolved to attempt. So with a
lofty bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in his
stirrups, got his lance ready, brought his buckler before his
breast, and planting himself in the middle of the road, stood
waiting the approach of these knights-errant, for such he now
considered and held them to be; and when they had come near enough
to see and hear, he exclaimed with a haughty gesture, "All the world
stand, unless all the world confess that in all the world there is
no maiden fairer than the Empress of La Mancha, the peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso."

The traders halted at the sound of this language and the sight of
the strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure and
language at once guessed the craze of their owner; they wished,
however, to learn quietly what was the object of this confession
that was demanded of them, and one of them, who was rather fond of a
joke and was very sharp-witted, said to him, "Sir Knight, we do not
know who this good lady is that you speak of; show her to us, for,
if she be of such beauty as you suggest, with all our hearts and
without any pressure we will confess the truth that is on your part
required of us."

"If I were to show her to you," replied Don Quixote, "what merit
would you have in confessing a truth so manifest? The essential
point is that without seeing her you must believe, confess, affirm,
swear, and defend it; else ye have to do with me in battle,
ill-conditioned, arrogant rabble that ye are; and come ye on, one by
one as the order of knighthood requires, or all together as is the
custom and vile usage of your breed, here do I bide and await you
relying on the justice of the cause I maintain."

"Sir Knight," replied the trader, "I entreat your worship in the
name of this present company of princes, that, to save us from
charging our consciences with the confession of a thing we have
never seen or heard of, and one moreover so much to the prejudice of
the Empresses and Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura, your worship
will be pleased to show us some portrait of this lady, though it be no
bigger than a grain of wheat; for by the thread one gets at the
ball, and in this way we shall be satisfied and easy, and you will
be content and pleased; nay, I believe we are already so far agreed
with you that even though her portrait should show her blind of one
eye, and distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other, we would
nevertheless, to gratify your worship, say all in her favour that
you desire."

"She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble," said Don Quixote,
burning with rage, "nothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and
civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or humpbacked, but straighter
than a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the blasphemy ye have
uttered against beauty like that of my lady."

And so saying, he charged with levelled lance against the one who
had spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck had not
contrived that Rocinante should stumble midway and come down, it would
have gone hard with the rash trader. Down went Rocinante, and over
went his master, rolling along the ground for some distance; and
when he tried to rise he was unable, so encumbered was he with
lance, buckler, spurs, helmet, and the weight of his old armour; and
all the while he was struggling to get up he kept saying, "Fly not,
cowards and caitiffs! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse's, am
I stretched here."

One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had much good
nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man blustering in this
style, was unable to refrain from giving him an answer on his ribs;
and coming up to him he seized his lance, and having broken it in
pieces, with one of them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that,
notwithstanding and in spite of his armour, he milled him like a
measure of wheat. His masters called out not to lay on so hard and
to leave him alone, but the muleteers blood was up, and he did not
care to drop the game until he had vented the rest of his wrath, and
gathering up the remaining fragments of the lance he finished with a
discharge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the storm of sticks
that rained on him never ceased threatening heaven, and earth, and the
brigands, for such they seemed to him. At last the muleteer was tired,
and the traders continued their journey, taking with them matter for
talk about the poor fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he found
himself alone made another effort to rise; but if he was unable when
whole and sound, how was he to rise after having been thrashed and
well-nigh knocked to pieces? And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as
it seemed to him that this was a regular knight-errant's mishap, and
entirely, he considered, the fault of his horse. However, battered
in body as he was, to rise was beyond his power.

CHAPTER V

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

Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself
of having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to think of some
passage in his books, and his craze brought to his mind that about
Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on
the mountain side, a story known by heart by the children, not
forgotten by the young men, and lauded and even believed by the old
folk; and for all that not a whit truer than the miracles of
Mahomet. This seemed to him to fit exactly the case in which he
found himself, so, making a show of severe suffering, he began to roll
on the ground and with feeble breath repeat the very words which the
wounded knight of the wood is said to have uttered:

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

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

O noble Marquis of Mantua,
  My Uncle and liege lord!

As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there happened
to come by a peasant from his own village, a neighbour of his, who had
been with a load of wheat to the mill, and he, seeing the man
stretched there, came up to him and asked him who he was and what
was the matter with him that he complained so dolefully.

Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of
Mantua, his uncle, so the only answer he made was to go on with his
ballad, in which he told the tale of his misfortune, and of the
loves of the Emperor's son and his wife all exactly as the ballad
sings it.

The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and relieving him
of the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his
face, which was covered with dust, and as soon as he had done so he
recognised him and said, "Senor Quixada" (for so he appears to have
been called when he was in his senses and had not yet changed from a
quiet country gentleman into a knight-errant), "who has brought your
worship to this pass?" But to all questions the other only went on
with his ballad.

Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his
breastplate and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he could
perceive no blood nor any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise
him from the ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted him upon
his ass, which seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and
collecting the arms, even to the splinters of the lance, he tied
them on Rocinante, and leading him by the bridle and the ass by the
halter he took the road for the village, very sad to hear what
absurd stuff Don Quixote was talking. Nor was Don Quixote less so, for
what with blows and bruises he could not sit upright on the ass, and
from time to time he sent up sighs to heaven, so that once more he
drove the peasant to ask what ailed him. And it could have been only
the devil himself that put into his head tales to match his own
adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he bethought himself of the
Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez,
took him prisoner and carried him away to his castle; so that when the
peasant again asked him how he was and what ailed him, he gave him for
reply the same words and phrases that the captive Abindarraez gave
to Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read the story in the "Diana" of
Jorge de Montemayor where it is written, applying it to his own case
so aptly that the peasant went along cursing his fate that he had to
listen to such a lot of nonsense; from which, however, he came to
the conclusion that his neighbour was mad, and so made all haste to
reach the village to escape the wearisomeness of this harangue of
Don Quixote's; who, at the end of it, said, "Senor Don Rodrigo de
Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair Xarifa I have mentioned
is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have done, am doing,
and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in this world
have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen."

To this the peasant answered, "Senor- sinner that I am!- cannot your
worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of
Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is
neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Senor
Quixada?"

"I know who I am," replied Don Quixote, "and I know that I may be
not only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and
even all the Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that
they have done all together and each of them on his own account."

With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village
just as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it
was a little later that the belaboured gentleman might not be seen
riding in such a miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the
proper time he entered the village and went to Don Quixote's house,
which he found all in confusion, and there were the curate and the
village barber, who were great friends of Don Quixote, and his
housekeeper was saying to them in a loud voice, "What does your
worship think can have befallen my master, Senor Licentiate Pero
Perez?" for so the curate was called; "it is three days now since
anything has been seen of him, or the hack, or the buckler, lance,
or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of it, and it is as true as that
I was born to die, that these accursed books of chivalry he has, and
has got into the way of reading so constantly, have upset his
reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying to himself
that he would turn knight-errant and go all over the world in quest of
adventures. To the devil and Barabbas with such books, that have
brought to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in
all La Mancha!"

The niece said the same, and, more: "You must know, Master
Nicholas"- for that was the name of the barber- "it was often my
uncle's way to stay two days and nights together poring over these
unholy books of misventures, after which he would fling the book
away and snatch up his sword and fall to slashing the walls; and
when he was tired out he would say he had killed four giants like four
towers; and the sweat that flowed from him when he was weary he said
was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle; and then he
would drink a great jug of cold water and become calm and quiet,
saying that this water was a most precious potion which the sage
Esquife, a great magician and friend of his, had brought him. But I
take all the blame upon myself for never having told your worships
of my uncle's vagaries, that you might put a stop to them before
things had come to this pass, and burn all these accursed books- for
he has a great number- that richly deserve to be burned like
heretics."

"So say I too," said the curate, "and by my faith to-morrow shall
not pass without public judgment upon them, and may they be
condemned to the flames lest they lead those that read to behave as my
good friend seems to have behaved."

All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what
was the matter with his neighbour, so he began calling aloud, "Open,
your worships, to Senor Baldwin and to Senor the Marquis of Mantua,
who comes badly wounded, and to Senor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom
the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings
captive."

At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognised
their friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the
ass because he could not, they ran to embrace him.

"Hold!" said he, "for I am badly wounded through my horse's fault;
carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and
see to my wounds."

"See there! plague on it!" cried the housekeeper at this: "did not
my heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To
bed with your worship at once, and we will contrive to cure you here
without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once more, and a
hundred times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought
your worship to such a pass."

They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his
wounds could find none, but he said they were all bruises from
having had a severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in combat
with ten giants, the biggest and the boldest to be found on earth.

"So, so!" said the curate, "are there giants in the dance? By the
sign of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day over."

They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer
to all was- give him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for
that was what he needed most. They did so, and the curate questioned
the peasant at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He
told him, and the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way
home, all which made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did
the next day, which was to summon his friend the barber, Master
Nicholas, and go with him to Don Quixote's house.

CHAPTER VI

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

He was still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the keys of
the room where the books, the authors of all the mischief, were, and
right willingly she gave them. They all went in, the housekeeper
with them, and found more than a hundred volumes of big books very
well bound, and some other small ones. The moment the housekeeper
saw them she turned about and ran out of the room, and came back
immediately with a saucer of holy water and a sprinkler, saying,
"Here, your worship, senor licentiate, sprinkle this room; don't leave
any magician of the many there are in these books to bewitch us in
revenge for our design of banishing them from the world."

The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laugh, and
he directed the barber to give him the books one by one to see what
they were about, as there might be some to be found among them that
did not deserve the penalty of fire.

"No," said the niece, "there is no reason for showing mercy to any
of them; they have every one of them done mischief; better fling
them out of the window into the court and make a pile of them and
set fire to them; or else carry them into the yard, and there a
bonfire can be made without the smoke giving any annoyance." The
housekeeper said the same, so eager were they both for the slaughter
of those innocents, but the curate would not agree to it without first
reading at any rate the titles.

The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was "The four books
of Amadis of Gaul." "This seems a mysterious thing," said the
curate, "for, as I have heard say, this was the first book of chivalry
printed in Spain, and from this all the others derive their birth
and origin; so it seems to me that we ought inexorably to condemn it
to the flames as the founder of so vile a sect."

"Nay, sir," said the barber, "I too, have heard say that this is the
best of all the books of this kind that have been written, and so,
as something singular in its line, it ought to be pardoned."

"True," said the curate; "and for that reason let its life be spared
for the present. Let us see that other which is next to it."

"It is," said the barber, "the 'Sergas de Esplandian,' the lawful
son of Amadis of Gaul."

"Then verily," said the curate, "the merit of the father must not be
put down to the account of the son. Take it, mistress housekeeper;
open the window and fling it into the yard and lay the foundation of
the pile for the bonfire we are to make."

The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the worthy
"Esplandian" went flying into the yard to await with all patience
the fire that was in store for him.

"Proceed," said the curate.

"This that comes next," said the barber, "is 'Amadis of Greece,'
and, indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the same Amadis
lineage."

"Then to the yard with the whole of them," said the curate; "for
to have the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel
and his eclogues, and the bedevilled and involved discourses of his
author, I would burn with them the father who begot me if he were
going about in the guise of a knight-errant."

"I am of the same mind," said the barber.

"And so am I," added the niece.

"In that case," said the housekeeper, "here, into the yard with
them!"

They were handed to her, and as there were many of them, she
spared herself the staircase, and flung them down out of the window.

"Who is that tub there?" said the curate.

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

"The author of that book," said the curate, "was the same that wrote
'The Garden of Flowers,' and truly there is no deciding which of the
two books is the more truthful, or, to put it better, the less
lying; all I can say is, send this one into the yard for a
swaggering fool."

"This that follows is 'Florismarte of Hircania,'" said the barber.

"Senor Florismarte here?" said the curate; "then by my faith he must
take up his quarters in the yard, in spite of his marvellous birth and
visionary adventures, for the stiffness and dryness of his style
deserve nothing else; into the yard with him and the other, mistress
housekeeper."

"With all my heart, senor," said she, and executed the order with
great delight.

"This," said the barber, "is The Knight Platir.'"

"An old book that," said the curate, "but I find no reason for
clemency in it; send it after the others without appeal;" which was
done.

Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled, "The Knight
of the Cross."

"For the sake of the holy name this book has," said the curate, "its
ignorance might be excused; but then, they say, 'behind the cross
there's the devil; to the fire with it."

Taking down another book, the barber said, "This is 'The Mirror of
Chivalry.'"

"I know his worship," said the curate; "that is where Senor
Reinaldos of Montalvan figures with his friends and comrades,
greater thieves than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of France with the
veracious historian Turpin; however, I am not for condemning them to
more than perpetual banishment, because, at any rate, they have some
share in the invention of the famous Matteo Boiardo, whence too the
Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto wove his web, to whom, if I find him
here, and speaking any language but his own, I shall show no respect
whatever; but if he speaks his own tongue I will put him upon my
head."

"Well, I have him in Italian," said the barber, "but I do not
understand him."

"Nor would it be well that you should understand him," said the
curate, "and on that score we might have excused the Captain if he had
not brought him into Spain and turned him into Castilian. He robbed
him of a great deal of his natural force, and so do all those who
try to turn books written in verse into another language, for, with
all the pains they take and all the cleverness they show, they never
can reach the level of the originals as they were first produced. In
short, I say that this book, and all that may be found treating of
those French affairs, should be thrown into or deposited in some dry
well, until after more consideration it is settled what is to be
done with them; excepting always one 'Bernardo del Carpio' that is
going about, and another called 'Roncesvalles;' for these, if they
come into my hands, shall pass at once into those of the
housekeeper, and from hers into the fire without any reprieve."

To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it as
right and proper, being persuaded that the curate was so staunch to
the Faith and loyal to the Truth that he would not for the world say
anything opposed to them. Opening another book he saw it was "Palmerin
de Oliva," and beside it was another called "Palmerin of England,"
seeing which the licentiate said, "Let the Olive be made firewood of
at once and burned until no ashes even are left; and let that Palm
of England be kept and preserved as a thing that stands alone, and let
such another case be made for it as that which Alexander found among
the spoils of Darius and set aside for the safe keeping of the works
of the poet Homer. This book, gossip, is of authority for two reasons,
first because it is very good, and secondly because it is said to have
been written by a wise and witty king of Portugal. All the
adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda are excellent and of
admirable contrivance, and the language is polished and clear,
studying and observing the style befitting the speaker with
propriety and judgment. So then, provided it seems good to you, Master
Nicholas, I say let this and 'Amadis of Gaul' be remitted the
penalty of fire, and as for all the rest, let them perish without
further question or query."

"Nay, gossip," said the barber, "for this that I have here is the
famous 'Don Belianis.'"

"Well," said the curate, "that and the second, third, and fourth
parts all stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge their excess of
bile, and they must be cleared of all that stuff about the Castle of
Fame and other greater affectations, to which end let them be
allowed the over-seas term, and, according as they mend, so shall
mercy or justice be meted out to them; and in the mean time, gossip,
do you keep them in your house and let no one read them."

"With all my heart," said the barber; and not caring to tire himself
with reading more books of chivalry, he told the housekeeper to take
all the big ones and throw them into the yard. It was not said to
one dull or deaf, but to one who enjoyed burning them more than
weaving the broadest and finest web that could be; and seizing about
eight at a time, she flung them out of the window.

In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the
barber, who took it up, curious to know whose it was, and found it
said, "History of the Famous Knight, Tirante el Blanco."

"God bless me!" said the curate with a shout, "'Tirante el Blanco'
here! Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I have found a treasury
of enjoyment and a mine of recreation. Here is Don Kyrieleison of
Montalvan, a valiant knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan,
and the knight Fonseca, with the battle the bold Tirante fought with
the mastiff, and the witticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and
the loves and wiles of the widow Reposada, and the empress in love
with the squire Hipolito- in truth, gossip, by right of its style it
is the best book in the world. Here knights eat and sleep, and die
in their beds, and make their wills before dying, and a great deal
more of which there is nothing in all the other books. Nevertheless, I
say he who wrote it, for deliberately composing such fooleries,
deserves to be sent to the galleys for life. Take it home with you and
read it, and you will see that what I have said is true."

"As you will," said the barber; "but what are we to do with these
little books that are left?"

"These must be, not chivalry, but poetry," said the curate; and
opening one he saw it was the "Diana" of Jorge de Montemayor, and,
supposing all the others to be of the same sort, "these," he said, "do
not deserve to be burned like the others, for they neither do nor
can do the mischief the books of chivalry have done, being books of
entertainment that can hurt no one."

"Ah, senor!" said the niece, "your worship had better order these to
be burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after
being cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took
a fancy to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and
piping; or, what would be still worse, to turn poet, which they say is
an incurable and infectious malady."

"The damsel is right," said the curate, "and it will be well to
put this stumbling-block and temptation out of our friend's way. To
begin, then, with the 'Diana' of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should
not be burned, but that it should be cleared of all that about the
sage Felicia and the magic water, and of almost all the longer
pieces of verse: let it keep, and welcome, its prose and the honour of
being the first of books of the kind."

"This that comes next," said the barber, "is the 'Diana,' entitled
the 'Second Part, by the Salamancan,' and this other has the same
title, and its author is Gil Polo."

"As for that of the Salamancan," replied the curate, "let it go to
swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo's be
preserved as if it came from Apollo himself: but get on, gossip, and
make haste, for it is growing late."

"This book," said the barber, opening another, "is the ten books
of the 'Fortune of Love,' written by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian
poet."

"By the orders I have received," said the curate, "since Apollo
has been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets have been
poets, so droll and absurd a book as this has never been written,
and in its way it is the best and the most singular of all of this
species that have as yet appeared, and he who has not read it may be
sure he has never read what is delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I
make more account of having found it than if they had given me a
cassock of Florence stuff."

He put it aside with extreme satisfaction, and the barber went on,
"These that come next are 'The Shepherd of Iberia,' 'Nymphs of
Henares,' and 'The Enlightenment of Jealousy.'"

"Then all we have to do," said the curate, "is to hand them over
to the secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not why, or we shall
never have done."

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

"No Pastor that," said the curate, "but a highly polished
courtier; let it be preserved as a precious jewel."

"This large one here," said the barber, "is called 'The Treasury
of various Poems.'"

"If there were not so many of them," said the curate, "they would be
more relished: this book must be weeded and cleansed of certain
vulgarities which it has with its excellences; let it be preserved
because the author is a friend of mine, and out of respect for other
more heroic and loftier works that he has written."

"This," continued the barber, "is the 'Cancionero' of Lopez de
Maldonado."

"The author of that book, too," said the curate, "is a great
friend of mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the admiration
of all who hear them, for such is the sweetness of his voice that he
enchants when he chants them: it gives rather too much of its
eclogues, but what is good was never yet plentiful: let it be kept
with those that have been set apart. But what book is that next it?"

"The 'Galatea' of Miguel de Cervantes," said the barber.

"That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of mine,
and to my knowledge he has had more experience in reverses than in
verses. His book has some good invention in it, it presents us with
something but brings nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for the
Second Part it promises: perhaps with amendment it may succeed in
winning the full measure of grace that is now denied it; and in the
mean time do you, senor gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters."

"Very good," said the barber; "and here come three together, the
'Araucana' of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the 'Austriada' of Juan Rufo,
Justice of Cordova, and the 'Montserrate' of Christobal de Virues, the
Valencian poet."

"These three books," said the curate, "are the best that have been
written in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may compare with the
most famous of Italy; let them be preserved as the richest treasures
of poetry that Spain possesses."

The curate was tired and would not look into any more books, and
so he decided that, "contents uncertified," all the rest should be
burned; but just then the barber held open one, called "The Tears of
Angelica."

"I should have shed tears myself," said the curate when he heard the
title, "had I ordered that book to be burned, for its author was one
of the famous poets of the world, not to say of Spain, and was very
happy in the translation of some of Ovid's fables."

CHAPTER VII

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

At this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, "Here, here,
valiant knights! here is need for you to put forth the might of your
strong arms, for they of the Court are gaining the mastery in the
tourney!" Called away by this noise and outcry, they proceeded no
farther with the scrutiny of the remaining books, and so it is thought
that "The Carolea," "The Lion of Spain," and "The Deeds of the
Emperor," written by Don Luis de Avila, went to the fire unseen and
unheard; for no doubt they were among those that remained, and perhaps
if the curate had seen them they would not have undergone so severe
a sentence.

When they reached Don Quixote he was already out of bed, and was
still shouting and raving, and slashing and cutting all round, as wide
awake as if he had never slept.

They closed with him and by force got him back to bed, and when he
had become a little calm, addressing the curate, he said to him, "Of a
truth, Senor Archbishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace for us who call
ourselves the Twelve Peers, so carelessly to allow the knights of
the Court to gain the victory in this tourney, we the adventurers
having carried off the honour on the three former days."

"Hush, gossip," said the curate; "please God, the luck may turn, and
what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow; for the present let your
worship have a care of your health, for it seems to me that you are
over-fatigued, if not badly wounded."

"Wounded no," said Don Quixote, "but bruised and battered no
doubt, for that bastard Don Roland has cudgelled me with the trunk
of an oak tree, and all for envy, because he sees that I alone rival
him in his achievements. But I should not call myself Reinaldos of
Montalvan did he not pay me for it in spite of all his enchantments as
soon as I rise from this bed. For the present let them bring me
something to eat, for that, I feel, is what will be more to my
purpose, and leave it to me to avenge myself."

They did as he wished; they gave him something to eat, and once more
he fell asleep, leaving them marvelling at his madness.

That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the books that were
in the yard and in the whole house; and some must have been consumed
that deserved preservation in everlasting archives, but their fate and
the laziness of the examiner did not permit it, and so in them was
verified the proverb that the innocent suffer for the guilty.

One of the remedies which the curate and the barber immediately
applied to their friend's disorder was to wall up and plaster the room
where the books were, so that when he got up he should not find them
(possibly the cause being removed the effect might cease), and they
might say that a magician had carried them off, room and all; and this
was done with all despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, and the
first thing he did was to go and look at his books, and not finding
the room where he had left it, he wandered from side to side looking
for it. He came to the place where the door used to be, and tried it
with his hands, and turned and twisted his eyes in every direction
without saying a word; but after a good while he asked his housekeeper
whereabouts was the room that held his books.

The housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in what she
was to answer, said, "What room or what nothing is it that your
worship is looking for? There are neither room nor books in this house
now, for the devil himself has carried all away."

"It was not the devil," said the niece, "but a magician who came
on a cloud one night after the day your worship left this, and
dismounting from a serpent that he rode he entered the room, and
what he did there I know not, but after a little while he made off,
flying through the roof, and left the house full of smoke; and when we
went to see what he had done we saw neither book nor room: but we
remember very well, the housekeeper and I, that on leaving, the old
villain said in a loud voice that, for a private grudge he owed the
owner of the books and the room, he had done mischief in that house
that would be discovered by-and-by: he said too that his name was
the Sage Munaton."

"He must have said Friston," said Don Quixote.

"I don't know whether he called himself Friston or Friton," said the
housekeeper, "I only know that his name ended with 'ton.'"

"So it does," said Don Quixote, "and he is a sage magician, a
great enemy of mine, who has a spite against me because he knows by
his arts and lore that in process of time I am to engage in single
combat with a knight whom he befriends and that I am to conquer, and
he will be unable to prevent it; and for this reason he endeavours
to do me all the ill turns that he can; but I promise him it will be
hard for him to oppose or avoid what is decreed by Heaven."

"Who doubts that?" said the niece; "but, uncle, who mixes you up
in these quarrels? Would it not be better to remain at peace in your
own house instead of roaming the world looking for better bread than
ever came of wheat, never reflecting that many go for wool and come
back shorn?"

"Oh, niece of mine," replied Don Quixote, "how much astray art
thou in thy reckoning: ere they shear me I shall have plucked away and
stripped off the beards of all who dare to touch only the tip of a
hair of mine."

The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as they saw
that his anger was kindling.

In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quietly
without showing any signs of a desire to take up with his former
delusions, and during this time he held lively discussions with his
two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the point he maintained,
that knights-errant were what the world stood most in need of, and
that in him was to be accomplished the revival of knight-errantry. The
curate sometimes contradicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if
he had not observed this precaution he would have been unable to bring
him to reason.

Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neighbour of
his, an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is
poor), but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked
him over, and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor
clown made up his mind to sally forth with him and serve him as
esquire. Don Quixote, among other things, told him he ought to be
ready to go with him gladly, because any moment an adventure might
occur that might win an island in the twinkling of an eye and leave
him governor of it. On these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for
so the labourer was called) left wife and children, and engaged
himself as esquire to his neighbour. Don Quixote next set about
getting some money; and selling one thing and pawning another, and
making a bad bargain in every case, he got together a fair sum. He
provided himself with a buckler, which he begged as a loan from a
friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as best he could, he warned
his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set out, that he
might provide himself with what he thought most needful. Above all, he
charged him to take alforjas with him. The other said he would, and
that he meant to take also a very good ass he had, as he was not
much given to going on foot. About the ass, Don Quixote hesitated a
little, trying whether he could call to mind any knight-errant
taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back, but no instance
occurred to his memory. For all that, however, he determined to take
him, intending to furnish him with a more honourable mount when a
chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the horse of the first
discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he provided with shirts
and such other things as he could, according to the advice the host
had given him; all which being done, without taking leave, Sancho
Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his housekeeper
and niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody from the village one
night, and made such good way in the course of it that by daylight
they held themselves safe from discovery, even should search be made
for them.

Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch, with his alforjas and bota,
and longing to see himself soon governor of the island his master
had promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking the same route and
road he had taken on his first journey, that over the Campo de
Montiel, which he travelled with less discomfort than on the last
occasion, for, as it was early morning and the rays of the sun fell on
them obliquely, the heat did not distress them.

And now said Sancho Panza to his master, "Your worship will take
care, Senor Knight-errant, not to forget about the island you have
promised me, for be it ever so big I'll be equal to governing it."

To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must know, friend Sancho
Panza, that it was a practice very much in vogue with the
knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of the islands
or kingdoms they won, and I am determined that there shall be no
failure on my part in so liberal a custom; on the contrary, I mean
to improve upon it, for they sometimes, and perhaps most frequently,
waited until their squires were old, and then when they had had enough
of service and hard days and worse nights, they gave them some title
or other, of count, or at the most marquis, of some valley or province
more or less; but if thou livest and I live, it may well be that
before six days are over, I may have won some kingdom that has
others dependent upon it, which will be just the thing to enable
thee to be crowned king of one of them. Nor needst thou count this
wonderful, for things and chances fall to the lot of such knights in
ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might easily give thee even
more than I promise thee."

"In that case," said Sancho Panza, "if I should become a king by one
of those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old
woman, would come to be queen and my children infantes."

"Well, who doubts it?" said Don Quixote.

"I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "because for my part I am
persuaded that though God should shower down kingdoms upon earth,
not one of them would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you,
senor, she is not worth two maravedis for a queen; countess will fit
her better, and that only with God's help."

"Leave it to God, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for he will give
her what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself so much as to
come to be content with anything less than being governor of a
province."

"I will not, senor," answered Sancho, "specially as I have a man
of such quality for a master in your worship, who will know how to
give me all that will be suitable for me and that I can bear."

CHAPTER VIII

OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE
TERRIBLE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER
OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO BE FITLY RECORDED

At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that
there are on plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his
squire, "Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have
shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza,
where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of
whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we
shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and
it is God's good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of
the earth."

"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.

"Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the long
arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long."

"Look, your worship," said Sancho; "what we see there are not giants
but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that
turned by the wind make the millstone go."

"It is easy to see," replied Don Quixote, "that thou art not used to
this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid,
away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage
them in fierce and unequal combat."

So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of
the cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most
certainly they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack.
He, however, was so positive they were giants that he neither heard
the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were,
but made at them shouting, "Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a
single knight attacks you."

A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails
began to move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though ye flourish
more arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me."

So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady
Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance
in rest and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante's
fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of
him; but as he drove his lance-point into the sail the wind whirled it
round with such force that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping
with it horse and rider, who went rolling over on the plain, in a
sorry condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his
ass could go, and when he came up found him unable to move, with
such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.

"God bless me!" said Sancho, "did I not tell your worship to mind
what you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could
have made any mistake about it but one who had something of the same
kind in his head."

"Hush, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "the fortunes of war
more than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and
moreover I think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who
carried off my study and books, has turned these giants into mills
in order to rob me of the glory of vanquishing them, such is the
enmity he bears me; but in the end his wicked arts will avail but
little against my good sword."

"God order it as he may," said Sancho Panza, and helping him to rise
got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and
then, discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to
Puerto Lapice, for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to
find adventures in abundance and variety, as it was a great
thoroughfare. For all that, he was much grieved at the loss of his
lance, and saying so to his squire, he added, "I remember having
read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de Vargas by name, having
broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a ponderous bough or
branch, and with it did such things that day, and pounded so many
Moors, that he got the surname of Machuca, and he and his
descendants from that day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I
mention this because from the first oak I see I mean to rend such
another branch, large and stout like that, with which I am
determined and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest deem thyself
very fortunate in being found worthy to come and see them, and be an
eyewitness of things that will with difficulty be believed."

"Be that as God will," said Sancho, "I believe it all as your
worship says it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on
one side, may be from the shaking of the fall."

"That is the truth," said Don Quixote, "and if I make no complaint
of the pain it is because knights-errant are not permitted to complain
of any wound, even though their bowels be coming out through it."

"If so," said Sancho, "I have nothing to say; but God knows I
would rather your worship complained when anything ailed you. For my
part, I confess I must complain however small the ache may be;
unless this rule about not complaining extends to the squires of
knights-errant also."

Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire's simplicity,
and he assured him he might complain whenever and however he chose,
just as he liked, for, so far, he had never read of anything to the
contrary in the order of knighthood.

Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his master
answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but that he might
eat when he had a mind. With this permission Sancho settled himself as
comfortably as he could on his beast, and taking out of the alforjas
what he had stowed away in them, he jogged along behind his master
munching deliberately, and from time to time taking a pull at the bota
with a relish that the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied;
and while he went on in this way, gulping down draught after
draught, he never gave a thought to any of the promises his master had
made him, nor did he rate it as hardship but rather as recreation
going in quest of adventures, however dangerous they might be. Finally
they passed the night among some trees, from one of which Don
Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a
lance, and fixed on it the head he had removed from the broken one.
All that night Don Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in
order to conform to what he had read in his books, how many a night in
the forests and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported by the
memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza spend it, for
having his stomach full of something stronger than chicory water he
made but one sleep of it, and, if his master had not called him,
neither the rays of the sun beating on his face nor all the cheery
notes of the birds welcoming the approach of day would have had
power to waken him. On getting up he tried the bota and found it
somewhat less full than the night before, which grieved his heart
because they did not seem to be on the way to remedy the deficiency
readily. Don Quixote did not care to break his fast, for, as has
been already said, he confined himself to savoury recollections for
nourishment.

They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto
Lapice, and at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. "Here,
brother Sancho Panza," said Don Quixote when he saw it, "we may plunge
our hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures; but
observe, even shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger in the
world, thou must not put a hand to thy sword in my defence, unless
indeed thou perceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base
folk; for in that case thou mayest very properly aid me; but if they
be knights it is on no account permitted or allowed thee by the laws
of knighthood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight."

"Most certainly, senor," replied Sancho, "your worship shall be
fully obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful
and no friend to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true that as
regards the defence of my own person I shall not give much heed to
those laws, for laws human and divine allow each one to defend himself
against any assailant whatever."

"That I grant," said Don Quixote, "but in this matter of aiding me
against knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural
impetuosity."

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

While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two friars
of the order of St. Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, for not less
tall were the two mules they rode on. They wore travelling
spectacles and carried sunshades; and behind them came a coach
attended by four or five persons on horseback and two muleteers on
foot. In the coach there was, as afterwards appeared, a Biscay lady on
her way to Seville, where her husband was about to take passage for
the Indies with an appointment of high honour. The friars, though
going the same road, were not in her company; but the moment Don
Quixote perceived them he said to his squire, "Either I am mistaken,
or this is going to be the most famous adventure that has ever been
seen, for those black bodies we see there must be, and doubtless
are, magicians who are carrying off some stolen princess in that
coach, and with all my might I must undo this wrong."

"This will be worse than the windmills," said Sancho. "Look,
senor; those are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach plainly belongs
to some travellers: I tell you to mind well what you are about and
don't let the devil mislead you."

"I have told thee already, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that on
the subject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the
truth, as thou shalt see presently."

So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the
road along which the friars were coming, and as soon as he thought
they had come near enough to hear what he said, he cried aloud,
"Devilish and unnatural beings, release instantly the highborn
princesses whom you are carrying off by force in this coach, else
prepare to meet a speedy death as the just punishment of your evil
deeds."

The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of Don
Quixote as well as at his words, to which they replied, "Senor
Caballero, we are not devilish or unnatural, but two brothers of St.
Benedict following our road, nor do we know whether or not there are
any captive princesses coming in this coach."

"No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble," said Don
Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with
levelled lance charged the first friar with such fury and
determination, that, if the friar had not flung himself off the
mule, he would have brought him to the ground against his will, and
sore wounded, if not killed outright. The second brother, seeing how
his comrade was treated, drove his heels into his castle of a mule and
made off across the country faster than the wind.

Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting
briskly from his ass, rushed towards him and began to strip off his
gown. At that instant the friars muleteers came up and asked what he
was stripping him for. Sancho answered them that this fell to him
lawfully as spoil of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had won.
The muleteers, who had no idea of a joke and did not understand all
this about battles and spoils, seeing that Don Quixote was some
distance off talking to the travellers in the coach, fell upon Sancho,
knocked him down, and leaving hardly a hair in his beard, belaboured
him with kicks and left him stretched breathless and senseless on
the ground; and without any more delay helped the friar to mount, who,
trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon as he found himself in the
saddle, spurred after his companion, who was standing at a distance
looking on, watching the result of the onslaught; then, not caring
to wait for the end of the affair just begun, they pursued their
journey making more crosses than if they had the devil after them.

Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the
coach: "Your beauty, lady mine," said he, "may now dispose of your
person as may be most in accordance with your pleasure, for the
pride of your ravishers lies prostrate on the ground through this
strong arm of mine; and lest you should be pining to know the name
of your deliverer, know that I am called Don Quixote of La Mancha,
knight-errant and adventurer, and captive to the peerless and
beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso: and in return for the service
you have received of me I ask no more than that you should return to
El Toboso, and on my behalf present yourself before that lady and tell
her what I have done to set you free."

One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, was
listening to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that he would
not allow the coach to go on, but was saying it must return at once to
El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing his lance addressed him in
bad Castilian and worse Biscayan after his fashion, "Begone,
caballero, and ill go with thee; by the God that made me, unless
thou quittest coach, slayest thee as art here a Biscayan."

Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him very
quietly, "If thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should have
already chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable creature." To
which the Biscayan returned, "I no gentleman! -I swear to God thou
liest as I am Christian: if thou droppest lance and drawest sword,
soon shalt thou see thou art carrying water to the cat: Biscayan on
land, hidalgo at sea, hidalgo at the devil, and look, if thou sayest
otherwise thou liest."

"'"You will see presently," said Agrajes,'" replied Don Quixote; and
throwing his lance on the ground he drew his sword, braced his buckler
on his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life.

The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished to
dismount from his mule, in which, being one of those sorry ones let
out for hire, he had no confidence, had no choice but to draw his
sword; it was lucky for him, however, that he was near the coach, from
which he was able to snatch a cushion that served him for a shield;
and they went at one another as if they had been two mortal enemies.
The others strove to make peace between them, but could not, for the
Biscayan declared in his disjointed phrase that if they did not let
him finish his battle he would kill his mistress and everyone that
strove to prevent him. The lady in the coach, amazed and terrified
at what she saw, ordered the coachman to draw aside a little, and
set herself to watch this severe struggle, in the course of which
the Biscayan smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on the shoulder over
the top of his buckler, which, given to one without armour, would have
cleft him to the waist. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this
prodigious blow, cried aloud, saying, "O lady of my soul, Dulcinea,
flower of beauty, come to the aid of this your knight, who, in
fulfilling his obligations to your beauty, finds himself in this
extreme peril." To say this, to lift his sword, to shelter himself
well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan was the work of an
instant, determined as he was to venture all upon a single blow. The
Biscayan, seeing him come on in this way, was convinced of his courage
by his spirited bearing, and resolved to follow his example, so he
waited for him keeping well under cover of his cushion, being unable
to execute any sort of manoeuvre with his mule, which, dead tired
and never meant for this kind of game, could not stir a step.

On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary
Biscayan, with uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting him in
half, while on his side the Biscayan waited for him sword in hand, and
under the protection of his cushion; and all present stood
trembling, waiting in suspense the result of blows such as
threatened to fall, and the lady in the coach and the rest of her
following were making a thousand vows and offerings to all the
images and shrines of Spain, that God might deliver her squire and all
of them from this great peril in which they found themselves. But it
spoils all, that at this point and crisis the author of the history
leaves this battle impending, giving as excuse that he could find
nothing more written about these achievements of Don Quixote than what
has been already set forth. It is true the second author of this
work was unwilling to believe that a history so curious could have
been allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivion, or that the
wits of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to preserve
in their archives or registries some documents referring to this
famous knight; and this being his persuasion, he did not despair of
finding the conclusion of this pleasant history, which, heaven
favouring him, he did find in a way that shall be related in the
Second Part.

CHAPTER IX

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

In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and
the renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords uplifted, ready to
deliver two such furious slashing blows that if they had fallen full
and fair they would at least have split and cleft them asunder from
top to toe and laid them open like a pomegranate; and at this so
critical point the delightful history came to a stop and stood cut
short without any intimation from the author where what was missing
was to be found.

This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived from having
read such a small portion turned to vexation at the thought of the
poor chance that presented itself of finding the large part that, so
it seemed to me, was missing of such an interesting tale. It
appeared to me to be a thing impossible and contrary to all
precedent that so good a knight should have been without some sage
to undertake the task of writing his marvellous achievements; a
thing that was never wanting to any of those knights-errant who,
they say, went after adventures; for every one of them had one or
two sages as if made on purpose, who not only recorded their deeds but
described their most trifling thoughts and follies, however secret
they might be; and such a good knight could not have been so
unfortunate as not to have what Platir and others like him had in
abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that such a
gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilated, and I laid the
blame on Time, the devourer and destroyer of all things, that had
either concealed or consumed it.

On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his books
there had been found such modern ones as "The Enlightenment of
Jealousy" and the "Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares," his story must
likewise be modern, and that though it might not be written, it
might exist in the memory of the people of his village and of those in
the neighbourhood. This reflection kept me perplexed and longing to
know really and truly the whole life and wondrous deeds of our
famous Spaniard, Don Quixote of La Mancha, light and mirror of
Manchegan chivalry, and the first that in our age and in these so evil
days devoted himself to the labour and exercise of the arms of
knight-errantry, righting wrongs, succouring widows, and protecting
damsels of that sort that used to ride about, whip in hand, on their
palfreys, with all their virginity about them, from mountain to
mountain and valley to valley- for, if it were not for some ruffian,
or boor with a hood and hatchet, or monstrous giant, that forced them,
there were in days of yore damsels that at the end of eighty years, in
all which time they had never slept a day under a roof, went to
their graves as much maids as the mothers that bore them. I say, then,
that in these and other respects our gallant Don Quixote is worthy
of everlasting and notable praise, nor should it be withheld even from
me for the labour and pains spent in searching for the conclusion of
this delightful history; though I know well that if Heaven, chance and
good fortune had not helped me, the world would have remained deprived
of an entertainment and pleasure that for a couple of hours or so
may well occupy him who shall read it attentively. The discovery of it
occurred in this way.

One day, as I was in the Alcana of Toledo, a boy came up to sell
some pamphlets and old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I am fond of
reading even the very scraps of paper in the streets, led by this
natural bent of mine I took up one of the pamphlets the boy had for
sale, and saw that it was in characters which I recognised as
Arabic, and as I was unable to read them though I could recognise
them, I looked about to see if there were any Spanish-speaking Morisco
at hand to read them for me; nor was there any great difficulty in
finding such an interpreter, for even had I sought one for an older
and better language I should have found him. In short, chance provided
me with one, who when I told him what I wanted and put the book into
his hands, opened it in the middle and after reading a little in it
began to laugh. I asked him what he was laughing at, and he replied
that it was at something the book had written in the margin by way
of a note. I bade him tell it to me; and he still laughing said, "In
the margin, as I told you, this is written: 'This Dulcinea del
Toboso so often mentioned in this history, had, they say, the best
hand of any woman in all La Mancha for salting pigs.'"

When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck with surprise
and amazement, for it occurred to me at once that these pamphlets
contained the history of Don Quixote. With this idea I pressed him
to read the beginning, and doing so, turning the Arabic offhand into
Castilian, he told me it meant, "History of Don Quixote of La
Mancha, written by Cide Hamete Benengeli, an Arab historian." It
required great caution to hide the joy I felt when the title of the
book reached my ears, and snatching it from the silk mercer, I
bought all the papers and pamphlets from the boy for half a real;
and if he had had his wits about him and had known how eager I was for
them, he might have safely calculated on making more than six reals by
the bargain. I withdrew at once with the Morisco into the cloister
of the cathedral, and begged him to turn all these pamphlets that
related to Don Quixote into the Castilian tongue, without omitting
or adding anything to them, offering him whatever payment he
pleased. He was satisfied with two arrobas of raisins and two
bushels of wheat, and promised to translate them faithfully and with
all despatch; but to make the matter easier, and not to let such a
precious find out of my hands, I took him to my house, where in little
more than a month and a half he translated the whole just as it is set
down here.

In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and the
Biscayan was drawn to the very life, they planted in the same attitude
as the history describes, their swords raised, and the one protected
by his buckler, the other by his cushion, and the Biscayan's mule so
true to nature that it could be seen to be a hired one a bowshot
off. The Biscayan had an inscription under his feet which said, "Don
Sancho de Azpeitia," which no doubt must have been his name; and at
the feet of Rocinante was another that said, "Don Quixote."
Rocinante was marvellously portrayed, so long and thin, so lank and
lean, with so much backbone and so far gone in consumption, that he
showed plainly with what judgment and propriety the name of
Rocinante had been bestowed upon him. Near him was Sancho Panza
holding the halter of his ass, at whose feet was another label that
said, "Sancho Zancas," and according to the picture, he must have
had a big belly, a short body, and long shanks, for which reason, no
doubt, the names of Panza and Zancas were given him, for by these
two surnames the history several times calls him. Some other
trifling particulars might be mentioned, but they are all of slight
importance and have nothing to do with the true relation of the
history; and no history can be bad so long as it is true.

If against the present one any objection be raised on the score of
its truth, it can only be that its author was an Arab, as lying is a
very common propensity with those of that nation; though, as they
are such enemies of ours, it is conceivable that there were
omissions rather than additions made in the course of it. And this
is my own opinion; for, where he could and should give freedom to
his pen in praise of so worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately
to pass it over in silence; which is ill done and worse contrived, for
it is the business and duty of historians to be exact, truthful, and
wholly free from passion, and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor
love, should make them swerve from the path of truth, whose mother
is history, rival of time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the
past, example and counsel for the present, and warning for the future.
In this I know will be found all that can be desired in the
pleasantest, and if it be wanting in any good quality, I maintain it
is the fault of its hound of an author and not the fault of the
subject. To be brief, its Second Part, according to the translation,
began in this way:

With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it seemed as
though the two valiant and wrathful combatants stood threatening
heaven, and earth, and hell, with such resolution and determination
did they bear themselves. The fiery Biscayan was the first to strike a
blow, which was delivered with such force and fury that had not the
sword turned in its course, that single stroke would have sufficed
to put an end to the bitter struggle and to all the adventures of
our knight; but that good fortune which reserved him for greater
things, turned aside the sword of his adversary, so that although it
smote him upon the left shoulder, it did him no more harm than to
strip all that side of its armour, carrying away a great part of his
helmet with half of his ear, all which with fearful ruin fell to the
ground, leaving him in a sorry plight.

Good God! Who is there that could properly describe the rage that
filled the heart of our Manchegan when he saw himself dealt with in
this fashion? All that can be said is, it was such that he again
raised himself in his stirrups, and, grasping his sword more firmly
with both hands, he came down on the Biscayan with such fury,
smiting him full over the cushion and over the head, that- even so
good a shield proving useless- as if a mountain had fallen on him,
he began to bleed from nose, mouth, and ears, reeling as if about to
fall backwards from his mule, as no doubt he would have done had he
not flung his arms about its neck; at the same time, however, he
slipped his feet out of the stirrups and then unclasped his arms,
and the mule, taking fright at the terrible blow, made off across
the plain, and with a few plunges flung its master to the ground.
Don Quixote stood looking on very calmly, and, when he saw him fall,
leaped from his horse and with great briskness ran to him, and,
presenting the point of his sword to his eyes, bade him surrender,
or he would cut his head off. The Biscayan was so bewildered that he
was unable to answer a word, and it would have gone hard with him,
so blind was Don Quixote, had not the ladies in the coach, who had
hitherto been watching the combat in great terror, hastened to where
he stood and implored him with earnest entreaties to grant them the
great grace and favour of sparing their squire's life; to which Don
Quixote replied with much gravity and dignity, "In truth, fair ladies,
I am well content to do what ye ask of me; but it must be on one
condition and understanding, which is that this knight promise me to
go to the village of El Toboso, and on my behalf present himself
before the peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal with him as shall
be most pleasing to her."

The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing Don
Quixote's demand or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that
their squire should do all that had been commanded.

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

CHAPTER X

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

Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for the handling
of the friars' muleteers, and stood watching the battle of his master,
Don Quixote, and praying to God in his heart that it might be his will
to grant him the victory, and that he might thereby win some island to
make him governor of, as he had promised. Seeing, therefore, that
the struggle was now over, and that his master was returning to
mount Rocinante, he approached to hold the stirrup for him, and,
before he could mount, he went on his knees before him, and taking his
hand, kissed it saying, "May it please your worship, Senor Don
Quixote, to give me the government of that island which has been won
in this hard fight, for be it ever so big I feel myself in
sufficient force to be able to govern it as much and as well as anyone
in the world who has ever governed islands."

To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must take notice, brother
Sancho, that this adventure and those like it are not adventures of
islands, but of cross-roads, in which nothing is got except a broken
head or an ear the less: have patience, for adventures will present
themselves from which I may make you, not only a governor, but
something more."

Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand and the
skirt of his hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante, and mounting
his ass himself, proceeded to follow his master, who at a brisk
pace, without taking leave, or saying anything further to the ladies
belonging to the coach, turned into a wood that was hard by. Sancho
followed him at his ass's best trot, but Rocinante stepped out so
that, seeing himself left behind, he was forced to call to his
master to wait for him. Don Quixote did so, reining in Rocinante until
his weary squire came up, who on reaching him said, "It seems to me,
senor, it would be prudent in us to go and take refuge in some church,
for, seeing how mauled he with whom you fought has been left, it
will be no wonder if they give information of the affair to the Holy
Brotherhood and arrest us, and, faith, if they do, before we come
out of gaol we shall have to sweat for it."

"Peace," said Don Quixote; "where hast thou ever seen or heard
that a knight-errant has been arraigned before a court of justice,
however many homicides he may have committed?"

"I know nothing about omecils," answered Sancho, "nor in my life
have had anything to do with one; I only know that the Holy
Brotherhood looks after those who fight in the fields, and in that
other matter I do not meddle."

"Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend," said Don
Quixote, "for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans,
much more out of those of the Brotherhood. But tell me, as thou
livest, hast thou seen a more valiant knight than I in all the known
world; hast thou read in history of any who has or had higher mettle
in attack, more spirit in maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding
or skill in overthrowing?"

"The truth is," answered Sancho, "that I have never read any
history, for I can neither read nor write, but what I will venture
to bet is that a more daring master than your worship I have never
served in all the days of my life, and God grant that this daring be
not paid for where I have said; what I beg of your worship is to dress
your wound, for a great deal of blood flows from that ear, and I
have here some lint and a little white ointment in the alforjas."

"All that might be well dispensed with," said Don Quixote, "if I had
remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras, for time and
medicine are saved by one single drop."

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

"It is a balsam," answered Don Quixote, "the receipt of which I have
in my memory, with which one need have no fear of death, or dread
dying of any wound; and so when I make it and give it to thee thou
hast nothing to do when in some battle thou seest they have cut me
in half through the middle of the body- as is wont to happen
frequently,- but neatly and with great nicety, ere the blood
congeal, to place that portion of the body which shall have fallen
to the ground upon the other half which remains in the saddle,
taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly. Then thou shalt give me
to drink but two drops of the balsam I have mentioned, and thou
shalt see me become sounder than an apple."

"If that be so," said Panza, "I renounce henceforth the government
of the promised island, and desire nothing more in payment of my
many and faithful services than that your worship give me the
receipt of this supreme liquor, for I am persuaded it will be worth
more than two reals an ounce anywhere, and I want no more to pass
the rest of my life in ease and honour; but it remains to be told if
it costs much to make it."

"With less than three reals, six quarts of it may be made," said Don
Quixote.

"Sinner that I am!" said Sancho, "then why does your worship put off
making it and teaching it to me?"

"Peace, friend," answered Don Quixote; "greater secrets I mean to
teach thee and greater favours to bestow upon thee; and for the
present let us see to the dressing, for my ear pains me more than I
could wish."

Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but when
Don Quixote came to see his helmet shattered, he was like to lose
his senses, and clapping his hand upon his sword and raising his
eyes to heaven, be said, "I swear by the Creator of all things and the
four Gospels in their fullest extent, to do as the great Marquis of
Mantua did when he swore to avenge the death of his nephew Baldwin
(and that was not to eat bread from a table-cloth, nor embrace his
wife, and other points which, though I cannot now call them to mind, I
here grant as expressed) until I take complete vengeance upon him
who has committed such an offence against me."

Hearing this, Sancho said to him, "Your worship should bear in mind,
Senor Don Quixote, that if the knight has done what was commanded
him in going to present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he
will have done all that he was bound to do, and does not deserve
further punishment unless he commits some new offence."

"Thou hast said well and hit the point," answered Don Quixote; and
so I recall the oath in so far as relates to taking fresh vengeance on
him, but I make and confirm it anew to lead the life I have said until
such time as I take by force from some knight another helmet such as
this and as good; and think not, Sancho, that I am raising smoke
with straw in doing so, for I have one to imitate in the matter, since
the very same thing to a hair happened in the case of Mambrino's
helmet, which cost Sacripante so dear."

"Senor," replied Sancho, "let your worship send all such oaths to
the devil, for they are very pernicious to salvation and prejudicial
to the conscience; just tell me now, if for several days to come we
fall in with no man armed with a helmet, what are we to do? Is the
oath to be observed in spite of all the inconvenience and discomfort
it will be to sleep in your clothes, and not to sleep in a house,
and a thousand other mortifications contained in the oath of that
old fool the Marquis of Mantua, which your worship is now wanting to
revive? Let your worship observe that there are no men in armour
travelling on any of these roads, nothing but carriers and carters,
who not only do not wear helmets, but perhaps never heard tell of them
all their lives."

"Thou art wrong there," said Don Quixote, "for we shall not have
been above two hours among these cross-roads before we see more men in
armour than came to Albraca to win the fair Angelica."

"Enough," said Sancho; "so be it then, and God grant us success, and
that the time for winning that island which is costing me so dear
may soon come, and then let me die."

"I have already told thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "not to give
thyself any uneasiness on that score; for if an island should fail,
there is the kingdom of Denmark, or of Sobradisa, which will fit
thee as a ring fits the finger, and all the more that, being on
terra firma, thou wilt all the better enjoy thyself. But let us
leave that to its own time; see if thou hast anything for us to eat in
those alforjas, because we must presently go in quest of some castle
where we may lodge to-night and make the balsam I told thee of, for
I swear to thee by God, this ear is giving me great pain."

"I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of
bread," said Sancho, "but they are not victuals fit for a valiant
knight like your worship."

"How little thou knowest about it," answered Don Quixote; "I would
have thee to know, Sancho, that it is the glory of knights-errant to
go without eating for a month, and even when they do eat, that it
should be of what comes first to hand; and this would have been
clear to thee hadst thou read as many histories as I have, for, though
they are very many, among them all I have found no mention made of
knights-errant eating, unless by accident or at some sumptuous
banquets prepared for them, and the rest of the time they passed in
dalliance. And though it is plain they could not do without eating and
performing all the other natural functions, because, in fact, they
were men like ourselves, it is plain too that, wandering as they did
the most part of their lives through woods and wilds and without a
cook, their most usual fare would be rustic viands such as those
thou now offer me; so that, friend Sancho, let not that distress
thee which pleases me, and do not seek to make a new world or
pervert knight-errantry."

"Pardon me, your worship," said Sancho, "for, as I cannot read or
write, as I said just now, I neither know nor comprehend the rules
of the profession of chivalry: henceforward I will stock the
alforjas with every kind of dry fruit for your worship, as you are a
knight; and for myself, as I am not one, I will furnish them with
poultry and other things more substantial."

"I do not say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that it is
imperative on knights-errant not to eat anything else but the fruits
thou speakest of; only that their more usual diet must be those, and
certain herbs they found in the fields which they knew and I know
too."

"A good thing it is," answered Sancho, "to know those herbs, for
to my thinking it will be needful some day to put that knowledge
into practice."

And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair made their
repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find quarters for the
night, they with all despatch made an end of their poor dry fare,
mounted at once, and made haste to reach some habitation before
night set in; but daylight and the hope of succeeding in their
object failed them close by the huts of some goatherds, so they
determined to pass the night there, and it was as much to Sancho's
discontent not to have reached a house, as it was to his master's
satisfaction to sleep under the open heaven, for he fancied that
each time this happened to him he performed an act of ownership that
helped to prove his chivalry.

CHAPTER XI

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS

He was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho, having as
best he could put up Rocinante and the ass, drew towards the fragrance
that came from some pieces of salted goat simmering in a pot on the
fire; and though he would have liked at once to try if they were ready
to be transferred from the pot to the stomach, he refrained from doing
so as the goatherds removed them from the fire, and laying
sheepskins on the ground, quickly spread their rude table, and with
signs of hearty good-will invited them both to share what they had.
Round the skins six of the men belonging to the fold seated
themselves, having first with rough politeness pressed Don Quixote
to take a seat upon a trough which they placed for him upside down.
Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho remained standing to serve
the cup, which was made of horn. Seeing him standing, his master
said to him:

"That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry
contains in itself, and how those who fill any office in it are on the
high road to be speedily honoured and esteemed by the world, I
desire that thou seat thyself here at my side and in the company of
these worthy people, and that thou be one with me who am thy master
and natural lord, and that thou eat from my plate and drink from
whatever I drink from; for the same may be said of knight-errantry
as of love, that it levels all."

"Great thanks," said Sancho, "but I may tell your worship that
provided I have enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or better,
standing, and by myself, than seated alongside of an emperor. And
indeed, if the truth is to be told, what I eat in my corner without
form or fuss has much more relish for me, even though it be bread
and onions, than the turkeys of those other tables where I am forced
to chew slowly, drink little, wipe my mouth every minute, and cannot
sneeze or cough if I want or do other things that are the privileges
of liberty and solitude. So, senor, as for these honours which your
worship would put upon me as a servant and follower of
knight-errantry, exchange them for other things which may be of more
use and advantage to me; for these, though I fully acknowledge them as
received, I renounce from this moment to the end of the world."

"For all that," said Don Quixote, "thou must seat thyself, because
him who humbleth himself God exalteth;" and seizing him by the arm
he forced him to sit down beside himself.

The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires and
knights-errant, and all they did was to eat in silence and stare at
their guests, who with great elegance and appetite were stowing away
pieces as big as one's fist. The course of meat finished, they
spread upon the sheepskins a great heap of parched acorns, and with
them they put down a half cheese harder than if it had been made of
mortar. All this while the horn was not idle, for it went round so
constantly, now full, now empty, like the bucket of a water-wheel,
that it soon drained one of the two wine-skins that were in sight.
When Don Quixote had quite appeased his appetite he took up a
handful of the acorns, and contemplating them attentively delivered
himself somewhat in this fashion:

"Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the
name of golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold so
coveted in this our iron one was gained without toil, but because they
that lived in it knew not the two words "mine" and "thine"! In that
blessed age all things were in common; to win the daily food no labour
was required of any save to stretch forth his hand and gather it
from the sturdy oaks that stood generously inviting him with their
sweet ripe fruit. The clear streams and running brooks yielded their
savoury limpid waters in noble abundance. The busy and sagacious
bees fixed their republic in the clefts of the rocks and hollows of
the trees, offering without usance the plenteous produce of their
fragrant toil to every hand. The mighty cork trees, unenforced save of
their own courtesy, shed the broad light bark that served at first
to roof the houses supported by rude stakes, a protection against
the inclemency of heaven alone. Then all was peace, all friendship,
all concord; as yet the dull share of the crooked plough had not dared
to rend and pierce the tender bowels of our first mother that
without compulsion yielded from every portion of her broad fertile
bosom all that could satisfy, sustain, and delight the children that
then possessed her. Then was it that the innocent and fair young
shepherdess roamed from vale to vale and hill to hill, with flowing
locks, and no more garments than were needful modestly to cover what
modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor were their ornaments like
those in use to-day, set off by Tyrian purple, and silk tortured in
endless fashions, but the wreathed leaves of the green dock and ivy,
wherewith they went as bravely and becomingly decked as our Court
dames with all the rare and far-fetched artifices that idle
curiosity has taught them. Then the love-thoughts of the heart clothed
themselves simply and naturally as the heart conceived them, nor
sought to commend themselves by forced and rambling verbiage. Fraud,
deceit, or malice had then not yet mingled with truth and sincerity.
Justice held her ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the efforts
of favour and of interest, that now so much impair, pervert, and beset
her. Arbitrary law had not yet established itself in the mind of the
judge, for then there was no cause to judge and no one to be judged.
Maidens and modesty, as I have said, wandered at will alone and
unattended, without fear of insult from lawlessness or libertine
assault, and if they were undone it was of their own will and
pleasure. But now in this hateful age of ours not one is safe, not
though some new labyrinth like that of Crete conceal and surround her;
even there the pestilence of gallantry will make its way to them
through chinks or on the air by the zeal of its accursed
importunity, and, despite of all seclusion, lead them to ruin. In
defence of these, as time advanced and wickedness increased, the order
of knights-errant was instituted, to defend maidens, to protect widows
and to succour the orphans and the needy. To this order I belong,
brother goatherds, to whom I return thanks for the hospitality and
kindly welcome ye offer me and my squire; for though by natural law
all living are bound to show favour to knights-errant, yet, seeing
that without knowing this obligation ye have welcomed and feasted
me, it is right that with all the good-will in my power I should thank
you for yours."

All this long harangue (which might very well have been spared)
our knight delivered because the acorns they gave him reminded him
of the golden age; and the whim seized him to address all this
unnecessary argument to the goatherds, who listened to him gaping in
amazement without saying a word in reply. Sancho likewise held his
peace and ate acorns, and paid repeated visits to the second
wine-skin, which they had hung up on a cork tree to keep the wine
cool.

Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finishing, at
the end of which one of the goatherds said, "That your worship,
senor knight-errant, may say with more truth that we show you
hospitality with ready good-will, we will give you amusement and
pleasure by making one of our comrades sing: he will be here before
long, and he is a very intelligent youth and deep in love, and what is
more he can read and write and play on the rebeck to perfection."

The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes of the
rebeck reached their ears; and shortly after, the player came up, a
very good-looking young man of about two-and-twenty. His comrades
asked him if he had supped, and on his replying that he had, he who
had already made the offer said to him:

"In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us the pleasure of
singing a little, that the gentleman, our guest, may see that even
in the mountains and woods there are musicians: we have told him of
thy accomplishments, and we want thee to show them and prove that we
say true; so, as thou livest, pray sit down and sing that ballad about
thy love that thy uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so much
liked in the town."

"With all my heart," said the young man, and without waiting for
more pressing he seated himself on the trunk of a felled oak, and
tuning his rebeck, presently began to sing to these words.

ANTONIO'S BALLAD

Thou dost love me well, Olalla;
  Well I know it, even though
Love's mute tongues, thine eyes, have never
  By their glances told me so.

For I know my love thou knowest,
  Therefore thine to claim I dare:
Once it ceases to be secret,
  Love need never feel despair.

True it is, Olalla, sometimes
  Thou hast all too plainly shown
That thy heart is brass in hardness,
  And thy snowy bosom stone.

Yet for all that, in thy coyness,
  And thy fickle fits between,
Hope is there- at least the border
  Of her garment may be seen.

Lures to faith are they, those glimpses,
  And to faith in thee I hold;
Kindness cannot make it stronger,
  Coldness cannot make it cold.

If it be that love is gentle,
  In thy gentleness I see
Something holding out assurance
  To the hope of winning thee.

If it be that in devotion
  Lies a power hearts to move,
That which every day I show thee,
  Helpful to my suit should prove.

Many a time thou must have noticed-
  If to notice thou dost care-
How I go about on Monday
  Dressed in all my Sunday wear.

Love's eyes love to look on brightness;
  Love loves what is gaily drest;
Sunday, Monday, all I care is
  Thou shouldst see me in my best.

No account I make of dances,
  Or of strains that pleased thee so,
Keeping thee awake from midnight
  Till the cocks began to crow;

Or of how I roundly swore it
  That there's none so fair as thou;
True it is, but as I said it,
  By the girls I'm hated now.

For Teresa of the hillside
  At my praise of thee was sore;
Said, "You think you love an angel;
  It's a monkey you adore;

"Caught by all her glittering trinkets,
  And her borrowed braids of hair,
And a host of made-up beauties
  That would Love himself ensnare."

'T was a lie, and so I told her,
  And her cousin at the word
Gave me his defiance for it;
  And what followed thou hast heard.

Mine is no high-flown affection,
  Mine no passion par amours-
As they call it- what I offer
  Is an honest love, and pure.

Cunning cords the holy Church has,
  Cords of softest silk they be;
Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear;
  Mine will follow, thou wilt see.

Else- and once for all I swear it
  By the saint of most renown-
If I ever quit the mountains,
  'T will be in a friar's gown.

Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though Don Quixote
entreated him to sing more, Sancho had no mind that way, being more
inclined for sleep than for listening to songs; so said he to his
master, "Your worship will do well to settle at once where you mean to
pass the night, for the labour these good men are at all day does
not allow them to spend the night in singing."

"I understand thee, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "I perceive
clearly that those visits to the wine-skin demand compensation in
sleep rather than in music."

"It's sweet to us all, blessed be God," said Sancho.

"I do not deny it," replied Don Quixote; "but settle thyself where
thou wilt; those of my calling are more becomingly employed in
watching than in sleeping; still it would be as well if thou wert to
dress this ear for me again, for it is giving me more pain than it
need."

Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds, seeing the
wound, told him not to be uneasy, as he would apply a remedy with
which it would be soon healed; and gathering some leaves of
rosemary, of which there was a great quantity there, he chewed them
and mixed them with a little salt, and applying them to the ear he
secured them firmly with a bandage, assuring him that no other
treatment would be required, and so it proved.

CHAPTER XII

OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE

Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their
provisions from the village, came up and said, "Do you know what is
going on in the village, comrades?"

"How could we know it?" replied one of them.

"Well, then, you must know," continued the young man, "this
morning that famous student-shepherd called Chrysostom died, and it is
rumoured that he died of love for that devil of a village girl the
daughter of Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders about the wolds
here in the dress of a shepherdess."

"You mean Marcela?" said one.

"Her I mean," answered the goatherd; "and the best of it is, he
has directed in his will that he is to be buried in the fields like
a Moor, and at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree spring is,
because, as the story goes (and they say he himself said so), that was
the place where he first saw her. And he has also left other
directions which the clergy of the village say should not and must not
be obeyed because they savour of paganism. To all which his great
friend Ambrosio the student, he who, like him, also went dressed as
a shepherd, replies that everything must be done without any
omission according to the directions left by Chrysostom, and about
this the village is all in commotion; however, report says that, after
all, what Ambrosio and all the shepherds his friends desire will be
done, and to-morrow they are coming to bury him with great ceremony
where I said. I am sure it will be something worth seeing; at least
I will not fail to go and see it even if I knew I should not return to
the village tomorrow."

"We will do the same," answered the goatherds, "and cast lots to see
who must stay to mind the goats of all."

"Thou sayest well, Pedro," said one, "though there will be no need
of taking that trouble, for I will stay behind for all; and don't
suppose it is virtue or want of curiosity in me; it is that the
splinter that ran into my foot the other day will not let me walk."

"For all that, we thank thee," answered Pedro.

Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was and who the
shepherdess, to which Pedro replied that all he knew was that the dead
man was a wealthy gentleman belonging to a village in those mountains,
who had been a student at Salamanca for many years, at the end of
which he returned to his village with the reputation of being very
learned and deeply read. "Above all, they said, he was learned in
the science of the stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens and
the sun and the moon, for he told us of the cris of the sun and moon
to exact time."

"Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of those
two luminaries," said Don Quixote; but Pedro, not troubling himself
with trifles, went on with his story, saying, "Also he foretold when
the year was going to be one of abundance or estility."

"Sterility, you mean," said Don Quixote.

"Sterility or estility," answered Pedro, "it is all the same in
the end. And I can tell you that by this his father and friends who
believed him grew very rich because they did as he advised them,
bidding them 'sow barley this year, not wheat; this year you may sow
pulse and not barley; the next there will be a full oil crop, and
the three following not a drop will be got.'"

"That science is called astrology," said Don Quixote.

"I do not know what it is called," replied Pedro, "but I know that
he knew all this and more besides. But, to make an end, not many
months had passed after he returned from Salamanca, when one day he
appeared dressed as a shepherd with his crook and sheepskin, having
put off the long gown he wore as a scholar; and at the same time his
great friend, Ambrosio by name, who had been his companion in his
studies, took to the shepherd's dress with him. I forgot to say that
Chrysostom, who is dead, was a great man for writing verses, so much
so that he made carols for Christmas Eve, and plays for Corpus
Christi, which the young men of our village acted, and all said they
were excellent. When the villagers saw the two scholars so
unexpectedly appearing in shepherd's dress, they were lost in
wonder, and could not guess what had led them to make so extraordinary
a change. About this time the father of our Chrysostom died, and he
was left heir to a large amount of property in chattels as well as
in land, no small number of cattle and sheep, and a large sum of
money, of all of which the young man was left dissolute owner, and
indeed he was deserving of it all, for he was a very good comrade, and
kind-hearted, and a friend of worthy folk, and had a countenance
like a benediction. Presently it came to be known that he had
changed his dress with no other object than to wander about these
wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned a while ago,
with whom the deceased Chrysostom had fallen in love. And I must
tell you now, for it is well you should know it, who this girl is;
perhaps, and even without any perhaps, you will not have heard
anything like it all the days of your life, though you should live
more years than sarna."

"Say Sarra," said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goatherd's
confusion of words.

"The sarna lives long enough," answered Pedro; "and if, senor, you
must go finding fault with words at every step, we shall not make an
end of it this twelvemonth."

"Pardon me, friend," said Don Quixote; "but, as there is such a
difference between sarna and Sarra, I told you of it; however, you
have answered very rightly, for sarna lives longer than Sarra: so
continue your story, and I will not object any more to anything."

"I say then, my dear sir," said the goatherd, "that in our village
there was a farmer even richer than the father of Chrysostom, who
was named Guillermo, and upon whom God bestowed, over and above
great wealth, a daughter at whose birth her mother died, the most
respected woman there was in this neighbourhood; I fancy I can see her
now with that countenance which had the sun on one side and the moon
on the other; and moreover active, and kind to the poor, for which I
trust that at the present moment her soul is in bliss with God in
the other world. Her husband Guillermo died of grief at the death of
so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcela, a child and rich, to the
care of an uncle of hers, a priest and prebendary in our village.
The girl grew up with such beauty that it reminded us of her mother's,
which was very great, and yet it was thought that the daughter's would
exceed it; and so when she reached the age of fourteen to fifteen
years nobody beheld her but blessed God that had made her so
beautiful, and the greater number were in love with her past
redemption. Her uncle kept her in great seclusion and retirement,
but for all that the fame of her great beauty spread so that, as
well for it as for her great wealth, her uncle was asked, solicited,
and importuned, to give her in marriage not only by those of our
town but of those many leagues round, and by the persons of highest
quality in them. But he, being a good Christian man, though he desired
to give her in marriage at once, seeing her to be old enough, was
unwilling to do so without her consent, not that he had any eye to the
gain and profit which the custody of the girl's property brought him
while he put off her marriage; and, faith, this was said in praise
of the good priest in more than one set in the town. For I would
have you know, Sir Errant, that in these little villages everything is
talked about and everything is carped at, and rest assured, as I am,
that the priest must be over and above good who forces his
parishioners to speak well of him, especially in villages."

"That is the truth," said Don Quixote; "but go on, for the story
is very good, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very good grace."

"May that of the Lord not be wanting to me," said Pedro; "that is
the one to have. To proceed; you must know that though the uncle put
before his niece and described to her the qualities of each one in
particular of the many who had asked her in marriage, begging her to
marry and make a choice according to her own taste, she never gave any
other answer than that she had no desire to marry just yet, and that
being so young she did not think herself fit to bear the burden of
matrimony. At these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses that she
made, her uncle ceased to urge her, and waited till she was somewhat
more advanced in age and could mate herself to her own liking. For,
said he- and he said quite right- parents are not to settle children
in life against their will. But when one least looked for it, lo and
behold! one day the demure Marcela makes her appearance turned
shepherdess; and, in spite of her uncle and all those of the town that
strove to dissuade her, took to going a-field with the other
shepherd-lasses of the village, and tending her own flock. And so,
since she appeared in public, and her beauty came to be seen openly, I
could not well tell you how many rich youths, gentlemen and
peasants, have adopted the costume of Chrysostom, and go about these
fields making love to her. One of these, as has been already said, was
our deceased friend, of whom they say that he did not love but adore
her. But you must not suppose, because Marcela chose a life of such
liberty and independence, and of so little or rather no retirement,
that she has given any occasion, or even the semblance of one, for
disparagement of her purity and modesty; on the contrary, such and
so great is the vigilance with which she watches over her honour, that
of all those that court and woo her not one has boasted, or can with
truth boast, that she has given him any hope however small of
obtaining his desire. For although she does not avoid or shun the
society and conversation of the shepherds, and treats them courteously
and kindly, should any one of them come to declare his intention to
her, though it be one as proper and holy as that of matrimony, she
flings him from her like a catapult. And with this kind of disposition
she does more harm in this country than if the plague had got into it,
for her affability and her beauty draw on the hearts of those that
associate with her to love her and to court her, but her scorn and her
frankness bring them to the brink of despair; and so they know not
what to say save to proclaim her aloud cruel and hard-hearted, and
other names of the same sort which well describe the nature of her
character; and if you should remain here any time, senor, you would
hear these hills and valleys resounding with the laments of the
rejected ones who pursue her. Not far from this there is a spot
where there are a couple of dozen of tall beeches, and there is not
one of them but has carved and written on its smooth bark the name
of Marcela, and above some a crown carved on the same tree as though
her lover would say more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that
of all human beauty. Here one shepherd is sighing, there another is
lamenting; there love songs are heard, here despairing elegies. One
will pass all the hours of the night seated at the foot of some oak or
rock, and there, without having closed his weeping eyes, the sun finds
him in the morning bemused and bereft of sense; and another without
relief or respite to his sighs, stretched on the burning sand in the
full heat of the sultry summer noontide, makes his appeal to the
compassionate heavens, and over one and the other, over these and all,
the beautiful Marcela triumphs free and careless. And all of us that
know her are waiting to see what her pride will come to, and who is to
be the happy man that will succeed in taming a nature so formidable
and gaining possession of a beauty so supreme. All that I have told
you being such well-established truth, I am persuaded that what they
say of the cause of Chrysostom's death, as our lad told us, is the
same. And so I advise you, senor, fail not to be present to-morrow
at his burial, which will be well worth seeing, for Chrysostom had
many friends, and it is not half a league from this place to where
he directed he should be buried."

"I will make a point of it," said Don Quixote, "and I thank you
for the pleasure you have given me by relating so interesting a tale."

"Oh," said the goatherd, "I do not know even the half of what has
happened to the lovers of Marcela, but perhaps to-morrow we may fall
in with some shepherd on the road who can tell us; and now it will
be well for you to go and sleep under cover, for the night air may
hurt your wound, though with the remedy I have applied to you there is
no fear of an untoward result."

Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd's loquacity at the devil,
on his part begged his master to go into Pedro's hut to sleep. He
did so, and passed all the rest of the night in thinking of his lady
Dulcinea, in imitation of the lovers of Marcela. Sancho Panza settled
himself between Rocinante and his ass, and slept, not like a lover
who had been discarded, but like a man who had been soundly kicked.

CHAPTER XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and the
better to settle the point and discover what kind of madness his
was, Vivaldo proceeded to ask him what knights-errant meant.

"Have not your worships," replied Don Quixote, "read the annals
and histories of England, in which are recorded the famous deeds of
King Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian invariably call King
Artus, with regard to whom it is an ancient tradition, and commonly
received all over that kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did
not die, but was changed by magic art into a raven, and that in
process of time he is to return to reign and recover his kingdom and
sceptre; for which reason it cannot be proved that from that time to
this any Englishman ever killed a raven? Well, then, in the time of
this good king that famous order of chivalry of the Knights of the
Round Table was instituted, and the amour of Don Lancelot of the
Lake with the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely as is there related,
the go-between and confidante therein being the highly honourable dame
Quintanona, whence came that ballad so well known and widely spread in
our Spain-

O never surely was there knight
  So served by hand of dame,
As served was he Sir Lancelot hight
  When he from Britain came-

with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements in love
and war. Handed down from that time, then, this order of chivalry went
on extending and spreading itself over many and various parts of the
world; and in it, famous and renowned for their deeds, were the mighty
Amadis of Gaul with all his sons and descendants to the fifth
generation, and the valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never
sufficiently praised Tirante el Blanco, and in our own days almost
we have seen and heard and talked with the invincible knight Don
Belianis of Greece. This, then, sirs, is to be a knight-errant, and
what I have spoken of is the order of his chivalry, of which, as I
have already said, I, though a sinner, have made profession, and
what the aforesaid knights professed that same do I profess, and so
I go through these solitudes and wilds seeking adventures, resolved in
soul to oppose my arm and person to the most perilous that fortune may
offer me in aid of the weak and needy."

By these words of his the travellers were able to satisfy themselves
of Don Quixote's being out of his senses and of the form of madness
that overmastered him, at which they felt the same astonishment that
all felt on first becoming acquainted with it; and Vivaldo, who was
a person of great shrewdness and of a lively temperament, in order
to beguile the short journey which they said was required to reach the
mountain, the scene of the burial, sought to give him an opportunity
of going on with his absurdities. So he said to him, "It seems to
me, Senor Knight-errant, that your worship has made choice of one of
the most austere professions in the world, and I imagine even that
of the Carthusian monks is not so austere."

"As austere it may perhaps be," replied our Don Quixote, "but so
necessary for the world I am very much inclined to doubt. For, if
the truth is to be told, the soldier who executes what his captain
orders does no less than the captain himself who gives the order. My
meaning, is, that churchmen in peace and quiet pray to Heaven for
the welfare of the world, but we soldiers and knights carry into
effect what they pray for, defending it with the might of our arms and
the edge of our swords, not under shelter but in the open air, a
target for the intolerable rays of the sun in summer and the
piercing frosts of winter. Thus are we God's ministers on earth and
the arms by which his justice is done therein. And as the business
of war and all that relates and belongs to it cannot be conducted
without exceeding great sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows that
those who make it their profession have undoubtedly more labour than
those who in tranquil peace and quiet are engaged in praying to God to
help the weak. I do not mean to say, nor does it enter into my
thoughts, that the knight-errant's calling is as good as that of the
monk in his cell; I would merely infer from what I endure myself
that it is beyond a doubt a more laborious and a more belaboured
one, a hungrier and thirstier, a wretcheder, raggeder, and lousier;
for there is no reason to doubt that the knights-errant of yore
endured much hardship in the course of their lives. And if some of
them by the might of their arms did rise to be emperors, in faith it
cost them dear in the matter of blood and sweat; and if those who
attained to that rank had not had magicians and sages to help them
they would have been completely baulked in their ambition and
disappointed in their hopes."

"That is my own opinion," replied the traveller; "but one thing
among many others seems to me very wrong in knights-errant, and that
is that when they find themselves about to engage in some mighty and
perilous adventure in which there is manifest danger of losing their
lives, they never at the moment of engaging in it think of
commending themselves to God, as is the duty of every good Christian
in like peril; instead of which they commend themselves to their
ladies with as much devotion as if these were their gods, a thing
which seems to me to savour somewhat of heathenism."

"Sir," answered Don Quixote, "that cannot be on any account omitted,
and the knight-errant would be disgraced who acted otherwise: for it
is usual and customary in knight-errantry that the knight-errant,
who on engaging in any great feat of arms has his lady before him,
should turn his eyes towards her softly and lovingly, as though with
them entreating her to favour and protect him in the hazardous venture
he is about to undertake, and even though no one hear him, he is bound
to say certain words between his teeth, commending himself to her with
all his heart, and of this we have innumerable instances in the
histories. Nor is it to be supposed from this that they are to omit
commending themselves to God, for there will be time and opportunity
for doing so while they are engaged in their task."

"For all that," answered the traveller, "I feel some doubt still,
because often I have read how words will arise between two
knights-errant, and from one thing to another it comes about that
their anger kindles and they wheel their horses round and take a
good stretch of field, and then without any more ado at the top of
their speed they come to the charge, and in mid-career they are wont
to commend themselves to their ladies; and what commonly comes of
the encounter is that one falls over the haunches of his horse pierced
through and through by his antagonist's lance, and as for the other,
it is only by holding on to the mane of his horse that he can help
falling to the ground; but I know not how the dead man had time to
commend himself to God in the course of such rapid work as this; it
would have been better if those words which he spent in commending
himself to his lady in the midst of his career had been devoted to his
duty and obligation as a Christian. Moreover, it is my belief that all
knights-errant have not ladies to commend themselves to, for they
are not all in love."

"That is impossible," said Don Quixote: "I say it is impossible that
there could be a knight-errant without a lady, because to such it is
as natural and proper to be in love as to the heavens to have stars:
most certainly no history has been seen in which there is to be
found a knight-errant without an amour, and for the simple reason that
without one he would be held no legitimate knight but a bastard, and
one who had gained entrance into the stronghold of the said
knighthood, not by the door, but over the wall like a thief and a
robber."

"Nevertheless," said the traveller, "if I remember rightly, I
think I have read that Don Galaor, the brother of the valiant Amadis
of Gaul, never had any special lady to whom he might commend
himself, and yet he was not the less esteemed, and was a very stout
and famous knight."

To which our Don Quixote made answer, "Sir, one solitary swallow
does not make summer; moreover, I know that knight was in secret
very deeply in love; besides which, that way of falling in love with
all that took his fancy was a natural propensity which he could not
control. But, in short, it is very manifest that he had one alone whom
he made mistress of his will, to whom he commended himself very
frequently and very secretly, for he prided himself on being a
reticent knight."

"Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should be in
love," said the traveller, "it may be fairly supposed that your
worship is so, as you are of the order; and if you do not pride
yourself on being as reticent as Don Galaor, I entreat you as
earnestly as I can, in the name of all this company and in my own,
to inform us of the name, country, rank, and beauty of your lady,
for she will esteem herself fortunate if all the world knows that
she is loved and served by such a knight as your worship seems to be."

At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and said, "I cannot say
positively whether my sweet enemy is pleased or not that the world
should know I serve her; I can only say in answer to what has been
so courteously asked of me, that her name is Dulcinea, her country
El Toboso, a village of La Mancha, her rank must be at least that of a
princess, since she is my queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman,
since all the impossible and fanciful attributes of beauty which the
poets apply to their ladies are verified in her; for her hairs are
gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes
suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck
alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her fairness snow, and
what modesty conceals from sight such, I think and imagine, as
rational reflection can only extol, not compare."

"We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry," said
Vivaldo.

To which Don Quixote replied, "She is not of the ancient Roman
Curtii, Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas or Orsini, nor of
the Moncadas or Requesenes of Catalonia, nor yet of the Rebellas or
Villanovas of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas,
Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or Gurreas of Aragon; Cerdas, Manriques,
Mendozas, or Guzmans of Castile; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of
Portugal; but she is of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage
that though modern, may furnish a source of gentle blood for the
most illustrious families of the ages that are to come, and this let
none dispute with me save on the condition that Zerbino placed at
the foot of the trophy of Orlando's arms, saying,

'These let none move
  Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.'"

"Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo," said the traveller,
"I will not venture to compare it with that of El Toboso of La Mancha,
though, to tell the truth, no such surname has until now ever
reached my ears."

"What!" said Don Quixote, "has that never reached them?"

The rest of the party went along listening with great attention to
the conversation of the pair, and even the very goatherds and
shepherds perceived how exceedingly out of his wits our Don Quixote
was. Sancho Panza alone thought that what his master said was the
truth, knowing who he was and having known him from his birth; and all
that he felt any difficulty in believing was that about the fair
Dulcinea del Toboso, because neither any such name nor any such
princess had ever come to his knowledge though he lived so close to El
Toboso. They were going along conversing in this way, when they saw
descending a gap between two high mountains some twenty shepherds, all
clad in sheepskins of black wool, and crowned with garlands which,
as afterwards appeared, were, some of them of yew, some of cypress.
Six of the number were carrying a bier covered with a great variety of
flowers and branches, on seeing which one of the goatherds said,
"Those who come there are the bearers of Chrysostom's body, and the
foot of that mountain is the place where he ordered them to bury him."
They therefore made haste to reach the spot, and did so by the time
those who came had laid the bier upon the ground, and four of them
with sharp pickaxes were digging a grave by the side of a hard rock.
They greeted each other courteously, and then Don Quixote and those
who accompanied him turned to examine the bier, and on it, covered
with flowers, they saw a dead body in the dress of a shepherd, to
all appearance of one thirty years of age, and showing even in death
that in life he had been of comely features and gallant bearing.
Around him on the bier itself were laid some books, and several papers
open and folded; and those who were looking on as well as those who
were opening the grave and all the others who were there preserved a
strange silence, until one of those who had borne the body said to
another, "Observe carefully, Ambrosia if this is the place
Chrysostom spoke of, since you are anxious that what he directed in
his will should be so strictly complied with."

"This is the place," answered Ambrosia "for in it many a time did my
poor friend tell me the story of his hard fortune. Here it was, he
told me, that he saw for the first time that mortal enemy of the human
race, and here, too, for the first time he declared to her his
passion, as honourable as it was devoted, and here it was that at last
Marcela ended by scorning and rejecting him so as to bring the tragedy
of his wretched life to a close; here, in memory of misfortunes so
great, he desired to be laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion."
Then turning to Don Quixote and the travellers he went on to say,
"That body, sirs, on which you are looking with compassionate eyes,
was the abode of a soul on which Heaven bestowed a vast share of its
riches. That is the body of Chrysostom, who was unrivalled in wit,
unequalled in courtesy, unapproached in gentle bearing, a phoenix in
friendship, generous without limit, grave without arrogance, gay
without vulgarity, and, in short, first in all that constitutes
goodness and second to none in all that makes up misfortune. He
loved deeply, he was hated; he adored, he was scorned; he wooed a wild
beast, he pleaded with marble, he pursued the wind, he cried to the
wilderness, he served ingratitude, and for reward was made the prey of
death in the mid-course of life, cut short by a shepherdess whom he
sought to immortalise in the memory of man, as these papers which
you see could fully prove, had he not commanded me to consign them
to the fire after having consigned his body to the earth."

"You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than their
owner himself," said Vivaldo, "for it is neither right nor proper to
do the will of one who enjoins what is wholly unreasonable; it would
not have been reasonable in Augustus Caesar had he permitted the
directions left by the divine Mantuan in his will to be carried into
effect. So that, Senor Ambrosia while you consign your friend's body
to the earth, you should not consign his writings to oblivion, for
if he gave the order in bitterness of heart, it is not right that
you should irrationally obey it. On the contrary, by granting life
to those papers, let the cruelty of Marcela live for ever, to serve as
a warning in ages to come to all men to shun and avoid falling into
like danger; or I and all of us who have come here know already the
story of this your love-stricken and heart-broken friend, and we know,
too, your friendship, and the cause of his death, and the directions
he gave at the close of his life; from which sad story may be gathered
how great was the cruelty of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and
the loyalty of your friendship, together with the end awaiting those
who pursue rashly the path that insane passion opens to their eyes.
Last night we learned the death of Chrysostom and that he was to be
buried here, and out of curiosity and pity we left our direct road and
resolved to come and see with our eyes that which when heard of had so
moved our compassion, and in consideration of that compassion and
our desire to prove it if we might by condolence, we beg of you,
excellent Ambrosia, or at least I on my own account entreat you,
that instead of burning those papers you allow me to carry away some
of them."

And without waiting for the shepherd's answer, he stretched out
his hand and took up some of those that were nearest to him; seeing
which Ambrosio said, "Out of courtesy, senor, I will grant your
request as to those you have taken, but it is idle to expect me to
abstain from burning the remainder."

Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, opened
one of them at once, and saw that its title was "Lay of Despair."

Ambrosio hearing it said, "That is the last paper the unhappy man
wrote; and that you may see, senor, to what an end his misfortunes
brought him, read it so that you may be heard, for you will have
time enough for that while we are waiting for the grave to be dug."

"I will do so very willingly," said Vivaldo; and as all the
bystanders were equally eager they gathered round him, and he, reading
in a loud voice, found that it ran as follows.

CHAPTER XIV

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

THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM

  Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire
The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny
From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed,
The very Hell will I constrain to lend
This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe
To serve my need of fitting utterance.
And as I strive to body forth the tale
Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done,
Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along
Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain.
Then listen, not to dulcet harmony,
But to a discord wrung by mad despair
Out of this bosom's depths of bitterness,
To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.

  The lion's roar, the fierce wolf's savage howl,
The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,
The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed,
The crow's ill-boding croak, the hollow moan
Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea,
The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull,
The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove,
The envied owl's sad note, the wail of woe
That rises from the dreary choir of Hell,
Commingled in one sound, confusing sense,
Let all these come to aid my soul's complaint,
For pain like mine demands new modes of song.

  No echoes of that discord shall be heard
Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks
Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks
Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told,
And by a lifeless tongue in living words;
Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores,
Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls;
Or in among the poison-breathing swarms
Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile.
For, though it be to solitudes remote
The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound
Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate
Shall carry them to all the spacious world.

  Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies
Slain by suspicion, be it false or true;
And deadly is the force of jealousy;
Long absence makes of life a dreary void;
No hope of happiness can give repose
To him that ever fears to be forgot;
And death, inevitable, waits in hall.
But I, by some strange miracle, live on
A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain;
Racked by suspicion as by certainty;
Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone.
And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray
Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom;
Nor do I look for it in my despair;
But rather clinging to a cureless woe,
All hope do I abjure for evermore.

  Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well,
When far more certain are the grounds of fear?
Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy,
If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears?
Who would not give free access to distrust,
Seeing disdain unveiled, and- bitter change!-
All his suspicions turned to certainties,
And the fair truth transformed into a lie?
Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love,
Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands,
And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain.
But, woe is me! triumphant over all,
My sufferings drown the memory of you.

  And now I die, and since there is no hope
Of happiness for me in life or death,
Still to my fantasy I'll fondly cling.
I'll say that he is wise who loveth well,
And that the soul most free is that most bound
In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love.
I'll say that she who is mine enemy
In that fair body hath as fair a mind,
And that her coldness is but my desert,
And that by virtue of the pain be sends
Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.
Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore,
And wearing out the wretched shred of life
To which I am reduced by her disdain,
I'll give this soul and body to the winds,
All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.

  Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause
That makes me quit the weary life I loathe,
As by this wounded bosom thou canst see
How willingly thy victim I become,
Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,
Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes;
I would not have thee expiate in aught
The crime of having made my heart thy prey;
But rather let thy laughter gaily ring
And prove my death to be thy festival.
Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know
Thy glory gains by my untimely end.

  And now it is the time; from Hell's abyss
Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus
Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus
With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come,
And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil;
And all into this breast transfer their pains,
And (if such tribute to despair be due)
Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge
Over a corse unworthy of a shroud.
Let the three-headed guardian of the gate,
And all the monstrous progeny of hell,
The doleful concert join: a lover dead
Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.

  Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone
Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery
Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth;
Then banish sadness even in the tomb.

The "Lay of Chrysostom" met with the approbation of the listeners,
though the reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he
had heard of Marcela's reserve and propriety, for Chrysostom
complained in it of jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all to the
prejudice of the good name and fame of Marcela; to which Ambrosio
replied as one who knew well his friend's most secret thoughts,
"Senor, to remove that doubt I should tell you that when the unhappy
man wrote this lay he was away from Marcela, from whom be had
voluntarily separated himself, to try if absence would act with him as
it is wont; and as everything distresses and every fear haunts the
banished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as
if they were true, tormented Chrysostom; and thus the truth of what
report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains unshaken, and with
her envy itself should not and cannot find any fault save that of
being cruel, somewhat haughty, and very scornful."

"That is true," said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read another
paper of those he had preserved from the fire, he was stopped by a
marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly presented
itself to their eyes; for on the summit of the rock where they were
digging the grave there appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so beautiful
that her beauty exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then
beheld her gazed upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were
accustomed to see her were not less amazed than those who had never
seen her before. But the instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her,
with manifest indignation:

"Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk of these mountains, to see
if in thy presence blood will flow from the wounds of this wretched
being thy cruelty has robbed of life; or is it to exult over the cruel
work of thy humours that thou art come; or like another pitiless
Nero to look down from that height upon the ruin of his Rome in
embers; or in thy arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as
the ungrateful daughter trampled on her father Tarquin's? Tell us
quickly for what thou art come, or what it is thou wouldst have,
for, as I know the thoughts of Chrysostom never failed to obey thee in
life, I will make all these who call themselves his friends obey thee,
though he be dead."

"I come not, Ambrosia for any of the purposes thou hast named,"
replied Marcela, "but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable
are all those who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom's
death; and therefore I ask all of you that are here to give me your
attention, for will not take much time or many words to bring the
truth home to persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say,
beautiful, and so much so that in spite of yourselves my beauty
leads you to love me; and for the love you show me you say, and even
urge, that I am bound to love you. By that natural understanding which
God has given me I know that everything beautiful attracts love, but I
cannot see how, by reason of being loved, that which is loved for
its beauty is bound to love that which loves it; besides, it may
happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may be ugly, and
ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to say, "I love thee
because thou art beautiful, thou must love me though I be ugly." But
supposing the beauty equal on both sides, it does not follow that
the inclinations must be therefore alike, for it is not every beauty
that excites love, some but pleasing the eye without winning the
affection; and if every sort of beauty excited love and won the heart,
the will would wander vaguely to and fro unable to make choice of any;
for as there is an infinity of beautiful objects there must be an
infinity of inclinations, and true love, I have heard it said, is
indivisible, and must be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so,
as I believe it to be, why do you desire me to bend my will by
force, for no other reason but that you say you love me? Nay- tell me-
had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me beautiful, could I with
justice complain of you for not loving me? Moreover, you must remember
that the beauty I possess was no choice of mine, for, be it what it
may, Heaven of its bounty gave it me without my asking or choosing it;
and as the viper, though it kills with it, does not deserve to be
blamed for the poison it carries, as it is a gift of nature, neither
do I deserve reproach for being beautiful; for beauty in a modest
woman is like fire at a distance or a sharp sword; the one does not
burn, the other does not cut, those who do not come too near. Honour
and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without which the body,
though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful; but if modesty is
one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and charm to mind and
body, why should she who is loved for her beauty part with it to
gratify one who for his pleasure alone strives with all his might
and energy to rob her of it? I was born free, and that I might live in
freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the
mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my
mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and
charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside. Those whom I have
inspired with love by letting them see me, I have by words undeceived,
and if their longings live on hope- and I have given none to
Chrysostom or to any other- it cannot justly be said that the death of
any is my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty
that killed him; and if it be made a charge against me that his wishes
were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to yield to them, I
answer that when on this very spot where now his grave is made he
declared to me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to live
in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the
fruits of my retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after
this open avowal, he chose to persist against hope and steer against
the wind, what wonder is it that he should sink in the depths of his
infatuation? If I had encouraged him, I should be false; if I had
gratified him, I should have acted against my own better resolution
and purpose. He was persistent in spite of warning, he despaired
without being hated. Bethink you now if it be reasonable that his
suffering should be laid to my charge. Let him who has been deceived
complain, let him give way to despair whose encouraged hopes have
proved vain, let him flatter himself whom I shall entice, let him
boast whom I shall receive; but let not him call me cruel or
homicide to whom I make no promise, upon whom I practise no deception,
whom I neither entice nor receive. It has not been so far the will
of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to expect me to love by
choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve for each of my
suitors on his own account, and let it be understood from this time
forth that if anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he
dies, for she who loves no one can give no cause for jealousy to
any, and candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let him who calls
me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as something noxious and
evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his service; who calls
me wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me cruel, pursue me
not; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel,
wayward being has no kind of desire to seek, serve, know, or follow
them. If Chrysostom's impatience and violent passion killed him, why
should my modest behaviour and circumspection be blamed? If I preserve
my purity in the society of the trees, why should he who would have me
preserve it among men, seek to rob me of it? I have, as you know,
wealth of my own, and I covet not that of others; my taste is for
freedom, and I have no relish for constraint; I neither love nor
hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or trifle with
one or play with another. The modest converse of the shepherd girls of
these hamlets and the care of my goats are my recreations; my
desires are bounded by these mountains, and if they ever wander
hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps by which
the soul travels to its primeval abode."

With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and
passed into the thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving
all who were there lost in admiration as much of her good sense as
of her beauty. Some- those wounded by the irresistible shafts launched
by her bright eyes- made as though they would follow her, heedless
of the frank declaration they had heard; seeing which, and deeming
this a fitting occasion for the exercise of his chivalry in aid of
distressed damsels, Don Quixote, laying his hand on the hilt of his
sword, exclaimed in a loud and distinct voice:

"Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow the
beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce indignation.
She has shown by clear and satisfactory arguments that little or no
fault is to be found with her for the death of Chrysostom, and also
how far she is from yielding to the wishes of any of her lovers, for
which reason, instead of being followed and persecuted, she should
in justice be honoured and esteemed by all the good people of the
world, for she shows that she is the only woman in it that holds to
such a virtuous resolution."

Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixote, or because
Ambrosio told them to fulfil their duty to their good friend, none
of the shepherds moved or stirred from the spot until, having finished
the grave and burned Chrysostom's papers, they laid his body in it,
not without many tears from those who stood by. They closed the
grave with a heavy stone until a slab was ready which Ambrosio said he
meant to have prepared, with an epitaph which was to be to this effect:

Beneath the stone before your eyes
The body of a lover lies;
In life he was a shepherd swain,
In death a victim to disdain.
Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair,
Was she that drove him to despair,
And Love hath made her his ally
For spreading wide his tyranny.

They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and
branches, and all expressing their condolence with his friend
ambrosio, took their Vivaldo and his companion did the same; and Don
Quixote bade farewell to his hosts and to the travellers, who
pressed him to come with them to Seville, as being such a convenient
place for finding adventures, for they presented themselves in every
street and round every corner oftener than anywhere else. Don
Quixote thanked them for their advice and for the disposition they
showed to do him a favour, and said that for the present he would not,
and must not go to Seville until he had cleared all these mountains of
highwaymen and robbers, of whom report said they were full. Seeing his
good intention, the travellers were unwilling to press him further,
and once more bidding him farewell, they left him and pursued their
journey, in the course of which they did not fail to discuss the story
of Marcela and Chrysostom as well as the madness of Don Quixote. He,
on his part, resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcela, and
make offer to her of all the service he could render her; but things
did not fall out with him as he expected, according to what is related
in the course of this veracious history, of which the Second Part ends
here.

CHAPTER XV

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

The sage Cide Hamete Benengeli relates that as soon as Don Quixote
took leave of his hosts and all who had been present at the burial
of Chrysostom, he and his squire passed into the same wood which
they had seen the shepherdess Marcela enter, and after having wandered
for more than two hours in all directions in search of her without
finding her, they came to a halt in a glade covered with tender grass,
beside which ran a pleasant cool stream that invited and compelled
them to pass there the hours of the noontide heat, which by this
time was beginning to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho
dismounted, and turning Rocinante and the ass loose to feed on the
grass that was there in abundance, they ransacked the alforjas, and
without any ceremony very peacefully and sociably master and man
made their repast on what they found in them. Sancho had not thought
it worth while to hobble Rocinante, feeling sure, from what he knew of
his staidness and freedom from incontinence, that all the mares in the
Cordova pastures would not lead him into an impropriety. Chance,
however, and the devil, who is not always asleep, so ordained it
that feeding in this valley there was a drove of Galician ponies
belonging to certain Yanguesan carriers, whose way it is to take their
midday rest with their teams in places and spots where grass and water
abound; and that where Don Quixote chanced to be suited the
Yanguesans' purpose very well. It so happened, then, that Rocinante
took a fancy to disport himself with their ladyships the ponies, and
abandoning his usual gait and demeanour as he scented them, he,
without asking leave of his master, got up a briskish little trot
and hastened to make known his wishes to them; they, however, it
seemed, preferred their pasture to him, and received him with their
heels and teeth to such effect that they soon broke his girths and
left him naked without a saddle to cover him; but what must have
been worse to him was that the carriers, seeing the violence he was
offering to their mares, came running up armed with stakes, and so
belaboured him that they brought him sorely battered to the ground.

By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed the
drubbing of Rocinante, came up panting, and said Don Quixote to
Sancho:

"So far as I can see, friend Sancho, these are not knights but
base folk of low birth: I mention it because thou canst lawfully aid
me in taking due vengeance for the insult offered to Rocinante
before our eyes."

"What the devil vengeance can we take," answered Sancho, "if they
are more than twenty, and we no more than two, or, indeed, perhaps not
more than one and a half?"

"I count for a hundred," replied Don Quixote, and without more words
he drew his sword and attacked the Yanguesans and excited and impelled
by the example of his master, Sancho did the same; and to begin
with, Don Quixote delivered a slash at one of them that laid open
the leather jerkin he wore, together with a great portion of his
shoulder. The Yanguesans, seeing themselves assaulted by only two
men while they were so many, betook themselves to their stakes, and
driving the two into the middle they began to lay on with great zeal
and energy; in fact, at the second blow they brought Sancho to the
ground, and Don Quixote fared the same way, all his skill and high
mettle availing him nothing, and fate willed it that he should fall at
the feet of Rocinante, who had not yet risen; whereby it may be seen
how furiously stakes can pound in angry boorish hands. Then, seeing
the mischief they had done, the Yanguesans with all the haste they
could loaded their team and pursued their journey, leaving the two
adventurers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood.

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

"What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?" answered Don Quixote in the
same feeble suffering tone as Sancho.

"I would like, if it were possible," answered Sancho Panza, "your
worship to give me a couple of sups of that potion of the fiery
Blas, if it be that you have any to hand there; perhaps it will
serve for broken bones as well as for wounds."

"If I only had it here, wretch that I am, what more should we want?"
said Don Quixote; "but I swear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith
of a knight-errant, ere two days are over, unless fortune orders
otherwise, I mean to have it in my possession, or my hand will have
lost its cunning."

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

"For myself I must say I cannot guess how many," said the battered
knight Don Quixote; "but I take all the blame upon myself, for I had
no business to put hand to sword against men who where not dubbed
knights like myself, and so I believe that in punishment for having
transgressed the laws of chivalry the God of battles has permitted
this chastisement to be administered to me; for which reason,
brother Sancho, it is well thou shouldst receive a hint on the
matter which I am now about to mention to thee, for it is of much
importance to the welfare of both of us. It is at when thou shalt
see rabble of this sort offering us insult thou art not to wait till I
draw sword against them, for I shall not do so at all; but do thou
draw sword and chastise them to thy heart's content, and if any
knights come to their aid and defence I will take care to defend
thee and assail them with all my might; and thou hast already seen
by a thousand signs and proofs what the might of this strong arm of
mine is equal to"- so uplifted had the poor gentleman become through
the victory over the stout Biscayan.

But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master's admonition as to
let it pass without saying in reply, "Senor, I am a man of peace, meek
and quiet, and I can put up with any affront because I have a wife and
children to support and bring up; so let it be likewise a hint to your
worship, as it cannot be a mandate, that on no account will I draw
sword either against clown or against knight, and that here before God
I forgive the insults that have been offered me, whether they have
been, are, or shall be offered me by high or low, rich or poor,
noble or commoner, not excepting any rank or condition whatsoever."

To all which his master said in reply, "I wish I had breath enough
to speak somewhat easily, and that the pain I feel on this side
would abate so as to let me explain to thee, Panza, the mistake thou
makest. Come now, sinner, suppose the wind of fortune, hitherto so
adverse, should turn in our favour, filling the sails of our desires
so that safely and without impediment we put into port in some one
of those islands I have promised thee, how would it be with thee if on
winning it I made thee lord of it? Why, thou wilt make it well-nigh
impossible through not being a knight nor having any desire to be one,
nor possessing the courage nor the will to avenge insults or defend
thy lordship; for thou must know that in newly conquered kingdoms
and provinces the minds of the inhabitants are never so quiet nor so
well disposed to the new lord that there is no fear of their making
some move to change matters once more, and try, as they say, what
chance may do for them; so it is essential that the new possessor
should have good sense to enable him to govern, and valour to attack
and defend himself, whatever may befall him."

"In what has now befallen us," answered Sancho, "I'd have been
well pleased to have that good sense and that valour your worship
speaks of, but I swear on the faith of a poor man I am more fit for
plasters than for arguments. See if your worship can get up, and let
us help Rocinante, though he does not deserve it, for he was the
main cause of all this thrashing. I never thought it of Rocinante, for
I took him to be a virtuous person and as quiet as myself. After
all, they say right that it takes a long time to come to know
people, and that there is nothing sure in this life. Who would have
said that, after such mighty slashes as your worship gave that unlucky
knight-errant, there was coming, travelling post and at the very heels
of them, such a great storm of sticks as has fallen upon our
shoulders?"

"And yet thine, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "ought to be used to
such squalls; but mine, reared in soft cloth and fine linen, it is
plain they must feel more keenly the pain of this mishap, and if it
were not that I imagine- why do I say imagine?- know of a certainty
that all these annoyances are very necessary accompaniments of the
calling of arms, I would lay me down here to die of pure vexation."

To this the squire replied, "Senor, as these mishaps are what one
reaps of chivalry, tell me if they happen very often, or if they
have their own fixed times for coming to pass; because it seems to
me that after two harvests we shall be no good for the third, unless
God in his infinite mercy helps us."

"Know, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "that the life of
knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and reverses, and
neither more nor less is it within immediate possibility for
knights-errant to become kings and emperors, as experience has shown
in the case of many different knights with whose histories I am
thoroughly acquainted; and I could tell thee now, if the pain would
let me, of some who simply by might of arm have risen to the high
stations I have mentioned; and those same, both before and after,
experienced divers misfortunes and miseries; for the valiant Amadis of
Gaul found himself in the power of his mortal enemy Arcalaus the
magician, who, it is positively asserted, holding him captive, gave
him more than two hundred lashes with the reins of his horse while
tied to one of the pillars of a court; and moreover there is a certain
recondite author of no small authority who says that the Knight of
Phoebus, being caught in a certain pitfall, which opened under his
feet in a certain castle, on falling found himself bound hand and foot
in a deep pit underground, where they administered to him one of those
things they call clysters, of sand and snow-water, that well-nigh
finished him; and if he had not been succoured in that sore
extremity by a sage, a great friend of his, it would have gone very
hard with the poor knight; so I may well suffer in company with such
worthy folk, for greater were the indignities which they had to suffer
than those which we suffer. For I would have thee know, Sancho, that
wounds caused by any instruments which happen by chance to be in
hand inflict no indignity, and this is laid down in the law of the
duel in express words: if, for instance, the cobbler strikes another
with the last which he has in his hand, though it be in fact a piece
of wood, it cannot be said for that reason that he whom he struck with
it has been cudgelled. I say this lest thou shouldst imagine that
because we have been drubbed in this affray we have therefore suffered
any indignity; for the arms those men carried, with which they pounded
us, were nothing more than their stakes, and not one of them, so far
as I remember, carried rapier, sword, or dagger."

"They gave me no time to see that much," answered Sancho, "for
hardly had I laid hand on my tizona when they signed the cross on my
shoulders with their sticks in such style that they took the sight out
of my eyes and the strength out of my feet, stretching me where I
now lie, and where thinking of whether all those stake-strokes were an
indignity or not gives me no uneasiness, which the pain of the blows
does, for they will remain as deeply impressed on my memory as on my
shoulders."

"For all that let me tell thee, brother Panza," said Don Quixote,
"that there is no recollection which time does not put an end to,
and no pain which death does not remove."

"And what greater misfortune can there be," replied Panza, "than the
one that waits for time to put an end to it and death to remove it? If
our mishap were one of those that are cured with a couple of plasters,
it would not be so bad; but I am beginning to think that all the
plasters in a hospital almost won't be enough to put us right."

"No more of that: pluck strength out of weakness, Sancho, as I
mean to do," returned Don Quixote, "and let us see how Rocinante is,
for it seems to me that not the least share of this mishap has
fallen to the lot of the poor beast."

"There is nothing wonderful in that," replied Sancho, "since he is a
knight-errant too; what I wonder at is that my beast should have
come off scot-free where we come out scotched."

"Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity in order to bring
relief to it," said Don Quixote; "I say so because this little beast
may now supply the want of Rocinante, carrying me hence to some castle
where I may be cured of my wounds. And moreover I shall not hold it
any dishonour to be so mounted, for I remember having read how the
good old Silenus, the tutor and instructor of the gay god of laughter,
when he entered the city of the hundred gates, went very contentedly
mounted on a handsome ass."

"It may be true that he went mounted as your worship says," answered
Sancho, "but there is a great difference between going mounted and
going slung like a sack of manure."

To which Don Quixote replied, "Wounds received in battle confer
honour instead of taking it away; and so, friend Panza, say no more,
but, as I told thee before, get up as well as thou canst and put me on
top of thy beast in whatever fashion pleases thee best, and let us
go hence ere night come on and surprise us in these wilds."

"And yet I have heard your worship say," observed Panza, "that it is
very meet for knights-errant to sleep in wastes and deserts, and
that they esteem it very good fortune."

"That is," said Don Quixote, "when they cannot help it, or when they
are in love; and so true is this that there have been knights who have
remained two years on rocks, in sunshine and shade and all the
inclemencies of heaven, without their ladies knowing anything of it;
and one of these was Amadis, when, under the name of Beltenebros, he
took up his abode on the Pena Pobre for -I know not if it was eight
years or eight months, for I am not very sure of the reckoning; at any
rate he stayed there doing penance for I know not what pique the
Princess Oriana had against him; but no more of this now, Sancho,
and make haste before a mishap like Rocinante's befalls the ass."

"The very devil would be in it in that case," said Sancho; and
letting off thirty "ohs," and sixty sighs, and a hundred and twenty
maledictions and execrations on whomsoever it was that had brought him
there, he raised himself, stopping half-way bent like a Turkish bow
without power to bring himself upright, but with all his pains he
saddled his ass, who too had gone astray somewhat, yielding to the
excessive licence of the day; he next raised up Rocinante, and as
for him, had he possessed a tongue to complain with, most assuredly
neither Sancho nor his master would have been behind him. To be brief,
Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured Rocinante with a
leading rein, and taking the ass by the halter, he proceeded more or
less in the direction in which it seemed to him the high road might
be; and, as chance was conducting their affairs for them from good
to better, he had not gone a short league when the road came in sight,
and on it he perceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the
delight of Don Quixote must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it
was an inn, and his master that it was not one, but a castle, and
the dispute lasted so long that before the point was settled they
had time to reach it, and into it Sancho entered with all his team
without any further controversy.

CHAPTER XVI

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

The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass, asked Sancho
what was amiss with him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only
that he had fallen down from a rock and had his ribs a little bruised.
The innkeeper had a wife whose disposition was not such as those of
her calling commonly have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt
for the sufferings of her neighbours, so she at once set about tending
Don Quixote, and made her young daughter, a very comely girl, help her
in taking care of her guest. There was besides in the inn, as servant,
an Asturian lass with a broad face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of
one eye and not very sound in the other. The elegance of her shape, to
be sure, made up for all her defects; she did not measure seven
palms from head to foot, and her shoulders, which overweighted her
somewhat, made her contemplate the ground more than she liked. This
graceful lass, then, helped the young girl, and the two made up a very
bad bed for Don Quixote in a garret that showed evident signs of
having formerly served for many years as a straw-loft, in which
there was also quartered a carrier whose bed was placed a little
beyond our Don Quixote's, and, though only made of the pack-saddles
and cloths of his mules, had much the advantage of it, as Don
Quixote's consisted simply of four rough boards on two not very even
trestles, a mattress, that for thinness might have passed for a quilt,
full of pellets which, were they not seen through the rents to be
wool, would to the touch have seemed pebbles in hardness, two sheets
made of buckler leather, and a coverlet the threads of which anyone
that chose might have counted without missing one in the reckoning.

On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and the
hostess and her daughter soon covered him with plasters from top to
toe, while Maritornes- for that was the name of the Asturian- held the
light for them, and while plastering him, the hostess, observing how
full of wheals Don Quixote was in some places, remarked that this
had more the look of blows than of a fall.

It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had many points and
projections, and that each of them had left its mark. "Pray,
senora," he added, "manage to save some tow, as there will be no
want of some one to use it, for my loins too are rather sore."

"Then you must have fallen too," said the hostess.

"I did not fall," said Sancho Panza, "but from the shock I got at
seeing my master fall, my body aches so that I feel as if I had had
a thousand thwacks."

"That may well be," said the young girl, "for it has many a time
happened to me to dream that I was falling down from a tower and never
coming to the ground, and when I awoke from the dream to find myself
as weak and shaken as if I had really fallen."

"There is the point, senora," replied Sancho Panza, "that I
without dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am now, find
myself with scarcely less wheals than my master, Don Quixote."

"How is the gentleman called?" asked Maritornes the Asturian.

"Don Quixote of La Mancha," answered Sancho Panza, "and he is a
knight-adventurer, and one of the best and stoutest that have been
seen in the world this long time past."

"What is a knight-adventurer?" said the lass.

"Are you so new in the world as not to know?" answered Sancho Panza.
"Well, then, you must know, sister, that a knight-adventurer is a
thing that in two words is seen drubbed and emperor, that is to-day
the most miserable and needy being in the world, and to-morrow will
have two or three crowns of kingdoms to give his squire."

"Then how is it," said the hostess, "that belonging to so good a
master as this, you have not, to judge by appearances, even so much as
a county?"

"It is too soon yet," answered Sancho, "for we have only been a
month going in quest of adventures, and so far we have met with
nothing that can be called one, for it will happen that when one thing
is looked for another thing is found; however, if my master Don
Quixote gets well of this wound, or fall, and I am left none the worse
of it, I would not change my hopes for the best title in Spain."

To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very attentively,
and sitting up in bed as well as he could, and taking the hostess by
the hand he said to her, "Believe me, fair lady, you may call yourself
fortunate in having in this castle of yours sheltered my person, which
is such that if I do not myself praise it, it is because of what is
commonly said, that self-praise debaseth; but my squire will inform
you who I am. I only tell you that I shall preserve for ever inscribed
on my memory the service you have rendered me in order to tender you
my gratitude while life shall last me; and would to Heaven love held
me not so enthralled and subject to its laws and to the eyes of that
fair ingrate whom I name between my teeth, but that those of this
lovely damsel might be the masters of my liberty."

The hostess, her daughter, and the worthy Maritornes listened in
bewilderment to the words of the knight-errant; for they understood
about as much of them as if he had been talking Greek, though they
could perceive they were all meant for expressions of good-will and
blandishments; and not being accustomed to this kind of language, they
stared at him and wondered to themselves, for he seemed to them a
man of a different sort from those they were used to, and thanking him
in pothouse phrase for his civility they left him, while the
Asturian gave her attention to Sancho, who needed it no less than
his master.

The carrier had made an arrangement with her for recreation that
night, and she had given him her word that when the guests were
quiet and the family asleep she would come in search of him and meet
his wishes unreservedly. And it is said of this good lass that she
never made promises of the kind without fulfilling them, even though
she made them in a forest and without any witness present, for she
plumed herself greatly on being a lady and held it no disgrace to be
in such an employment as servant in an inn, because, she said,
misfortunes and ill-luck had brought her to that position. The hard,
narrow, wretched, rickety bed of Don Quixote stood first in the middle
of this star-lit stable, and close beside it Sancho made his, which
merely consisted of a rush mat and a blanket that looked as if it
was of threadbare canvas rather than of wool. Next to these two beds
was that of the carrier, made up, as has been said, of the
pack-saddles and all the trappings of the two best mules he had,
though there were twelve of them, sleek, plump, and in prime
condition, for he was one of the rich carriers of Arevalo, according
to the author of this history, who particularly mentions this
carrier because he knew him very well, and they even say was in some
degree a relation of his; besides which Cide Hamete Benengeli was a
historian of great research and accuracy in all things, as is very
evident since he would not pass over in silence those that have been
already mentioned, however trifling and insignificant they might be,
an example that might be followed by those grave historians who relate
transactions so curtly and briefly that we hardly get a taste of them,
all the substance of the work being left in the inkstand from
carelessness, perverseness, or ignorance. A thousand blessings on
the author of "Tablante de Ricamonte" and that of the other book in
which the deeds of the Conde Tomillas are recounted; with what
minuteness they describe everything!

To proceed, then: after having paid a visit to his team and given
them their second feed, the carrier stretched himself on his
pack-saddles and lay waiting for his conscientious Maritornes.
Sancho was by this time plastered and had lain down, and though he
strove to sleep the pain of his ribs would not let him, while Don
Quixote with the pain of his had his eyes as wide open as a hare's.
The inn was all in silence, and in the whole of it there was no
light except that given by a lantern that hung burning in the middle
of the gateway. This strange stillness, and the thoughts, always
present to our knight's mind, of the incidents described at every turn
in the books that were the cause of his misfortune, conjured up to his
imagination as extraordinary a delusion as can well be conceived,
which was that he fancied himself to have reached a famous castle
(for, as has been said, all the inns he lodged in were castles to
his eyes), and that the daughter of the innkeeper was daughter of
the lord of the castle, and that she, won by his high-bred bearing,
had fallen in love with him, and had promised to come to his bed for a
while that night without the knowledge of her parents; and holding all
this fantasy that he had constructed as solid fact, he began to feel
uneasy and to consider the perilous risk which his virtue was about to
encounter, and he resolved in his heart to commit no treason to his
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, even though the queen Guinevere herself
and the dame Quintanona should present themselves before him.

While he was taken up with these vagaries, then, the time and the
hour- an unlucky one for him- arrived for the Asturian to come, who in
her smock, with bare feet and her hair gathered into a fustian coif,
with noiseless and cautious steps entered the chamber where the
three were quartered, in quest of the carrier; but scarcely had she
gained the door when Don Quixote perceived her, and sitting up in
his bed in spite of his plasters and the pain of his ribs, he
stretched out his arms to receive his beauteous damsel. The
Asturian, who went all doubled up and in silence with her hands before
her feeling for her lover, encountered the arms of Don Quixote, who
grasped her tightly by the wrist, and drawing her towards him, while
she dared not utter a word, made her sit down on the bed. He then felt
her smock, and although it was of sackcloth it appeared to him to be
of the finest and softest silk: on her wrists she wore some glass
beads, but to him they had the sheen of precious Orient pearls: her
hair, which in some measure resembled a horse's mane, he rated as
threads of the brightest gold of Araby, whose refulgence dimmed the
sun himself: her breath, which no doubt smelt of yesterday's stale
salad, seemed to him to diffuse a sweet aromatic fragrance from her
mouth; and, in short, he drew her portrait in his imagination with the
same features and in the same style as that which he had seen in his
books of the other princesses who, smitten by love, came with all
the adornments that are here set down, to see the sorely wounded
knight; and so great was the poor gentleman's blindness that neither
touch, nor smell, nor anything else about the good lass that would
have made any but a carrier vomit, were enough to undeceive him; on
the contrary, he was persuaded he had the goddess of beauty in his
arms, and holding her firmly in his grasp he went on to say in low,
tender voice:

"Would that found myself, lovely and exalted lady, in a position
to repay such a favour as that which you, by the sight of your great
beauty, have granted me; but fortune, which is never weary of
persecuting the good, has chosen to place me upon this bed, where I
lie so bruised and broken that though my inclination would gladly
comply with yours it is impossible; besides, to this impossibility
another yet greater is to be added, which is the faith that I have
pledged to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole lady of my most
secret thoughts; and were it not that this stood in the way I should
not be so insensible a knight as to miss the happy opportunity which
your great goodness has offered me."

Maritornes was fretting and sweating at finding herself held so fast
by Don Quixote, and not understanding or heeding the words he
addressed to her, she strove without speaking to free herself. The
worthy carrier, whose unholy thoughts kept him awake, was aware of his
doxy the moment she entered the door, and was listening attentively to
all Don Quixote said; and jealous that the Asturian should have broken
her word with him for another, drew nearer to Don Quixote's bed and
stood still to see what would come of this talk which he could not
understand; but when he perceived the wench struggling to get free and
Don Quixote striving to hold her, not relishing the joke he raised his
arm and delivered such a terrible cuff on the lank jaws of the amorous
knight that be bathed all his mouth in blood, and not content with
this he mounted on his ribs and with his feet tramped all over them at
a pace rather smarter than a trot. The bed which was somewhat crazy
and not very firm on its feet, unable to support the additional weight
of the carrier, came to the ground, and at the mighty crash of this
the innkeeper awoke and at once concluded that it must be some brawl
of Maritornes', because after calling loudly to her he got no
answer. With this suspicion he got up, and lighting a lamp hastened to
the quarter where he had heard the disturbance. The wench, seeing that
her master was coming and knowing that his temper was terrible,
frightened and panic-stricken made for the bed of Sancho Panza, who
still slept, and crouching upon it made a ball of herself.

The innkeeper came in exclaiming, "Where art thou, strumpet? Of
course this is some of thy work." At this Sancho awoke, and feeling
this mass almost on top of him fancied he had the nightmare and
began to distribute fisticuffs all round, of which a certain share
fell upon Maritornes, who, irritated by the pain and flinging
modesty aside, paid back so many in return to Sancho that she woke him
up in spite of himself. He then, finding himself so handled, by whom
he knew not, raising himself up as well as he could, grappled with
Maritornes, and he and she between them began the bitterest and
drollest scrimmage in the world. The carrier, however, perceiving by
the light of the innkeeper candle how it fared with his ladylove,
quitting Don Quixote, ran to bring her the help she needed; and the
innkeeper did the same but with a different intention, for his was
to chastise the lass, as he believed that beyond a doubt she alone was
the cause of all the harmony. And so, as the saying is, cat to rat,
rat to rope, rope to stick, the carrier pounded Sancho, Sancho the
lass, she him, and the innkeeper her, and all worked away so briskly
that they did not give themselves a moment's rest; and the best of
it was that the innkeeper's lamp went out, and as they were left in
the dark they all laid on one upon the other in a mass so unmercifully
that there was not a sound spot left where a hand could light.

It so happened that there was lodging that night in the inn a
caudrillero of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, who,
also hearing the extraordinary noise of the conflict, seized his staff
and the tin case with his warrants, and made his way in the dark
into the room crying: "Hold! in the name of the Jurisdiction! Hold! in
the name of the Holy Brotherhood!"

The first that he came upon was the pummelled Don Quixote, who lay
stretched senseless on his back upon his broken-down bed, and, his
hand falling on the beard as he felt about, he continued to cry, "Help
for the Jurisdiction!" but perceiving that he whom he had laid hold of
did not move or stir, he concluded that he was dead and that those
in the room were his murderers, and with this suspicion he raised
his voice still higher, calling out, "Shut the inn gate; see that no
one goes out; they have killed a man here!" This cry startled them
all, and each dropped the contest at the point at which the voice
reached him. The innkeeper retreated to his room, the carrier to his
pack-saddles, the lass to her crib; the unlucky Don Quixote and Sancho
alone were unable to move from where they were. The cuadrillero on
this let go Don Quixote's beard, and went out to look for a light to
search for and apprehend the culprits; but not finding one, as the
innkeeper had purposely extinguished the lantern on retreating to
his room, he was compelled to have recourse to the hearth, where after
much time and trouble he lit another lamp.

CHAPTER XVII

IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE
DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH
TO HIS MISFORTUNE HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE

By this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon; and in the
same tone of voice in which he had called to his squire the day before
when he lay stretched "in the vale of the stakes," he began calling to
him now, "Sancho, my friend, art thou asleep? sleepest thou, friend
Sancho?"

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

"Thou mayest well believe that," answered Don Quixote, "because,
either I know little, or this castle is enchanted, for thou must know-
but this that I am now about to tell thee thou must swear to keep
secret until after my death."

"I swear it," answered Sancho.

"I say so," continued Don Quixote, "because I hate taking away
anyone's good name."

"I say," replied Sancho, "that I swear to hold my tongue about it
till the end of your worship's days, and God grant I may be able to
let it out tomorrow."

"Do I do thee such injuries, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou
wouldst see me dead so soon?"

"It is not for that," replied Sancho, "but because I hate keeping
things long, and I don't want them to grow rotten with me from
over-keeping."

"At any rate," said Don Quixote, "I have more confidence in thy
affection and good nature; and so I would have thee know that this
night there befell me one of the strangest adventures that I could
describe, and to relate it to thee briefly thou must know that a
little while ago the daughter of the lord of this castle came to me,
and that she is the most elegant and beautiful damsel that could be
found in the wide world. What I could tell thee of the charms of her
person! of her lively wit! of other secret matters which, to
preserve the fealty I owe to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I shall pass
over unnoticed and in silence! I will only tell thee that, either fate
being envious of so great a boon placed in my hands by good fortune,
or perhaps (and this is more probable) this castle being, as I have
already said, enchanted, at the time when I was engaged in the
sweetest and most amorous discourse with her, there came, without my
seeing or knowing whence it came, a hand attached to some arm of
some huge giant, that planted such a cuff on my jaws that I have
them all bathed in blood, and then pummelled me in such a way that I
am in a worse plight than yesterday when the carriers, on account of
Rocinante's misbehaviour, inflicted on us the injury thou knowest
of; whence conjecture that there must be some enchanted Moor
guarding the treasure of this damsel's beauty, and that it is not
for me."

"Not for me either," said Sancho, "for more than four hundred
Moors have so thrashed me that the drubbing of the stakes was cakes
and fancy-bread to it. But tell me, senor, what do you call this
excellent and rare adventure that has left us as we are left now?
Though your worship was not so badly off, having in your arms that
incomparable beauty you spoke of; but I, what did I have, except the
heaviest whacks I think I had in all my life? Unlucky me and the
mother that bore me! for I am not a knight-errant and never expect
to be one, and of all the mishaps, the greater part falls to my
share."

"Then thou hast been thrashed too?" said Don Quixote.

"Didn't I say so? worse luck to my line!" said Sancho.

"Be not distressed, friend," said Don Quixote, "for I will now
make the precious balsam with which we shall cure ourselves in the
twinkling of an eye."

By this time the cuadrillero had succeeded in lighting the lamp, and
came in to see the man that he thought had been killed; and as
Sancho caught sight of him at the door, seeing him coming in his
shirt, with a cloth on his head, and a lamp in his hand, and a very
forbidding countenance, he said to his master, "Senor, can it be
that this is the enchanted Moor coming back to give us more
castigation if there be anything still left in the ink-bottle?"

"It cannot be the Moor," answered Don Quixote, "for those under
enchantment do not let themselves be seen by anyone."

"If they don't let themselves be seen, they let themselves be felt,"
said Sancho; "if not, let my shoulders speak to the point."

"Mine could speak too," said Don Quixote, "but that is not a
sufficient reason for believing that what we see is the enchanted
Moor."

The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such a peaceful
conversation, stood amazed; though Don Quixote, to be sure, still
lay on his back unable to move from pure pummelling and plasters.
The officer turned to him and said, "Well, how goes it, good man?"

"I would speak more politely if I were you," replied Don Quixote;
"is it the way of this country to address knights-errant in that
style, you booby?"

The cuadrillero finding himself so disrespectfully treated by such a
sorry-looking individual, lost his temper, and raising the lamp full
of oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow with it on the head that he gave
him a badly broken pate; then, all being in darkness, he went out, and
Sancho Panza said, "That is certainly the enchanted Moor, Senor, and
he keeps the treasure for others, and for us only the cuffs and
lamp-whacks."

"That is the truth," answered Don Quixote, "and there is no use in
troubling oneself about these matters of enchantment or being angry or
vexed at them, for as they are invisible and visionary we shall find
no one on whom to avenge ourselves, do what we may; rise, Sancho, if
thou canst, and call the alcaide of this fortress, and get him to give
me a little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary to make the salutiferous
balsam, for indeed I believe I have great need of it now, because I am
losing much blood from the wound that phantom gave me."

Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and went after the
innkeeper in the dark, and meeting the officer, who was looking to see
what had become of his enemy, he said to him, "Senor, whoever you are,
do us the favour and kindness to give us a little rosemary, oil, salt,
and wine, for it is wanted to cure one of the best knights-errant on
earth, who lies on yonder bed wounded by the hands of the enchanted
Moor that is in this inn."

When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took him for a man
out of his senses, and as day was now beginning to break, he opened
the inn gate, and calling the host, he told him what this good man
wanted. The host furnished him with what he required, and Sancho
brought it to Don Quixote, who, with his hand to his head, was
bewailing the pain of the blow of the lamp, which had done him no more
harm than raising a couple of rather large lumps, and what he
fancied blood was only the sweat that flowed from him in his
sufferings during the late storm. To be brief, he took the
materials, of which he made a compound, mixing them all and boiling
them a good while until it seemed to him they had come to
perfection. He then asked for some vial to pour it into, and as
there was not one in the inn, he decided on putting it into a tin
oil-bottle or flask of which the host made him a free gift; and over
the flask he repeated more than eighty paternosters and as many more
ave-marias, salves, and credos, accompanying each word with a cross by
way of benediction, at all which there were present Sancho, the
innkeeper, and the cuadrillero; for the carrier was now peacefully
engaged in attending to the comfort of his mules.

This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial himself, on
the spot, of the virtue of this precious balsam, as he considered
it, and so he drank near a quart of what could not be put into the
flask and remained in the pigskin in which it had been boiled; but
scarcely had he done drinking when he began to vomit in such a way
that nothing was left in his stomach, and with the pangs and spasms of
vomiting he broke into a profuse sweat, on account of which he bade
them cover him up and leave him alone. They did so, and he lay
sleeping more than three hours, at the end of which he awoke and
felt very great bodily relief and so much ease from his bruises that
he thought himself quite cured, and verily believed he had hit upon
the balsam of Fierabras; and that with this remedy he might
thenceforward, without any fear, face any kind of destruction, battle,
or combat, however perilous it might be.

Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his master as
miraculous, begged him to give him what was left in the pigskin, which
was no small quantity. Don Quixote consented, and he, taking it with
both hands, in good faith and with a better will, gulped down and
drained off very little less than his master. But the fact is, that
the stomach of poor Sancho was of necessity not so delicate as that of
his master, and so, before vomiting, he was seized with such
gripings and retchings, and such sweats and faintness, that verily and
truly be believed his last hour had come, and finding himself so
racked and tormented he cursed the balsam and the thief that had given
it to him.

Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, "It is my belief, Sancho,
that this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a knight, for I am
persuaded this liquor cannot be good for those who are not so."

"If your worship knew that," returned Sancho- "woe betide me and all
my kindred!- why did you let me taste it?"

At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor squire began to
discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat on which he had
thrown himself and the canvas blanket he had covering him were fit for
nothing afterwards. He sweated and perspired with such paroxysms and
convulsions that not only he himself but all present thought his end
had come. This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at
the end of which he was left, not like his master, but so weak and
exhausted that he could not stand. Don Quixote, however, who, as has
been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager to take his
departure at once in quest of adventures, as it seemed to him that all
the time he loitered there was a fraud upon the world and those in
it who stood in need of his help and protection, all the more when
he had the security and confidence his balsam afforded him; and so,
urged by this impulse, he saddled Rocinante himself and put the
pack-saddle on his squire's beast, whom likewise he helped to dress
and mount the ass; after which he mounted his horse and turning to a
corner of the inn he laid hold of a pike that stood there, to serve
him by way of a lance. All that were in the inn, who were more than
twenty persons, stood watching him; the innkeeper's daughter was
likewise observing him, and he too never took his eyes off her, and
from time to time fetched a sigh that he seemed to pluck up from the
depths of his bowels; but they all thought it must be from the pain he
felt in his ribs; at any rate they who had seen him plastered the
night before thought so.

As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, he called
to the host and said in a very grave and measured voice, "Many and
great are the favours, Senor Alcaide, that I have received in this
castle of yours, and I remain under the deepest obligation to be
grateful to you for them all the days of my life; if I can repay
them in avenging you of any arrogant foe who may have wronged you,
know that my calling is no other than to aid the weak, to avenge those
who suffer wrong, and to chastise perfidy. Search your memory, and
if you find anything of this kind you need only tell me of it, and I
promise you by the order of knighthood which I have received to
procure you satisfaction and reparation to the utmost of your desire."

The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness, "Sir Knight, I
do not want your worship to avenge me of any wrong, because when any
is done me I can take what vengeance seems good to me; the only
thing I want is that you pay me the score that you have run up in
the inn last night, as well for the straw and barley for your two
beasts, as for supper and beds."

"Then this is an inn?" said Don Quixote.

"And a very respectable one," said the innkeeper.

"I have been under a mistake all this time," answered Don Quixote,
"for in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one; but
since it appears that it is not a castle but an inn, all that can be
done now is that you should excuse the payment, for I cannot
contravene the rule of knights-errant, of whom I know as a fact (and
up to the present I have read nothing to the contrary) that they never
paid for lodging or anything else in the inn where they might be;
for any hospitality that might be offered them is their due by law and
right in return for the insufferable toil they endure in seeking
adventures by night and by day, in summer and in winter, on foot and
on horseback, in hunger and thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all
the inclemencies of heaven and all the hardships of earth."

"I have little to do with that," replied the innkeeper; "pay me what
you owe me, and let us have no more talk of chivalry, for all I care
about is to get my money."

"You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper," said Don Quixote, and
putting spurs to Rocinante and bringing his pike to the slope he
rode out of the inn before anyone could stop him, and pushed on some
distance without looking to see if his squire was following him.

The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him ran to get
payment of Sancho, who said that as his master would not pay neither
would he, because, being as he was squire to a knight-errant, the same
rule and reason held good for him as for his master with regard to not
paying anything in inns and hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed
very wroth, and threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way
that he would not like. To which Sancho made answer that by the law of
chivalry his master had received he would not pay a rap, though it
cost him his life; for the excellent and ancient usage of
knights-errant was not going to be violated by him, nor should the
squires of such as were yet to come into the world ever complain of
him or reproach him with breaking so just a privilege.

The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that among
the company in the inn there were four woolcarders from Segovia, three
needle-makers from the Colt of Cordova, and two lodgers from the
Fair of Seville, lively fellows, tender-hearted, fond of a joke, and
playful, who, almost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse,
made up to Sancho and dismounted him from his ass, while one of them
went in for the blanket of the host's bed; but on flinging him into it
they looked up, and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower what
they required for their work, they decided upon going out into the
yard, which was bounded by the sky, and there, putting Sancho in the
middle of the blanket, they began to raise him high, making sport with
him as they would with a dog at Shrovetide.

The cries of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that they
reached the ears of his master, who, halting to listen attentively,
was persuaded that some new adventure was coming, until he clearly
perceived that it was his squire who uttered them. Wheeling about he
came up to the inn with a laborious gallop, and finding it shut went
round it to see if he could find some way of getting in; but as soon
as he came to the wall of the yard, which was not very high, he
discovered the game that was being played with his squire. He saw
him rising and falling in the air with such grace and nimbleness that,
had his rage allowed him, it is my belief he would have laughed. He
tried to climb from his horse on to the top of the wall, but he was so
bruised and battered that he could not even dismount; and so from
the back of his horse he began to utter such maledictions and
objurgations against those who were blanketing Sancho as it would be
impossible to write down accurately: they, however, did not stay their
laughter or their work for this, nor did the flying Sancho cease his
lamentations, mingled now with threats, now with entreaties but all to
little purpose, or none at all, until from pure weariness they left
off. They then brought him his ass, and mounting him on top of it they
put his jacket round him; and the compassionate Maritornes, seeing him
so exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with a jug of wate