1615
                                  DON QUIXOTE
                             by Miguel de Cervantes
                           Translated by John Ormsby


  DEDICATION OF PART II

  TO THE COUNT OF LEMOS:

  THESE days past, when sending Your Excellency my plays, that had
appeared in print before being shown on the stage, I said, if I
remember well, that Don Quixote was putting on his spurs to go and
render homage to Your Excellency. Now I say that "with his spurs, he
is on his way." Should he reach destination methinks I shall have
rendered some service to Your Excellency, as from many parts I am
urged to send him off, so as to dispel the loathing and disgust caused
by another Don Quixote who, under the name of Second Part, has run
masquerading through the whole world. And he who has shown the
greatest longing for him has been the great Emperor of China, who
wrote me a letter in Chinese a month ago and sent it by a special
courier. He asked me, or to be truthful, he begged me to send him
Don Quixote, for he intended to found a college where the Spanish
tongue would be taught, and it was his wish that the book to be read
should be the History of Don Quixote. He also added that I should go
and be the rector of this college. I asked the bearer if His Majesty
had afforded a sum in aid of my travel expenses. He answered, "No, not
even in thought."
  "Then, brother," I replied, "you can return to your China, post
haste or at whatever haste you are bound to go, as I am not fit for so
long a travel and, besides being ill, I am very much without money,
while Emperor for Emperor and Monarch for Monarch, I have at Naples
the great Count of Lemos, who, without so many petty titles of
colleges and rectorships, sustains me, protects me and does me more
favour than I can wish for."
  Thus I gave him his leave and I beg mine from you, offering Your
Excellency the "Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda," a book I shall
finish within four months, Deo volente, and which will be either the
worst or the best that has been composed in our language, I mean of
those intended for entertainment; at which I repent of having called
it the worst, for, in the opinion of friends, it is bound to attain
the summit of possible quality. May Your Excellency return in such
health that is wished you; Persiles will be ready to kiss your hand
and I your feet, being as I am, Your Excellency's most humble servant.

 From Madrid, this last day of October of the year one thousand six
hundred and fifteen.

          At the service of Your Excellency:

                              MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA
  THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

  GOD bless me, gentle (or it may be plebeian) reader, how eagerly
must thou be looking forward to this preface, expecting to find
there retaliation, scolding, and abuse against the author of the
second Don Quixote- I mean him who was, they say, begotten at
Tordesillas and born at Tarragona! Well then, the truth is, I am not
going to give thee that satisfaction; for, though injuries stir up
anger in humbler breasts, in mine the rule must admit of an exception.
Thou wouldst have me call him ass, fool, and malapert, but I have no
such intention; let his offence be his punishment, with his bread
let him eat it, and there's an end of it. What I cannot help taking
amiss is that he charges me with being old and one-handed, as if it
had been in my power to keep time from passing over me, or as if the
loss of my hand had been brought about in some tavern, and not on
the grandest occasion the past or present has seen, or the future
can hope to see. If my wounds have no beauty to the beholder's eye,
they are, at least, honourable in the estimation of those who know
where they were received; for the soldier shows to greater advantage
dead in battle than alive in flight; and so strongly is this my
feeling, that if now it were proposed to perform an impossibility
for me, I would rather have had my share in that mighty action, than
be free from my wounds this minute without having been present at
it. Those the soldier shows on his face and breast are stars that
direct others to the heaven of honour and ambition of merited
praise; and moreover it is to be observed that it is not with grey
hairs that one writes, but with the understanding, and that commonly
improves with years. I take it amiss, too, that he calls me envious,
and explains to me, as if I were ignorant, what envy is; for really
and truly, of the two kinds there are, I only know that which is holy,
noble, and high-minded; and if that be so, as it is, I am not likely
to attack a priest, above all if, in addition, he holds the rank of
familiar of the Holy Office. And if he said what he did on account
of him on whose behalf it seems he spoke, he is entirely mistaken; for
I worship the genius of that person, and admire his works and his
unceasing and strenuous industry. After all, I am grateful to this
gentleman, the author, for saying that my novels are more satirical
than exemplary, but that they are good; for they could not be that
unless there was a little of everything in them.
  I suspect thou wilt say that I am taking a very humble line, and
keeping myself too much within the bounds of my moderation, from a
feeling that additional suffering should not be inflicted upon a
sufferer, and that what this gentleman has to endure must doubtless be
very great, as he does not dare to come out into the open field and
broad daylight, but hides his name and disguises his country as if
he had been guilty of some lese majesty. If perchance thou shouldst
come to know him, tell him from me that I do not hold myself
aggrieved; for I know well what the temptations of the devil are,
and that one of the greatest is putting it into a man's head that he
can write and print a book by which he will get as much fame as money,
and as much money as fame; and to prove it I will beg of you, in
your own sprightly, pleasant way, to tell him this story.
  There was a madman in Seville who took to one of the drollest
absurdities and vagaries that ever madman in the world gave way to. It
was this: he made a tube of reed sharp at one end, and catching a
dog in the street, or wherever it might be, he with his foot held
one of its legs fast, and with his hand lifted up the other, and as
best he could fixed the tube where, by blowing, he made the dog as
round as a ball; then holding it in this position, he gave it a couple
of slaps on the belly, and let it go, saying to the bystanders (and
there were always plenty of them): "Do your worships think, now,
that it is an easy thing to blow up a dog?"- Does your worship think
now, that it is an easy thing to write a book?
  And if this story does not suit him, you may, dear reader, tell
him this one, which is likewise of a madman and a dog.
  In Cordova there was another madman, whose way it was to carry a
piece of marble slab or a stone, not of the lightest, on his head, and
when he came upon any unwary dog he used to draw close to him and
let the weight fall right on top of him; on which the dog in a rage,
barking and howling, would run three streets without stopping. It so
happened, however, that one of the dogs he discharged his load upon
was a cap-maker's dog, of which his master was very fond. The stone
came down hitting it on the head, the dog raised a yell at the blow,
the master saw the affair and was wroth, and snatching up a
measuring-yard rushed out at the madman and did not leave a sound bone
in his body, and at every stroke he gave him he said, "You dog, you
thief! my lurcher! Don't you see, you brute, that my dog is a
lurcher?" and so, repeating the word "lurcher" again and again, he
sent the madman away beaten to a jelly. The madman took the lesson
to heart, and vanished, and for more than a month never once showed
himself in public; but after that he came out again with his old trick
and a heavier load than ever. He came up to where there was a dog, and
examining it very carefully without venturing to let the stone fall,
he said: "This is a lurcher; ware!" In short, all the dogs he came
across, be they mastiffs or terriers, he said were lurchers; and he
discharged no more stones. Maybe it will be the same with this
historian; that he will not venture another time to discharge the
weight of his wit in books, which, being bad, are harder than
stones. Tell him, too, that I do not care a farthing for the threat he
holds out to me of depriving me of my profit by means of his book;
for, to borrow from the famous interlude of "The Perendenga," I say in
answer to him, "Long life to my lord the Veintiquatro, and Christ be
with us all." Long life to the great Conde de Lemos, whose Christian
charity and well-known generosity support me against all the strokes
of my curst fortune; and long life to the supreme benevolence of His
Eminence of Toledo, Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas; and what
matter if there be no printing-presses in the world, or if they
print more books against me than there are letters in the verses of
Mingo Revulgo! These two princes, unsought by any adulation or
flattery of mine, of their own goodness alone, have taken it upon them
to show me kindness and protect me, and in this I consider myself
happier and richer than if Fortune had raised me to her greatest
height in the ordinary way. The poor man may retain honour, but not
the vicious; poverty may cast a cloud over nobility, but cannot hide
it altogether; and as virtue of itself sheds a certain light, even
though it be through the straits and chinks of penury, it wins the
esteem of lofty and noble spirits, and in consequence their
protection. Thou needst say no more to him, nor will I say anything
more to thee, save to tell thee to bear in mind that this Second
Part of "Don Quixote" which I offer thee is cut by the same
craftsman and from the same cloth as the First, and that in it I
present thee Don Quixote continued, and at length dead and buried,
so that no one may dare to bring forward any further evidence
against him, for that already produced is sufficient; and suffice
it, too, that some reputable person should have given an account of
all these shrewd lunacies of his without going into the matter
again; for abundance, even of good things, prevents them from being
valued; and scarcity, even in the case of what is bad, confers a
certain value. I was forgetting to tell thee that thou mayest expect
the "Persiles," which I am now finishing, and also the Second Part
of "Galatea."
  CHAPTER I
  OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE
ABOUT HIS MALADY

  CIDE HAMETE BENENGELI, in the Second Part of this history, and third
sally of Don Quixote, says that the curate and the barber remained
nearly a month without seeing him, lest they should recall or bring
back to his recollection what had taken place. They did not,
however, omit to visit his niece and housekeeper, and charge them to
be careful to treat him with attention, and give him comforting things
to eat, and such as were good for the heart and the brain, whence,
it was plain to see, all his misfortune proceeded. The niece and
housekeeper replied that they did so, and meant to do so with all
possible care and assiduity, for they could perceive that their master
was now and then beginning to show signs of being in his right mind.
This gave great satisfaction to the curate and the barber, for they
concluded they had taken the right course in carrying him off
enchanted on the ox-cart, as has been described in the First Part of
this great as well as accurate history, in the last chapter thereof.
So they resolved to pay him a visit and test the improvement in his
condition, although they thought it almost impossible that there could
be any; and they agreed not to touch upon any point connected with
knight-errantry so as not to run the risk of reopening wounds which
were still so tender.
  They came to see him consequently, and found him sitting up in bed
in a green baize waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and so withered and
dried up that he looked as if he had been turned into a mummy. They
were very cordially received by him; they asked him after his
health, and he talked to them about himself very naturally and in very
well-chosen language. In the course of their conversation they fell to
discussing what they call State-craft and systems of government,
correcting this abuse and condemning that, reforming one practice
and abolishing another, each of the three setting up for a new
legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or a brand-new Solon; and so completely
did they remodel the State, that they seemed to have thrust it into
a furnace and taken out something quite different from what they had
put in; and on all the subjects they dealt with, Don Quixote spoke
with such good sense that the pair of examiners were fully convinced
that he was quite recovered and in his full senses.
  The niece and housekeeper were present at the conversation and could
not find words enough to express their thanks to God at seeing their
master so clear in his mind; the curate, however, changing his
original plan, which was to avoid touching upon matters of chivalry,
resolved to test Don Quixote's recovery thoroughly, and see whether it
were genuine or not; and so, from one subject to another, he came at
last to talk of the news that had come from the capital, and, among
other things, he said it was considered certain that the Turk was
coming down with a powerful fleet, and that no one knew what his
purpose was, or when the great storm would burst; and that all
Christendom was in apprehension of this, which almost every year calls
us to arms, and that his Majesty had made provision for the security
of the coasts of Naples and Sicily and the island of Malta.
  To this Don Quixote replied, "His Majesty has acted like a prudent
warrior in providing for the safety of his realms in time, so that the
enemy may not find him unprepared; but if my advice were taken I would
recommend him to adopt a measure which at present, no doubt, his
Majesty is very far from thinking of."
  The moment the curate heard this he said to himself, "God keep
thee in his hand, poor Don Quixote, for it seems to me thou art
precipitating thyself from the height of thy madness into the profound
abyss of thy simplicity."
  But the barber, who had the same suspicion as the curate, asked
Don Quixote what would be his advice as to the measures that he said
ought to be adopted; for perhaps it might prove to be one that would
have to be added to the list of the many impertinent suggestions
that people were in the habit of offering to princes.
  "Mine, master shaver," said Don Quixote, "will not be impertinent,
but, on the contrary, pertinent."
  "I don't mean that," said the barber, "but that experience has shown
that all or most of the expedients which are proposed to his Majesty
are either impossible, or absurd, or injurious to the King and to
the kingdom."
  "Mine, however," replied Don Quixote, "is neither impossible nor
absurd, but the easiest, the most reasonable, the readiest and most
expeditious that could suggest itself to any projector's mind."
  "You take a long time to tell it, Senor Don Quixote," said the
curate.
  "I don't choose to tell it here, now," said Don Quixote, "and have
it reach the ears of the lords of the council to-morrow morning, and
some other carry off the thanks and rewards of my trouble."
  "For my part," said the barber, "I give my word here and before
God that I will not repeat what your worship says, to King, Rook or
earthly man- an oath I learned from the ballad of the curate, who,
in the prelude, told the king of the thief who had robbed him of the
hundred gold crowns and his pacing mule."
  "I am not versed in stories," said Don Quixote; "but I know the oath
is a good one, because I know the barber to be an honest fellow."
  "Even if he were not," said the curate, "I will go bail and answer
for him that in this matter he will be as silent as a dummy, under
pain of paying any penalty that may be pronounced."
  "And who will be security for you, senor curate?" said Don Quixote.
  "My profession," replied the curate, "which is to keep secrets."
  "Ods body!" said Don Quixote at this, "what more has his Majesty
to do but to command, by public proclamation, all the knights-errant
that are scattered over Spain to assemble on a fixed day in the
capital, for even if no more than half a dozen come, there may be
one among them who alone will suffice to destroy the entire might of
the Turk. Give me your attention and follow me. Is it, pray, any new
thing for a single knight-errant to demolish an army of two hundred
thousand men, as if they all had but one throat or were made of
sugar paste? Nay, tell me, how many histories are there filled with
these marvels? If only (in an evil hour for me: I don't speak for
anyone else) the famous Don Belianis were alive now, or any one of the
innumerable progeny of Amadis of Gaul! If any these were alive
today, and were to come face to face with the Turk, by my faith, I
would not give much for the Turk's chance. But God will have regard
for his people, and will provide some one, who, if not so valiant as
the knights-errant of yore, at least will not be inferior to them in
spirit; but God knows what I mean, and I say no more."
  "Alas!" exclaimed the niece at this, "may I die if my master does
not want to turn knight-errant again;" to which Don Quixote replied,
"A knight-errant I shall die, and let the Turk come down or go up when
he likes, and in as strong force as he can, once more I say, God knows
what I mean." But here the barber said, "I ask your worships to give
me leave to tell a short story of something that happened in
Seville, which comes so pat to the purpose just now that I should like
greatly to tell it." Don Quixote gave him leave, and the rest prepared
to listen, and he began thus:
  "In the madhouse at Seville there was a man whom his relations had
placed there as being out of his mind. He was a graduate of Osuna in
canon law; but even if he had been of Salamanca, it was the opinion of
most people that he would have been mad all the same. This graduate,
after some years of confinement, took it into his head that he was
sane and in his full senses, and under this impression wrote to the
Archbishop, entreating him earnestly, and in very correct language, to
have him released from the misery in which he was living; for by God's
mercy he had now recovered his lost reason, though his relations, in
order to enjoy his property, kept him there, and, in spite of the
truth, would make him out to be mad until his dying day. The
Archbishop, moved by repeated sensible, well-written letters, directed
one of his chaplains to make inquiry of the madhouse as to the truth
of the licentiate's statements, and to have an interview with the
madman himself, and, if it should appear that he was in his senses, to
take him out and restore him to liberty. The chaplain did so, and
the governor assured him that the man was still mad, and that though
he often spoke like a highly intelligent person, he would in the end
break out into nonsense that in quantity and quality counterbalanced
all the sensible things he had said before, as might be easily
tested by talking to him. The chaplain resolved to try the experiment,
and obtaining access to the madman conversed with him for an hour or
more, during the whole of which time he never uttered a word that
was incoherent or absurd, but, on the contrary, spoke so rationally
that the chaplain was compelled to believe him to be sane. Among other
things, he said the governor was against him, not to lose the presents
his relations made him for reporting him still mad but with lucid
intervals; and that the worst foe he had in his misfortune was his
large property; for in order to enjoy it his enemies disparaged and
threw doubts upon the mercy our Lord had shown him in turning him from
a brute beast into a man. In short, he spoke in such a way that he
cast suspicion on the governor, and made his relations appear covetous
and heartless, and himself so rational that the chaplain determined to
take him away with him that the Archbishop might see him, and
ascertain for himself the truth of the matter. Yielding to this
conviction, the worthy chaplain begged the governor to have the
clothes in which the licentiate had entered the house given to him.
The governor again bade him beware of what he was doing, as the
licentiate was beyond a doubt still mad; but all his cautions and
warnings were unavailing to dissuade the chaplain from taking him
away. The governor, seeing that it was the order of the Archbishop,
obeyed, and they dressed the licentiate in his own clothes, which were
new and decent. He, as soon as he saw himself clothed like one in
his senses, and divested of the appearance of a madman, entreated
the chaplain to permit him in charity to go and take leave of his
comrades the madmen. The chaplain said he would go with him to see
what madmen there were in the house; so they went upstairs, and with
them some of those who were present. Approaching a cage in which there
was a furious madman, though just at that moment calm and quiet, the
licentiate said to him, 'Brother, think if you have any commands for
me, for I am going home, as God has been pleased, in his infinite
goodness and mercy, without any merit of mine, to restore me my
reason. I am now cured and in my senses, for with God's power
nothing is impossible. Have strong hope and trust in him, for as he
has restored me to my original condition, so likewise he will
restore you if you trust in him. I will take care to send you some
good things to eat; and be sure you eat them; for I would have you
know I am convinced, as one who has gone through it, that all this
madness of ours comes of having the stomach empty and the brains
full of wind. Take courage! take courage! for despondency in
misfortune breaks down health and brings on death.'
  "To all these words of the licentiate another madman in a cage
opposite that of the furious one was listening; and raising himself up
from an old mat on which he lay stark naked, he asked in a loud
voice who it was that was going away cured and in his senses. The
licentiate answered, 'It is I, brother, who am going; I have now no
need to remain here any longer, for which I return infinite thanks
to Heaven that has had so great mercy upon me.'
  "'Mind what you are saying, licentiate; don't let the devil
deceive you,' replied the madman. 'Keep quiet, stay where you are, and
you will save yourself the trouble of coming back.'
  "'I know I am cured,' returned the licentiate, 'and that I shall not
have to go stations again.'
  "'You cured!' said the madman; 'well, we shall see; God be with you;
but I swear to you by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth,
that for this crime alone, which Seville is committing to-day in
releasing you from this house, and treating you as if you were in your
senses, I shall have to inflict such a punishment on it as will be
remembered for ages and ages, amen. Dost thou not know, thou miserable
little licentiate, that I can do it, being, as I say, Jupiter the
Thunderer, who hold in my hands the fiery bolts with which I am able
and am wont to threaten and lay waste the world? But in one way only
will I punish this ignorant town, and that is by not raining upon
it, nor on any part of its district or territory, for three whole
years, to be reckoned from the day and moment when this threat is
pronounced. Thou free, thou cured, thou in thy senses! and I mad, I
disordered, I bound! I will as soon think of sending rain as of
hanging myself.
  "Those present stood listening to the words and exclamations of
the madman; but our licentiate, turning to the chaplain and seizing
him by the hands, said to him, 'Be not uneasy, senor; attach no
importance to what this madman has said; for if he is Jupiter and will
not send rain, I, who am Neptune, the father and god of the waters,
will rain as often as it pleases me and may be needful.'
  "The governor and the bystanders laughed, and at their laughter
the chaplain was half ashamed, and he replied, 'For all that, Senor
Neptune, it will not do to vex Senor Jupiter; remain where you are,
and some other day, when there is a better opportunity and more
time, we will come back for you.' So they stripped the licentiate, and
he was left where he was; and that's the end of the story."
  "So that's the story, master barber," said Don Quixote, "which
came in so pat to the purpose that you could not help telling it?
Master shaver, master shaver! how blind is he who cannot see through a
sieve. Is it possible that you do not know that comparisons of wit
with wit, valour with valour, beauty with beauty, birth with birth,
are always odious and unwelcome? I, master barber, am not Neptune, the
god of the waters, nor do I try to make anyone take me for an astute
man, for I am not one. My only endeavour is to convince the world of
the mistake it makes in not reviving in itself the happy time when the
order of knight-errantry was in the field. But our depraved age does
not deserve to enjoy such a blessing as those ages enjoyed when
knights-errant took upon their shoulders the defence of kingdoms,
the protection of damsels, the succour of orphans and minors, the
chastisement of the proud, and the recompense of the humble. With
the knights of these days, for the most part, it is the damask,
brocade, and rich stuffs they wear, that rustle as they go, not the
chain mail of their armour; no knight now-a-days sleeps in the open
field exposed to the inclemency of heaven, and in full panoply from
head to foot; no one now takes a nap, as they call it, without drawing
his feet out of the stirrups, and leaning upon his lance, as the
knights-errant used to do; no one now, issuing from the wood,
penetrates yonder mountains, and then treads the barren, lonely
shore of the sea- mostly a tempestuous and stormy one- and finding
on the beach a little bark without oars, sail, mast, or tackling of
any kind, in the intrepidity of his heart flings himself into it and
commits himself to the wrathful billows of the deep sea, that one
moment lift him up to heaven and the next plunge him into the
depths; and opposing his breast to the irresistible gale, finds
himself, when he least expects it, three thousand leagues and more
away from the place where he embarked; and leaping ashore in a
remote and unknown land has adventures that deserve to be written, not
on parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over energy,
indolence over exertion, vice over virtue, arrogance over courage, and
theory over practice in arms, which flourished and shone only in the
golden ages and in knights-errant. For tell me, who was more
virtuous and more valiant than the famous Amadis of Gaul? Who more
discreet than Palmerin of England? Who more gracious and easy than
Tirante el Blanco? Who more courtly than Lisuarte of Greece? Who
more slashed or slashing than Don Belianis? Who more intrepid than
Perion of Gaul? Who more ready to face danger than Felixmarte of
Hircania? Who more sincere than Esplandian? Who more impetuous than
Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who more bold than Rodamonte? Who more
prudent than King Sobrino? Who more daring than Reinaldos? Who more
invincible than Roland? and who more gallant and courteous than
Ruggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara of the present day are
descended, according to Turpin in his 'Cosmography.' All these
knights, and many more that I could name, senor curate, were
knights-errant, the light and glory of chivalry. These, or such as
these, I would have to carry out my plan, and in that case his Majesty
would find himself well served and would save great expense, and the
Turk would be left tearing his beard. And so I will stay where I am,
as the chaplain does not take me away; and if Jupiter, as the barber
has told us, will not send rain, here am I, and I will rain when I
please. I say this that Master Basin may know that I understand him."
  "Indeed, Senor Don Quixote," said the barber, "I did not mean it
in that way, and, so help me God, my intention was good, and your
worship ought not to be vexed."
  "As to whether I ought to be vexed or not," returned Don Quixote, "I
myself am the best judge."
  Hereupon the curate observed, "I have hardly said a word as yet; and
I would gladly be relieved of a doubt, arising from what Don Quixote
has said, that worries and works my conscience."
  "The senor curate has leave for more than that," returned Don
Quixote, "so he may declare his doubt, for it is not pleasant to
have a doubt on one's conscience."
  "Well then, with that permission," said the curate, "I say my
doubt is that, all I can do, I cannot persuade myself that the whole
pack of knights-errant you, Senor Don Quixote, have mentioned, were
really and truly persons of flesh and blood, that ever lived in the
world; on the contrary, I suspect it to be all fiction, fable, and
falsehood, and dreams told by men awakened from sleep, or rather still
half asleep."
  "That is another mistake," replied Don Quixote, "into which many
have fallen who do not believe that there ever were such knights in
the world, and I have often, with divers people and on divers
occasions, tried to expose this almost universal error to the light of
truth. Sometimes I have not been successful in my purpose, sometimes I
have, supporting it upon the shoulders of the truth; which truth is so
clear that I can almost say I have with my own eyes seen Amadis of
Gaul, who was a man of lofty stature, fair complexion, with a handsome
though black beard, of a countenance between gentle and stern in
expression, sparing of words, slow to anger, and quick to put it
away from him; and as I have depicted Amadis, so I could, I think,
portray and describe all the knights-errant that are in all the
histories in the world; for by the perception I have that they were
what their histories describe, and by the deeds they did and the
dispositions they displayed, it is possible, with the aid of sound
philosophy, to deduce their features, complexion, and stature."
  "How big, in your worship's opinion, may the giant Morgante have
been, Senor Don Quixote?" asked the barber.
  "With regard to giants," replied Don Quixote, "opinions differ as to
whether there ever were any or not in the world; but the Holy
Scripture, which cannot err by a jot from the truth, shows us that
there were, when it gives us the history of that big Philistine,
Goliath, who was seven cubits and a half in height, which is a huge
size. Likewise, in the island of Sicily, there have been found
leg-bones and arm-bones so large that their size makes it plain that
their owners were giants, and as tall as great towers; geometry puts
this fact beyond a doubt. But, for all that, I cannot speak with
certainty as to the size of Morgante, though I suspect he cannot
have been very tall; and I am inclined to be of this opinion because I
find in the history in which his deeds are particularly mentioned,
that he frequently slept under a roof and as he found houses to
contain him, it is clear that his bulk could not have been anything
excessive."
  "That is true," said the curate, and yielding to the enjoyment of
hearing such nonsense, he asked him what was his notion of the
features of Reinaldos of Montalban, and Don Roland and the rest of the
Twelve Peers of France, for they were all knights-errant.
  "As for Reinaldos," replied Don Quixote, "I venture to say that he
was broad-faced, of ruddy complexion, with roguish and somewhat
prominent eyes, excessively punctilious and touchy, and given to the
society of thieves and scapegraces. With regard to Roland, or
Rotolando, or Orlando (for the histories call him by all these names),
I am of opinion, and hold, that he was of middle height,
broad-shouldered, rather bow-legged, swarthy-complexioned,
red-bearded, with a hairy body and a severe expression of countenance,
a man of few words, but very polite and well-bred."
  "If Roland was not a more graceful person than your worship has
described," said the curate, "it is no wonder that the fair Lady
Angelica rejected him and left him for the gaiety, liveliness, and
grace of that budding-bearded little Moor to whom she surrendered
herself; and she showed her sense in falling in love with the gentle
softness of Medoro rather than the roughness of Roland."
  "That Angelica, senor curate," returned Don Quixote, "was a giddy
damsel, flighty and somewhat wanton, and she left the world as full of
her vagaries as of the fame of her beauty. She treated with scorn a
thousand gentlemen, men of valour and wisdom, and took up with a
smooth-faced sprig of a page, without fortune or fame, except such
reputation for gratitude as the affection he bore his friend got for
him. The great poet who sang her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not
caring to sing her adventures after her contemptible surrender
(which probably were not over and above creditable), dropped her where
he says:

     How she received the sceptre of Cathay,
     Some bard of defter quill may sing some day;

and this was no doubt a kind of prophecy, for poets are also called
vates, that is to say diviners; and its truth was made plain; for
since then a famous Andalusian poet has lamented and sung her tears,
and another famous and rare poet, a Castilian, has sung her beauty."
  "Tell me, Senor Don Quixote," said the barber here, "among all those
who praised her, has there been no poet to write a satire on this Lady
Angelica?"
  "I can well believe," replied Don Quixote, "that if Sacripante or
Roland had been poets they would have given the damsel a trimming; for
it is naturally the way with poets who have been scorned and
rejected by their ladies, whether fictitious or not, in short by those
whom they select as the ladies of their thoughts, to avenge themselves
in satires and libels- a vengeance, to be sure, unworthy of generous
hearts; but up to the present I have not heard of any defamatory verse
against the Lady Angelica, who turned the world upside down."
  "Strange," said the curate; but at this moment they heard the
housekeeper and the niece, who had previously withdrawn from the
conversation, exclaiming aloud in the courtyard, and at the noise they
all ran out.
  CHAPTER II
  WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD
WITH DON QUIXOTE'S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLL
MATTERS

  THE history relates that the outcry Don Quixote, the curate, and the
barber heard came from the niece and the housekeeper exclaiming to
Sancho, who was striving to force his way in to see Don Quixote
while they held the door against him, "What does the vagabond want
in this house? Be off to your own, brother, for it is you, and no
one else, that delude my master, and lead him astray, and take him
tramping about the country."
  To which Sancho replied, "Devil's own housekeeper! it is I who am
deluded, and led astray, and taken tramping about the country, and not
thy master! He has carried me all over the world, and you are mightily
mistaken. He enticed me away from home by a trick, promising me an
island, which I am still waiting for."
  "May evil islands choke thee, thou detestable Sancho," said the
niece; "What are islands? Is it something to eat, glutton and
gormandiser that thou art?"
  "It is not something to eat," replied Sancho, "but something to
govern and rule, and better than four cities or four judgeships at
court."
  "For all that," said the housekeeper, "you don't enter here, you bag
of mischief and sack of knavery; go govern your house and dig your
seed-patch, and give over looking for islands or shylands."
  The curate and the barber listened with great amusement to the words
of the three; but Don Quixote, uneasy lest Sancho should blab and
blurt out a whole heap of mischievous stupidities, and touch upon
points that might not be altogether to his credit, called to him and
made the other two hold their tongues and let him come in. Sancho
entered, and the curate and the barber took their leave of Don
Quixote, of whose recovery they despaired when they saw how wedded
he was to his crazy ideas, and how saturated with the nonsense of
his unlucky chivalry; and said the curate to the barber, "You will
see, gossip, that when we are least thinking of it, our gentleman will
be off once more for another flight."
  "I have no doubt of it," returned the barber; "but I do not wonder
so much at the madness of the knight as at the simplicity of the
squire, who has such a firm belief in all that about the island,
that I suppose all the exposures that could be imagined would not
get it out of his head."
  "God help them," said the curate; "and let us be on the look-out
to see what comes of all these absurdities of the knight and squire,
for it seems as if they had both been cast in the same mould, and
the madness of the master without the simplicity of the man would
not be worth a farthing."
  "That is true," said the barber, "and I should like very much to
know what the pair are talking about at this moment."
  "I promise you," said the curate, "the niece or the housekeeper will
tell us by-and-by, for they are not the ones to forget to listen."
  Meanwhile Don Quixote shut himself up in his room with Sancho, and
when they were alone he said to him, "It grieves me greatly, Sancho,
that thou shouldst have said, and sayest, that I took thee out of
thy cottage, when thou knowest I did not remain in my house. We
sallied forth together, we took the road together, we wandered
abroad together; we have had the same fortune and the same luck; if
they blanketed thee once, they belaboured me a hundred times, and that
is the only advantage I have of thee."
  "That was only reasonable," replied Sancho, "for, by what your
worship says, misfortunes belong more properly to knights-errant
than to their squires."
  "Thou art mistaken, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "according to the
maxim quando caput dolet, &c."
  "I don't understand any language but my own," said Sancho.
  "I mean to say," said Don Quixote, "that when the head suffers all
the members suffer; and so, being thy lord and master, I am thy
head, and thou a part of me as thou art my servant; and therefore
any evil that affects or shall affect me should give thee pain, and
what affects thee give pain to me."
  "It should be so," said Sancho; "but when I was blanketed as a
member, my head was on the other side of the wall, looking on while
I was flying through the air, and did not feel any pain whatever;
and if the members are obliged to feel the suffering of the head, it
should be obliged to feel their sufferings."
  "Dost thou mean to say now, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that I did
not feel when they were blanketing thee? If thou dost, thou must not
say so or think so, for I felt more pain then in spirit than thou
didst in body. But let us put that aside for the present, for we shall
have opportunities enough for considering and settling the point; tell
me, Sancho my friend, what do they say about me in the village here?
What do the common people think of me? What do the hidalgos? What do
the caballeros? What do they say of my valour; of my achievements;
of my courtesy? How do they treat the task I have undertaken in
reviving and restoring to the world the now forgotten order of
chivalry? In short, Sancho, I would have thee tell me all that has
come to thine ears on this subject; and thou art to tell me, without
adding anything to the good or taking away anything from the bad;
for it is the duty of loyal vassals to tell the truth to their lords
just as it is and in its proper shape, not allowing flattery to add to
it or any idle deference to lessen it. And I would have thee know,
Sancho, that if the naked truth, undisguised by flattery, came to
the ears of princes, times would be different, and other ages would be
reckoned iron ages more than ours, which I hold to be the golden of
these latter days. Profit by this advice, Sancho, and report to me
clearly and faithfully the truth of what thou knowest touching what
I have demanded of thee."
  "That I will do with all my heart, master," replied Sancho,
"provided your worship will not be vexed at what I say, as you wish me
to say it out in all its nakedness, without putting any more clothes
on it than it came to my knowledge in."
  "I will not be vexed at all," returned Don Quixote; "thou mayest
speak freely, Sancho, and without any beating about the bush."
  "Well then," said he, "first of all, I have to tell you that the
common people consider your worship a mighty great madman, and me no
less a fool. The hidalgos say that, not keeping within the bounds of
your quality of gentleman, you have assumed the 'Don,' and made a
knight of yourself at a jump, with four vine-stocks and a couple of
acres of land, and never a shirt to your back. The caballeros say they
do not want to have hidalgos setting up in opposition to them,
particularly squire hidalgos who polish their own shoes and darn their
black stockings with green silk."
  "That," said Don Quixote, "does not apply to me, for I always go
well dressed and never patched; ragged I may be, but ragged more
from the wear and tear of arms than of time."
  "As to your worship's valour, courtesy, accomplishments, and task,
there is a variety of opinions. Some say, 'mad but droll;' others,
'valiant but unlucky;' others, 'courteous but meddling,' and then they
go into such a number of things that they don't leave a whole bone
either in your worship or in myself."
  "Recollect, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that wherever virtue
exists in an eminent degree it is persecuted. Few or none of the
famous men that have lived escaped being calumniated by malice. Julius
Caesar, the boldest, wisest, and bravest of captains, was charged with
being ambitious, and not particularly cleanly in his dress, or pure in
his morals. Of Alexander, whose deeds won him the name of Great,
they say that he was somewhat of a drunkard. Of Hercules, him of the
many labours, it is said that he was lewd and luxurious. Of Don
Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, it was whispered that he was
over quarrelsome, and of his brother that he was lachrymose. So
that, O Sancho, amongst all these calumnies against good men, mine may
be let pass, since they are no more than thou hast said."
  "That's just where it is, body of my father!"
  "Is there more, then?" asked Don Quixote.
  "There's the tail to be skinned yet," said Sancho; "all so far is
cakes and fancy bread; but if your worship wants to know all about the
calumnies they bring against you, I will fetch you one this instant
who can tell you the whole of them without missing an atom; for last
night the son of Bartholomew Carrasco, who has been studying at
Salamanca, came home after having been made a bachelor, and when I
went to welcome him, he told me that your worship's history is already
abroad in books, with the title of THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE
OF LA MANCHA; and he says they mention me in it by my own name of
Sancho Panza, and the lady Dulcinea del Toboso too, and divers
things that happened to us when we were alone; so that I crossed
myself in my wonder how the historian who wrote them down could have
known them."
  "I promise thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "the author of our
history will be some sage enchanter; for to such nothing that they
choose to write about is hidden."
  "What!" said Sancho, "a sage and an enchanter! Why, the bachelor
Samson Carrasco (that is the name of him I spoke of) says the author
of the history is called Cide Hamete Berengena."
  "That is a Moorish name," said Don Quixote.
  "May be so," replied Sancho; "for I have heard say that the Moors
are mostly great lovers of berengenas."
  "Thou must have mistaken the surname of this 'Cide'- which means
in Arabic 'Lord'- Sancho," observed Don Quixote.
  "Very likely," replied Sancho, "but if your worship wishes me to
fetch the bachelor I will go for him in a twinkling."
  "Thou wilt do me a great pleasure, my friend," said Don Quixote,
"for what thou hast told me has amazed me, and I shall not eat a
morsel that will agree with me until I have heard all about it."
  "Then I am off for him," said Sancho; and leaving his master he went
in quest of the bachelor, with whom he returned in a short time,
and, all three together, they had a very droll colloquy.
  CHAPTER III
  OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE,
SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO

  DON QUIXOTE remained very deep in thought, waiting for the
bachelor Carrasco, from whom he was to hear how he himself had been
put into a book as Sancho said; and he could not persuade himself that
any such history could be in existence, for the blood of the enemies
he had slain was not yet dry on the blade of his sword, and now they
wanted to make out that his mighty achievements were going about in
print. For all that, he fancied some sage, either a friend or an
enemy, might, by the aid of magic, have given them to the press; if
a friend, in order to magnify and exalt them above the most famous
ever achieved by any knight-errant; if an enemy, to bring them to
naught and degrade them below the meanest ever recorded of any low
squire, though as he said to himself, the achievements of squires
never were recorded. If, however, it were the fact that such a history
were in existence, it must necessarily, being the story of a
knight-errant, be grandiloquent, lofty, imposing, grand and true. With
this he comforted himself somewhat, though it made him uncomfortable
to think that the author was a Moor, judging by the title of "Cide;"
and that no truth was to be looked for from Moors, as they are all
impostors, cheats, and schemers. He was afraid he might have dealt
with his love affairs in some indecorous fashion, that might tend to
the discredit and prejudice of the purity of his lady Dulcinea del
Toboso; he would have had him set forth the fidelity and respect he
had always observed towards her, spurning queens, empresses, and
damsels of all sorts, and keeping in check the impetuosity of his
natural impulses. Absorbed and wrapped up in these and divers other
cogitations, he was found by Sancho and Carrasco, whom Don Quixote
received with great courtesy.
  The bachelor, though he was called Samson, was of no great bodily
size, but he was a very great wag; he was of a sallow complexion,
but very sharp-witted, somewhere about four-and-twenty years of age,
with a round face, a flat nose, and a large mouth, all indications
of a mischievous disposition and a love of fun and jokes; and of
this he gave a sample as soon as he saw Don Quixote, by falling on his
knees before him and saying, "Let me kiss your mightiness's hand,
Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, for, by the habit of St. Peter that
I wear, though I have no more than the first four orders, your worship
is one of the most famous knights-errant that have ever been, or
will be, all the world over. A blessing on Cide Hamete Benengeli,
who has written the history of your great deeds, and a double blessing
on that connoisseur who took the trouble of having it translated out
of the Arabic into our Castilian vulgar tongue for the universal
entertainment of the people!"
  Don Quixote made him rise, and said, "So, then, it is true that
there is a history of me, and that it was a Moor and a sage who
wrote it?"
  "So true is it, senor," said Samson, "that my belief is there are
more than twelve thousand volumes of the said history in print this
very day. Only ask Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they
have been printed, and moreover there is a report that it is being
printed at Antwerp, and I am persuaded there will not be a country
or language in which there will not be a translation of it."
  "One of the things," here observed Don Quixote, "that ought to
give most pleasure to a virtuous and eminent man is to find himself in
his lifetime in print and in type, familiar in people's mouths with
a good name; I say with a good name, for if it be the opposite, then
there is no death to be compared to it."
  "If it goes by good name and fame," said the bachelor, "your worship
alone bears away the palm from all the knights-errant; for the Moor in
his own language, and the Christian in his, have taken care to set
before us your gallantry, your high courage in encountering dangers,
your fortitude in adversity, your patience under misfortunes as well
as wounds, the purity and continence of the platonic loves of your
worship and my lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso-"
  "I never heard my lady Dulcinea called Dona," observed Sancho
here; "nothing more than the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so here already
the history is wrong."
  "That is not an objection of any importance," replied Carrasco.
  "Certainly not," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, senor bachelor,
what deeds of mine are they that are made most of in this history?"
  "On that point," replied the bachelor, "opinions differ, as tastes
do; some swear by the adventure of the windmills that your worship
took to be Briareuses and giants; others by that of the fulling mills;
one cries up the description of the two armies that afterwards took
the appearance of two droves of sheep; another that of the dead body
on its way to be buried at Segovia; a third says the liberation of the
galley slaves is the best of all, and a fourth that nothing comes up
to the affair with the Benedictine giants, and the battle with the
valiant Biscayan."
  "Tell me, senor bachelor," said Sancho at this point, "does the
adventure with the Yanguesans come in, when our good Rocinante went
hankering after dainties?"
  "The sage has left nothing in the ink-bottle," replied Samson; "he
tells all and sets down everything, even to the capers that worthy
Sancho cut in the blanket."
  "I cut no capers in the blanket," returned Sancho; "in the air I
did, and more of them than I liked."
  "There is no human history in the world, I suppose," said Don
Quixote, "that has not its ups and downs, but more than others such as
deal with chivalry, for they can never be entirely made up of
prosperous adventures."
  "For all that," replied the bachelor, "there are those who have read
the history who say they would have been glad if the author had left
out some of the countless cudgellings that were inflicted on Senor Don
Quixote in various encounters."
  "That's where the truth of the history comes in," said Sancho.
  "At the same time they might fairly have passed them over in
silence," observed Don Quixote; "for there is no need of recording
events which do not change or affect the truth of a history, if they
tend to bring the hero of it into contempt. AEneas was not in truth
and earnest so pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so wise
as Homer describes him."
  "That is true," said Samson; "but it is one thing to write as a
poet, another to write as a historian; the poet may describe or sing
things, not as they were, but as they ought to have been; but the
historian has to write them down, not as they ought to have been,
but as they were, without adding anything to the truth or taking
anything from it."
  "Well then," said Sancho, "if this senor Moor goes in for telling
the truth, no doubt among my master's drubbings mine are to be
found; for they never took the measure of his worship's shoulders
without doing the same for my whole body; but I have no right to
wonder at that, for, as my master himself says, the members must share
the pain of the head."
  "You are a sly dog, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "i' faith, you have
no want of memory when you choose to remember."
  "If I were to try to forget the thwacks they gave me," said
Sancho, "my weals would not let me, for they are still fresh on my
ribs."
  "Hush, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and don't interrupt the bachelor,
whom I entreat to go on and tell all that is said about me in this
history."
  "And about me," said Sancho, "for they say, too, that I am one of
the principal presonages in it."
  "Personages, not presonages, friend Sancho," said Samson.
  "What! Another word-catcher!" said Sancho; "if that's to be the
way we shall not make an end in a lifetime."
  "May God shorten mine, Sancho," returned the bachelor, "if you are
not the second person in the history, and there are even some who
would rather hear you talk than the cleverest in the whole book;
though there are some, too, who say you showed yourself over-credulous
in believing there was any possibility in the government of that
island offered you by Senor Don Quixote."
  "There is still sunshine on the wall," said Don Quixote; "and when
Sancho is somewhat more advanced in life, with the experience that
years bring, he will be fitter and better qualified for being a
governor than he is at present."
  "By God, master," said Sancho, "the island that I cannot govern with
the years I have, I'll not be able to govern with the years of
Methuselah; the difficulty is that the said island keeps its
distance somewhere, I know not where; and not that there is any want
of head in me to govern it."
  "Leave it to God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for all will be and
perhaps better than you think; no leaf on the tree stirs but by
God's will."
  "That is true," said Samson; "and if it be God's will, there will
not be any want of a thousand islands, much less one, for Sancho to
govern."
  "I have seen governors in these parts," said Sancho, "that are not
to be compared to my shoe-sole; and for all that they are called 'your
lordship' and served on silver."
  "Those are not governors of islands," observed Samson, "but of other
governments of an easier kind: those that govern islands must at least
know grammar."
  "I could manage the gram well enough," said Sancho; "but for the mar
I have neither leaning nor liking, for I don't know what it is; but
leaving this matter of the government in God's hands, to send me
wherever it may be most to his service, I may tell you, senor bachelor
Samson Carrasco, it has pleased me beyond measure that the author of
this history should have spoken of me in such a way that what is
said of me gives no offence; for, on the faith of a true squire, if he
had said anything about me that was at all unbecoming an old
Christian, such as I am, the deaf would have heard of it."
  "That would be working miracles," said Samson.
  "Miracles or no miracles," said Sancho, "let everyone mind how he
speaks or writes about people, and not set down at random the first
thing that comes into his head."
  "One of the faults they find with this history," said the
bachelor, "is that its author inserted in it a novel called 'The
Ill-advised Curiosity;' not that it is bad or ill-told, but that it is
out of place and has nothing to do with the history of his worship
Senor Don Quixote."
  "I will bet the son of a dog has mixed the cabbages and the
baskets," said Sancho.
  "Then, I say," said Don Quixote, "the author of my history was no
sage, but some ignorant chatterer, who, in a haphazard and heedless
way, set about writing it, let it turn out as it might, just as
Orbaneja, the painter of Ubeda, used to do, who, when they asked him
what he was painting, answered, 'What it may turn out.' Sometimes he
would paint a cock in such a fashion, and so unlike, that he had to
write alongside of it in Gothic letters, 'This is a cock; and so it
will be with my history, which will require a commentary to make it
intelligible."
  "No fear of that," returned Samson, "for it is so plain that there
is nothing in it to puzzle over; the children turn its leaves, the
young people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise
it; in a word, it is so thumbed, and read, and got by heart by
people of all sorts, that the instant they see any lean hack, they
say, 'There goes Rocinante.' And those that are most given to
reading it are the pages, for there is not a lord's ante-chamber where
there is not a 'Don Quixote' to be found; one takes it up if another
lays it down; this one pounces upon it, and that begs for it. In
short, the said history is the most delightful and least injurious
entertainment that has been hitherto seen, for there is not to be
found in the whole of it even the semblance of an immodest word, or
a thought that is other than Catholic."
  "To write in any other way," said Don Quixote, "would not be to
write truth, but falsehood, and historians who have recourse to
falsehood ought to be burned, like those who coin false money; and I
know not what could have led the author to have recourse to novels and
irrelevant stories, when he had so much to write about in mine; no
doubt he must have gone by the proverb 'with straw or with hay,
&c.,' for by merely setting forth my thoughts, my sighs, my tears,
my lofty purposes, my enterprises, he might have made a volume as
large, or larger than all the works of El Tostado would make up. In
fact, the conclusion I arrive at, senor bachelor, is, that to write
histories, or books of any kind, there is need of great judgment and a
ripe understanding. To give expression to humour, and write in a
strain of graceful pleasantry, is the gift of great geniuses. The
cleverest character in comedy is the clown, for he who would make
people take him for a fool, must not be one. History is in a measure a
sacred thing, for it should be true, and where the truth is, there God
is; but notwithstanding this, there are some who write and fling books
broadcast on the world as if they were fritters."
  "There is no book so bad but it has something good in it," said
the bachelor.
  "No doubt of that," replied Don Quixote; "but it often happens
that those who have acquired and attained a well-deserved reputation
by their writings, lose it entirely, or damage it in some degree, when
they give them to the press."
  "The reason of that," said Samson, "is, that as printed works are
examined leisurely, their faults are easily seen; and the greater
the fame of the writer, the more closely are they scrutinised. Men
famous for their genius, great poets, illustrious historians, are
always, or most commonly, envied by those who take a particular
delight and pleasure in criticising the writings of others, without
having produced any of their own."
  "That is no wonder," said Don Quixote; "for there are many divines
who are no good for the pulpit, but excellent in detecting the defects
or excesses of those who preach."
  "All that is true, Senor Don Quixote," said Carrasco; "but I wish
such fault-finders were more lenient and less exacting, and did not
pay so much attention to the spots on the bright sun of the work
they grumble at; for if aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus, they
should remember how long he remained awake to shed the light of his
work with as little shade as possible; and perhaps it may be that what
they find fault with may be moles, that sometimes heighten the
beauty of the face that bears them; and so I say very great is the
risk to which he who prints a book exposes himself, for of all
impossibilities the greatest is to write one that will satisfy and
please all readers."
  "That which treats of me must have pleased few," said Don Quixote.
  "Quite the contrary," said the bachelor; "for, as stultorum
infinitum est numerus, innumerable are those who have relished the
said history; but some have brought a charge against the author's
memory, inasmuch as he forgot to say who the thief was who stole
Sancho's Dapple; for it is not stated there, but only to be inferred
from what is set down, that he was stolen, and a little farther on
we see Sancho mounted on the same ass, without any reappearance of it.
They say, too, that he forgot to state what Sancho did with those
hundred crowns that he found in the valise in the Sierra Morena, as he
never alludes to them again, and there are many who would be glad to
know what he did with them, or what he spent them on, for it is one of
the serious omissions of the work."
  "Senor Samson, I am not in a humour now for going into accounts or
explanations," said Sancho; "for there's a sinking of the stomach come
over me, and unless I doctor it with a couple of sups of the old stuff
it will put me on the thorn of Santa Lucia. I have it at home, and
my old woman is waiting for me; after dinner I'll come back, and
will answer you and all the world every question you may choose to
ask, as well about the loss of the ass as about the spending of the
hundred crowns;" and without another word or waiting for a reply he
made off home.
  Don Quixote begged and entreated the bachelor to stay and do penance
with him. The bachelor accepted the invitation and remained, a
couple of young pigeons were added to the ordinary fare, at dinner
they talked chivalry, Carrasco fell in with his host's humour, the
banquet came to an end, they took their afternoon sleep, Sancho
returned, and their conversation was resumed.
  CHAPTER IV
  IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE DOUBTS AND
QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS
WORTH KNOWING AND TELLING

  SANCHO came back to Don Quixote's house, and returning to the late
subject of conversation, he said, "As to what Senor Samson said,
that he would like to know by whom, or how, or when my ass was stolen,
I say in reply that the same night we went into the Sierra Morena,
flying from the Holy Brotherhood after that unlucky adventure of the
galley slaves, and the other of the corpse that was going to
Segovia, my master and I ensconced ourselves in a thicket, and
there, my master leaning on his lance, and I seated on my Dapple,
battered and weary with the late frays we fell asleep as if it had
been on four feather mattresses; and I in particular slept so sound,
that, whoever he was, he was able to come and prop me up on four
stakes, which he put under the four corners of the pack-saddle in such
a way that he left me mounted on it, and took away Dapple from under
me without my feeling it."
  "That is an easy matter," said Don Quixote, "and it is no new
occurrence, for the same thing happened to Sacripante at the siege
of Albracca; the famous thief, Brunello, by the same contrivance, took
his horse from between his legs."
  "Day came," continued Sancho, "and the moment I stirred the stakes
gave way and I fell to the ground with a mighty come down; I looked
about for the ass, but could not see him; the tears rushed to my
eyes and I raised such a lamentation that, if the author of our
history has not put it in, he may depend upon it he has left out a
good thing. Some days after, I know not how many, travelling with
her ladyship the Princess Micomicona, I saw my ass, and mounted upon
him, in the dress of a gipsy, was that Gines de Pasamonte, the great
rogue and rascal that my master and I freed from the chain."
  "That is not where the mistake is," replied Samson; "it is, that
before the ass has turned up, the author speaks of Sancho as being
mounted on it."
  "I don't know what to say to that," said Sancho, "unless that the
historian made a mistake, or perhaps it might be a blunder of the
printer's."
  "No doubt that's it," said Samson; "but what became of the hundred
crowns? Did they vanish?"
  To which Sancho answered, "I spent them for my own good, and my
wife's, and my children's, and it is they that have made my wife
bear so patiently all my wanderings on highways and byways, in the
service of my master, Don Quixote; for if after all this time I had
come back to the house without a rap and without the ass, it would
have been a poor look-out for me; and if anyone wants to know anything
more about me, here I am, ready to answer the king himself in
person; and it is no affair of anyone's whether I took or did not
take, whether I spent or did not spend; for the whacks that were given
me in these journeys were to be paid for in money, even if they were
valued at no more than four maravedis apiece, another hundred crowns
would not pay me for half of them. Let each look to himself and not
try to make out white black, and black white; for each of us is as God
made him, aye, and often worse."
  "I will take care," said Carrasco, "to impress upon the author of
the history that, if he prints it again, he must not forget what
worthy Sancho has said, for it will raise it a good span higher."
  "Is there anything else to correct in the history, senor
bachelor?" asked Don Quixote.
  "No doubt there is," replied he; "but not anything that will be of
the same importance as those I have mentioned."
  "Does the author promise a second part at all?" said Don Quixote.
  "He does promise one," replied Samson; "but he says he has not found
it, nor does he know who has got it; and we cannot say whether it will
appear or not; and so, on that head, as some say that no second part
has ever been good, and others that enough has been already written
about Don Quixote, it is thought there will be no second part;
though some, who are jovial rather than saturnine, say, 'Let us have
more Quixotades, let Don Quixote charge and Sancho chatter, and no
matter what it may turn out, we shall be satisfied with that.'"
  "And what does the author mean to do?" said Don Quixote.
  "What?" replied Samson; "why, as soon as he has found the history
which he is now searching for with extraordinary diligence, he will at
once give it to the press, moved more by the profit that may accrue to
him from doing so than by any thought of praise."
  Whereat Sancho observed, "The author looks for money and profit,
does he? It will he a wonder if he succeeds, for it will be only
hurry, hurry, with him, like the tailor on Easter Eve; and works
done in a hurry are never finished as perfectly as they ought to be.
Let master Moor, or whatever he is, pay attention to what he is doing,
and I and my master will give him as much grouting ready to his
hand, in the way of adventures and accidents of all sorts, as would
make up not only one second part, but a hundred. The good man fancies,
no doubt, that we are fast asleep in the straw here, but let him
hold up our feet to be shod and he will see which foot it is we go
lame on. All I say is, that if my master would take my advice, we
would be now afield, redressing outrages and righting wrongs, as is
the use and custom of good knights-errant."
  Sancho had hardly uttered these words when the neighing of Rocinante
fell upon their ears, which neighing Don Quixote accepted as a happy
omen, and he resolved to make another sally in three or four days from
that time. Announcing his intention to the bachelor, he asked his
advice as to the quarter in which he ought to commence his expedition,
and the bachelor replied that in his opinion he ought to go to the
kingdom of Aragon, and the city of Saragossa, where there were to be
certain solemn joustings at the festival of St. George, at which he
might win renown above all the knights of Aragon, which would be
winning it above all the knights of the world. He commended his very
praiseworthy and gallant resolution, but admonished him to proceed
with greater caution in encountering dangers, because his life did not
belong to him, but to all those who had need of him to protect and aid
them in their misfortunes.
  "There's where it is, what I abominate, Senor Samson," said Sancho
here; "my master will attack a hundred armed men as a greedy boy would
half a dozen melons. Body of the world, senor bachelor! there is a
time to attack and a time to retreat, and it is not to be always
'Santiago, and close Spain!' Moreover, I have heard it said (and I
think by my master himself, if I remember rightly) that the mean of
valour lies between the extremes of cowardice and rashness; and if
that be so, I don't want him to fly without having good reason, or
to attack when the odds make it better not. But, above all things, I
warn my master that if he is to take me with him it must be on the
condition that he is to do all the fighting, and that I am not to be
called upon to do anything except what concerns keeping him clean
and comfortable; in this I will dance attendance on him readily; but
to expect me to draw sword, even against rascally churls of the
hatchet and hood, is idle. I don't set up to be a fighting man,
Senor Samson, but only the best and most loyal squire that ever served
knight-errant; and if my master Don Quixote, in consideration of my
many faithful services, is pleased to give me some island of the
many his worship says one may stumble on in these parts, I will take
it as a great favour; and if he does not give it to me, I was born
like everyone else, and a man must not live in dependence on anyone
except God; and what is more, my bread will taste as well, and perhaps
even better, without a government than if I were a governor; and how
do I know but that in these governments the devil may have prepared
some trip for me, to make me lose my footing and fall and knock my
grinders out? Sancho I was born and Sancho I mean to die. But for
all that, if heaven were to make me a fair offer of an island or
something else of the kind, without much trouble and without much
risk, I am not such a fool as to refuse it; for they say, too, 'when
they offer thee a heifer, run with a halter; and 'when good luck comes
to thee, take it in.'"
  "Brother Sancho," said Carrasco, "you have spoken like a
professor; but, for all that, put your trust in God and in Senor Don
Quixote, for he will give you a kingdom, not to say an island."
  "It is all the same, be it more or be it less," replied Sancho;
"though I can tell Senor Carrasco that my master would not throw the
kingdom he might give me into a sack all in holes; for I have felt
my own pulse and I find myself sound enough to rule kingdoms and
govern islands; and I have before now told my master as much."
  "Take care, Sancho," said Samson; "honours change manners, and
perhaps when you find yourself a governor you won't know the mother
that bore you."
  "That may hold good of those that are born in the ditches," said
Sancho, "not of those who have the fat of an old Christian four
fingers deep on their souls, as I have. Nay, only look at my
disposition, is that likely to show ingratitude to anyone?"
  "God grant it," said Don Quixote; "we shall see when the
government comes; and I seem to see it already."
  He then begged the bachelor, if he were a poet, to do him the favour
of composing some verses for him conveying the farewell he meant to
take of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and to see that a letter of
her name was placed at the beginning of each line, so that, at the end
of the verses, "Dulcinea del Toboso" might be read by putting together
the first letters. The bachelor replied that although he was not one
of the famous poets of Spain, who were, they said, only three and a
half, he would not fail to compose the required verses; though he
saw a great difficulty in the task, as the letters which made up the
name were seventeen; so, if he made four ballad stanzas of four
lines each, there would be a letter over, and if he made them of five,
what they called decimas or redondillas, there were three letters
short; nevertheless he would try to drop a letter as well as he could,
so that the name "Dulcinea del Toboso" might be got into four ballad
stanzas.
  "It must be, by some means or other," said Don Quixote, "for
unless the name stands there plain and manifest, no woman would
believe the verses were made for her."
  They agreed upon this, and that the departure should take place in
three days from that time. Don Quixote charged the bachelor to keep it
a secret, especially from the curate and Master Nicholas, and from his
niece and the housekeeper, lest they should prevent the execution of
his praiseworthy and valiant purpose. Carrasco promised all, and
then took his leave, charging Don Quixote to inform him of his good or
evil fortunes whenever he had an opportunity; and thus they bade
each other farewell, and Sancho went away to make the necessary
preparations for their expedition.
  CHAPTER V
  OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO
PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA, AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING
DULY RECORDED

  THE translator of this history, when he comes to write this fifth
chapter, says that he considers it apocryphal, because in it Sancho
Panza speaks in a style unlike that which might have been expected
from his limited intelligence, and says things so subtle that he
does not think it possible he could have conceived them; however,
desirous of doing what his task imposed upon him, he was unwilling
to leave it untranslated, and therefore he went on to say:
  Sancho came home in such glee and spirits that his wife noticed
his happiness a bowshot off, so much so that it made her ask him,
"What have you got, Sancho friend, that you are so glad?"
  To which he replied, "Wife, if it were God's will, I should be
very glad not to be so well pleased as I show myself."
  "I don't understand you, husband," said she, "and I don't know
what you mean by saying you would be glad, if it were God's will,
not to be well pleased; for, fool as I am, I don't know how one can
find pleasure in not having it."
  "Hark ye, Teresa," replied Sancho, "I am glad because I have made up
my mind to go back to the service of my master Don Quixote, who
means to go out a third time to seek for adventures; and I am going
with him again, for my necessities will have it so, and also the
hope that cheers me with the thought that I may find another hundred
crowns like those we have spent; though it makes me sad to have to
leave thee and the children; and if God would be pleased to let me
have my daily bread, dry-shod and at home, without taking me out
into the byways and cross-roads- and he could do it at small cost by
merely willing it- it is clear my happiness would be more solid and
lasting, for the happiness I have is mingled with sorrow at leaving
thee; so that I was right in saying I would be glad, if it were
God's will, not to be well pleased."
  "Look here, Sancho," said Teresa; "ever since you joined on to a
knight-errant you talk in such a roundabout way that there is no
understanding you."
  "It is enough that God understands me, wife," replied Sancho; "for
he is the understander of all things; that will do; but mind,
sister, you must look to Dapple carefully for the next three days,
so that he may be fit to take arms; double his feed, and see to the
pack-saddle and other harness, for it is not to a wedding we are
bound, but to go round the world, and play at give and take with
giants and dragons and monsters, and hear hissings and roarings and
bellowings and howlings; and even all this would be lavender, if we
had not to reckon with Yanguesans and enchanted Moors."
  "I know well enough, husband," said Teresa, "that squires-errant
don't eat their bread for nothing, and so I will be always praying
to our Lord to deliver you speedily from all that hard fortune."
  "I can tell you, wife," said Sancho, "if I did not expect to see
myself governor of an island before long, I would drop down dead on
the spot."
  "Nay, then, husband," said Teresa; "let the hen live, though it be
with her pip, live, and let the devil take all the governments in
the world; you came out of your mother's womb without a government,
you have lived until now without a government, and when it is God's
will you will go, or be carried, to your grave without a government.
How many there are in the world who live without a government, and
continue to live all the same, and are reckoned in the number of the
people. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and as the poor are
never without that, they always eat with a relish. But mind, Sancho,
if by good luck you should find yourself with some government, don't
forget me and your children. Remember that Sanchico is now full
fifteen, and it is right he should go to school, if his uncle the
abbot has a mind to have him trained for the Church. Consider, too,
that your daughter Mari-Sancha will not die of grief if we marry
her; for I have my suspicions that she is as eager to get a husband as
you to get a government; and, after all, a daughter looks better ill
married than well whored."
  "By my faith," replied Sancho, "if God brings me to get any sort
of a government, I intend, wife, to make such a high match for
Mari-Sancha that there will be no approaching her without calling
her 'my lady."
  "Nay, Sancho," returned Teresa; "marry her to her equal, that is the
safest plan; for if you put her out of wooden clogs into high-heeled
shoes, out of her grey flannel petticoat into hoops and silk gowns,
out of the plain 'Marica' and 'thou,' into 'Dona So-and-so' and 'my
lady,' the girl won't know where she is, and at every turn she will
fall into a thousand blunders that will show the thread of her
coarse homespun stuff."
  "Tut, you fool," said Sancho; "it will be only to practise it for
two or three years; and then dignity and decorum will fit her as
easily as a glove; and if not, what matter? Let her he 'my lady,'
and never mind what happens."
  "Keep to your own station, Sancho," replied Teresa; "don't try to
raise yourself higher, and bear in mind the proverb that says, 'wipe
the nose of your neigbbour's son, and take him into your house.' A
fine thing it would be, indeed, to marry our Maria to some great count
or grand gentleman, who, when the humour took him, would abuse her and
call her clown-bred and clodhopper's daughter and spinning wench. I
have not been bringing up my daughter for that all this time, I can
tell you, husband. Do you bring home money, Sancho, and leave marrying
her to my care; there is Lope Tocho, Juan Tocho's son, a stout, sturdy
young fellow that we know, and I can see he does not look sour at
the girl; and with him, one of our own sort, she will be well married,
and we shall have her always under our eyes, and be all one family,
parents and children, grandchildren and sons-in-law, and the peace and
blessing of God will dwell among us; so don't you go marrying her in
those courts and grand palaces where they won't know what to make of
her, or she what to make of herself."
  "Why, you idiot and wife for Barabbas," said Sancho, "what do you
mean by trying, without why or wherefore, to keep me from marrying
my daughter to one who will give me grandchildren that will be
called 'your lordship'? Look ye, Teresa, I have always heard my elders
say that he who does not know how to take advantage of luck when it
comes to him, has no right to complain if it gives him the go-by;
and now that it is knocking at our door, it will not do to shut it
out; let us go with the favouring breeze that blows upon us."
  It is this sort of talk, and what Sancho says lower down, that
made the translator of the history say he considered this chapter
apocryphal.
  "Don't you see, you animal," continued Sancho, "that it will be well
for me to drop into some profitable government that will lift us out
of the mire, and marry Mari-Sancha to whom I like; and you yourself
will find yourself called 'Dona Teresa Panza,' and sitting in church
on a fine carpet and cushions and draperies, in spite and in
defiance of all the born ladies of the town? No, stay as you are,
growing neither greater nor less, like a tapestry figure- Let us say
no more about it, for Sanchica shall be a countess, say what you
will."
  "Are you sure of all you say, husband?" replied Teresa. "Well, for
all that, I am afraid this rank of countess for my daughter will be
her ruin. You do as you like, make a duchess or a princess of her, but
I can tell you it will not be with my will and consent. I was always a
lover of equality, brother, and I can't bear to see people give
themselves airs without any right. They called me Teresa at my
baptism, a plain, simple name, without any additions or tags or
fringes of Dons or Donas; Cascajo was my father's name, and as I am
your wife, I am called Teresa Panza, though by right I ought to he
called Teresa Cascajo; but 'kings go where laws like,' and I am
content with this name without having the 'Don' put on top of it to
make it so heavy that I cannot carry it; and I don't want to make
people talk about me when they see me go dressed like a countess or
governor's wife; for they will say at once, 'See what airs the slut
gives herself! Only yesterday she was always spinning flax, and used
to go to mass with the tail of her petticoat over her head instead
of a mantle, and there she goes to-day in a hooped gown with her
broaches and airs, as if we didn't know her!' If God keeps me in my
seven senses, or five, or whatever number I have, I am not going to
bring myself to such a pass; go you, brother, and be a government or
an island man, and swagger as much as you like; for by the soul of
my mother, neither my daughter nor I are going to stir a step from our
village; a respectable woman should have a broken leg and keep at
home; and to he busy at something is a virtuous damsel's holiday; be
off to your adventures along with your Don Quixote, and leave us to
our misadventures, for God will mend them for us according as we
deserve it. I don't know, I'm sure, who fixed the 'Don' to him, what
neither his father nor grandfather ever had."
  "I declare thou hast a devil of some sort in thy body!" said Sancho.
"God help thee, what a lot of things thou hast strung together, one
after the other, without head or tail! What have Cascajo, and the
broaches and the proverbs and the airs, to do with what I say? Look
here, fool and dolt (for so I may call you, when you don't
understand my words, and run away from good fortune), if I had said
that my daughter was to throw herself down from a tower, or go roaming
the world, as the Infanta Dona Urraca wanted to do, you would be right
in not giving way to my will; but if in an instant, in less than the
twinkling of an eye, I put the 'Don' and 'my lady' on her back, and
take her out of the stubble, and place her under a canopy, on a
dais, and on a couch, with more velvet cushions than all the Almohades
of Morocco ever had in their family, why won't you consent and fall in
with my wishes?"
  "Do you know why, husband?" replied Teresa; "because of the
proverb that says 'who covers thee, discovers thee.' At the poor man
people only throw a hasty glance; on the rich man they fix their eyes;
and if the said rich man was once on a time poor, it is then there
is the sneering and the tattle and spite of backbiters; and in the
streets here they swarm as thick as bees."
  "Look here, Teresa," said Sancho, "and listen to what I am now going
to say to you; maybe you never heard it in all your life; and I do not
give my own notions, for what I am about to say are the opinions of
his reverence the preacher, who preached in this town last Lent, and
who said, if I remember rightly, that all things present that our eyes
behold, bring themselves before us, and remain and fix themselves on
our memory much better and more forcibly than things past."
  These observations which Sancho makes here are the other ones on
account of which the translator says he regards this chapter as
apocryphal, inasmuch as they are beyond Sancho's capacity.
  "Whence it arises," he continued, "that when we see any person
well dressed and making a figure with rich garments and retinue of
servants, it seems to lead and impel us perforce to respect him,
though memory may at the same moment recall to us some lowly condition
in which we have seen him, but which, whether it may have been poverty
or low birth, being now a thing of the past, has no existence; while
the only thing that has any existence is what we see before us; and if
this person whom fortune has raised from his original lowly state
(these were the very words the padre used) to his present height of
prosperity, be well bred, generous, courteous to all, without
seeking to vie with those whose nobility is of ancient date, depend
upon it, Teresa, no one will remember what he was, and everyone will
respect what he is, except indeed the envious, from whom no fair
fortune is safe."
  "I do not understand you, husband," replied Teresa; "do as you like,
and don't break my head with any more speechifying and rethoric; and
if you have revolved to do what you say-"
  "Resolved, you should say, woman," said Sancho, "not revolved."
  "Don't set yourself to wrangle with me, husband," said Teresa; "I
speak as God pleases, and don't deal in out-of-the-way phrases; and
I say if you are bent upon having a government, take your son Sancho
with you, and teach him from this time on how to hold a government;
for sons ought to inherit and learn the trades of their fathers."
  "As soon as I have the government," said Sancho, "I will send for
him by post, and I will send thee money, of which I shall have no
lack, for there is never any want of people to lend it to governors
when they have not got it; and do thou dress him so as to hide what he
is and make him look what he is to be."
  "You send the money," said Teresa, "and I'll dress him up for you as
fine as you please."
  "Then we are agreed that our daughter is to be a countess," said
Sancho.
  "The day that I see her a countess," replied Teresa, "it will be the
same to me as if I was burying her; but once more I say do as you
please, for we women are born to this burden of being obedient to
our husbands, though they be dogs;" and with this she began to weep in
earnest, as if she already saw Sanchica dead and buried.
  Sancho consoled her by saying that though he must make her a
countess, he would put it off as long as possible. Here their
conversation came to an end, and Sancho went back to see Don
Quixote, and make arrangements for their departure.
  CHAPTER VI
  OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND
HOUSEKEEPER; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY

  WHILE Sancho Panza and his wife, Teresa Cascajo, held the above
irrelevant conversation, Don Quixote's niece and housekeeper were
not idle, for by a thousand signs they began to perceive that their
uncle and master meant to give them the slip the third time, and
once more betake himself to his, for them, ill-errant chivalry. They
strove by all the means in their power to divert him from such an
unlucky scheme; but it was all preaching in the desert and hammering
cold iron. Nevertheless, among many other representations made to him,
the housekeeper said to him, "In truth, master, if you do not keep
still and stay quiet at home, and give over roaming mountains and
valleys like a troubled spirit, looking for what they say are called
adventures, but what I call misfortunes, I shall have to make
complaint to God and the king with loud supplication to send some
remedy."
  To which Don Quixote replied, "What answer God will give to your
complaints, housekeeper, I know not, nor what his Majesty will
answer either; I only know that if I were king I should decline to
answer the numberless silly petitions they present every day; for
one of the greatest among the many troubles kings have is being
obliged to listen to all and answer all, and therefore I should be
sorry that any affairs of mine should worry him."
  Whereupon the housekeeper said, "Tell us, senor, at his Majesty's
court are there no knights?"
  "There are," replied Don Quixote, "and plenty of them; and it is
right there should be, to set off the dignity of the prince, and for
the greater glory of the king's majesty."
  "Then might not your worship," said she, "be one of those that,
without stirring a step, serve their king and lord in his court?"
  "Recollect, my friend," said Don Quixote, "all knights cannot be
courtiers, nor can all courtiers be knights-errant, nor need they
be. There must be all sorts in the world; and though we may be all
knights, there is a great difference between one and another; for
the courtiers, without quitting their chambers, or the threshold of
the court, range the world over by looking at a map, without its
costing them a farthing, and without suffering heat or cold, hunger or
thirst; but we, the true knights-errant, measure the whole earth
with our own feet, exposed to the sun, to the cold, to the air, to the
inclemencies of heaven, by day and night, on foot and on horseback;
nor do we only know enemies in pictures, but in their own real shapes;
and at all risks and on all occasions we attack them, without any
regard to childish points or rules of single combat, whether one has
or has not a shorter lance or sword, whether one carries relics or any
secret contrivance about him, whether or not the sun is to be
divided and portioned out, and other niceties of the sort that are
observed in set combats of man to man, that you know nothing about,
but I do. And you must know besides, that the true knight-errant,
though he may see ten giants, that not only touch the clouds with
their heads but pierce them, and that go, each of them, on two tall
towers by way of legs, and whose arms are like the masts of mighty
ships, and each eye like a great mill-wheel, and glowing brighter than
a glass furnace, must not on any account be dismayed by them. On the
contrary, he must attack and fall upon them with a gallant bearing and
a fearless heart, and, if possible, vanquish and destroy them, even
though they have for armour the shells of a certain fish, that they
say are harder than diamonds, and in place of swords wield trenchant
blades of Damascus steel, or clubs studded with spikes also of
steel, such as I have more than once seen. All this I say,
housekeeper, that you may see the difference there is between the
one sort of knight and the other; and it would be well if there were
no prince who did not set a higher value on this second, or more
properly speaking first, kind of knights-errant; for, as we read in
their histories, there have been some among them who have been the
salvation, not merely of one kingdom, but of many."
  "Ah, senor," here exclaimed the niece, "remember that all this you
are saying about knights-errant is fable and fiction; and their
histories, if indeed they were not burned, would deserve, each of
them, to have a sambenito put on it, or some mark by which it might be
known as infamous and a corrupter of good manners."
  "By the God that gives me life," said Don Quixote, "if thou wert not
my full niece, being daughter of my own sister, I would inflict a
chastisement upon thee for the blasphemy thou hast uttered that all
the world should ring with. What! can it be that a young hussy that
hardly knows how to handle a dozen lace-bobbins dares to wag her
tongue and criticise the histories of knights-errant? What would Senor
Amadis say if he heard of such a thing? He, however, no doubt would
forgive thee, for he was the most humble-minded and courteous knight
of his time, and moreover a great protector of damsels; but some there
are that might have heard thee, and it would not have been well for
thee in that case; for they are not all courteous or mannerly; some
are ill-conditioned scoundrels; nor is it everyone that calls
himself a gentleman, that is so in all respects; some are gold, others
pinchbeck, and all look like gentlemen, but not all can stand the
touchstone of truth. There are men of low rank who strain themselves
to bursting to pass for gentlemen, and high gentlemen who, one would
fancy, were dying to pass for men of low rank; the former raise
themselves by their ambition or by their virtues, the latter debase
themselves by their lack of spirit or by their vices; and one has need
of experience and discernment to distinguish these two kinds of
gentlemen, so much alike in name and so different in conduct."
  "God bless me!" said the niece, "that you should know so much,
uncle- enough, if need be, to get up into a pulpit and go preach in
the streets -and yet that you should fall into a delusion so great and
a folly so manifest as to try to make yourself out vigorous when you
are old, strong when you are sickly, able to put straight what is
crooked when you yourself are bent by age, and, above all, a caballero
when you are not one; for though gentlefolk may he so, poor men are
nothing of the kind!"
  "There is a great deal of truth in what you say, niece," returned
Don Quixote, "and I could tell you somewhat about birth that would
astonish you; but, not to mix up things human and divine, I refrain.
Look you, my dears, all the lineages in the world (attend to what I am
saying) can be reduced to four sorts, which are these: those that
had humble beginnings, and went on spreading and extending
themselves until they attained surpassing greatness; those that had
great beginnings and maintained them, and still maintain and uphold
the greatness of their origin; those, again, that from a great
beginning have ended in a point like a pyramid, having reduced and
lessened their original greatness till it has come to nought, like the
point of a pyramid, which, relatively to its base or foundation, is
nothing; and then there are those- and it is they that are the most
numerous- that have had neither an illustrious beginning nor a
remarkable mid-course, and so will have an end without a name, like an
ordinary plebeian line. Of the first, those that had an humble
origin and rose to the greatness they still preserve, the Ottoman
house may serve as an example, which from an humble and lowly
shepherd, its founder, has reached the height at which we now see
it. For examples of the second sort of lineage, that began with
greatness and maintains it still without adding to it, there are the
many princes who have inherited the dignity, and maintain themselves
in their inheritance, without increasing or diminishing it, keeping
peacefully within the limits of their states. Of those that began
great and ended in a point, there are thousands of examples, for all
the Pharaohs and Ptolemies of Egypt, the Caesars of Rome, and the
whole herd (if I may such a word to them) of countless princes,
monarchs, lords, Medes, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, and barbarians,
all these lineages and lordships have ended in a point and come to
nothing, they themselves as well as their founders, for it would be
impossible now to find one of their descendants, and, even should we
find one, it would be in some lowly and humble condition. Of
plebeian lineages I have nothing to say, save that they merely serve
to swell the number of those that live, without any eminence to
entitle them to any fame or praise beyond this. From all I have said I
would have you gather, my poor innocents, that great is the
confusion among lineages, and that only those are seen to be great and
illustrious that show themselves so by the virtue, wealth, and
generosity of their possessors. I have said virtue, wealth, and
generosity, because a great man who is vicious will be a great example
of vice, and a rich man who is not generous will be merely a miserly
beggar; for the possessor of wealth is not made happy by possessing
it, but by spending it, and not by spending as he pleases, but by
knowing how to spend it well. The poor gentleman has no way of showing
that he is a gentleman but by virtue, by being affable, well-bred,
courteous, gentle-mannered, and kindly, not haughty, arrogant, or
censorious, but above all by being charitable; for by two maravedis
given with a cheerful heart to the poor, he will show himself as
generous as he who distributes alms with bell-ringing, and no one that
perceives him to be endowed with the virtues I have named, even though
he know him not, will fail to recognise and set him down as one of
good blood; and it would be strange were it not so; praise has ever
been the reward of virtue, and those who are virtuous cannot fail to
receive commendation. There are two roads, my daughters, by which
men may reach wealth and honours; one is that of letters, the other
that of arms. I have more of arms than of letters in my composition,
and, judging by my inclination to arms, was born under the influence
of the planet Mars. I am, therefore, in a measure constrained to
follow that road, and by it I must travel in spite of all the world,
and it will be labour in vain for you to urge me to resist what heaven
wills, fate ordains, reason requires, and, above all, my own
inclination favours; for knowing as I do the countless toils that
are the accompaniments of knight-errantry, I know, too, the infinite
blessings that are attained by it; I know that the path of virtue is
very narrow, and the road of vice broad and spacious; I know their
ends and goals are different, for the broad and easy road of vice ends
in death, and the narrow and toilsome one of virtue in life, and not
transitory life, but in that which has no end; I know, as our great
Castilian poet says, that-

       It is by rugged paths like these they go
       That scale the heights of immortality,
       Unreached by those that falter here below."

  "Woe is me!" exclaimed the niece, "my lord is a poet, too! He
knows everything, and he can do everything; I will bet, if he chose to
turn mason, he could make a house as easily as a cage."
  "I can tell you, niece," replied Don Quixote, "if these chivalrous
thoughts did not engage all my faculties, there would be nothing
that I could not do, nor any sort of knickknack that would not come
from my hands, particularly cages and tooth-picks."
  At this moment there came a knocking at the door, and when they
asked who was there, Sancho Panza made answer that it was he. The
instant the housekeeper knew who it was, she ran to hide herself so as
not to see him; in such abhorrence did she hold him. The niece let him
in, and his master Don Quixote came forward to receive him with open
arms, and the pair shut themselves up in his room, where they had
another conversation not inferior to the previous one.
  CHAPTER VII
  OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS

  THE instant the housekeeper saw Sancho Panza shut himself in with
her master, she guessed what they were about; and suspecting that
the result of the consultation would be a resolve to undertake a third
sally, she seized her mantle, and in deep anxiety and distress, ran to
find the bachelor Samson Carrasco, as she thought that, being a
well-spoken man, and a new friend of her master's, he might be able to
persuade him to give up any such crazy notion. She found him pacing
the patio of his house, and, perspiring and flurried, she fell at
his feet the moment she saw him.
  Carrasco, seeing how distressed and overcome she was, said to her,
"What is this, mistress housekeeper? What has happened to you? One
would think you heart-broken."
  "Nothing, Senor Samson," said she, "only that my master is
breaking out, plainly breaking out."
  "Whereabouts is he breaking out, senora?" asked Samson; "has any
part of his body burst?"
  "He is only breaking out at the door of his madness," she replied;
"I mean, dear senor bachelor, that he is going to break out again (and
this will be the third time) to hunt all over the world for what he
calls ventures, though I can't make out why he gives them that name.
The first time he was brought back to us slung across the back of an
ass, and belaboured all over; and the second time he came in an
ox-cart, shut up in a cage, in which he persuaded himself he was
enchanted, and the poor creature was in such a state that the mother
that bore him would not have known him; lean, yellow, with his eyes
sunk deep in the cells of his skull; so that to bring him round again,
ever so little, cost me more than six hundred eggs, as God knows,
and all the world, and my hens too, that won't let me tell a lie."
  "That I can well believe," replied the bachelor, "for they are so
good and so fat, and so well-bred, that they would not say one thing
for another, though they were to burst for it. In short then, mistress
housekeeper, that is all, and there is nothing the matter, except what
it is feared Don Quixote may do?"
  "No, senor," said she.
  "Well then," returned the bachelor, "don't be uneasy, but go home in
peace; get me ready something hot for breakfast, and while you are
on the way say the prayer of Santa Apollonia, that is if you know
it; for I will come presently and you will see miracles."
  "Woe is me," cried the housekeeper, "is it the prayer of Santa
Apollonia you would have me say? That would do if it was the toothache
my master had; but it is in the brains, what he has got."
  "I know what I am saying, mistress housekeeper; go, and don't set
yourself to argue with me, for you know I am a bachelor of
Salamanca, and one can't be more of a bachelor than that," replied
Carrasco; and with this the housekeeper retired, and the bachelor went
to look for the curate, and arrange with him what will be told in
its proper place.
  While Don Quixote and Sancho were shut up together, they had a
discussion which the history records with great precision and
scrupulous exactness. Sancho said to his master, "Senor, I have educed
my wife to let me go with your worship wherever you choose to take
me."
  "Induced, you should say, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "not educed."
  "Once or twice, as well as I remember," replied Sancho, "I have
begged of your worship not to mend my words, if so be as you
understand what I mean by them; and if you don't understand them to
say 'Sancho,' or 'devil,' 'I don't understand thee; and if I don't
make my meaning plain, then you may correct me, for I am so focile-"
  "I don't understand thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote at once; "for
I know not what 'I am so focile' means."
  "'So focile' means I am so much that way," replied Sancho.
  "I understand thee still less now," said Don Quixote.
  "Well, if you can't understand me," said Sancho, "I don't know how
to put it; I know no more, God help me."
  "Oh, now I have hit it," said Don Quixote; "thou wouldst say thou
art so docile, tractable, and gentle that thou wilt take what I say to
thee, and submit to what I teach thee."
  "I would bet," said Sancho, "that from the very first you understood
me, and knew what I meant, but you wanted to put me out that you might
hear me make another couple of dozen blunders."
  "May be so," replied Don Quixote; "but to come to the point, what
does Teresa say?"
  "Teresa says," replied Sancho, "that I should make sure with your
worship, and 'let papers speak and beards be still,' for 'he who binds
does not wrangle,' since one 'take' is better than two 'I'll give
thee's;' and I say a woman's advice is no great thing, and he who
won't take it is a fool."
  "And so say I," said Don Quixote; "continue, Sancho my friend; go
on; you talk pearls to-day."
  "The fact is," continued Sancho, "that, as your worship knows better
than I do, we are all of us liable to death, and to-day we are, and
to-morrow we are not, and the lamb goes as soon as the sheep, and
nobody can promise himself more hours of life in this world than God
may be pleased to give him; for death is deaf, and when it comes to
knock at our life's door, it is always urgent, and neither prayers,
nor struggles, nor sceptres, nor mitres, can keep it back, as common
talk and report say, and as they tell us from the pulpits every day."
  "All that is very true," said Don Quixote; "but I cannot make out
what thou art driving at."
  "What I am driving at," said Sancho, "is that your worship settle
some fixed wages for me, to be paid monthly while I am in your
service, and that the same he paid me out of your estate; for I
don't care to stand on rewards which either come late, or ill, or
never at all; God help me with my own. In short, I would like to
know what I am to get, be it much or little; for the hen will lay on
one egg, and many littles make a much, and so long as one gains
something there is nothing lost. To he sure, if it should happen (what
I neither believe nor expect) that your worship were to give me that
island you have promised me, I am not so ungrateful nor so grasping
but that I would be willing to have the revenue of such island
valued and stopped out of my wages in due promotion."
  "Sancho, my friend," replied Don Quixote, "sometimes proportion
may be as good as promotion."
  "I see," said Sancho; "I'll bet I ought to have said proportion, and
not promotion; but it is no matter, as your worship has understood
me."
  "And so well understood," returned Don Quixote, "that I have seen
into the depths of thy thoughts, and know the mark thou art shooting
at with the countless shafts of thy proverbs. Look here, Sancho, I
would readily fix thy wages if I had ever found any instance in the
histories of the knights-errant to show or indicate, by the
slightest hint, what their squires used to get monthly or yearly;
but I have read all or the best part of their histories, and I
cannot remember reading of any knight-errant having assigned fixed
wages to his squire; I only know that they all served on reward, and
that when they least expected it, if good luck attended their masters,
they found themselves recompensed with an island or something
equivalent to it, or at the least they were left with a title and
lordship. If with these hopes and additional inducements you,
Sancho, please to return to my service, well and good; but to
suppose that I am going to disturb or unhinge the ancient usage of
knight-errantry, is all nonsense. And so, my Sancho, get you back to
your house and explain my intentions to your Teresa, and if she
likes and you like to be on reward with me, bene quidem; if not, we
remain friends; for if the pigeon-house does not lack food, it will
not lack pigeons; and bear in mind, my son, that a good hope is better
than a bad holding, and a good grievance better than a bad
compensation. I speak in this way, Sancho, to show you that I can
shower down proverbs just as well as yourself; and in short, I mean to
say, and I do say, that if you don't like to come on reward with me,
and run the same chance that I run, God be with you and make a saint
of you; for I shall find plenty of squires more obedient and
painstaking, and not so thickheaded or talkative as you are."
  When Sancho heard his master's firm, resolute language, a cloud came
over the sky with him and the wings of his heart drooped, for he had
made sure that his master would not go without him for all the
wealth of the world; and as he stood there dumbfoundered and moody,
Samson Carrasco came in with the housekeeper and niece, who were
anxious to hear by what arguments he was about to dissuade their
master from going to seek adventures. The arch wag Samson came
forward, and embracing him as he had done before, said with a loud
voice, "O flower of knight-errantry! O shining light of arms! O honour
and mirror of the Spanish nation! may God Almighty in his infinite
power grant that any person or persons, who would impede or hinder thy
third sally, may find no way out of the labyrinth of their schemes,
nor ever accomplish what they most desire!" And then, turning to the
housekeeper, he said, "Mistress housekeeper may just as well give over
saying the prayer of Santa Apollonia, for I know it is the positive
determination of the spheres that Senor Don Quixote shall proceed to
put into execution his new and lofty designs; and I should lay a heavy
burden on my conscience did I not urge and persuade this knight not to
keep the might of his strong arm and the virtue of his valiant
spirit any longer curbed and checked, for by his inactivity he is
defrauding the world of the redress of wrongs, of the protection of
orphans, of the honour of virgins, of the aid of widows, and of the
support of wives, and other matters of this kind appertaining,
belonging, proper and peculiar to the order of knight-errantry. On,
then, my lord Don Quixote, beautiful and brave, let your worship and
highness set out to-day rather than to-morrow; and if anything be
needed for the execution of your purpose, here am I ready in person
and purse to supply the want; and were it requisite to attend your
magnificence as squire, I should esteem it the happiest good fortune."
  At this, Don Quixote, turning to Sancho, said, "Did I not tell thee,
Sancho, there would be squires enough and to spare for me? See now who
offers to become one; no less than the illustrious bachelor Samson
Carrasco, the perpetual joy and delight of the courts of the
Salamancan schools, sound in body, discreet, patient under heat or
cold, hunger or thirst, with all the qualifications requisite to
make a knight-errant's squire! But heaven forbid that, to gratify my
own inclination, I should shake or shatter this pillar of letters
and vessel of the sciences, and cut down this towering palm of the
fair and liberal arts. Let this new Samson remain in his own
country, and, bringing honour to it, bring honour at the same time
on the grey heads of his venerable parents; for I will be content with
any squire that comes to hand, as Sancho does not deign to accompany
me."
  "I do deign," said Sancho, deeply moved and with tears in his
eyes; "it shall not be said of me, master mine," he continued, "'the
bread eaten and the company dispersed.' Nay, I come of no ungrateful
stock, for all the world knows, but particularly my own town, who
the Panzas from whom I am descended were; and, what is more, I know
and have learned, by many good words and deeds, your worship's
desire to show me favour; and if I have been bargaining more or less
about my wages, it was only to please my wife, who, when she sets
herself to press a point, no hammer drives the hoops of a cask as
she drives one to do what she wants; but, after all, a man must be a
man, and a woman a woman; and as I am a man anyhow, which I can't
deny, I will be one in my own house too, let who will take it amiss;
and so there's nothing more to do but for your worship to make your
will with its codicil in such a way that it can't be provoked, and let
us set out at once, to save Senor Samson's soul from suffering, as
he says his conscience obliges him to persuade your worship to sally
out upon the world a third time; so I offer again to serve your
worship faithfully and loyally, as well and better than all the
squires that served knights-errant in times past or present."
  The bachelor was filled with amazement when he heard Sancho's
phraseology and style of talk, for though he had read the first part
of his master's history he never thought that he could be so droll
as he was there described; but now, hearing him talk of a "will and
codicil that could not be provoked," instead of "will and codicil that
could not be revoked," he believed all he had read of him, and set him
down as one of the greatest simpletons of modern times; and he said to
himself that two such lunatics as master and man the world had never
seen. In fine, Don Quixote and Sancho embraced one another and made
friends, and by the advice and with the approval of the great
Carrasco, who was now their oracle, it was arranged that their
departure should take place three days thence, by which time they
could have all that was requisite for the journey ready, and procure a
closed helmet, which Don Quixote said he must by all means take.
Samson offered him one, as he knew a friend of his who had it would
not refuse it to him, though it was more dingy with rust and mildew
than bright and clean like burnished steel.
  The curses which both housekeeper and niece poured out on the
bachelor were past counting; they tore their hair, they clawed their
faces, and in the style of the hired mourners that were once in
fashion, they raised a lamentation over the departure of their
master and uncle, as if it had been his death. Samson's intention in
persuading him to sally forth once more was to do what the history
relates farther on; all by the advice of the curate and barber, with
whom he had previously discussed the subject. Finally, then, during
those three days, Don Quixote and Sancho provided themselves with what
they considered necessary, and Sancho having pacified his wife, and
Don Quixote his niece and housekeeper, at nightfall, unseen by
anyone except the bachelor, who thought fit to accompany them half a
league out of the village, they set out for El Toboso, Don Quixote
on his good Rocinante and Sancho on his old Dapple, his alforjas
furnished with certain matters in the way of victuals, and his purse
with money that Don Quixote gave him to meet emergencies. Samson
embraced him, and entreated him to let him hear of his good or evil
fortunes, so that he might rejoice over the former or condole with him
over the latter, as the laws of friendship required. Don Quixote
promised him he would do so, and Samson returned to the village, and
the other two took the road for the great city of El Toboso.
  CHAPTER VIII
  WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS
LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

  "BLESSED be Allah the all-powerful!" says Hamete Benengeli on
beginning this eighth chapter; "blessed be Allah!" he repeats three
times; and he says he utters these thanksgivings at seeing that he has
now got Don Quixote and Sancho fairly afield, and that the readers
of his delightful history may reckon that the achievements and humours
of Don Quixote and his squire are now about to begin; and he urges
them to forget the former chivalries of the ingenious gentleman and to
fix their eyes on those that are to come, which now begin on the
road to El Toboso, as the others began on the plains of Montiel; nor
is it much that he asks in consideration of all he promises, and so he
goes on to say:
  Don Quixote and Sancho were left alone, and the moment Samson took
his departure, Rocinante began to neigh, and Dapple to sigh, which, by
both knight and squire, was accepted as a good sign and a very happy
omen; though, if the truth is to be told, the sighs and brays of
Dapple were louder than the neighings of the hack, from which Sancho
inferred that his good fortune was to exceed and overtop that of his
master, building, perhaps, upon some judicial astrology that he may
have known, though the history says nothing about it; all that can
be said is, that when he stumbled or fell, he was heard to say he
wished he had not come out, for by stumbling or falling there was
nothing to be got but a damaged shoe or a broken rib; and, fool as
he was, he was not much astray in this.
  Said Don Quixote, "Sancho, my friend, night is drawing on upon us as
we go, and more darkly than will allow us to reach El Toboso by
daylight; for there I am resolved to go before I engage in another
adventure, and there I shall obtain the blessing and generous
permission of the peerless Dulcinea, with which permission I expect
and feel assured that I shall conclude and bring to a happy
termination every perilous adventure; for nothing in life makes
knights-errant more valorous than finding themselves favoured by their
ladies."
  "So I believe," replied Sancho; "but I think it will be difficult
for your worship to speak with her or see her, at any rate where you
will be able to receive her blessing; unless, indeed, she throws it
over the wall of the yard where I saw her the time before, when I took
her the letter that told of the follies and mad things your worship
was doing in the heart of Sierra Morena."
  "Didst thou take that for a yard wall, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
"where or at which thou sawest that never sufficiently extolled
grace and beauty? It must have been the gallery, corridor, or
portico of some rich and royal palace."
  "It might have been all that," returned Sancho, "but to me it looked
like a wall, unless I am short of memory."
  "At all events, let us go there, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for, so
that I see her, it is the same to me whether it be over a wall, or
at a window, or through the chink of a door, or the grate of a garden;
for any beam of the sun of her beauty that reaches my eyes will give
light to my reason and strength to my heart, so that I shall be
unmatched and unequalled in wisdom and valour."
  "Well, to tell the truth, senor," said Sancho, "when I saw that
sun of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not bright enough to throw
out beams at all; it must have been, that as her grace was sifting
that wheat I told you of, the thick dust she raised came before her
face like a cloud and dimmed it."
  "What! dost thou still persist, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "in
saying, thinking, believing, and maintaining that my lady Dulcinea was
sifting wheat, that being an occupation and task entirely at
variance with what is and should be the employment of persons of
distinction, who are constituted and reserved for other avocations and
pursuits that show their rank a bowshot off? Thou hast forgotten, O
Sancho, those lines of our poet wherein he paints for us how, in their
crystal abodes, those four nymphs employed themselves who rose from
their loved Tagus and seated themselves in a verdant meadow to
embroider those tissues which the ingenious poet there describes to
us, how they were worked and woven with gold and silk and pearls;
and something of this sort must have been the employment of my lady
when thou sawest her, only that the spite which some wicked
enchanter seems to have against everything of mine changes all those
things that give me pleasure, and turns them into shapes unlike
their own; and so I fear that in that history of my achievements which
they say is now in print, if haply its author was some sage who is
an enemy of mine, he will have put one thing for another, mingling a
thousand lies with one truth, and amusing himself by relating
transactions which have nothing to do with the sequence of a true
history. O envy, root of all countless evils, and cankerworm of the
virtues! All the vices, Sancho, bring some kind of pleasure with them;
but envy brings nothing but irritation, bitterness, and rage."
  "So I say too," replied Sancho; "and I suspect in that legend or
history of us that the bachelor Samson Carrasco told us he saw, my
honour goes dragged in the dirt, knocked about, up and down,
sweeping the streets, as they say. And yet, on the faith of an
honest man, I never spoke ill of any enchanter, and I am not so well
off that I am to be envied; to be sure, I am rather sly, and I have
a certain spice of the rogue in me; but all is covered by the great
cloak of my simplicity, always natural and never acted; and if I had
no other merit save that I believe, as I always do, firmly and truly
in God, and all the holy Roman Catholic Church holds and believes, and
that I am a mortal enemy of the Jews, the historians ought to have
mercy on me and treat me well in their writings. But let them say what
they like; naked was I born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor
gain; nay, while I see myself put into a book and passed on from
hand to hand over the world, I don't care a fig, let them say what
they like of me."
  "That, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "reminds me of what happened
to a famous poet of our own day, who, having written a bitter satire
against all the courtesan ladies, did not insert or name in it a
certain lady of whom it was questionable whether she was one or not.
She, seeing she was not in the list of the poet, asked him what he had
seen in her that he did not include her in the number of the others,
telling him he must add to his satire and put her in the new part,
or else look out for the consequences. The poet did as she bade him,
and left her without a shred of reputation, and she was satisfied by
getting fame though it was infamy. In keeping with this is what they
relate of that shepherd who set fire to the famous temple of Diana, by
repute one of the seven wonders of the world, and burned it with the
sole object of making his name live in after ages; and, though it
was forbidden to name him, or mention his name by word of mouth or
in writing, lest the object of his ambition should be attained,
nevertheless it became known that he was called Erostratus. And
something of the same sort is what happened in the case of the great
emperor Charles V and a gentleman in Rome. The emperor was anxious
to see that famous temple of the Rotunda, called in ancient times
the temple 'of all the gods,' but now-a-days, by a better
nomenclature, 'of all the saints,' which is the best preserved
building of all those of pagan construction in Rome, and the one which
best sustains the reputation of mighty works and magnificence of its
founders. It is in the form of a half orange, of enormous
dimensions, and well lighted, though no light penetrates it save
that which is admitted by a window, or rather round skylight, at the
top; and it was from this that the emperor examined the building. A
Roman gentleman stood by his side and explained to him the skilful
construction and ingenuity of the vast fabric and its wonderful
architecture, and when they had left the skylight he said to the
emperor, 'A thousand times, your Sacred Majesty, the impulse came upon
me to seize your Majesty in my arms and fling myself down from
yonder skylight, so as to leave behind me in the world a name that
would last for ever.' 'I am thankful to you for not carrying such an
evil thought into effect,' said the emperor, 'and I shall give you
no opportunity in future of again putting your loyalty to the test;
and I therefore forbid you ever to speak to me or to be where I am;
and he followed up these words by bestowing a liberal bounty upon him.
My meaning is, Sancho, that the desire of acquiring fame is a very
powerful motive. What, thinkest thou, was it that flung Horatius in
full armour down from the bridge into the depths of the Tiber? What
burned the hand and arm of Mutius? What impelled Curtius to plunge
into the deep burning gulf that opened in the midst of Rome? What,
in opposition to all the omens that declared against him, made
Julius Caesar cross the Rubicon? And to come to more modern
examples, what scuttled the ships, and left stranded and cut off the
gallant Spaniards under the command of the most courteous Cortes in
the New World? All these and a variety of other great exploits are,
were and will be, the work of fame that mortals desire as a reward and
a portion of the immortality their famous deeds deserve; though we
Catholic Christians and knights-errant look more to that future
glory that is everlasting in the ethereal regions of heaven than to
the vanity of the fame that is to be acquired in this present
transitory life; a fame that, however long it may last, must after all
end with the world itself, which has its own appointed end. So that, O
Sancho, in what we do we must not overpass the bounds which the
Christian religion we profess has assigned to us. We have to slay
pride in giants, envy by generosity and nobleness of heart, anger by
calmness of demeanour and equanimity, gluttony and sloth by the
spareness of our diet and the length of our vigils, lust and
lewdness by the loyalty we preserve to those whom we have made the
mistresses of our thoughts, indolence by traversing the world in all
directions seeking opportunities of making ourselves, besides
Christians, famous knights. Such, Sancho, are the means by which we
reach those extremes of praise that fair fame carries with it."
  "All that your worship has said so far," said Sancho, "I have
understood quite well; but still I would be glad if your worship would
dissolve a doubt for me, which has just this minute come into my
mind."
  "Solve, thou meanest, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "say on, in God's
name, and I will answer as well as I can."
  "Tell me, senor," Sancho went on to say, "those Julys or Augusts,
and all those venturous knights that you say are now dead- where are
they now?"
  "The heathens," replied Don Quixote, "are, no doubt, in hell; the
Christians, if they were good Christians, are either in purgatory or
in heaven."
  "Very good," said Sancho; "but now I want to know- the tombs where
the bodies of those great lords are, have they silver lamps before
them, or are the walls of their chapels ornamented with crutches,
winding-sheets, tresses of hair, legs and eyes in wax? Or what are
they ornamented with?"
  To which Don Quixote made answer: "The tombs of the heathens were
generally sumptuous temples; the ashes of Julius Caesar's body were
placed on the top of a stone pyramid of vast size, which they now call
in Rome Saint Peter's needle. The emperor Hadrian had for a tomb a
castle as large as a good-sized village, which they called the Moles
Adriani, and is now the castle of St. Angelo in Rome. The queen
Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in a tomb which was reckoned one
of the seven wonders of the world; but none of these tombs, or of
the many others of the heathens, were ornamented with winding-sheets
or any of those other offerings and tokens that show that they who are
buried there are saints."
  "That's the point I'm coming to," said Sancho; "and now tell me,
which is the greater work, to bring a dead man to life or to kill a
giant?"
  "The answer is easy," replied Don Quixote; "it is a greater work
to bring to life a dead man."
  "Now I have got you," said Sancho; "in that case the fame of them
who bring the dead to life, who give sight to the blind, cure
cripples, restore health to the sick, and before whose tombs there are
lamps burning, and whose chapels are filled with devout folk on
their knees adoring their relics be a better fame in this life and
in the other than that which all the heathen emperors and
knights-errant that have ever been in the world have left or may leave
behind them?"
  "That I grant, too," said Don Quixote.
  "Then this fame, these favours, these privileges, or whatever you
call it," said Sancho, "belong to the bodies and relics of the
saints who, with the approbation and permission of our holy mother
Church, have lamps, tapers, winding-sheets, crutches, pictures, eyes
and legs, by means of which they increase devotion and add to their
own Christian reputation. Kings carry the bodies or relics of saints
on their shoulders, and kiss bits of their bones, and enrich and adorn
their oratories and favourite altars with them."
  "What wouldst thou have me infer from all thou hast said, Sancho?"
asked Don Quixote.
  "My meaning is," said Sancho, "let us set about becoming saints, and
we shall obtain more quickly the fair fame we are striving after;
for you know, senor, yesterday or the day before yesterday (for it
is so lately one may say so) they canonised and beatified two little
barefoot friars, and it is now reckoned the greatest good luck to kiss
or touch the iron chains with which they girt and tortured their
bodies, and they are held in greater veneration, so it is said, than
the sword of Roland in the armoury of our lord the King, whom God
preserve. So that, senor, it is better to be an humble little friar of
no matter what order, than a valiant knight-errant; with God a
couple of dozen of penance lashings are of more avail than two
thousand lance-thrusts, be they given to giants, or monsters, or
dragons."
  "All that is true," returned Don Quixote, "but we cannot all be
friars, and many are the ways by which God takes his own to heaven;
chivalry is a religion, there are sainted knights in glory."
  "Yes," said Sancho, "but I have heard say that there are more friars
in heaven than knights-errant."
  "That," said Don Quixote, "is because those in religious orders
are more numerous than knights."
  "The errants are many," said Sancho.
  "Many," replied Don Quixote, "but few they who deserve the name of
knights."
  With these, and other discussions of the same sort, they passed that
night and the following day, without anything worth mention
happening to them, whereat Don Quixote was not a little dejected;
but at length the next day, at daybreak, they descried the great
city of El Toboso, at the sight of which Don Quixote's spirits rose
and Sancho's fell, for he did not know Dulcinea's house, nor in all
his life had he ever seen her, any more than his master; so that
they were both uneasy, the one to see her, the other at not having
seen her, and Sancho was at a loss to know what he was to do when
his master sent him to El Toboso. In the end, Don Quixote made up
his mind to enter the city at nightfall, and they waited until the
time came among some oak trees that were near El Toboso; and when
the moment they had agreed upon arrived, they made their entrance into
the city, where something happened them that may fairly be called
something.
  CHAPTER IX
  WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE

  'TWAS at the very midnight hour- more or less- when Don Quixote
and Sancho quitted the wood and entered El Toboso. The town was in
deep silence, for all the inhabitants were asleep, and stretched on
the broad of their backs, as the saying is. The night was darkish,
though Sancho would have been glad had it been quite dark, so as to
find in the darkness an excuse for his blundering. All over the
place nothing was to be heard except the barking of dogs, which
deafened the ears of Don Quixote and troubled the heart of Sancho. Now
and then an ass brayed, pigs grunted, cats mewed, and the various
noises they made seemed louder in the silence of the night; all
which the enamoured knight took to be of evil omen; nevertheless he
said to Sancho, "Sancho, my son, lead on to the palace of Dulcinea, it
may be that we shall find her awake."
  "Body of the sun! what palace am I to lead to," said Sancho, "when
what I saw her highness in was only a very little house?"
  "Most likely she had then withdrawn into some small apartment of her
palace," said Don Quixote, "to amuse herself with damsels, as great
ladies and princesses are accustomed to do."
  "Senor," said Sancho, "if your worship will have it in spite of me
that the house of my lady Dulcinea is a palace, is this an hour, think
you, to find the door open; and will it be right for us to go knocking
till they hear us and open the door; making a disturbance and
confusion all through the household? Are we going, do you fancy, to
the house of our wenches, like gallants who come and knock and go in
at any hour, however late it may be?"
  "Let us first of all find out the palace for certain," replied Don
Quixote, "and then I will tell thee, Sancho, what we had best do;
but look, Sancho, for either I see badly, or that dark mass that one
sees from here should be Dulcinea's palace."
  "Then let your worship lead the way," said Sancho, "perhaps it may
be so; though I see it with my eyes and touch it with my hands, I'll
believe it as much as I believe it is daylight now."
  Don Quixote took the lead, and having gone a matter of two hundred
paces he came upon the mass that produced the shade, and found it
was a great tower, and then he perceived that the building in question
was no palace, but the chief church of the town, and said he, "It's
the church we have lit upon, Sancho."
  "So I see," said Sancho, "and God grant we may not light upon our
graves; it is no good sign to find oneself wandering in a graveyard at
this time of night; and that, after my telling your worship, if I
don't mistake, that the house of this lady will be in an alley without
an outlet."
  "The curse of God on thee for a blockhead!" said Don Quixote; "where
hast thou ever heard of castles and royal palaces being built in
alleys without an outlet?"
  "Senor," replied Sancho, "every country has a way of its own;
perhaps here in El Toboso it is the way to build palaces and grand
buildings in alleys; so I entreat your worship to let me search
about among these streets or alleys before me, and perhaps, in some
corner or other, I may stumble on this palace- and I wish I saw the
dogs eating it for leading us such a dance."
  "Speak respectfully of what belongs to my lady, Sancho," said Don
Quixote; "let us keep the feast in peace, and not throw the rope after
the bucket."
  "I'll hold my tongue," said Sancho, "but how am I to take it
patiently when your worship wants me, with only once seeing the
house of our mistress, to know always, and find it in the middle of
the night, when your worship can't find it, who must have seen it
thousands of times?"
  "Thou wilt drive me to desperation, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Look
here, heretic, have I not told thee a thousand times that I have never
once in my life seen the peerless Dulcinea or crossed the threshold of
her palace, and that I am enamoured solely by hearsay and by the great
reputation she bears for beauty and discretion?"
  "I hear it now," returned Sancho; "and I may tell you that if you
have not seen her, no more have I."
  "That cannot be," said Don Quixote, "for, at any rate, thou
saidst, on bringing back the answer to the letter I sent by thee, that
thou sawest her sifting wheat."
  "Don't mind that, senor," said Sancho; "I must tell you that my
seeing her and the answer I brought you back were by hearsay too,
for I can no more tell who the lady Dulcinea is than I can hit the
sky."
  "Sancho, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there are times for jests and
times when jests are out of place; if I tell thee that I have
neither seen nor spoken to the lady of my heart, it is no reason why
thou shouldst say thou hast not spoken to her or seen her, when the
contrary is the case, as thou well knowest."
  While the two were engaged in this conversation, they perceived some
one with a pair of mules approaching the spot where they stood, and
from the noise the plough made, as it dragged along the ground, they
guessed him to be some labourer who had got up before daybreak to go
to his work, and so it proved to be. He came along singing the
ballad that says-

       Ill did ye fare, ye men of France,
         In Roncesvalles chase-

  "May I die, Sancho," said Don Quixote, when he heard him, "if any
good will come to us tonight! Dost thou not hear what that clown is
singing?"
  "I do," said Sancho, "but what has Roncesvalles chase to do with
what we have in hand? He might just as well be singing the ballad of
Calainos, for any good or ill that can come to us in our business."
  By this time the labourer had come up, and Don Quixote asked him,
"Can you tell me, worthy friend, and God speed you, whereabouts here
is the palace of the peerless princess Dona Dulcinea del Toboso?"
  "Senor," replied the lad, "I am a stranger, and I have been only a
few days in the town, doing farm work for a rich farmer. In that house
opposite there live the curate of the village and the sacristan, and
both or either of them will be able to give your worship some
account of this lady princess, for they have a list of all the
people of El Toboso; though it is my belief there is not a princess
living in the whole of it; many ladies there are, of quality, and in
her own house each of them may be a princess."
  "Well, then, she I am inquiring for will be one of these, my
friend," said Don Quixote.
  "May be so," replied the lad; "God be with you, for here comes the
daylight;" and without waiting for any more of his questions, he
whipped on his mules.
  Sancho, seeing his master downcast and somewhat dissatisfied, said
to him, "Senor, daylight will be here before long, and it will not
do for us to let the sun find us in the street; it will be better
for us to quit the city, and for your worship to hide in some forest
in the neighbourhood, and I will come back in the daytime, and I won't
leave a nook or corner of the whole village that I won't search for
the house, castle, or palace, of my lady, and it will be hard luck for
me if I don't find it; and as soon as I have found it I will speak
to her grace, and tell her where and how your worship is waiting for
her to arrange some plan for you to see her without any damage to
her honour and reputation."
  "Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou hast delivered a thousand
sentences condensed in the compass of a few words; I thank thee for
the advice thou hast given me, and take it most gladly. Come, my
son, let us go look for some place where I may hide, while thou dost
return, as thou sayest, to seek, and speak with my lady, from whose
discretion and courtesy I look for favours more than miraculous."
   Sancho was in a fever to get his master out of the town, lest he
should discover the falsehood of the reply he had brought to him in
the Sierra Morena on behalf of Dulcinea; so he hastened their
departure, which they took at once, and two miles out of the village
they found a forest or thicket wherein Don Quixote ensconced
himself, while Sancho returned to the city to speak to Dulcinea, in
which embassy things befell him which demand fresh attention and a new
chapter.
  CHAPTER X
  WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE
LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE

  WHEN the author of this great history comes to relate what is set
down in this chapter he says he would have preferred to pass it over
in silence, fearing it would not he believed, because here Don
Quixote's madness reaches the confines of the greatest that can be
conceived, and even goes a couple of bowshots beyond the greatest. But
after all, though still under the same fear and apprehension, he has
recorded it without adding to the story or leaving out a particle of
the truth, and entirely disregarding the charges of falsehood that
might be brought against him; and he was right, for the truth may
run fine but will not break, and always rises above falsehood as oil
above water; and so, going on with his story, he says that as soon
as Don Quixote had ensconced himself in the forest, oak grove, or wood
near El Toboso, he bade Sancho return to the city, and not come into
his presence again without having first spoken on his behalf to his
lady, and begged of her that it might be her good pleasure to permit
herself to be seen by her enslaved knight, and deign to bestow her
blessing upon him, so that he might thereby hope for a happy issue
in all his encounters and difficult enterprises. Sancho undertook to
execute the task according to the instructions, and to bring back an
answer as good as the one he brought back before.
  "Go, my son," said Don Quixote, "and be not dazed when thou
findest thyself exposed to the light of that sun of beauty thou art
going to seek. Happy thou, above all the squires in the world! Bear in
mind, and let it not escape thy memory, how she receives thee; if
she changes colour while thou art giving her my message; if she is
agitated and disturbed at hearing my name; if she cannot rest upon her
cushion, shouldst thou haply find her seated in the sumptuous state
chamber proper to her rank; and should she be standing, observe if she
poises herself now on one foot, now on the other; if she repeats two
or three times the reply she gives thee; if she passes from gentleness
to austerity, from asperity to tenderness; if she raises her hand to
smooth her hair though it be not disarranged. In short, my son,
observe all her actions and motions, for if thou wilt report them to
me as they were, I will gather what she hides in the recesses of her
heart as regards my love; for I would have thee know, Sancho, if
thou knowest it not, that with lovers the outward actions and
motions they give way to when their loves are in question are the
faithful messengers that carry the news of what is going on in the
depths of their hearts. Go, my friend, may better fortune than mine
attend thee, and bring thee a happier issue than that which I await in
dread in this dreary solitude."
  "I will go and return quickly," said Sancho; "cheer up that little
heart of yours, master mine, for at the present moment you seem to
have got one no bigger than a hazel nut; remember what they say,
that a stout heart breaks bad luck, and that where there are no
fletches there are no pegs; and moreover they say, the hare jumps up
where it's not looked for. I say this because, if we could not find my
lady's palaces or castles to-night, now that it is daylight I count
upon finding them when I least expect it, and once found, leave it
to me to manage her."
  "Verily, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou dost always bring in thy
proverbs happily, whatever we deal with; may God give me better luck
in what I am anxious about."
  With this, Sancho wheeled about and gave Dapple the stick, and Don
Quixote remained behind, seated on his horse, resting in his
stirrups and leaning on the end of his lance, filled with sad and
troubled forebodings; and there we will leave him, and accompany
Sancho, who went off no less serious and troubled than he left his
master; so much so, that as soon as he had got out of the thicket, and
looking round saw that Don Quixote was not within sight, he dismounted
from his ass, and seating himself at the foot of a tree began to
commune with himself, saying, "Now, brother Sancho, let us know
where your worship is going. Are you going to look for some ass that
has been lost? Not at all. Then what are you going to look for? I am
going to look for a princess, that's all; and in her for the sun of
beauty and the whole heaven at once. And where do you expect to find
all this, Sancho? Where? Why, in the great city of El Toboso. Well,
and for whom are you going to look for her? For the famous knight
Don Quixote of La Mancha, who rights wrongs, gives food to those who
thirst and drink to the hungry. That's all very well, but do you
know her house, Sancho? My master says it will be some royal palace or
grand castle. And have you ever seen her by any chance? Neither I
nor my master ever saw her. And does it strike you that it would be
just and right if the El Toboso people, finding out that you were here
with the intention of going to tamper with their princesses and
trouble their ladies, were to come and cudgel your ribs, and not leave
a whole bone in you? They would, indeed, have very good reason, if
they did not see that I am under orders, and that 'you are a
messenger, my friend, no blame belongs to you.' Don't you trust to
that, Sancho, for the Manchegan folk are as hot-tempered as they are
honest, and won't put up with liberties from anybody. By the Lord,
if they get scent of you, it will be worse for you, I promise you.
Be off, you scoundrel! Let the bolt fall. Why should I go looking
for three feet on a cat, to please another man; and what is more, when
looking for Dulcinea will be looking for Marica in Ravena, or the
bachelor in Salamanca? The devil, the devil and nobody else, has mixed
me up in this business!"
  Such was the soliloquy Sancho held with himself, and all the
conclusion he could come to was to say to himself again, "Well,
there's remedy for everything except death, under whose yoke we have
all to pass, whether we like it or not, when life's finished. I have
seen by a thousand signs that this master of mine is a madman fit to
be tied, and for that matter, I too, am not behind him; for I'm a
greater fool than he is when I follow him and serve him, if there's
any truth in the proverb that says, 'Tell me what company thou
keepest, and I'll tell thee what thou art,' or in that other, 'Not
with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art fed.' Well then, if he
be mad, as he is, and with a madness that mostly takes one thing for
another, and white for black, and black for white, as was seen when he
said the windmills were giants, and the monks' mules dromedaries,
flocks of sheep armies of enemies, and much more to the same tune,
it will not be very hard to make him believe that some country girl,
the first I come across here, is the lady Dulcinea; and if he does not
believe it, I'll swear it; and if he should swear, I'll swear again;
and if he persists I'll persist still more, so as, come what may, to
have my quoit always over the peg. Maybe, by holding out in this
way, I may put a stop to his sending me on messages of this kind
another time; or maybe he will think, as I suspect he will, that one
of those wicked enchanters, who he says have a spite against him,
has changed her form for the sake of doing him an ill turn and
injuring him."
  With this reflection Sancho made his mind easy, counting the
business as good as settled, and stayed there till the afternoon so as
to make Don Quixote think he had time enough to go to El Toboso and
return; and things turned out so luckily for him that as he got up
to mount Dapple, he spied, coming from El Toboso towards the spot
where he stood, three peasant girls on three colts, or fillies- for
the author does not make the point clear, though it is more likely
they were she-asses, the usual mount with village girls; but as it
is of no great consequence, we need not stop to prove it.
  To be brief, the instant Sancho saw the peasant girls, he returned
full speed to seek his master, and found him sighing and uttering a
thousand passionate lamentations. When Don Quixote saw him he
exclaimed, "What news, Sancho, my friend? Am I to mark this day with a
white stone or a black?"
  "Your worship," replied Sancho, "had better mark it with ruddle,
like the inscriptions on the walls of class rooms, that those who
see it may see it plain."
  "Then thou bringest good news," said Don Quixote.
  "So good," replied Sancho, "that your worship bas only to spur
Rocinante and get out into the open field to see the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, who, with two others, damsels of hers, is coming to see your
worship."
  "Holy God! what art thou saying, Sancho, my friend?" exclaimed Don
Quixote. "Take care thou art not deceiving me, or seeking by false joy
to cheer my real sadness."
  "What could I get by deceiving your worship," returned Sancho,
"especially when it will so soon be shown whether I tell the truth
or not? Come, senor, push on, and you will see the princess our
mistress coming, robed and adorned- in fact, like what she is. Her
damsels and she are all one glow of gold, all bunches of pearls, all
diamonds, all rubies, all cloth of brocade of more than ten borders;
with their hair loose on their shoulders like so many sunbeams playing
with the wind; and moreover, they come mounted on three piebald
cackneys, the finest sight ever you saw."
  "Hackneys, you mean, Sancho," said Don Quixote.
  "There is not much difference between cackneys and hackneys," said
Sancho; "but no matter what they come on, there they are, the finest
ladies one could wish for, especially my lady the princess Dulcinea,
who staggers one's senses."
  "Let us go, Sancho, my son," said Don Quixote, "and in guerdon of
this news, as unexpected as it is good, I bestow upon thee the best
spoil I shall win in the first adventure I may have; or if that does
not satisfy thee, I promise thee the foals I shall have this year from
my three mares that thou knowest are in foal on our village common."
  "I'll take the foals," said Sancho; "for it is not quite certain
that the spoils of the first adventure will be good ones."
  By this time they had cleared the wood, and saw the three village
lasses close at hand. Don Quixote looked all along the road to El
Toboso, and as he could see nobody except the three peasant girls,
he was completely puzzled, and asked Sancho if it was outside the city
he had left them.
  "How outside the city?" returned Sancho. "Are your worship's eyes in
the back of your head, that you can't see that they are these who
are coming here, shining like the very sun at noonday?"
  "I see nothing, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "but three country
girls on three jackasses."
  "Now, may God deliver me from the devil!" said Sancho, "and can it
be that your worship takes three hackneys- or whatever they're called-
as white as the driven snow, for jackasses? By the Lord, I could
tear my beard if that was the case!"
  "Well, I can only say, Sancho, my friend," said Don Quixote, "that
it is as plain they are jackasses- or jennyasses- as that I am Don
Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza: at any rate, they seem to me to be
so."
  "Hush, senor," said Sancho, "don't talk that way, but open your
eyes, and come and pay your respects to the lady of your thoughts, who
is close upon us now;" and with these words he advanced to receive the
three village lasses, and dismounting from Dapple, caught hold of
one of the asses of the three country girls by the halter, and
dropping on both knees on the ground, he said, "Queen and princess and
duchess of beauty, may it please your haughtiness and greatness to
receive into your favour and good-will your captive knight who
stands there turned into marble stone, and quite stupefied and
benumbed at finding himself in your magnificent presence. I am
Sancho Panza, his squire, and he the vagabond knight Don Quixote of La
Mancha, otherwise called 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.""
  Don Quixote had by this time placed himself on his knees beside
Sancho, and, with eyes starting out of his head and a puzzled gaze,
was regarding her whom Sancho called queen and lady; and as he could
see nothing in her except a village lass, and not a very well-favoured
one, for she was platter-faced and snub-nosed, he was perplexed and
bewildered, and did not venture to open his lips. The country girls,
at the same time, were astonished to see these two men, so different
in appearance, on their knees, preventing their companion from going
on. She, however, who had been stopped, breaking silence, said angrily
and testily, "Get out of the way, bad luck to you, and let us pass,
for we are in a hurry."
  To which Sancho returned, "Oh, princess and universal lady of El
Toboso, is not your magnanimous heart softened by seeing the pillar
and prop of knight-errantry on his knees before your sublimated
presence?"
  On hearing this, one of the others exclaimed, "Woa then! why, I'm
rubbing thee down, she-ass of my father-in-law! See how the
lordlings come to make game of the village girls now, as if we here
could not chaff as well as themselves. Go your own way, and let us
go ours, and it will be better for you."
  "Get up, Sancho," said Don Quixote at this; "I see that fortune,
'with evil done to me unsated still,' has taken possession of all
the roads by which any comfort may reach 'this wretched soul' that I
carry in my flesh. And thou, highest perfection of excellence that can
be desired, utmost limit of grace in human shape, sole relief of
this afflicted heart that adores thee, though the malign enchanter
that persecutes me has brought clouds and cataracts on my eyes, and to
them, and them only, transformed thy unparagoned beauty and changed
thy features into those of a poor peasant girl, if so be he has not at
the same time changed mine into those of some monster to render them
loathsome in thy sight, refuse not to look upon me with tenderness and
love; seeing in this submission that I make on my knees to thy
transformed beauty the humility with which my soul adores thee."
  "Hey-day! My grandfather!" cried the girl, "much I care for your
love-making! Get out of the way and let us pass, and we'll thank you."
  Sancho stood aside and let her go, very well pleased to have got
so well out of the hobble he was in. The instant the village lass
who had done duty for Dulcinea found herself free, prodding her
"cackney" with a spike she had at the end of a stick, she set off at
full speed across the field. The she-ass, however, feeling the point
more acutely than usual, began cutting such capers, that it flung
the lady Dulcinea to the ground; seeing which, Don Quixote ran to
raise her up, and Sancho to fix and girth the pack-saddle, which
also had slipped under the ass's belly. The pack-saddle being secured,
as Don Quixote was about to lift up his enchanted mistress in his arms
and put her upon her beast, the lady, getting up from the ground,
saved him the trouble, for, going back a little, she took a short run,
and putting both hands on the croup of the ass she dropped into the
saddle more lightly than a falcon, and sat astride like a man, whereat
Sancho said, "Rogue!" but our lady is lighter than a lanner, and might
teach the cleverest Cordovan or Mexican how to mount; she cleared
the back of the saddle in one jump, and without spurs she is making
the hackney go like a zebra; and her damsels are no way behind her,
for they all fly like the wind;" which was the truth, for as soon as
they saw Dulcinea mounted, they pushed on after her, and sped away
without looking back, for more than half a league.
  Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, and when they were no
longer in sight, he turned to Sancho and said, "How now, Sancho?
thou seest how I am hated by enchanters! And see to what a length
the malice and spite they bear me go, when they seek to deprive me
of the happiness it would give me to see my lady in her own proper
form. The fact is I was born to be an example of misfortune, and the
target and mark at which the arrows of adversity are aimed and
directed. Observe too, Sancho, that these traitors were not content
with changing and transforming my Dulcinea, but they transformed and
changed her into a shape as mean and ill-favoured as that of the
village girl yonder; and at the same time they robbed her of that
which is such a peculiar property of ladies of distinction, that is to
say, the sweet fragrance that comes of being always among perfumes and
flowers. For I must tell thee, Sancho, that when I approached to put
Dulcinea upon her hackney (as thou sayest it was, though to me it
appeared a she-ass), she gave me a whiff of raw garlic that made my
head reel, and poisoned my very heart."
  "O scum of the earth!" cried Sancho at this, "O miserable,
spiteful enchanters! O that I could see you all strung by the gills,
like sardines on a twig! Ye know a great deal, ye can do a great deal,
and ye do a great deal more. It ought to have been enough for you,
ye scoundrels, to have changed the pearls of my lady's eyes into oak
galls, and her hair of purest gold into the bristles of a red ox's
tail, and in short, all her features from fair to foul, without
meddling with her smell; for by that we might somehow have found out
what was hidden underneath that ugly rind; though, to tell the
truth, I never perceived her ugliness, but only her beauty, which
was raised to the highest pitch of perfection by a mole she had on her
right lip, like a moustache, with seven or eight red hairs like
threads of gold, and more than a palm long."
  "From the correspondence which exists between those of the face
and those of the body," said Don Quixote, "Dulcinea must have
another mole resembling that on the thick of the thigh on that side on
which she has the one on her ace; but hairs of the length thou hast
mentioned are very long for moles."
  "Well, all I can say is there they were as plain as could be,"
replied Sancho.
  "I believe it, my friend," returned Don Quixote; "for nature
bestowed nothing on Dulcinea that was not perfect and well-finished;
and so, if she had a hundred moles like the one thou hast described,
in her they would not be moles, but moons and shining stars. But
tell me, Sancho, that which seemed to me to be a pack-saddle as thou
wert fixing it, was it a flat-saddle or a side-saddle?"
  "It was neither," replied Sancho, "but a jineta saddle, with a field
covering worth half a kingdom, so rich is it."
  "And that I could not see all this, Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "once
more I say, and will say a thousand times, I am the most unfortunate
of men."
  Sancho, the rogue, had enough to do to hide his laughter, at hearing
the simplicity of the master he had so nicely befooled. At length,
after a good deal more conversation had passed between them, they
remounted their beasts, and followed the road to Saragossa, which they
expected to reach in time to take part in a certain grand festival
which is held every year in that illustrious city; but before they got
there things happened to them, so many, so important, and so
strange, that they deserve to be recorded and read, as will be seen
farther on.
  CHAPTER XI
  OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH
THE CAR OR CART OF "THE CORTES OF DEATH"

  DEJECTED beyond measure did Don Quixote pursue his journey,
turning over in his mind the cruel trick the enchanters had played him
in changing his lady Dulcinea into the vile shape of the village lass,
nor could he think of any way of restoring her to her original form;
and these reflections so absorbed him, that without being aware of
it he let go Rocinante's bridle, and he, perceiving the liberty that
was granted him, stopped at every step to crop the fresh grass with
which the plain abounded.
  Sancho recalled him from his reverie. "Melancholy, senor," said
he, "was made, not for beasts, but for men; but if men give way to
it overmuch they turn to beasts; control yourself, your worship; be
yourself again; gather up Rocinante's reins; cheer up, rouse
yourself and show that gallant spirit that knights-errant ought to
have. What the devil is this? What weakness is this? Are we here or in
France? The devil fly away with all the Dulcineas in the world; for
the well-being of a single knight-errant is of more consequence than
all the enchantments and transformations on earth."
  "Hush, Sancho," said Don Quixote in a weak and faint voice, "hush
and utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady; for I alone am
to blame for her misfortune and hard fate; her calamity has come of
the hatred the wicked bear me."
  "So say I," returned Sancho; "his heart rend in twain, I trow, who
saw her once, to see her now."
  "Thou mayest well say that, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "as thou
sawest her in the full perfection of her beauty; for the enchantment
does not go so far as to pervert thy vision or hide her loveliness
from thee; against me alone and against my eyes is the strength of its
venom directed. Nevertheless, there is one thing which has occurred to
me, and that is that thou didst ill describe her beauty to me, for, as
well as I recollect, thou saidst that her eyes were pearls; but eyes
that are like pearls are rather the eyes of a sea-bream than of a
lady, and I am persuaded that Dulcinea's must be green emeralds,
full and soft, with two rainbows for eyebrows; take away those
pearls from her eyes and transfer them to her teeth; for beyond a
doubt, Sancho, thou hast taken the one for the other, the eyes for the
teeth."
  "Very likely," said Sancho; "for her beauty bewildered me as much as
her ugliness did your worship; but let us leave it all to God, who
alone knows what is to happen in this vale of tears, in this evil
world of ours, where there is hardly a thing to be found without
some mixture of wickedness, roguery, and rascality. But one thing,
senor, troubles me more than all the rest, and that is thinking what
is to be done when your worship conquers some giant, or some other
knight, and orders him to go and present himself before the beauty
of the lady Dulcinea. Where is this poor giant, or this poor wretch of
a vanquished knight, to find her? I think I can see them wandering all
over El Toboso, looking like noddies, and asking for my lady Dulcinea;
and even if they meet her in the middle of the street they won't
know her any more than they would my father."
  "Perhaps, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "the enchantment does not
go so far as to deprive conquered and presented giants and knights
of the power of recognising Dulcinea; we will try by experiment with
one or two of the first I vanquish and send to her, whether they see
her or not, by commanding them to return and give me an account of
what happened to them in this respect."
  "I declare, I think what your worship has proposed is excellent,"
said Sancho; "and that by this plan we shall find out what we want
to know; and if it be that it is only from your worship she is hidden,
the misfortune will be more yours than hers; but so long as the lady
Dulcinea is well and happy, we on our part will make the best of it,
and get on as well as we can, seeking our adventures, and leaving Time
to take his own course; for he is the best physician for these and
greater ailments."
  Don Quixote was about to reply to Sancho Panza, but he was prevented
by a cart crossing the road full of the most diverse and strange
personages and figures that could be imagined. He who led the mules
and acted as carter was a hideous demon; the cart was open to the sky,
without a tilt or cane roof, and the first figure that presented
itself to Don Quixote's eyes was that of Death itself with a human
face; next to it was an angel with large painted wings, and at one
side an emperor, with a crown, to all appearance of gold, on his head.
At the feet of Death was the god called Cupid, without his bandage,
but with his bow, quiver, and arrows; there was also a knight in
full armour, except that he had no morion or helmet, but only a hat
decked with plumes of divers colours; and along with these there
were others with a variety of costumes and faces. All this,
unexpectedly encountered, took Don Quixote somewhat aback, and
struck terror into the heart of Sancho; but the next instant Don
Quixote was glad of it, believing that some new perilous adventure was
presenting itself to him, and under this impression, and with a spirit
prepared to face any danger, he planted himself in front of the
cart, and in a loud and menacing tone, exclaimed, "Carter, or
coachman, or devil, or whatever thou art, tell me at once who thou
art, whither thou art going, and who these folk are thou carriest in
thy wagon, which looks more like Charon's boat than an ordinary cart."
  To which the devil, stopping the cart, answered quietly, "Senor,
we are players of Angulo el Malo's company; we have been acting the
play of 'The Cortes of Death' this morning, which is the octave of
Corpus Christi, in a village behind that hill, and we have to act it
this afternoon in that village which you can see from this; and as
it is so near, and to save the trouble of undressing and dressing
again, we go in the costumes in which we perform. That lad there
appears as Death, that other as an angel, that woman, the manager's
wife, plays the queen, this one the soldier, that the emperor, and I
the devil; and I am one of the principal characters of the play, for
in this company I take the leading parts. If you want to know anything
more about us, ask me and I will answer with the utmost exactitude,
for as I am a devil I am up to everything."
  "By the faith of a knight-errant," replied Don Quixote, "when I
saw this cart I fancied some great adventure was presenting itself
to me; but I declare one must touch with the hand what appears to
the eye, if illusions are to be avoided. God speed you, good people;
keep your festival, and remember, if you demand of me ought wherein
I can render you a service, I will do it gladly and willingly, for
from a child I was fond of the play, and in my youth a keen lover of
the actor's art."
  While they were talking, fate so willed it that one of the company
in a mummers' dress with a great number of bells, and armed with three
blown ox-bladders at the end of a stick, joined them, and this
merry-andrew approaching Don Quixote, began flourishing his stick
and banging the ground with the bladders and cutting capers with great
jingling of the bells, which untoward apparition so startled Rocinante
that, in spite of Don Quixote's efforts to hold him in, taking the bit
between his teeth he set off across the plain with greater speed
than the bones of his anatomy ever gave any promise of. Sancho, who
thought his master was in danger of being thrown, jumped off Dapple,
and ran in all haste to help him; but by the time he reached him he
was already on the ground, and beside him was Rocinante, who had
come down with his master, the usual end and upshot of Rocinante's
vivacity and high spirits. But the moment Sancho quitted his beast
to go and help Don Quixote, the dancing devil with the bladders jumped
up on Dapple, and beating him with them, more by the fright and the
noise than by the pain of the blows, made him fly across the fields
towards the village where they were going to hold their festival.
Sancho witnessed Dapple's career and his master's fall, and did not
know which of the two cases of need he should attend to first; but
in the end, like a good squire and good servant, he let his love for
his master prevail over his affection for his ass; though every time
he saw the bladders rise in the air and come down on the hind quarters
of his Dapple he felt the pains and terrors of death, and he would
have rather had the blows fall on the apples of his own eyes than on
the least hair of his ass's tail. In this trouble and perplexity he
came to where Don Quixote lay in a far sorrier plight than he liked,
and having helped him to mount Rocinante, he said to him, "Senor,
the devil has carried off my Dapple."
  "What devil?" asked Don Quixote.
  "The one with the bladders," said Sancho.
  "Then I will recover him," said Don Quixote, "even if he be shut
up with him in the deepest and darkest dungeons of hell. Follow me,
Sancho, for the cart goes slowly, and with the mules of it I will make
good the loss of Dapple."
  "You need not take the trouble, senor," said Sancho; "keep cool, for
as I now see, the devil has let Dapple go and he is coming back to his
old quarters;" and so it turned out, for, having come down with
Dapple, in imitation of Don Quixote and Rocinante, the devil made
off on foot to the town, and the ass came back to his master.
  "For all that," said Don Quixote, "it will be well to visit the
discourtesy of that devil upon some of those in the cart, even if it
were the emperor himself."
  "Don't think of it, your worship," returned Sancho; "take my
advice and never meddle with actors, for they are a favoured class;
I myself have known an actor taken up for two murders, and yet come
off scot-free; remember that, as they are merry folk who give
pleasure, everyone favours and protects them, and helps and makes much
of them, above all when they are those of the royal companies and
under patent, all or most of whom in dress and appearance look like
princes."
  "Still, for all that," said Don Quixote, "the player devil must
not go off boasting, even if the whole human race favours him."
  So saying, he made for the cart, which was now very near the town,
shouting out as he went, "Stay! halt! ye merry, jovial crew! I want to
teach you how to treat asses and animals that serve the squires of
knights-errant for steeds."
  So loud were the shouts of Don Quixote, that those in the cart heard
and understood them, and, guessing by the words what the speaker's
intention was, Death in an instant jumped out of the cart, and the
emperor, the devil carter and the angel after him, nor did the queen
or the god Cupid stay behind; and all armed themselves with stones and
formed in line, prepared to receive Don Quixote on the points of their
pebbles. Don Quixote, when he saw them drawn up in such a gallant
array with uplifted arms ready for a mighty discharge of stones,
checked Rocinante and began to consider in what way he could attack
them with the least danger to himself. As he halted Sancho came up,
and seeing him disposed to attack this well-ordered squadron, said
to him, "It would be the height of madness to attempt such an
enterprise; remember, senor, that against sops from the brook, and
plenty of them, there is no defensive armour in the world, except to
stow oneself away under a brass bell; and besides, one should remember
that it is rashness, and not valour, for a single man to attack an
army that has Death in it, and where emperors fight in person, with
angels, good and bad, to help them; and if this reflection will not
make you keep quiet, perhaps it will to know for certain that among
all these, though they look like kings, princes, and emperors, there
is not a single knight-errant."
  "Now indeed thou hast hit the point, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
"which may and should turn me from the resolution I had already
formed. I cannot and must not draw sword, as I have many a time before
told thee, against anyone who is not a dubbed knight; it is for
thee, Sancho, if thou wilt, to take vengeance for the wrong done to
thy Dapple; and I will help thee from here by shouts and salutary
counsels."
  "There is no occasion to take vengeance on anyone, senor," replied
Sancho; "for it is not the part of good Christians to revenge
wrongs; and besides, I will arrange it with my ass to leave his
grievance to my good-will and pleasure, and that is to live in peace
as long as heaven grants me life."
  "Well," said Don Quixote, "if that be thy determination, good
Sancho, sensible Sancho, Christian Sancho, honest Sancho, let us leave
these phantoms alone and turn to the pursuit of better and worthier
adventures; for, from what I see of this country, we cannot fail to
find plenty of marvellous ones in it."
  He at once wheeled about, Sancho ran to take possession of his
Dapple, Death and his flying squadron returned to their cart and
pursued their journey, and thus the dread adventure of the cart of
Death ended happily, thanks to the advice Sancho gave his master;
who had, the following day, a fresh adventure, of no less thrilling
interest than the last, with an enamoured knight-errant.
  CHAPTER XII
  OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH
THE BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS

  THE night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, Don
Quixote and his squire passed under some tall shady trees, and Don
Quixote at Sancho's persuasion ate a little from the store carried
by Dapple, and over their supper Sancho said to his master, "Senor,
what a fool I should have looked if I had chosen for my reward the
spoils of the first adventure your worship achieved, instead of the
foals of the three mares. After all, 'a sparrow in the hand is
better than a vulture on the wing.'"
  "At the same time, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "if thou hadst
let me attack them as I wanted, at the very least the emperor's gold
crown and Cupid's painted wings would have fallen to thee as spoils,
for I should have taken them by force and given them into thy hands."
  "The sceptres and crowns of those play-actor emperors," said Sancho,
"were never yet pure gold, but only brass foil or tin."
  "That is true," said Don Quixote, "for it would not be right that
the accessories of the drama should be real, instead of being mere
fictions and semblances, like the drama itself; towards which, Sancho-
and, as a necessary consequence, towards those who represent and
produce it- I would that thou wert favourably disposed, for they are
all instruments of great good to the State, placing before us at every
step a mirror in which we may see vividly displayed what goes on in
human life; nor is there any similitude that shows us more
faithfully what we are and ought to be than the play and the
players. Come, tell me, hast thou not seen a play acted in which
kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and divers other
personages were introduced? One plays the villain, another the
knave, this one the merchant, that the soldier, one the sharp-witted
fool, another the foolish lover; and when the play is over, and they
have put off the dresses they wore in it, all the actors become
equal."
  "Yes, I have seen that," said Sancho.
  "Well then," said Don Quixote, "the same thing happens in the comedy
and life of this world, where some play emperors, others popes, and,
in short, all the characters that can be brought into a play; but when
it is over, that is to say when life ends, death strips them all of
the garments that distinguish one from the other, and all are equal in
the grave."
  "A fine comparison!" said Sancho; "though not so new but that I have
heard it many and many a time, as well as that other one of the game
of chess; how, so long as the game lasts, each piece has its own
particular office, and when the game is finished they are all mixed,
jumbled up and shaken together, and stowed away in the bag, which is
much like ending life in the grave."
  "Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho,"
said Don Quixote.
  "Ay," said Sancho; "it must be that some of your worship's
shrewdness sticks to me; land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will
come to yield good fruit if you dung it and till it; what I mean is
that your worship's conversation has been the dung that has fallen
on the barren soil of my dry wit, and the time I have been in your
service and society has been the tillage; and with the help of this
I hope to yield fruit in abundance that will not fall away or slide
from those paths of good breeding that your worship has made in my
parched understanding."
  Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's affected phraseology, and
perceived that what he said about his improvement was true, for now
and then he spoke in a way that surprised him; though always, or
mostly, when Sancho tried to talk fine and attempted polite
language, he wound up by toppling over from the summit of his
simplicity into the abyss of his ignorance; and where he showed his
culture and his memory to the greatest advantage was in dragging in
proverbs, no matter whether they had any bearing or not upon the
subject in hand, as may have been seen already and will be noticed
in the course of this history.
  In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night,
but Sancho felt a desire to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he
used to say when he wanted to go to sleep; and stripping Dapple he
left him at liberty to graze his fill. He did not remove Rocinante's
saddle, as his master's express orders were, that so long as they were
in the field or not sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be
stripped- the ancient usage established and observed by knights-errant
being to take off the bridle and hang it on the saddle-bow, but to
remove the saddle from the horse- never! Sancho acted accordingly, and
gave him the same liberty he had given Dapple, between whom and
Rocinante there was a friendship so unequalled and so strong, that
it is handed down by tradition from father to son, that the author
of this veracious history devoted some special chapters to it,
which, in order to preserve the propriety and decorum due to a history
so heroic, he did not insert therein; although at times he forgets
this resolution of his and describes how eagerly the two beasts
would scratch one another when they were together and how, when they
were tired or full, Rocinante would lay his neck across Dapple's,
stretching half a yard or more on the other side, and the pair would
stand thus, gazing thoughtfully on the ground, for three days, or at
least so long as they were left alone, or hunger did not drive them to
go and look for food. I may add that they say the author left it on
record that he likened their friendship to that of Nisus and Euryalus,
and Pylades and Orestes; and if that be so, it may be perceived, to
the admiration of mankind, how firm the friendship must have been
between these two peaceful animals, shaming men, who preserve
friendships with one another so badly. This was why it was said-

       For friend no longer is there friend;
       The reeds turn lances now.

And some one else has sung-

       Friend to friend the bug, &c.

And let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he
compared the friendship of these animals to that of men; for men
have received many lessons from beasts, and learned many important
things, as, for example, the clyster from the stork, vomit and
gratitude from the dog, watchfulness from the crane, foresight from
the ant, modesty from the elephant, and loyalty from the horse.
  Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don
Quixote dozed at that of a sturdy oak; but a short time only had
elapsed when a noise he heard behind him awoke him, and rising up
startled, he listened and looked in the direction the noise came from,
and perceived two men on horseback, one of whom, letting himself
drop from the saddle, said to the other, "Dismount, my friend, and
take the bridles off the horses, for, so far as I can see, this
place will furnish grass for them, and the solitude and silence my
love-sick thoughts need of." As he said this he stretched himself upon
the ground, and as he flung himself down, the armour in which he was
clad rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that he must be a
knight-errant; and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he shook
him by the arm and with no small difficulty brought him back to his
senses, and said in a low voice to him, "Brother Sancho, we have got
an adventure."
  "God send us a good one," said Sancho; "and where may her ladyship
the adventure be?"
  "Where, Sancho?" replied Don Quixote; "turn thine eyes and look, and
thou wilt see stretched there a knight-errant, who, it strikes me,
is not over and above happy, for I saw him fling himself off his horse
and throw himself on the ground with a certain air of dejection, and
his armour rattled as he fell."
  "Well," said Sancho, "how does your worship make out that to be an
adventure?"
  "I do not mean to say," returned Don Quixote, "that it is a complete
adventure, but that it is the beginning of one, for it is in this
way adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is tuning a lute
or guitar, and from the way he is spitting and clearing his chest he
must be getting ready to sing something."
  "Faith, you are right," said Sancho, "and no doubt he is some
enamoured knight."
  "There is no knight-errant that is not," said Don Quixote; "but
let us listen to him, for, if he sings, by that thread we shall
extract the ball of his thoughts; because out of the abundance of
the heart the mouth speaketh."
  Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the
Grove's voice, which was neither very bad nor very good, stopped
him, and listening attentively the pair heard him sing this

                        SONNET

     Your pleasure, prithee, lady mine, unfold;
       Declare the terms that I am to obey;
     My will to yours submissively I mould,
       And from your law my feet shall never stray.
       Would you I die, to silent grief a prey?
     Then count me even now as dead and cold;
       Would you I tell my woes in some new way?
     Then shall my tale by Love itself be told.
     The unison of opposites to prove,
       Of the soft wax and diamond hard am I;
     But still, obedient to the laws of love,
       Here, hard or soft, I offer you my breast,
       Whate'er you grave or stamp thereon shall rest
            Indelible for all eternity.

With an "Ah me!" that seemed to be drawn from the inmost recesses of
his heart, the Knight of the Grove brought his lay to an end, and
shortly afterwards exclaimed in a melancholy and piteous voice, "O
fairest and most ungrateful woman on earth! What! can it be, most
serene Casildea de Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive
knight to waste away and perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and
arduous toils? It is not enough that I have compelled all the
knights of Navarre, all the Leonese, all the Tartesians, all the
Castilians, and finally all the knights of La Mancha, to confess
thee the most beautiful in the world?"
  "Not so," said Don Quixote at this, "for I am of La Mancha, and I
have never confessed anything of the sort, nor could I nor should I
confess a thing so much to the prejudice of my lady's beauty; thou
seest how this knight is raving, Sancho. But let us listen, perhaps he
will tell us more about himself."
  "That he will," returned Sancho, "for he seems in a mood to bewail
himself for a month at a stretch."
  But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Grove, hearing
voices near him, instead of continuing his lamentation, stood up and
exclaimed in a distinct but courteous tone, "Who goes there? What
are you? Do you belong to the number of the happy or of the
miserable?"
  "Of the miserable," answered Don Quixote.
  "Then come to me," said he of the Grove, "and rest assured that it
is to woe itself and affliction itself you come."
  Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous
manner, went over to him, and so did Sancho.
  The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, "Sit down
here, sir knight; for, that you are one, and of those that profess
knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to have found you in
this place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper
retreat of knights-errant, keep you company." To which Don made
answer, "A knight I am of the profession you mention, and though
sorrows, misfortunes, and calamities have made my heart their abode,
the compassion I feel for the misfortunes of others has not been
thereby banished from it. From what you have just now sung I gather
that yours spring from love, I mean from the love you bear that fair
ingrate you named in your lament."
  In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard
ground peaceably and sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke,
they were not going to break one another's heads.
  "Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?" asked he of the Grove of
Don Quixote.
  "By mischance I am," replied Don Quixote; "though the ills arising
from well-bestowed affections should be esteemed favours rather than
misfortunes."
  "That is true," returned he of the Grove, "if scorn did not unsettle
our reason and understanding, for if it be excessive it looks like
revenge."
  "I was never scorned by my lady," said Don Quixote.
  "Certainly not," said Sancho, who stood close by, "for my lady is as
a lamb, and softer than a roll of butter."
  "Is this your squire?" asked he of the Grove.
  "He is," said Don Quixote.
  "I never yet saw a squire," said he of the Grove, "who ventured to
speak when his master was speaking; at least, there is mine, who is as
big as his father, and it cannot be proved that he has ever opened his
lips when I am speaking."
  "By my faith then," said Sancho, "I have spoken, and am fit to
speak, in the presence of one as much, or even- but never mind- it
only makes it worse to stir it."
  The squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to him,
"Let us two go where we can talk in squire style as much as we please,
and leave these gentlemen our masters to fight it out over the story
of their loves; and, depend upon it, daybreak will find them at it
without having made an end of it."
  "So be it by all means," said Sancho; "and I will tell your
worship who I am, that you may see whether I am to be reckoned among
the number of the most talkative squires."
  With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between them
there passed a conversation as droll as that which passed between
their masters was serious.
  CHAPTER XIII
  IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE,
TOGETHER WITH THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT
PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO SQUIRES

  THE knights and the squires made two parties, these telling the
story of their lives, the others the story of their loves; but the
history relates first of all the conversation of the servants, and
afterwards takes up that of the masters; and it says that, withdrawing
a little from the others, he of the Grove said to Sancho, "A hard life
it is we lead and live, senor, we that are squires to
knights-errant; verily, we eat our bread in the sweat of our faces,
which is one of the curses God laid on our first parents."
  "It may be said, too," added Sancho, "that we eat it in the chill of
our bodies; for who gets more heat and cold than the miserable squires
of knight-errantry? Even so it would not be so bad if we had something
to eat, for woes are lighter if there's bread; but sometimes we go a
day or two without breaking our fast, except with the wind that
blows."
  "All that," said he of the Grove, "may be endured and put up with
when we have hopes of reward; for, unless the knight-errant he
serves is excessively unlucky, after a few turns the squire will at
least find himself rewarded with a fine government of some island or
some fair county."
  "I," said Sancho, "have already told my master that I shall be
content with the government of some island, and he is so noble and
generous that he has promised it to me ever so many times."
  "I," said he of the Grove, "shall be satisfied with a canonry for my
services, and my master has already assigned me one."
  "Your master," said Sancho, "no doubt is a knight in the Church
line, and can bestow rewards of that sort on his good squire; but mine
is only a layman; though I remember some clever, but, to my mind,
designing people, strove to persuade him to try and become an
archbishop. He, however, would not be anything but an emperor; but I
was trembling all the time lest he should take a fancy to go into
the Church, not finding myself fit to hold office in it; for I may
tell you, though I seem a man, I am no better than a beast for the
Church."
  "Well, then, you are wrong there," said he of the Grove; "for
those island governments are not all satisfactory; some are awkward,
some are poor, some are dull, and, in short, the highest and
choicest brings with it a heavy burden of cares and troubles which the
unhappy wight to whose lot it has fallen bears upon his shoulders. Far
better would it be for us who have adopted this accursed service to go
back to our own houses, and there employ ourselves in pleasanter
occupations -in hunting or fishing, for instance; for what squire in
the world is there so poor as not to have a hack and a couple of
greyhounds and a fishingrod to amuse himself with in his own village?"
  "I am not in want of any of those things," said Sancho; "to be
sure I have no hack, but I have an ass that is worth my master's horse
twice over; God send me a bad Easter, and that the next one I am to
see, if I would swap, even if I got four bushels of barley to boot.
You will laugh at the value I put on my Dapple- for dapple is the
colour of my beast. As to greyhounds, I can't want for them, for there
are enough and to spare in my town; and, moreover, there is more
pleasure in sport when it is at other people's expense."
  "In truth and earnest, sir squire," said he of the Grove, "I have
made up my mind and determined to have done with these drunken
vagaries of these knights, and go back to my village, and bring up
my children; for I have three, like three Oriental pearls."
  "I have two," said Sancho, "that might be presented before the
Pope himself, especially a girl whom I am breeding up for a
countess, please God, though in spite of her mother."
  "And how old is this lady that is being bred up for a countess?"
asked he of the Grove.
  "Fifteen, a couple of years more or less," answered Sancho; "but she
is as tall as a lance, and as fresh as an April morning, and as strong
as a porter."
  "Those are gifts to fit her to be not only a countess but a nymph of
the greenwood," said he of the Grove; "whoreson strumpet! what pith
the rogue must have!"
  To which Sancho made answer, somewhat sulkily, "She's no strumpet,
nor was her mother, nor will either of them be, please God, while I
live; speak more civilly; for one bred up among knights-errant, who
are courtesy itself, your words don't seem to me to be very becoming."
  "O how little you know about compliments, sir squire," returned he
of the Grove. "What! don't you know that when a horseman delivers a
good lance thrust at the bull in the plaza, or when anyone does
anything very well, the people are wont to say, 'Ha, whoreson rip! how
well he has done it!' and that what seems to be abuse in the
expression is high praise? Disown sons and daughters, senor, who don't
do what deserves that compliments of this sort should be paid to their
parents."
  "I do disown them," replied Sancho, "and in this way, and by the
same reasoning, you might call me and my children and my wife all
the strumpets in the world, for all they do and say is of a kind
that in the highest degree deserves the same praise; and to see them
again I pray God to deliver me from mortal sin, or, what comes to
the same thing, to deliver me from this perilous calling of squire
into which I have fallen a second time, decayed and beguiled by a
purse with a hundred ducats that I found one day in the heart of the
Sierra Morena; and the devil is always putting a bag full of doubloons
before my eyes, here, there, everywhere, until I fancy at every stop I
am putting my hand on it, and hugging it, and carrying it home with
me, and making investments, and getting interest, and living like a
prince; and so long as I think of this I make light of all the
hardships I endure with this simpleton of a master of mine, who, I
well know, is more of a madman than a knight."
  "There's why they say that 'covetousness bursts the bag,'" said he
of the Grove; "but if you come to talk of that sort, there is not a
greater one in the world than my master, for he is one of those of
whom they say, 'the cares of others kill the ass;' for, in order
that another knight may recover the senses he has lost, he makes a
madman of himself and goes looking for what, when found, may, for
all I know, fly in his own face."
 "And is he in love perchance?" asked Sancho.
  "He is," said of the Grove, "with one Casildea de Vandalia, the
rawest and best roasted lady the whole world could produce; but that
rawness is not the only foot he limps on, for he has greater schemes
rumbling in his bowels, as will be seen before many hours are over."
  "There's no road so smooth but it has some hole or hindrance in it,"
said Sancho; "in other houses they cook beans, but in mine it's by the
potful; madness will have more followers and hangers-on than sound
sense; but if there be any truth in the common saying, that to have
companions in trouble gives some relief, I may take consolation from
you, inasmuch as you serve a master as crazy as my own."
  "Crazy but valiant," replied he of the Grove, "and more roguish than
crazy or valiant."
  "Mine is not that," said Sancho; "I mean he has nothing of the rogue
in him; on the contrary, he has the soul of a pitcher; he has no
thought of doing harm to anyone, only good to all, nor has he any
malice whatever in him; a child might persuade him that it is night at
noonday; and for this simplicity I love him as the core of my heart,
and I can't bring myself to leave him, let him do ever such foolish
things."
  "For all that, brother and senor," said he of the Grove, "if the
blind lead the blind, both are in danger of falling into the pit. It
is better for us to beat a quiet retreat and get back to our own
quarters; for those who seek adventures don't always find good ones."
  Sancho kept spitting from time to time, and his spittle seemed
somewhat ropy and dry, observing which the compassionate squire of the
Grove said, "It seems to me that with all this talk of ours our
tongues are sticking to the roofs of our mouths; but I have a pretty
good loosener hanging from the saddle-bow of my horse," and getting up
he came back the next minute with a large bota of wine and a pasty
half a yard across; and this is no exaggeration, for it was made of
a house rabbit so big that Sancho, as he handled it, took it to be
made of a goat, not to say a kid, and looking at it he said, "And do
you carry this with you, senor?"
  "Why, what are you thinking about?" said the other; "do you take
me for some paltry squire? I carry a better larder on my horse's croup
than a general takes with him when he goes on a march."
  Sancho ate without requiring to be pressed, and in the dark bolted
mouthfuls like the knots on a tether, and said he, "You are a proper
trusty squire, one of the right sort, sumptuous and grand, as this
banquet shows, which, if it has not come here by magic art, at any
rate has the look of it; not like me, unlucky beggar, that have
nothing more in my alforjas than a scrap of cheese, so hard that one
might brain a giant with it, and, to keep it company, a few dozen
carobs and as many more filberts and walnuts; thanks to the
austerity of my master, and the idea he has and the rule he follows,
that knights-errant must not live or sustain themselves on anything
except dried fruits and the herbs of the field."
  "By my faith, brother," said he of the Grove, "my stomach is not
made for thistles, or wild pears, or roots of the woods; let our
masters do as they like, with their chivalry notions and laws, and eat
what those enjoin; I carry my prog-basket and this bota hanging to the
saddle-bow, whatever they may say; and it is such an object of worship
with me, and I love it so, that there is hardly a moment but I am
kissing and embracing it over and over again;" and so saying he thrust
it into Sancho's hands, who raising it aloft pointed to his mouth,
gazed at the stars for a quarter of an hour; and when he had done
drinking let his head fall on one side, and giving a deep sigh,
exclaimed, "Ah, whoreson rogue, how catholic it is!"
  "There, you see," said he of the Grove, hearing Sancho's
exclamation, "how you have called this wine whoreson by way of
praise."
  "Well," said Sancho, "I own it, and I grant it is no dishonour to
call anyone whoreson when it is to be understood as praise. But tell
me, senor, by what you love best, is this Ciudad Real wine?"
  "O rare wine-taster!" said he of the Grove; "nowhere else indeed
does it come from, and it has some years' age too."
  "Leave me alone for that," said Sancho; "never fear but I'll hit
upon the place it came from somehow. What would you say, sir squire,
to my having such a great natural instinct in judging wines that you
have only to let me smell one and I can tell positively its country,
its kind, its flavour and soundness, the changes it will undergo,
and everything that appertains to a wine? But it is no wonder, for I
have had in my family, on my father's side, the two best
wine-tasters that have been known in La Mancha for many a long year,
and to prove it I'll tell you now a thing that happened them. They
gave the two of them some wine out of a cask, to try, asking their
opinion as to the condition, quality, goodness or badness of the wine.
One of them tried it with the tip of his tongue, the other did no more
than bring it to his nose. The first said the wine had a flavour of
iron, the second said it had a stronger flavour of cordovan. The owner
said the cask was clean, and that nothing had been added to the wine
from which it could have got a flavour of either iron or leather.
Nevertheless, these two great wine-tasters held to what they had said.
Time went by, the wine was sold, and when they came to clean out the
cask, they found in it a small key hanging to a thong of cordovan; see
now if one who comes of the same stock has not a right to give his
opinion in such like cases."
  "Therefore, I say," said he of the Grove, "let us give up going in
quest of adventures, and as we have loaves let us not go looking for
cakes, but return to our cribs, for God will find us there if it be
his will."
  "Until my master reaches Saragossa," said Sancho, "I'll remain in
his service; after that we'll see."
  The end of it was that the two squires talked so much and drank so
much that sleep had to tie their tongues and moderate their thirst,
for to quench it was impossible; and so the pair of them fell asleep
clinging to the now nearly empty bota and with half-chewed morsels
in their mouths; and there we will leave them for the present, to
relate what passed between the Knight of the Grove and him of the
Rueful Countenance.
  CHAPTER XIV
  WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE

  AMONG the things that passed between Don Quixote and the Knight of
the Wood, the history tells us he of the Grove said to Don Quixote,
"In fine, sir knight, I would have you know that my destiny, or,
more properly speaking, my choice led me to fall in love with the
peerless Casildea de Vandalia. I call her peerless because she has
no peer, whether it be in bodily stature or in the supremacy of rank
and beauty. This same Casildea, then, that I speak of, requited my
honourable passion and gentle aspirations by compelling me, as his
stepmother did Hercules, to engage in many perils of various sorts, at
the end of each promising me that, with the end of the next, the
object of my hopes should be attained; but my labours have gone on
increasing link by link until they are past counting, nor do I know
what will be the last one that is to be the beginning of the
accomplishment of my chaste desires. On one occasion she bade me go
and challenge the famous giantess of Seville, La Giralda by name,
who is as mighty and strong as if made of brass, and though never
stirring from one spot, is the most restless and changeable woman in
the world. I came, I saw, I conquered, and I made her stay quiet and
behave herself, for nothing but north winds blew for more than a week.
Another time I was ordered to lift those ancient stones, the mighty
bulls of Guisando, an enterprise that might more fitly be entrusted to
porters than to knights. Again, she bade me fling myself into the
cavern of Cabra- an unparalleled and awful peril- and bring her a
minute account of all that is concealed in those gloomy depths. I
stopped the motion of the Giralda, I lifted the bulls of Guisando, I
flung myself into the cavern and brought to light the secrets of its
abyss; and my hopes are as dead as dead can be, and her scorn and
her commands as lively as ever. To be brief, last of all she has
commanded me to go through all the provinces of Spain and compel all
the knights-errant wandering therein to confess that she surpasses all
women alive to-day in beauty, and that I am the most valiant and the
most deeply enamoured knight on earth; in support of which claim I
have already travelled over the greater part of Spain, and have
there vanquished several knights who have dared to contradict me;
but what I most plume and pride myself upon is having vanquished in
single combat that so famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, and made
him confess that my Casildea is more beautiful than his Dulcinea;
and in this one victory I hold myself to have conquered all the
knights in the world; for this Don Quixote that I speak of has
vanquished them all, and I having vanquished him, his glory, his fame,
and his honour have passed and are transferred to my person; for

     The more the vanquished hath of fair renown,
     The greater glory gilds the victor's crown.

Thus the innumerable achievements of the said Don Quixote are now
set down to my account and have become mine."
  Don Quixote was amazed when he heard the Knight of the Grove, and
was a thousand times on the point of telling him he lied, and had
the lie direct already on the tip of his tongue; but he restrained
himself as well as he could, in order to force him to confess the
lie with his own lips; so he said to him quietly, "As to what you say,
sir knight, about having vanquished most of the knights of Spain, or
even of the whole world, I say nothing; but that you have vanquished
Don Quixote of La Mancha I consider doubtful; it may have been some
other that resembled him, although there are few like him."
  "How! not vanquished?" said he of the Grove; "by the heaven that
is above us I fought Don Quixote and overcame him and made him
yield; and he is a man of tall stature, gaunt features, long, lank
limbs, with hair turning grey, an aquiline nose rather hooked, and
large black drooping moustaches; he does battle under the name of 'The
Countenance,' and he has for squire a peasant called Sancho Panza;
he presses the loins and rules the reins of a famous steed called
Rocinante; and lastly, he has for the mistress of his will a certain
Dulcinea del Toboso, once upon a time called Aldonza Lorenzo, just
as I call mine Casildea de Vandalia because her name is Casilda and
she is of Andalusia. If all these tokens are not enough to vindicate
the truth of what I say, here is my sword, that will compel
incredulity itself to give credence to it."
  "Calm yourself, sir knight," said Don Quixote, "and give ear to what
I am about to say to you. you.I would have you know that this Don
Quixote you speak of is the greatest friend I have in the world; so
much so that I may say I regard him in the same light as my own
person; and from the precise and clear indications you have given I
cannot but think that he must be the very one you have vanquished.
On the other hand, I see with my eyes and feel with my hands that it
is impossible it can have been the same; unless indeed it be that,
as he has many enemies who are enchanters, and one in particular who
is always persecuting him, some one of these may have taken his
shape in order to allow himself to be vanquished, so as to defraud him
of the fame that his exalted achievements as a knight have earned
and acquired for him throughout the known world. And in confirmation
of this, I must tell you, too, that it is but ten hours since these
said enchanters his enemies transformed the shape and person of the
fair Dulcinea del Toboso into a foul and mean village lass, and in the
same way they must have transformed Don Quixote; and if all this
does not suffice to convince you of the truth of what I say, here is
Don Quixote himself, who will maintain it by arms, on foot or on
horseback or in any way you please."
  And so saying he stood up and laid his hand on his sword, waiting to
see what the Knight of the Grove would do, who in an equally calm
voice said in reply, "Pledges don't distress a good payer; he who
has succeeded in vanquishing you once when transformed, Sir Don
Quixote, may fairly hope to subdue you in your own proper shape; but
as it is not becoming for knights to perform their feats of arms in
the dark, like highwaymen and bullies, let us wait till daylight, that
the sun may behold our deeds; and the conditions of our combat shall
be that the vanquished shall be at the victor's disposal, to do all
that he may enjoin, provided the injunction be such as shall be
becoming a knight."
  "I am more than satisfied with these conditions and terms,"
replied Don Quixote; and so saying, they betook themselves to where
their squires lay, and found them snoring, and in the same posture
they were in when sleep fell upon them. They roused them up, and
bade them get the horses ready, as at sunrise they were to engage in a
bloody and arduous single combat; at which intelligence Sancho was
aghast and thunderstruck, trembling for the safety of his master
because of the mighty deeds he had heard the squire of the Grove
ascribe to his; but without a word the two squires went in quest of
their cattle; for by this time the three horses and the ass had
smelt one another out, and were all together.
  On the way, he of the Grove said to Sancho, "You must know, brother,
that it is the custom with the fighting men of Andalusia, when they
are godfathers in any quarrel, not to stand idle with folded arms
while their godsons fight; I say so to remind you that while our
masters are fighting, we, too, have to fight, and knock one another to
shivers."
  "That custom, sir squire," replied Sancho, "may hold good among
those bullies and fighting men you talk of, but certainly not among
the squires of knights-errant; at least, I have never heard my
master speak of any custom of the sort, and he knows all the laws of
knight-errantry by heart; but granting it true that there is an
express law that squires are to fight while their masters are
fighting, I don't mean to obey it, but to pay the penalty that may
be laid on peacefully minded squires like myself; for I am sure it
cannot be more than two pounds of wax, and I would rather pay that,
for I know it will cost me less than the lint I shall be at the
expense of to mend my head, which I look upon as broken and split
already; there's another thing that makes it impossible for me to
fight, that I have no sword, for I never carried one in my life."
  "I know a good remedy for that," said he of the Grove; "I have
here two linen bags of the same size; you shall take one, and I the
other, and we will fight at bag blows with equal arms."
  "If that's the way, so be it with all my heart," said Sancho, "for
that sort of battle will serve to knock the dust out of us instead
of hurting us."
  "That will not do," said the other, "for we must put into the
bags, to keep the wind from blowing them away, half a dozen nice
smooth pebbles, all of the same weight; and in this way we shall be
able to baste one another without doing ourselves any harm or
mischief."
  "Body of my father!" said Sancho, "see what marten and sable, and
pads of carded cotton he is putting into the bags, that our heads
may not be broken and our bones beaten to jelly! But even if they
are filled with toss silk, I can tell you, senor, I am not going to
fight; let our masters fight, that's their lookout, and let us drink
and live; for time will take care to ease us of our lives, without our
going to look for fillips so that they may be finished off before
their proper time comes and they drop from ripeness."
  "Still," returned he of the Grove, "we must fight, if it be only for
half an hour."
  "By no means," said Sancho; "I am not going to be so discourteous or
so ungrateful as to have any quarrel, be it ever so small, with one
I have eaten and drunk with; besides, who the devil could bring
himself to fight in cold blood, without anger or provocation?"
  "I can remedy that entirely," said he of the Grove, "and in this
way: before we begin the battle, I will come up to your worship fair
and softly, and give you three or four buffets, with which I shall
stretch you at my feet and rouse your anger, though it were sleeping
sounder than a dormouse."
  "To match that plan," said Sancho, "I have another that is not a
whit behind it; I will take a cudgel, and before your worship comes
near enough to waken my anger I will send yours so sound to sleep with
whacks, that it won't waken unless it be in the other world, where
it is known that I am not a man to let my face be handled by anyone;
let each look out for the arrow- though the surer way would be to
let everyone's anger sleep, for nobody knows the heart of anyone,
and a man may come for wool and go back shorn; God gave his blessing
to peace and his curse to quarrels; if a hunted cat, surrounded and
hard pressed, turns into a lion, God knows what I, who am a man, may
turn into; and so from this time forth I warn you, sir squire, that
all the harm and mischief that may come of our quarrel will be put
down to your account."
  "Very good," said he of the Grove; "God will send the dawn and we
shall be all right."
  And now gay-plumaged birds of all sorts began to warble in the
trees, and with their varied and gladsome notes seemed to welcome
and salute the fresh morn that was beginning to show the beauty of her
countenance at the gates and balconies of the east, shaking from her
locks a profusion of liquid pearls; in which dulcet moisture bathed,
the plants, too, seemed to shed and shower down a pearly spray, the
willows distilled sweet manna, the fountains laughed, the brooks
babbled, the woods rejoiced, and the meadows arrayed themselves in all
their glory at her coming. But hardly had the light of day made it
possible to see and distinguish things, when the first object that
presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the squire of the
Grove's nose, which was so big that it almost overshadowed his whole
body. It is, in fact, stated, that it was of enormous size, hooked
in the middle, covered with warts, and of a mulberry colour like an
egg-plant; it hung down two fingers' length below his mouth, and the
size, the colour, the warts, and the bend of it, made his face so
hideous, that Sancho, as he looked at him, began to tremble hand and
foot like a child in convulsions, and he vowed in his heart to let
himself be given two hundred buffets, sooner than be provoked to fight
that monster. Don Quixote examined his adversary, and found that he
already had his helmet on and visor lowered, so that he could not
see his face; he observed, however, that he was a sturdily built
man, but not very tall in stature. Over his armour he wore a surcoat
or cassock of what seemed to be the finest cloth of gold, all
bespangled with glittering mirrors like little moons, which gave him
an extremely gallant and splendid appearance; above his helmet
fluttered a great quantity of plumes, green, yellow, and white, and
his lance, which was leaning against a tree, was very long and
stout, and had a steel point more than a palm in length.
  Don Quixote observed all, and took note of all, and from what he saw
and observed he concluded that the said knight must be a man of
great strength, but he did not for all that give way to fear, like
Sancho Panza; on the contrary, with a composed and dauntless air, he
said to the Knight of the Mirrors, "If, sir knight, your great
eagerness to fight has not banished your courtesy, by it I would
entreat you to raise your visor a little, in order that I may see if
the comeliness of your countenance corresponds with that of your
equipment."
  "Whether you come victorious or vanquished out of this emprise,
sir knight," replied he of the Mirrors, "you will have more than
enough time and leisure to see me; and if now I do not comply with
your request, it is because it seems to me I should do a serious wrong
to the fair Casildea de Vandalia in wasting time while I stopped to
raise my visor before compelling you to confess what you are already
aware I maintain."
  "Well then," said Don Quixote, "while we are mounting you can at
least tell me if I am that Don Quixote whom you said you vanquished."
  "To that we answer you," said he of the Mirrors, "that you are as
like the very knight I vanquished as one egg is like another, but as
you say enchanters persecute you, I will not venture to say positively
whether you are the said person or not."
  "That," said Don Quixote, "is enough to convince me that you are
under a deception; however, entirely to relieve you of it, let our
horses be brought, and in less time than it would take you to raise
your visor, if God, my lady, and my arm stand me in good stead, I
shall see your face, and you shall see that I am not the vanquished
Don Quixote you take me to be."
  With this, cutting short the colloquy, they mounted, and Don Quixote
wheeled Rocinante round in order to take a proper distance to charge
back upon his adversary, and he of the Mirrors did the same; but Don
Quixote had not moved away twenty paces when he heard himself called
by the other, and, each returning half-way, he of the Mirrors said
to him, "Remember, sir knight, that the terms of our combat are,
that the vanquished, as I said before, shall be at the victor's
disposal."
  "I am aware of it already," said Don Quixote; "provided what is
commanded and imposed upon the vanquished be things that do not
transgress the limits of chivalry."
  "That is understood," replied he of the Mirrors.
  At this moment the extraordinary nose of the squire presented itself
to Don Quixote's view, and he was no less amazed than Sancho at the
sight; insomuch that he set him down as a monster of some kind, or a
human being of some new species or unearthly breed. Sancho, seeing his
master retiring to run his course, did not like to be left alone
with the nosy man, fearing that with one flap of that nose on his
own the battle would be all over for him and he would be left
stretched on the ground, either by the blow or with fright; so he
ran after his master, holding on to Rocinante's stirrup-leather, and
when it seemed to him time to turn about, he said, "I implore of
your worship, senor, before you turn to charge, to help me up into
this cork tree, from which I will be able to witness the gallant
encounter your worship is going to have with this knight, more to my
taste and better than from the ground."
  "It seems to me rather, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou
wouldst mount a scaffold in order to see the bulls without danger."
  "To tell the truth," returned Sancho, "the monstrous nose of that
squire has filled me with fear and terror, and I dare not stay near
him."
  "It is," said Don Quixote, "such a one that were I not what I am
it would terrify me too; so, come, I will help thee up where thou
wilt."
  While Don Quixote waited for Sancho to mount into the cork tree he
of the Mirrors took as much ground as he considered requisite, and,
supposing Don Quixote to have done the same, without waiting for any
sound of trumpet or other signal to direct them, he wheeled his horse,
which was not more agile or better-looking than Rocinante, and at
his top speed, which was an easy trot, he proceeded to charge his
enemy; seeing him, however, engaged in putting Sancho up, he drew
rein, and halted in mid career, for which his horse was very grateful,
as he was already unable to go. Don Quixote, fancying that his foe was
coming down upon him flying, drove his spurs vigorously into
Rocinante's lean flanks and made him scud along in such style that the
history tells us that on this occasion only was he known to make
something like running, for on all others it was a simple trot with
him; and with this unparalleled fury he bore down where he of the
Mirrors stood digging his spurs into his horse up to buttons,
without being able to make him stir a finger's length from the spot
where he had come to a standstill in his course. At this lucky
moment and crisis, Don Quixote came upon his adversary, in trouble
with his horse, and embarrassed with his lance, which he either
could not manage, or had no time to lay in rest. Don Quixote, however,
paid no attention to these difficulties, and in perfect safety to
himself and without any risk encountered him of the Mirrors with
such force that he brought him to the ground in spite of himself
over the haunches of his horse, and with so heavy a fall that he lay
to all appearance dead, not stirring hand or foot. The instant
Sancho saw him fall he slid down from the cork tree, and made all
haste to where his master was, who, dismounting from Rocinante, went
and stood over him of the Mirrors, and unlacing his helmet to see if
he was dead, and to give him air if he should happen to be alive, he
saw- who can say what he saw, without filling all who hear it with
astonishment, wonder, and awe? He saw, the history says, the very
countenance, the very face, the very look, the very physiognomy, the
very effigy, the very image of the bachelor Samson Carrasco! As soon
as he saw it he called out in a loud voice, "Make haste here,
Sancho, and behold what thou art to see but not to believe; quick,
my son, and learn what magic can do, and wizards and enchanters are
capable of."
  Sancho came up, and when he saw the countenance of the bachelor
Carrasco, he fell to crossing himself a thousand times, and blessing
himself as many more. All this time the prostrate knight showed no
signs of life, and Sancho said to Don Quixote, "It is my opinion,
senor, that in any case your worship should take and thrust your sword
into the mouth of this one here that looks like the bachelor Samson
Carrasco; perhaps in him you will kill one of your enemies, the
enchanters."
  "Thy advice is not bad," said Don Quixote, "for of enemies the fewer
the better;" and he was drawing his sword to carry into effect
Sancho's counsel and suggestion, when the squire of the Mirrors came
up, now without the nose which had made him so hideous, and cried
out in a loud voice, "Mind what you are about, Senor Don Quixote; that
is your friend, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, you have at your feet,
and I am his squire."
  "And the nose?" said Sancho, seeing him without the hideous
feature he had before; to which he replied, "I have it here in my
pocket," and putting his hand into his right pocket, he pulled out a
masquerade nose of varnished pasteboard of the make already described;
and Sancho, examining him more and more closely, exclaimed aloud in
a voice of amazement, "Holy Mary be good to me! Isn't it Tom Cecial,
my neighbour and gossip?"
  "Why, to be sure I am!" returned the now unnosed squire; "Tom Cecial
I am, gossip and friend Sancho Panza; and I'll tell you presently
the means and tricks and falsehoods by which I have been brought here;
but in the meantime, beg and entreat of your master not to touch,
maltreat, wound, or slay the Knight of the Mirrors whom he has at
his feet; because, beyond all dispute, it is the rash and
ill-advised bachelor Samson Carrasco, our fellow townsman."
  At this moment he of the Mirrors came to himself, and Don Quixote
perceiving it, held the naked point of his sword over his face, and
said to him, "You are a dead man, knight, unless you confess that
the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels your Casildea de Vandalia in
beauty; and in addition to this you must promise, if you should
survive this encounter and fall, to go to the city of El Toboso and
present yourself before her on my behalf, that she deal with you
according to her good pleasure; and if she leaves you free to do
yours, you are in like manner to return and seek me out (for the trail
of my mighty deeds will serve you as a guide to lead you to where I
may be), and tell me what may have passed between you and her-
conditions which, in accordance with what we stipulated before our
combat, do not transgress the just limits of knight-errantry."
  "I confess," said the fallen knight, "that the dirty tattered shoe
of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso is better than the ill-combed though
clean beard of Casildea; and I promise to go and to return from her
presence to yours, and to give you a full and particular account of
all you demand of me."
  "You must also confess and believe," added Don Quixote, "that the
knight you vanquished was not and could not be Don Quixote of La
Mancha, but some one else in his likeness, just as I confess and
believe that you, though you seem to be the bachelor Samson
Carrasco, are not so, but some other resembling him, whom my enemies
have here put before me in his shape, in order that I may restrain and
moderate the vehemence of my wrath, and make a gentle use of the glory
of my victory."
  "I confess, hold, and think everything to be as you believe, hold,
and think it," the crippled knight; "let me rise, I entreat you; if,
indeed, the shock of my fall will allow me, for it has left me in a
sorry plight enough."
  Don Quixote helped him to rise, with the assistance of his squire
Tom Cecial; from whom Sancho never took his eyes, and to whom he put
questions, the replies to which furnished clear proof that he was
really and truly the Tom Cecial he said; but the impression made on
Sancho's mind by what his master said about the enchanters having
changed the face of the Knight of the Mirrors into that of the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, would not permit him to believe what he
saw with his eyes. In fine, both master and man remained under the
delusion; and, down in the mouth, and out of luck, he of the Mirrors
and his squire parted from Don Quixote and Sancho, he meaning to go
look for some village where he could plaster and strap his ribs. Don
Quixote and Sancho resumed their journey to Saragossa, and on it the
history leaves them in order that it may tell who the Knight of the
Mirrors and his long-nosed squire were.
  CHAPTER XV
  WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS
SQUIRE WERE

  DON QUIXOTE went off satisfied, elated, and vain-glorious in the
highest degree at having won a victory over such a valiant knight as
he fancied him of the Mirrors to be, and one from whose knightly
word he expected to learn whether the enchantment of his lady still
continued; inasmuch as the said vanquished knight was bound, under the
penalty of ceasing to be one, to return and render him an account of
what took place between him and her. But Don Quixote was of one
mind, he of the Mirrors of another, for he just then had no thought of
anything but finding some village where he could plaster himself, as
has been said already. The history goes on to say, then, that when the
bachelor Samson Carrasco recommended Don Quixote to resume his
knight-errantry which he had laid aside, it was in consequence of
having been previously in conclave with the curate and the barber on
the means to be adopted to induce Don Quixote to stay at home in peace
and quiet without worrying himself with his ill-starred adventures; at
which consultation it was decided by the unanimous vote of all, and on
the special advice of Carrasco, that Don Quixote should be allowed
to go, as it seemed impossible to restrain him, and that Samson should
sally forth to meet him as a knight-errant, and do battle with him,
for there would be no difficulty about a cause, and vanquish him, that
being looked upon as an easy matter; and that it should be agreed
and settled that the vanquished was to be at the mercy of the
victor. Then, Don Quixote being vanquished, the bachelor knight was to
command him to return to his village and his house, and not quit it
for two years, or until he received further orders from him; all which
it was clear Don Quixote would unhesitatingly obey, rather than
contravene or fail to observe the laws of chivalry; and during the
period of his seclusion he might perhaps forget his folly, or there
might be an opportunity of discovering some ready remedy for his
madness. Carrasco undertook the task, and Tom Cecial, a gossip and
neighbour of Sancho Panza's, a lively, feather-headed fellow,
offered himself as his squire. Carrasco armed himself in the fashion
described, and Tom Cecial, that he might not be known by his gossip
when they met, fitted on over his own natural nose the false
masquerade one that has been mentioned; and so they followed the
same route Don Quixote took, and almost came up with him in time to be
present at the adventure of the cart of Death and finally
encountered them in the grove, where all that the sagacious reader has
been reading about took place; and had it not been for the
extraordinary fancies of Don Quixote, and his conviction that the
bachelor was not the bachelor, senor bachelor would have been
incapacitated for ever from taking his degree of licentiate, all
through not finding nests where he thought to find birds.
  Tom Cecial, seeing how ill they had succeeded, and what a sorry
end their expedition had come to, said to the bachelor, "Sure
enough, Senor Samson Carrasco, we are served right; it is easy
enough to plan and set about an enterprise, but it is often a
difficult matter to come well out of it. Don Quixote a madman, and
we sane; he goes off laughing, safe, and sound, and you are left
sore and sorry! I'd like to know now which is the madder, he who is so
because he cannot help it, or he who is so of his own choice?"
  To which Samson replied, "The difference between the two sorts of
madmen is, that he who is so will he nil he, will be one always, while
he who is so of his own accord can leave off being one whenever he
likes."
  "In that case," said Tom Cecial, "I was a madman of my own accord
when I volunteered to become your squire, and, of my own accord,
I'll leave off being one and go home."
  "That's your affair," returned Samson, "but to suppose that I am
going home until I have given Don Quixote a thrashing is absurd; and
it is not any wish that he may recover his senses that will make me
hunt him out now, but a wish for the sore pain I am in with my ribs
won't let me entertain more charitable thoughts."
  Thus discoursing, the pair proceeded until they reached a town where
it was their good luck to find a bone-setter, with whose help the
unfortunate Samson was cured. Tom Cecial left him and went home, while
he stayed behind meditating vengeance; and the history will return
to him again at the proper time, so as not to omit making merry with
Don Quixote now.
  CHAPTER XVI
  OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA

  DON QUIXOTE pursued his journey in the high spirits, satisfaction,
and self-complacency already described, fancying himself the most
valorous knight-errant of the age in the world because of his late
victory. All the adventures that could befall him from that time forth
he regarded as already done and brought to a happy issue; he made
light of enchantments and enchanters; he thought no more of the
countless drubbings that had been administered to him in the course of
his knight-errantry, nor of the volley of stones that had levelled
half his teeth, nor of the ingratitude of the galley slaves, nor of
the audacity of the Yanguesans and the shower of stakes that fell upon
him; in short, he said to himself that could he discover any means,
mode, or way of disenchanting his lady Dulcinea, he would not envy the
highest fortune that the most fortunate knight-errant of yore ever
reached or could reach.
  He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancies, when Sancho
said to him, "Isn't it odd, senor, that I have still before my eyes
that monstrous enormous nose of my gossip, Tom Cecial?"
  "And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that
the Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire
Tom Cecial thy gossip?"
  "I don't know what to say to that," replied Sancho; "all I know is
that the tokens he gave me about my own house, wife and children,
nobody else but himself could have given me; and the face, once the
nose was off, was the very face of Tom Cecial, as I have seen it
many a time in my town and next door to my own house; and the sound of
the voice was just the same."
  "Let us reason the matter, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Come now,
by what process of thinking can it be supposed that the bachelor
Samson Carrasco would come as a knight-errant, in arms offensive and
defensive, to fight with me? Have I ever been by any chance his enemy?
Have I ever given him any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am I his rival,
or does he profess arms, that he should envy the fame I have
acquired in them?"
  "Well, but what are we to say, senor," returned Sancho, "about
that knight, whoever he is, being so like the bachelor Carrasco, and
his squire so like my gossip, Tom Cecial? And if that be
enchantment, as your worship says, was there no other pair in the
world for them to take the likeness of?"
  "It is all," said Don Quixote, "a scheme and plot of the malignant
magicians that persecute me, who, foreseeing that I was to be
victorious in the conflict, arranged that the vanquished knight should
display the countenance of my friend the bachelor, in order that the
friendship I bear him should interpose to stay the edge of my sword
and might of my arm, and temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he
who sought to take my life by fraud and falsehood should save his own.
And to prove it, thou knowest already, Sancho, by experience which
cannot lie or deceive, how easy it is for enchanters to change one
countenance into another, turning fair into foul, and foul into
fair; for it is not two days since thou sawest with thine own eyes the
beauty and elegance of the peerless Dulcinea in all its perfection and
natural harmony, while I saw her in the repulsive and mean form of a
coarse country wench, with cataracts in her eyes and a foul smell in
her mouth; and when the perverse enchanter ventured to effect so
wicked a transformation, it is no wonder if he effected that of Samson
Carrasco and thy gossip in order to snatch the glory of victory out of
my grasp. For all that, however, I console myself, because, after all,
in whatever shape he may have been, I have victorious over my enemy."
  "God knows what's the truth of it all," said Sancho; and knowing
as he did that the transformation of Dulcinea had been a device and
imposition of his own, his master's illusions were not satisfactory to
him; but he did not like to reply lest he should say something that
might disclose his trickery.
  As they were engaged in this conversation they were overtaken by a
man who was following the same road behind them, mounted on a very
handsome flea-bitten mare, and dressed in a gaban of fine green cloth,
with tawny velvet facings, and a montera of the same velvet. The
trappings of the mare were of the field and jineta fashion, and of
mulberry colour and green. He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging from a
broad green and gold baldric; the buskins were of the same make as the
baldric; the spurs were not gilt, but lacquered green, and so brightly
polished that, matching as they did the rest of his apparel, they
looked better than if they had been of pure gold.
  When the traveller came up with them he saluted them courteously,
and spurring his mare was passing them without stopping, but Don
Quixote called out to him, "Gallant sir, if so be your worship is
going our road, and has no occasion for speed, it would be a
pleasure to me if we were to join company."
  "In truth," replied he on the mare, "I would not pass you so hastily
but for fear that horse might turn restive in the company of my mare."
  "You may safely hold in your mare, senor," said Sancho in reply to
this, "for our horse is the most virtuous and well-behaved horse in
the world; he never does anything wrong on such occasions, and the
only time he misbehaved, my master and I suffered for it sevenfold;
I say again your worship may pull up if you like; for if she was
offered to him between two plates the horse would not hanker after
her."
  The traveller drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of Don
Quixote, who rode without his helmet, which Sancho carried like a
valise in front of Dapple's pack-saddle; and if the man in green
examined Don Quixote closely, still more closely did Don Quixote
examine the man in green, who struck him as being a man of
intelligence. In appearance he was about fifty years of age, with
but few grey hairs, an aquiline cast of features, and an expression
between grave and gay; and his dress and accoutrements showed him to
be a man of good condition. What he in green thought of Don Quixote of
La Mancha was that a man of that sort and shape he had never yet seen;
he marvelled at the length of his hair, his lofty stature, the
lankness and sallowness of his countenance, his armour, his bearing
and his gravity- a figure and picture such as had not been seen in
those regions for many a long day.
  Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the
traveller was regarding him, and read his curiosity in his
astonishment; and courteous as he was and ready to please everybody,
before the other could ask him any question he anticipated him by
saying, "The appearance I present to your worship being so strange and
so out of the common, I should not be surprised if it filled you
with wonder; but you will cease to wonder when I tell you, as I do,
that I am one of those knights who, as people say, go seeking
adventures. I have left my home, I have mortgaged my estate, I have
given up my comforts, and committed myself to the arms of Fortune,
to bear me whithersoever she may please. My desire was to bring to
life again knight-errantry, now dead, and for some time past,
stumbling here, falling there, now coming down headlong, now raising
myself up again, I have carried out a great portion of my design,
succouring widows, protecting maidens, and giving aid to wives,
orphans, and minors, the proper and natural duty of knights-errant;
and, therefore, because of my many valiant and Christian achievements,
I have been already found worthy to make my way in print to
well-nigh all, or most, of the nations of the earth. Thirty thousand
volumes of my history have been printed, and it is on the high-road to
be printed thirty thousand thousands of times, if heaven does not
put a stop to it. In short, to sum up all in a few words, or in a
single one, I may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise
called 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance;' for though
self-praise is degrading, I must perforce sound my own sometimes, that
is to say, when there is no one at hand to do it for me. So that,
gentle sir, neither this horse, nor this lance, nor this shield, nor
this squire, nor all these arms put together, nor the sallowness of my
countenance, nor my gaunt leanness, will henceforth astonish you,
now that you know who I am and what profession I follow."
  With these words Don Quixote held his peace, and, from the time he
took to answer, the man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply;
after a long pause, however, he said to him, "You were right when
you saw curiosity in my amazement, sir knight; but you have not
succeeded in removing the astonishment I feel at seeing you; for
although you say, senor, that knowing who you are ought to remove
it, it has not done so; on the contrary, now that I know, I am left
more amazed and astonished than before. What! is it possible that
there are knights-errant in the world in these days, and histories
of real chivalry printed? I cannot realise the fact that there can
be anyone on earth now-a-days who aids widows, or protects maidens, or
defends wives, or succours orphans; nor should I believe it had I
not seen it in your worship with my own eyes. Blessed be heaven! for
by means of this history of your noble and genuine chivalrous deeds,
which you say has been printed, the countless stories of fictitious
knights-errant with which the world is filled, so much to the injury
of morality and the prejudice and discredit of good histories, will
have been driven into oblivion."
  "There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Don Quixote,
"as to whether the histories of the knights-errant are fiction or
not."
  "Why, is there anyone who doubts that those histories are false?"
said the man in green.
  "I doubt it," said Don Quixote, "but never mind that just now; if
our journey lasts long enough, I trust in God I shall show your
worship that you do wrong in going with the stream of those who regard
it as a matter of certainty that they are not true."
  From this last observation of Don Quixote's, the traveller began
to have a suspicion that he was some crazy being, and was waiting
him to confirm it by something further; but before they could turn
to any new subject Don Quixote begged him to tell him who he was,
since he himself had rendered account of his station and life. To
this, he in the green gaban replied "I, Sir Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, am a gentleman by birth, native of the village where,
please God, we are going to dine today; I am more than fairly well
off, and my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my life with my wife,
children, and friends; my pursuits are hunting and fishing, but I keep
neither hawks nor greyhounds, nothing but a tame partridge or a bold
ferret or two; I have six dozen or so of books, some in our mother
tongue, some Latin, some of them history, others devotional; those
of chivalry have not as yet crossed the threshold of my door; I am
more given to turning over the profane than the devotional, so long as
they are books of honest entertainment that charm by their style and
attract and interest by the invention they display, though of these
there are very few in Spain. Sometimes I dine with my neighbours and
friends, and often invite them; my entertainments are neat and well
served without stint of anything. I have no taste for tattle, nor do I
allow tattling in my presence; I pry not into my neighbours' lives,
nor have I lynx-eyes for what others do. I hear mass every day; I
share my substance with the poor, making no display of good works,
lest I let hypocrisy and vainglory, those enemies that subtly take
possession of the most watchful heart, find an entrance into mine. I
strive to make peace between those whom I know to be at variance; I am
the devoted servant of Our Lady, and my trust is ever in the
infinite mercy of God our Lord."
  Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of the
gentleman's life and occupation; and thinking it a good and a holy
life, and that he who led it ought to work miracles, he threw
himself off Dapple, and running in haste seized his right stirrup
and kissed his foot again and again with a devout heart and almost
with tears.
  Seeing this the gentleman asked him, "What are you about, brother?
What are these kisses for?"
  "Let me kiss," said Sancho, "for I think your worship is the first
saint in the saddle I ever saw all the days of my life."
  "I am no saint," replied the gentleman, "but a great sinner; but you
are, brother, for you must be a good fellow, as your simplicity
shows."
  Sancho went back and regained his pack-saddle, having extracted a
laugh from his master's profound melancholy, and excited fresh
amazement in Don Diego. Don Quixote then asked him how many children
he had, and observed that one of the things wherein the ancient
philosophers, who were without the true knowledge of God, placed the
summum bonum was in the gifts of nature, in those of fortune, in
having many friends, and many and good children.
  "I, Senor Don Quixote," answered the gentleman, "have one son,
without whom, perhaps, I should count myself happier than I am, not
because he is a bad son, but because he is not so good as I could
wish. He is eighteen years of age; he has been for six at Salamanca
studying Latin and Greek, and when I wished him to turn to the study
of other sciences I found him so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that
can be called a science) that there is no getting him to take kindly
to the law, which I wished him to study, or to theology, the queen
of them all. I would like him to be an honour to his family, as we
live in days when our kings liberally reward learning that is virtuous
and worthy; for learning without virtue is a pearl on a dunghill. He
spends the whole day in settling whether Homer expressed himself
correctly or not in such and such a line of the Iliad, whether Martial
was indecent or not in such and such an epigram, whether such and such
lines of Virgil are to be understood in this way or in that; in short,
all his talk is of the works of these poets, and those of Horace,
Perseus, Juvenal, and Tibullus; for of the moderns in our own language
he makes no great account; but with all his seeming indifference to
Spanish poetry, just now his thoughts are absorbed in making a gloss
on four lines that have been sent him from Salamanca, which I
suspect are for some poetical tournament."
  To all this Don Quixote said in reply, "Children, senor, are
portions of their parents' bowels, and therefore, be they good or bad,
are to be loved as we love the souls that give us life; it is for
the parents to guide them from infancy in the ways of virtue,
propriety, and worthy Christian conduct, so that when grown up they
may be the staff of their parents' old age, and the glory of their
posterity; and to force them to study this or that science I do not
think wise, though it may be no harm to persuade them; and when
there is no need to study for the sake of pane lucrando, and it is the
student's good fortune that heaven has given him parents who provide
him with it, it would be my advice to them to let him pursue
whatever science they may see him most inclined to; and though that of
poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is not one of those that
bring discredit upon the possessor. Poetry, gentle sir, is, as I
take it, like a tender young maiden of supreme beauty, to array,
bedeck, and adorn whom is the task of several other maidens, who are
all the rest of the sciences; and she must avail herself of the help
of all, and all derive their lustre from her. But this maiden will not
bear to be handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed
either at the corners of the market-places, or in the closets of
palaces. She is the product of an Alchemy of such virtue that he who
is able to practise it, will turn her into pure gold of inestimable
worth. He that possesses her must keep her within bounds, not
permitting her to break out in ribald satires or soulless sonnets. She
must on no account be offered for sale, unless, indeed, it be in
heroic poems, moving tragedies, or sprightly and ingenious comedies.
She must not be touched by the buffoons, nor by the ignorant vulgar,
incapable of comprehending or appreciating her hidden treasures. And
do not suppose, senor, that I apply the term vulgar here merely to
plebeians and the lower orders; for everyone who is ignorant, be he
lord or prince, may and should be included among the vulgar. He, then,
who shall embrace and cultivate poetry under the conditions I have
named, shall become famous, and his name honoured throughout all the
civilised nations of the earth. And with regard to what you say,
senor, of your son having no great opinion of Spanish poetry, I am
inclined to think that he is not quite right there, and for this
reason: the great poet Homer did not write in Latin, because he was
a Greek, nor did Virgil write in Greek, because he was a Latin; in
short, all the ancient poets wrote in the language they imbibed with
their mother's milk, and never went in quest of foreign ones to
express their sublime conceptions; and that being so, the usage should
in justice extend to all nations, and the German poet should not be
undervalued because he writes in his own language, nor the
Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing in his. But your son,
senor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against Spanish poetry, but
against those poets who are mere Spanish verse writers, without any
knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn and give life and
vigour to their natural inspiration; and yet even in this he may be
wrong; for, according to a true belief, a poet is born one; that is to
say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from his mother's womb; and
following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon him, without the
aid of study or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke
who said, 'Est Deus in nobis,' &c. At the same time, I say that the
poet by nature who calls in art to his aid will be a far better
poet, and will surpass him who tries to be one relying upon his
knowledge of art alone. The reason is, that art does not surpass
nature, but only brings it to perfection; and thus, nature combined
with art, and art with nature, will produce a perfect poet. To bring
my argument to a close, I would say then, gentle sir, let your son
go on as his star leads him, for being so studious as he seems to
be, and having already successfully surmounted the first step of the
sciences, which is that of the languages, with their help he will by
his own exertions reach the summit of polite literature, which so well
becomes an independent gentleman, and adorns, honours, and
distinguishes him, as much as the mitre does the bishop, or the gown
the learned counsellor. If your son write satires reflecting on the
honour of others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he
compose discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style
of Horace, and with elegance like his, commend him; for it is
legitimate for a poet to write against envy and lash the envious in
his verse, and the other vices too, provided he does not single out
individuals; there are, however, poets who, for the sake of saying
something spiteful, would run the risk of being banished to the
coast of Pontus. If the poet be pure in his morals, he will be pure in
his verses too; the pen is the tongue of the mind, and as the thought
engendered there, so will be the things that it writes down. And when
kings and princes observe this marvellous science of poetry in wise,
virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they honour, value, exalt them, and
even crown them with the leaves of that tree which the thunderbolt
strikes not, as if to show that they whose brows are honoured and
adorned with such a crown are not to be assailed by anyone."
  He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote's
argument, so much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken
up about his being crazy. But in the middle of the discourse, it being
not very much to his taste, Sancho had turned aside out of the road to
beg a little milk from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes
hard by; and just as the gentleman, highly pleased, was about to renew
the conversation, Don Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart
covered with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling;
and persuaded that this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to
Sancho to come and bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing himself
called, quitted the shepherds, and, prodding Dapple vigorously, came
up to his master, to whom there fell a terrific and desperate
adventure.
  CHAPTER XVII
  WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE UNEXAMPLED
COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE
HAPPILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS

  THE history tells that when Don Quixote called out to Sancho to
bring him his helmet, Sancho was buying some curds the shepherds
agreed to sell him, and flurried by the great haste his master was
in did not know what to do with them or what to carry them in; so, not
to lose them, for he had already paid for them, he thought it best
to throw them into his master's helmet, and acting on this bright idea
he went to see what his master wanted with him. He, as he
approached, exclaimed to him:
  "Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of
adventures, or what I observe yonder is one that will, and does,
call upon me to arm myself."
  He of the green gaban, on hearing this, looked in all directions,
but could perceive nothing, except a cart coming towards them with two
or three small flags, which led him to conclude it must be carrying
treasure of the King's, and he said so to Don Quixote. He, however,
would not believe him, being always persuaded and convinced that all
that happened to him must be adventures and still more adventures;
so he replied to the gentleman, "He who is prepared has his battle
half fought; nothing is lost by my preparing myself, for I know by
experience that I have enemies, visible and invisible, and I know
not when, or where, or at what moment, or in what shapes they will
attack me;" and turning to Sancho he called for his helmet; and
Sancho, as he had no time to take out the curds, had to give it just
as it was. Don Quixote took it, and without perceiving what was in
it thrust it down in hot haste upon his head; but as the curds were
pressed and squeezed the whey began to run all over his face and
beard, whereat he was so startled that he cried out to Sancho:
  "Sancho, what's this? I think my head is softening, or my brains are
melting, or I am sweating from head to foot! If I am sweating it is
not indeed from fear. I am convinced beyond a doubt that the adventure
which is about to befall me is a terrible one. Give me something to
wipe myself with, if thou hast it, for this profuse sweat is
blinding me."
  Sancho held his tongue, and gave him a cloth, and gave thanks to God
at the same time that his master had not found out what was the
matter. Don Quixote then wiped himself, and took off his helmet to see
what it was that made his head feel so cool, and seeing all that white
mash inside his helmet he put it to his nose, and as soon as he had
smelt it he exclaimed:
  "By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is curds thou
hast put here, thou treacherous, impudent, ill-mannered squire!"
  To which, with great composure and pretended innocence, Sancho
replied, "If they are curds let me have them, your worship, and I'll
eat them; but let the devil eat them, for it must have been he who put
them there. I dare to dirty your helmet! You have guessed the offender
finely! Faith, sir, by the light God gives me, it seems I must have
enchanters too, that persecute me as a creature and limb of your
worship, and they must have put that nastiness there in order to
provoke your patience to anger, and make you baste my ribs as you
are wont to do. Well, this time, indeed, they have missed their aim,
for I trust to my master's good sense to see that I have got no
curds or milk, or anything of the sort; and that if I had it is in
my stomach I would put it and not in the helmet."
  "May he so," said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman was observing,
and with astonishment, more especially when, after having wiped
himself clean, his head, face, beard, and helmet, Don Quixote put it
on, and settling himself firmly in his stirrups, easing his sword in
the scabbard, and grasping his lance, he cried, "Now, come who will,
here am I, ready to try conclusions with Satan himself in person!"
  By this time the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by
anyone except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting in front. Don
Quixote planted himself before it and said, "Whither are you going,
brothers? What cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are
those?"
  To this the carter replied, "The cart is mine; what is in it is a
pair of wild caged lions, which the governor of Oran is sending to
court as a present to his Majesty; and the flags are our lord the
King's, to show that what is here is his property."
  "And are the lions large?" asked Don Quixote.
  "So large," replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, "that
larger, or as large, have never crossed from Africa to Spain; I am the
keeper, and I have brought over others, but never any like these. They
are male and female; the male is in that first cage and the female
in the one behind, and they are hungry now, for they have eaten
nothing to-day, so let your worship stand aside, for we must make
haste to the place where we are to feed them."
  Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, "Lion-whelps to
me! to me whelps of lions, and at such a time! Then, by God! those
gentlemen who send them here shall see if I am a man to be
frightened by lions. Get down, my good fellow, and as you are the
keeper open the cages, and turn me out those beasts, and in the
midst of this plain I will let them know who Don Quixote of La
Mancha is, in spite and in the teeth of the enchanters who send them
to me."
  "So, so," said the gentleman to himself at this; "our worthy
knight has shown of what sort he is; the curds, no doubt, have
softened his skull and brought his brains to a head."
  At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, "Senor, for God's
sake do something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from tackling
these lions; for if he does they'll tear us all to pieces here."
  "Is your master then so mad," asked the gentleman, "that you believe
and are afraid he will engage such fierce animals?"
  "He is not mad," said Sancho, "but he is venturesome."
  "I will prevent it," said the gentleman; and going over to Don
Quixote, who was insisting upon the keeper's opening the cages, he
said to him, "Sir knight, knights-errant should attempt adventures
which encourage the hope of a successful issue, not those which
entirely withhold it; for valour that trenches upon temerity savours
rather of madness than of courage; moreover, these lions do not come
to oppose you, nor do they dream of such a thing; they are going as
presents to his Majesty, and it will not be right to stop them or
delay their journey."
  "Gentle sir," replied Don Quixote, "you go and mind your tame
partridge and your bold ferret, and leave everyone to manage his own
business; this is mine, and I know whether these gentlemen the lions
come to me or not;" and then turning to the keeper he exclaimed, "By
all that's good, sir scoundrel, if you don't open the cages this
very instant, I'll pin you to the cart with this lance."
  The carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in armour,
said to him, "Please your worship, for charity's sake, senor, let me
unyoke the mules and place myself in safety along with them before the
lions are turned out; for if they kill them on me I am ruined for
life, for all I possess is this cart and mules."
  "O man of little faith," replied Don Quixote, "get down and
unyoke; you will soon see that you are exerting yourself for
nothing, and that you might have spared yourself the trouble."
  The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the
keeper called out at the top of his voice, "I call all here to witness
that against my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the
lions loose, and that I warn this gentleman that he will be
accountable for all the harm and mischief which these beasts may do,
and for my salary and dues as well. You, gentlemen, place yourselves
in safety before I open, for I know they will do me no harm."
  Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do
such a mad thing, as it was tempting God to engage in such a piece
of folly. To this, Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was about.
The gentleman in return entreated him to reflect, for he knew he was
under a delusion.
  "Well, senor," answered Don Quixote, "if you do not like to be a
spectator of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, spur your
flea-bitten mare, and place yourself in safety."
  Hearing this, Sancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to give up
an enterprise compared with which the one of the windmills, and the
awful one of the fulling mills, and, in fact, all the feats he had
attempted in the whole course of his life, were cakes and fancy bread.
"Look ye, senor," said Sancho, "there's no enchantment here, nor
anything of the sort, for between the bars and chinks of the cage I
have seen the paw of a real lion, and judging by that I reckon the
lion such a paw could belong to must be bigger than a mountain."
  "Fear at any rate," replied Don Quixote, "will make him look
bigger to thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me;
and if I die here thou knowest our old compact; thou wilt repair to
Dulcinea- I say no more." To these he added some further words that
banished all hope of his giving up his insane project. He of the green
gaban would have offered resistance, but he found himself
ill-matched as to arms, and did not think it prudent to come to
blows with a madman, for such Don Quixote now showed himself to be
in every respect; and the latter, renewing his commands to the
keeper and repeating his threats, gave warning to the gentleman to
spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the carter his mules, all
striving to get away from the cart as far as they could before the
lions broke loose. Sancho was weeping over his master's death, for
this time he firmly believed it was in store for him from the claws of
the lions; and he cursed his fate and called it an unlucky hour when
he thought of taking service with him again; but with all his tears
and lamentations he did not forget to thrash Dapple so as to put a
good space between himself and the cart. The keeper, seeing that the
fugitives were now some distance off, once more entreated and warned
him as before; but he replied that he heard him, and that he need
not trouble himself with any further warnings or entreaties, as they
would be fruitless, and bade him make haste.
  During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the
first cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well
to do battle on foot, instead of on horseback, and finally resolved to
fight on foot, fearing that Rocinante might take fright at the sight
of the lions; he therefore sprang off his horse, flung his lance
aside, braced his buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword,
advanced slowly with marvellous intrepidity and resolute courage, to
plant himself in front of the cart, commending himself with all his
heart to God and to his lady Dulcinea.
  It is to be observed, that on coming to this passage, the author
of this veracious history breaks out into exclamations. "O doughty Don
Quixote! high-mettled past extolling! Mirror, wherein all the heroes
of the world may see themselves! Second modern Don Manuel de Leon,
once the glory and honour of Spanish knighthood! In what words shall I
describe this dread exploit, by what language shall I make it credible
to ages to come, what eulogies are there unmeet for thee, though
they be hyperboles piled on hyperboles! On foot, alone, undaunted,
high-souled, with but a simple sword, and that no trenchant blade of
the Perrillo brand, a shield, but no bright polished steel one,
there stoodst thou, biding and awaiting the two fiercest lions that
Africa's forests ever bred! Thy own deeds be thy praise, valiant
Manchegan, and here I leave them as they stand, wanting the words
wherewith to glorify them!"
  Here the author's outburst came to an end, and he proceeded to
take up the thread of his story, saying that the keeper, seeing that
Don Quixote had taken up his position, and that it was impossible
for him to avoid letting out the male without incurring the enmity
of the fiery and daring knight, flung open the doors of the first
cage, containing, as has been said, the lion, which was now seen to be
of enormous size, and grim and hideous mien. The first thing he did
was to turn round in the cage in which he lay, and protrude his claws,
and stretch himself thoroughly; he next opened his mouth, and yawned
very leisurely, and with near two palms' length of tongue that he
had thrust forth, he licked the dust out of his eyes and washed his
face; having done this, he put his head out of the cage and looked all
round with eyes like glowing coals, a spectacle and demeanour to
strike terror into temerity itself. Don Quixote merely observed him
steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and come to close
quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him in pieces.
  So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lion, more
courteous than arrogant, not troubling himself about silly bravado,
after having looked all round, as has been said, turned about and
presented his hind-quarters to Don Quixote, and very coolly and
tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote
ordered the keeper to take a stick to him and provoke him to make
him come out.
  "That I won't," said the keeper; "for if I anger him, the first
he'll tear in pieces will be myself. Be satisfied, sir knight, with
what you have done, which leaves nothing more to be said on the
score of courage, and do not seek to tempt fortune a second time.
The lion has the door open; he is free to come out or not to come out;
but as he has not come out so far, he will not come out to-day. Your
worship's great courage has been fully manifested already; no brave
champion, so it strikes me, is bound to do more than challenge his
enemy and wait for him on the field; if his adversary does not come,
on him lies the disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off the
crown of victory."
  "That is true," said Don Quixote; "close the door, my friend, and
let me have, in the best form thou canst, what thou hast seen me do,
by way of certificate; to wit, that thou didst open for the lion, that
I waited for him, that he did not come out, that I still waited for
him, and that still he did not come out, and lay down again. I am
not bound to do more; enchantments avaunt, and God uphold the right,
the truth, and true chivalry! Close the door as I bade thee, while I
make signals to the fugitives that have left us, that they may learn
this exploit from thy lips."
  The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of his lance
the cloth he had wiped his face with after the deluge of curds,
proceeded to recall the others, who still continued to fly, looking
back at every step, all in a body, the gentleman bringing up the rear.
Sancho, however, happening to observe the signal of the white cloth,
exclaimed, "May I die, if my master has not overcome the wild
beasts, for he is calling to us."
  They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote who was
making signals, and shaking off their fears to some extent, they
approached slowly until they were near enough to hear distinctly Don
Quixote's voice calling to them. They returned at length to the
cart, and as they came up, Don Quixote said to the carter, "Put your
mules to once more, brother, and continue your journey; and do thou,
Sancho, give him two gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to
compensate for the delay they have incurred through me."
  "That will I give with all my heart," said Sancho; "but what has
become of the lions? Are they dead or alive?"
  The keeper, then, in full detail, and bit by bit, described the
end of the contest, exalting to the best of his power and ability
the valour of Don Quixote, at the sight of whom the lion quailed,
and would not and dared not come out of the cage, although he had held
the door open ever so long; and showing how, in consequence of his
having represented to the knight that it was tempting God to provoke
the lion in order to force him out, which he wished to have done, he
very reluctantly, and altogether against his will, had allowed the
door to be closed.
  "What dost thou think of this, Sancho?" said Don Quixote. "Are there
any enchantments that can prevail against true valour? The
enchanters may be able to rob me of good fortune, but of fortitude and
courage they cannot."
  Sancho paid the crowns, the carter put to, the keeper kissed Don
Quixote's hands for the bounty bestowed upon him, and promised to give
an account of the valiant exploit to the King himself, as soon as he
saw him at court.
  "Then," said Don Quixote, "if his Majesty should happen to ask who
performed it, you must say THE KNIGHT OF THE LIONS; for it is my
desire that into this the name I have hitherto borne of Knight of
the Rueful Countenance be from this time forward changed, altered,
transformed, and turned; and in this I follow the ancient usage of
knights-errant, who changed their names when they pleased, or when
it suited their purpose."
  The cart went its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he of the
green gaban went theirs. All this time, Don Diego de Miranda had not
spoken a word, being entirely taken up with observing and noting all
that Don Quixote did and said, and the opinion he formed was that he
was a man of brains gone mad, and a madman on the verge of
rationality. The first part of his history had not yet reached him,
for, had he read it, the amazement with which his words and deeds
filled him would have vanished, as he would then have understood the
nature of his madness; but knowing nothing of it, he took him to be
rational one moment, and crazy the next, for what he said was
sensible, elegant, and well expressed, and what he did, absurd,
rash, and foolish; and said he to himself, "What could be madder
than putting on a helmet full of curds, and then persuading oneself
that enchanters are softening one's skull; or what could be greater
rashness and folly than wanting to fight lions tooth and nail?"
  Don Quixote roused him from these reflections and this soliloquy
by saying, "No doubt, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, you set me down in
your mind as a fool and a madman, and it would be no wonder if you
did, for my deeds do not argue anything else. But for all that, I
would have you take notice that I am neither so mad nor so foolish
as I must have seemed to you. A gallant knight shows to advantage
bringing his lance to bear adroitly upon a fierce bull under the
eyes of his sovereign, in the midst of a spacious plaza; a knight
shows to advantage arrayed in glittering armour, pacing the lists
before the ladies in some joyous tournament, and all those knights
show to advantage that entertain, divert, and, if we may say so,
honour the courts of their princes by warlike exercises, or what
resemble them; but to greater advantage than all these does a
knight-errant show when he traverses deserts, solitudes,
cross-roads, forests, and mountains, in quest of perilous
adventures, bent on bringing them to a happy and successful issue, all
to win a glorious and lasting renown. To greater advantage, I
maintain, does the knight-errant show bringing aid to some widow in
some lonely waste, than the court knight dallying with some city
damsel. All knights have their own special parts to play; let the
courtier devote himself to the ladies, let him add lustre to his
sovereign's court by his liveries, let him entertain poor gentlemen
with the sumptuous fare of his table, let him arrange joustings,
marshal tournaments, and prove himself noble, generous, and
magnificent, and above all a good Christian, and so doing he will
fulfil the duties that are especially his; but let the knight-errant
explore the corners of the earth and penetrate the most intricate
labyrinths, at each step let him attempt impossibilities, on
desolate heaths let him endure the burning rays of the midsummer
sun, and the bitter inclemency of the winter winds and frosts; let
no lions daunt him, no monsters terrify him, no dragons make him
quail; for to seek these, to attack those, and to vanquish all, are in
truth his main duties. I, then, as it has fallen to my lot to be a
member of knight-errantry, cannot avoid attempting all that to me
seems to come within the sphere of my duties; thus it was my bounden
duty to attack those lions that I just now attacked, although I knew
it to be the height of rashness; for I know well what valour is,
that it is a virtue that occupies a place between two vicious
extremes, cowardice and temerity; but it will be a lesser evil for him
who is valiant to rise till he reaches the point of rashness, than
to sink until he reaches the point of cowardice; for, as it is
easier for the prodigal than for the miser to become generous, so it
is easier for a rash man to prove truly valiant than for a coward to
rise to true valour; and believe me, Senor Don Diego, in attempting
adventures it is better to lose by a card too many than by a card
too few; for to hear it said, 'such a knight is rash and daring,'
sounds better than 'such a knight is timid and cowardly.'"
  "I protest, Senor Don Quixote," said Don Diego, "everything you have
said and done is proved correct by the test of reason itself; and I
believe, if the laws and ordinances of knight-errantry should be lost,
they might be found in your worship's breast as in their own proper
depository and muniment-house; but let us make haste, and reach my
village, where you shall take rest after your late exertions; for if
they have not been of the body they have been of the spirit, and these
sometimes tend to produce bodily fatigue."
  "I take the invitation as a great favour and honour, Senor Don
Diego," replied Don Quixote; and pressing forward at a better pace
than before, at about two in the afternoon they reached the village
and house of Don Diego, or, as Don Quixote called him, "The Knight
of the Green Gaban."
  CHAPTER XVIII
  OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF
THE GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON

  DON QUIXOTE found Don Diego de Miranda's house built in village
style, with his arms in rough stone over the street door; in the patio
was the store-room, and at the entrance the cellar, with plenty of
wine-jars standing round, which, coming from El Toboso, brought back
to his memory his enchanted and transformed Dulcinea; and with a sigh,
and not thinking of what he was saying, or in whose presence he was,
he exclaimed-

     "O ye sweet treasures, to my sorrow found!
     Once sweet and welcome when 'twas heaven's good-will.

O ye Tobosan jars, how ye bring back to my memory the sweet object
of my bitter regrets!"
  The student poet, Don Diego's son, who had come out with his
mother to receive him, heard this exclamation, and both mother and son
were filled with amazement at the extraordinary figure he presented;
he, however, dismounting from Rocinante, advanced with great
politeness to ask permission to kiss the lady's hand, while Don
Diego said, "Senora, pray receive with your wonted kindness Senor
Don Quixote of La Mancha, whom you see before you, a knight-errant,
and the bravest and wisest in the world."
  The lady, whose name was Dona Christina, received him with every
sign of good-will and great courtesy, and Don Quixote placed himself
at her service with an abundance of well-chosen and polished
phrases. Almost the same civilities were exchanged between him and the
student, who listening to Don Quixote, took him to be a sensible,
clear-headed person.
  Here the author describes minutely everything belonging to Don
Diego's mansion, putting before us in his picture the whole contents
of a rich gentleman-farmer's house; but the translator of the
history thought it best to pass over these and other details of the
same sort in silence, as they are not in harmony with the main purpose
of the story, the strong point of which is truth rather than dull
digressions.
  They led Don Quixote into a room, and Sancho removed his armour,
leaving him in loose Walloon breeches and chamois-leather doublet, all
stained with the rust of his armour; his collar was a falling one of
scholastic cut, without starch or lace, his buskins buff-coloured, and
his shoes polished. He wore his good sword, which hung in a baldric of
sea-wolf's skin, for he had suffered for many years, they say, from an
ailment of the kidneys; and over all he threw a long cloak of good
grey cloth. But first of all, with five or six buckets of water (for
as regard the number of buckets there is some dispute), he washed
his head and face, and still the water remained whey-coloured,
thanks to Sancho's greediness and purchase of those unlucky curds that
turned his master so white. Thus arrayed, and with an easy, sprightly,
and gallant air, Don Quixote passed out into another room, where the
student was waiting to entertain him while the table was being laid;
for on the arrival of so distinguished a guest, Dona Christina was
anxious to show that she knew how and was able to give a becoming
reception to those who came to her house.
  While Don Quixote was taking off his armour, Don Lorenzo (for so Don
Diego's son was called) took the opportunity to say to his father,
"What are we to make of this gentleman you have brought home to us,
sir? For his name, his appearance, and your describing him as a
knight-errant have completely puzzled my mother and me."
  "I don't know what to say, my son," replied. Don Diego; "all I can
tell thee is that I have seen him act the acts of the greatest
madman in the world, and heard him make observations so sensible
that they efface and undo all he does; do thou talk to him and feel
the pulse of his wits, and as thou art shrewd, form the most
reasonable conclusion thou canst as to his wisdom or folly; though, to
tell the truth, I am more inclined to take him to be mad than sane."
  With this Don Lorenzo went away to entertain Don Quixote as has been
said, and in the course of the conversation that passed between them
Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, "Your father, Senor Don Diego de
Miranda, has told me of the rare abilities and subtle intellect you
possess, and, above all, that you are a great poet."
  "A poet, it may be," replied Don Lorenzo, "but a great one, by no
means. It is true that I am somewhat given to poetry and to reading
good poets, but not so much so as to justify the title of 'great'
which my father gives me."
  "I do not dislike that modesty," said Don Quixote; "for there is
no poet who is not conceited and does not think he is the best poet in
the world."
  "There is no rule without an exception," said Don Lorenzo; "there
may be some who are poets and yet do not think they are."
  "Very few," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, what verses are those
which you have now in hand, and which your father tells me keep you
somewhat restless and absorbed? If it be some gloss, I know
something about glosses, and I should like to hear them; and if they
are for a poetical tournament, contrive to carry off the second prize;
for the first always goes by favour or personal standing, the second
by simple justice; and so the third comes to be the second, and the
first, reckoning in this way, will be third, in the same way as
licentiate degrees are conferred at the universities; but, for all
that, the title of first is a great distinction."
  "So far," said Don Lorenzo to himself, "I should not take you to
be a madman; but let us go on." So he said to him, "Your worship has
apparently attended the schools; what sciences have you studied?"
  "That of knight-errantry," said Don Quixote, "which is as good as
that of poetry, and even a finger or two above it."
  "I do not know what science that is," said Don Lorenzo, "and until
now I have never heard of it."
  "It is a science," said Don Quixote, "that comprehends in itself all
or most of the sciences in the world, for he who professes it must
be a jurist, and must know the rules of justice, distributive and
equitable, so as to give to each one what belongs to him and is due to
him. He must be a theologian, so as to be able to give a clear and
distinctive reason for the Christian faith he professes, wherever it
may be asked of him. He must be a physician, and above all a
herbalist, so as in wastes and solitudes to know the herbs that have
the property of healing wounds, for a knight-errant must not go
looking for some one to cure him at every step. He must be an
astronomer, so as to know by the stars how many hours of the night
have passed, and what clime and quarter of the world he is in. He must
know mathematics, for at every turn some occasion for them will
present itself to him; and, putting it aside that he must be adorned
with all the virtues, cardinal and theological, to come down to
minor particulars, he must, I say, be able to swim as well as Nicholas
or Nicolao the Fish could, as the story goes; he must know how to shoe
a horse, and repair his saddle and bridle; and, to return to higher
matters, he must be faithful to God and to his lady; he must be pure
in thought, decorous in words, generous in works, valiant in deeds,
patient in suffering, compassionate towards the needy, and, lastly, an
upholder of the truth though its defence should cost him his life.
Of all these qualities, great and small, is a true knight-errant
made up; judge then, Senor Don Lorenzo, whether it be a contemptible
science which the knight who studies and professes it has to learn,
and whether it may not compare with the very loftiest that are
taught in the schools."
  "If that be so," replied Don Lorenzo, "this science, I protest,
surpasses all."
  "How, if that be so?" said Don Quixote.
  "What I mean to say," said Don Lorenzo, "is, that I doubt whether
there are now, or ever were, any knights-errant, and adorned with such
virtues."
  "Many a time," replied Don Quixote, "have I said what I now say once
more, that the majority of the world are of opinion that there never
were any knights-errant in it; and as it is my opinion that, unless
heaven by some miracle brings home to them the truth that there were
and are, all the pains one takes will be in vain (as experience has
often proved to me), I will not now stop to disabuse you of the
error you share with the multitude. All I shall do is to pray to
heaven to deliver you from it, and show you how beneficial and
necessary knights-errant were in days of yore, and how useful they
would be in these days were they but in vogue; but now, for the sins
of the people, sloth and indolence, gluttony and luxury are
triumphant."
  "Our guest has broken out on our hands," said Don Lorenzo to himself
at this point; "but, for all that, he is a glorious madman, and I
should be a dull blockhead to doubt it."
  Here, being summoned to dinner, they brought their colloquy to a
close. Don Diego asked his son what he had been able to make out as to
the wits of their guest. To which he replied, "All the doctors and
clever scribes in the world will not make sense of the scrawl of his
madness; he is a madman full of streaks, full of lucid intervals."
  They went in to dinner, and the repast was such as Don Diego said on
the road he was in the habit of giving to his guests, neat, plentiful,
and tasty; but what pleased Don Quixote most was the marvellous
silence that reigned throughout the house, for it was like a
Carthusian monastery.
  When the cloth had been removed, grace said and their hands
washed, Don Quixote earnestly pressed Don Lorenzo to repeat to him his
verses for the poetical tournament, to which he replied, "Not to be
like those poets who, when they are asked to recite their verses,
refuse, and when they are not asked for them vomit them up, I will
repeat my gloss, for which I do not expect any prize, having
composed it merely as an exercise of ingenuity."
  "A discerning friend of mine," said Don Quixote, "was of opinion
that no one ought to waste labour in glossing verses; and the reason
he gave was that the gloss can never come up to the text, and that
often or most frequently it wanders away from the meaning and
purpose aimed at in the glossed lines; and besides, that the laws of
the gloss were too strict, as they did not allow interrogations, nor
'said he,' nor 'I say,' nor turning verbs into nouns, or altering
the construction, not to speak of other restrictions and limitations
that fetter gloss-writers, as you no doubt know."
  "Verily, Senor Don Quixote," said Don Lorenzo, "I wish I could catch
your worship tripping at a stretch, but I cannot, for you slip through
my fingers like an eel."
  "I don't understand what you say, or mean by slipping," said Don
Quixote.
  "I will explain myself another time," said Don Lorenzo; "for the
present pray attend to the glossed verses and the gloss, which run
thus:

     Could 'was' become an 'is' for me,
       Then would I ask no more than this;
       Or could, for me, the time that is
     Become the time that is to be!-

                   GLOSS

     Dame Fortune once upon a day
       To me was bountiful and kind;
       But all things change; she changed her mind,
     And what she gave she took away.
     O Fortune, long I've sued to thee;
       The gifts thou gavest me restore,
       For, trust me, I would ask no more,
     Could 'was' become an 'is' for me.

     No other prize I seek to gain,
       No triumph, glory, or success,
       Only the long-lost happiness,
     The memory whereof is pain.
     One taste, methinks, of bygone bliss
       The heart-consuming fire might stay;
       And, so it come without delay,
     Then would I ask no more than this.

     I ask what cannot be, alas!
       That time should ever be, and then
       Come back to us, and be again,
     No power on earth can bring to pass;
     For fleet of foot is he, I wis,
       And idly, therefore, do we pray
       That what for aye hath left us may
     Become for us the time that is.

     Perplexed, uncertain, to remain
       'Twixt hope and fear, is death, not life;
       'Twere better, sure, to end the strife,
     And dying, seek release from pain.
     And yet, thought were the best for me.
       Anon the thought aside I fling,
       And to the present fondly cling,
     And dread the time that is to be."

  When Don Lorenzo had finished reciting his gloss, Don Quixote
stood up, and in a loud voice, almost a shout, exclaimed as he grasped
Don Lorenzo's right hand in his, "By the highest heavens, noble youth,
but you are the best poet on earth, and deserve to be crowned with
laurel, not by Cyprus or by Gaeta- as a certain poet, God forgive him,
said- but by the Academies of Athens, if they still flourished, and by
those that flourish now, Paris, Bologna, Salamanca. Heaven grant
that the judges who rob you of the first prize- that Phoebus may
pierce them with his arrows, and the Muses never cross the
thresholds of their doors. Repeat me some of your long-measure verses,
senor, if you will be so good, for I want thoroughly to feel the pulse
of your rare genius."
  Is there any need to say that Don Lorenzo enjoyed hearing himself
praised by Don Quixote, albeit he looked upon him as a madman? power
of flattery, how far-reaching art thou, and how wide are the bounds of
thy pleasant jurisdiction! Don Lorenzo gave a proof of it, for he
complied with Don Quixote's request and entreaty, and repeated to
him this sonnet on the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.

                       SONNET

     The lovely maid, she pierces now the wall;
       Heart-pierced by her young Pyramus doth lie;
       And Love spreads wing from Cyprus isle to fly,
     A chink to view so wondrous great and small.
     There silence speaketh, for no voice at all
       Can pass so strait a strait; but love will ply
       Where to all other power 'twere vain to try;
     For love will find a way whate'er befall.
     Impatient of delay, with reckless pace
       The rash maid wins the fatal spot where she
     Sinks not in lover's arms but death's embrace.
       So runs the strange tale, how the lovers twain
     One sword, one sepulchre, one memory,
       Slays, and entombs, and brings to life again.

  "Blessed be God," said Don Quixote when he had heard Don Lorenzo's
sonnet, "that among the hosts there are of irritable poets I have
found one consummate one, which, senor, the art of this sonnet
proves to me that you are!"
  For four days was Don Quixote most sumptuously entertained in Don
Diego's house, at the end of which time he asked his permission to
depart, telling him he thanked him for the kindness and hospitality he
had received in his house, but that, as it did not become
knights-errant to give themselves up for long to idleness and
luxury, he was anxious to fulfill the duties of his calling in seeking
adventures, of which he was informed there was an abundance in that
neighbourhood, where he hoped to employ his time until the day came
round for the jousts at Saragossa, for that was his proper
destination; and that, first of all, he meant to enter the cave of
Montesinos, of which so many marvellous things were reported all
through the country, and at the same time to investigate and explore
the origin and true source of the seven lakes commonly called the
lakes of Ruidera.
  Don Diego and his son commended his laudable resolution, and bade
him furnish himself with all he wanted from their house and
belongings, as they would most gladly be of service to him; which,
indeed, his personal worth and his honourable profession made
incumbent upon them.
  The day of his departure came at length, as welcome to Don Quixote
as it was sad and sorrowful to Sancho Panza, who was very well
satisfied with the abundance of Don Diego's house, and objected to
return to the starvation of the woods and wilds and the
short-commons of his ill-stocked alforjas; these, however, he filled
and packed with what he considered needful. On taking leave, Don
Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, "I know not whether I have told you
already, but if I have I tell you once more, that if you wish to spare
yourself fatigue and toil in reaching the inaccessible summit of the
temple of fame, you have nothing to do but to turn aside out of the
somewhat narrow path of poetry and take the still narrower one of
knight-errantry, wide enough, however, to make you an emperor in the
twinkling of an eye."
  In this speech Don Quixote wound up the evidence of his madness, but
still better in what he added when he said, "God knows, I would gladly
take Don Lorenzo with me to teach him how to spare the humble, and
trample the proud under foot, virtues that are part and parcel of
the profession I belong to; but since his tender age does not allow of
it, nor his praiseworthy pursuits permit it, I will simply content
myself with impressing it upon your worship that you will become
famous as a poet if you are guided by the opinion of others rather
than by your own; because no fathers or mothers ever think their own
children ill-favoured, and this sort of deception prevails still
more strongly in the case of the children of the brain."
  Both father and son were amazed afresh at the strange medley Don
Quixote talked, at one moment sense, at another nonsense, and at the
pertinacity and persistence he displayed in going through thick and
thin in quest of his unlucky adventures, which he made the end and aim
of his desires. There was a renewal of offers of service and
civilities, and then, with the gracious permission of the lady of
the castle, they took their departure, Don Quixote on Rocinante, and
Sancho on Dapple.
  CHAPTER XIX
  IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL INCIDENTS

  DON QUIXOTE had gone but a short distance beyond Don Diego's
village, when he fell in with a couple of either priests or
students, and a couple of peasants, mounted on four beasts of the
ass kind. One of the students carried, wrapped up in a piece of
green buckram by way of a portmanteau, what seemed to be a little
linen and a couple of pairs of-ribbed stockings; the other carried
nothing but a pair of new fencing-foils with buttons. The peasants
carried divers articles that showed they were on their way from some
large town where they had bought them, and were taking them home to
their village; and both students and peasants were struck with the
same amazement that everybody felt who saw Don Quixote for the first
time, and were dying to know who this man, so different from
ordinary men, could be. Don Quixote saluted them, and after
ascertaining that their road was the same as his, made them an offer
of his company, and begged them to slacken their pace, as their
young asses travelled faster than his horse; and then, to gratify
them, he told them in a few words who he was and the calling and
profession he followed, which was that of a knight-errant seeking
adventures in all parts of the world. He informed them that his own
name was Don Quixote of La Mancha, and that he was called, by way of
surname, the Knight of the Lions.
  All this was Greek or gibberish to the peasants, but not so to the
students, who very soon perceived the crack in Don Quixote's pate; for
all that, however, they regarded him with admiration and respect,
and one of them said to him, "If you, sir knight, have no fixed
road, as it is the way with those who seek adventures not to have any,
let your worship come with us; you will see one of the finest and
richest weddings that up to this day have ever been celebrated in La
Mancha, or for many a league round."
  Don Quixote asked him if it was some prince's, that he spoke of it
in this way. "Not at all," said the student; "it is the wedding of a
farmer and a farmer's daughter, he the richest in all this country,
and she the fairest mortal ever set eyes on. The display with which it
is to be attended will be something rare and out of the common, for it
will be celebrated in a meadow adjoining the town of the bride, who is
called, par excellence, Quiteria the fair, as the bridegroom is called
Camacho the rich. She is eighteen, and he twenty-two, and they are
fairly matched, though some knowing ones, who have all the pedigrees
in the world by heart, will have it that the family of the fair
Quiteria is better than Camacho's; but no one minds that now-a-days,
for wealth can solder a great many flaws. At any rate, Camacho is
free-handed, and it is his fancy to screen the whole meadow with
boughs and cover it in overhead, so that the sun will have hard work
if he tries to get in to reach the grass that covers the soil. He
has provided dancers too, not only sword but also bell-dancers, for in
his own town there are those who ring the changes and jingle the bells
to perfection; of shoe-dancers I say nothing, for of them he has
engaged a host. But none of these things, nor of the many others I
have omitted to mention, will do more to make this a memorable wedding
than the part which I suspect the despairing Basilio will play in
it. This Basilio is a youth of the same village as Quiteria, and he
lived in the house next door to that of her parents, of which
circumstance Love took advantage to reproduce to the word the
long-forgotten loves of Pyramus and Thisbe; for Basilio loved Quiteria
from his earliest years, and she responded to his passion with
countless modest proofs of affection, so that the loves of the two
children, Basilio and Quiteria, were the talk and the amusement of the
town. As they grew up, the father of Quiteria made up his mind to
refuse Basilio his wonted freedom of access to the house, and to
relieve himself of constant doubts and suspicions, he arranged a match
for his daughter with the rich Camacho, as he did not approve of
marrying her to Basilio, who had not so large a share of the gifts
of fortune as of nature; for if the truth be told ungrudgingly, he
is the most agile youth we know, a mighty thrower of the bar, a
first-rate wrestler, and a great ball-player; he runs like a deer, and
leaps better than a goat, bowls over the nine-pins as if by magic,
sings like a lark, plays the guitar so as to make it speak, and, above
all, handles a sword as well as the best."
  "For that excellence alone," said Don Quixote at this, "the youth
deserves to marry, not merely the fair Quiteria, but Queen Guinevere
herself, were she alive now, in spite of Launcelot and all who would
try to prevent it."
  "Say that to my wife," said Sancho, who had until now listened in
silence, "for she won't hear of anything but each one marrying his
equal, holding with the proverb 'each ewe to her like.' What I would
like is that this good Basilio (for I am beginning to take a fancy
to him already) should marry this lady Quiteria; and a blessing and
good luck- I meant to say the opposite- on people who would prevent
those who love one another from marrying."
  "If all those who love one another were to marry," said Don Quixote,
"it would deprive parents of the right to choose, and marry their
children to the proper person and at the proper time; and if it was
left to daughters to choose husbands as they pleased, one would be for
choosing her father's servant, and another, some one she has seen
passing in the street and fancies gallant and dashing, though he may
be a drunken bully; for love and fancy easily blind the eyes of the
judgment, so much wanted in choosing one's way of life; and the
matrimonial choice is very liable to error, and it needs great caution
and the special favour of heaven to make it a good one. He who has
to make a long journey, will, if he is wise, look out for some
trusty and pleasant companion to accompany him before he sets out.
Why, then, should not he do the same who has to make the whole journey
of life down to the final halting-place of death, more especially when
the companion has to be his companion in bed, at board, and
everywhere, as the wife is to her husband? The companionship of
one's wife is no article of merchandise, that, after it has been
bought, may be returned, or bartered, or changed; for it is an
inseparable accident that lasts as long as life lasts; it is a noose
that, once you put it round your neck, turns into a Gordian knot,
which, if the scythe of Death does not cut it, there is no untying.
I could say a great deal more on this subject, were I not prevented by
the anxiety I feel to know if the senor licentiate has anything more
to tell about the story of Basilio."
  To this the student, bachelor, or, as Don Quixote called him,
licentiate, replied, "I have nothing whatever to say further, but that
from the moment Basilio learned that the fair Quiteria was to be
married to Camacho the rich, he has never been seen to smile, or heard
to utter rational word, and he always goes about moody and dejected,
talking to himself in a way that shows plainly he is out of his
senses. He eats little and sleeps little, and all he eats is fruit,
and when he sleeps, if he sleeps at all, it is in the field on the
hard earth like a brute beast. Sometimes he gazes at the sky, at other
times he fixes his eyes on the earth in such an abstracted way that he
might be taken for a clothed statue, with its drapery stirred by the
wind. In short, he shows such signs of a heart crushed by suffering,
that all we who know him believe that when to-morrow the fair Quiteria
says 'yes,' it will be his sentence of death."
  "God will guide it better," said Sancho, "for God who gives the
wound gives the salve; nobody knows what will happen; there are a good
many hours between this and to-morrow, and any one of them, or any
moment, the house may fall; I have seen the rain coming down and the
sun shining all at one time; many a one goes to bed in good health who
can't stir the next day. And tell me, is there anyone who can boast of
having driven a nail into the wheel of fortune? No, faith; and between
a woman's 'yes' and 'no' I wouldn't venture to put the point of a pin,
for there would not be room for it; if you tell me Quiteria loves
Basilio heart and soul, then I'll give him a bag of good luck; for
love, I have heard say, looks through spectacles that make copper seem
gold, poverty wealth, and blear eyes pearls."
  "What art thou driving at, Sancho? curses on thee!" said Don
Quixote; "for when thou takest to stringing proverbs and sayings
together, no one can understand thee but Judas himself, and I wish
he had thee. Tell me, thou animal, what dost thou know about nails
or wheels, or anything else?"
  "Oh, if you don't understand me," replied Sancho, "it is no wonder
my words are taken for nonsense; but no matter; I understand myself,
and I know I have not said anything very foolish in what I have
said; only your worship, senor, is always gravelling at everything I
say, nay, everything I do."
  "Cavilling, not gravelling," said Don Quixote, "thou prevaricator of
honest language, God confound thee!"
  "Don't find fault with me, your worship," returned Sancho, "for
you know I have not been bred up at court or trained at Salamanca,
to know whether I am adding or dropping a letter or so in my words.
Why! God bless me, it's not fair to force a Sayago-man to speak like a
Toledan; maybe there are Toledans who do not hit it off when it
comes to polished talk."
  "That is true," said the licentiate, "for those who have been bred
up in the Tanneries and the Zocodover cannot talk like those who are
almost all day pacing the cathedral cloisters, and yet they are all
Toledans. Pure, correct, elegant and lucid language will be met with
in men of courtly breeding and discrimination, though they may have
been born in Majalahonda; I say of discrimination, because there are
many who are not so, and discrimination is the grammar of good
language, if it be accompanied by practice. I, sirs, for my sins
have studied canon law at Salamanca, and I rather pique myself on
expressing my meaning in clear, plain, and intelligible language."
  "If you did not pique yourself more on your dexterity with those
foils you carry than on dexterity of tongue," said the other
student, "you would have been head of the degrees, where you are now
tail."
  "Look here, bachelor Corchuelo," returned the licentiate, "you
have the most mistaken idea in the world about skill with the sword,
if you think it useless."
  "It is no idea on my part, but an established truth," replied
Corchuelo; "and if you wish me to prove it to you by experiment, you
have swords there, and it is a good opportunity; I have a steady
hand and a strong arm, and these joined with my resolution, which is
not small, will make you confess that I am not mistaken. Dismount
and put in practice your positions and circles and angles and science,
for I hope to make you see stars at noonday with my rude raw
swordsmanship, in which, next to God, I place my trust that the man is
yet to be born who will make me turn my back, and that there is not
one in the world I will not compel to give ground."
  "As to whether you turn your back or not, I do not concern
myself," replied the master of fence; "though it might be that your
grave would be dug on the spot where you planted your foot the first
time; I mean that you would be stretched dead there for despising
skill with the sword."
  "We shall soon see," replied Corchuelo, and getting off his ass
briskly, he drew out furiously one of the swords the licentiate
carried on his beast.
  "It must not be that way," said Don Quixote at this point; "I will
be the director of this fencing match, and judge of this often
disputed question;" and dismounting from Rocinante and grasping his
lance, he planted himself in the middle of the road, just as the
licentiate, with an easy, graceful bearing and step, advanced
towards Corchuelo, who came on against him, darting fire from his
eyes, as the saying is. The other two of the company, the peasants,
without dismounting from their asses, served as spectators of the
mortal tragedy. The cuts, thrusts, down strokes, back strokes and
doubles, that Corchuelo delivered were past counting, and came thicker
than hops or hail. He attacked like an angry lion, but he was met by a
tap on the mouth from the button of the licentiate's sword that
checked him in the midst of his furious onset, and made him kiss it as
if it were a relic, though not as devoutly as relics are and ought
to he kissed. The end of it was that the licentiate reckoned up for
him by thrusts every one of the buttons of the short cassock he
wore, tore the skirts into strips, like the tails of a cuttlefish,
knocked off his hat twice, and so completely tired him out, that in
vexation, anger, and rage, he took the sword by the hilt and flung
it away with such force, that one of the peasants that were there, who
was a notary, and who went for it, made an affidavit afterwards that
he sent it nearly three-quarters of a league, which testimony will
serve, and has served, to show and establish with all certainty that
strength is overcome by skill.
  Corchuelo sat down wearied, and Sancho approaching him said, "By
my faith, senor bachelor, if your worship takes my advice, you will
never challenge anyone to fence again, only to wrestle and throw the
bar, for you have the youth and strength for that; but as for these
fencers as they call them, I have heard say they can put the point
of a sword through the eye of a needle."
  "I am satisfied with having tumbled off my donkey," said
Corchuelo, "and with having had the truth I was so ignorant of
proved to me by experience;" and getting up he embraced the
licentiate, and they were better friends than ever; and not caring
to wait for the notary who had gone for the sword, as they saw he
would be a long time about it, they resolved to push on so as to reach
the village of Quiteria, to which they all belonged, in good time.
  During the remainder of the journey the licentiate held forth to
them on the excellences of the sword, with such conclusive
arguments, and such figures and mathematical proofs, that all were
convinced of the value of the science, and Corchuelo cured of his
dogmatism.
  It grew dark; but before they reached the town it seemed to them all
as if there was a heaven full of countless glittering stars in front
of it. They heard, too, the pleasant mingled notes of a variety of
instruments, flutes, drums, psalteries, pipes, tabors, and timbrels,
and as they drew near they perceived that the trees of a leafy
arcade that had been constructed at the entrance of the town were
filled with lights unaffected by the wind, for the breeze at the
time was so gentle that it had not power to stir the leaves on the
trees. The musicians were the life of the wedding, wandering through
the pleasant grounds in separate bands, some dancing, others
singing, others playing the various instruments already mentioned.
In short, it seemed as though mirth and gaiety were frisking and
gambolling all over the meadow. Several other persons were engaged
in erecting raised benches from which people might conveniently see
the plays and dances that were to be performed the next day on the
spot dedicated to the celebration of the marriage of Camacho the
rich and the obsequies of Basilio. Don Quixote would not enter the
village, although the peasant as well as the bachelor pressed him;
he excused himself, however, on the grounds, amply sufficient in his
opinion, that it was the custom of knights-errant to sleep in the
fields and woods in preference to towns, even were it under gilded
ceilings; and so turned aside a little out of the road, very much
against Sancho's will, as the good quarters he had enjoyed in the
castle or house of Don Diego came back to his mind.
  CHAPTER XX
  WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH,
TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF BASILIO THE POOR

  SCARCE had the fair Aurora given bright Phoebus time to dry the
liquid pearls upon her golden locks with the heat of his fervent rays,
when Don Quixote, shaking off sloth from his limbs, sprang to his feet
and called to his squire Sancho, who was still snoring; seeing which
Don Quixote ere he roused him thus addressed him: "Happy thou, above
all the dwellers on the face of the earth, that, without envying or
being envied, sleepest with tranquil mind, and that neither enchanters
persecute nor enchantments affright. Sleep, I say, and will say a
hundred times, without any jealous thoughts of thy mistress to make
thee keep ceaseless vigils, or any cares as to how thou art to pay the
debts thou owest, or find to-morrow's food for thyself and thy needy
little family, to interfere with thy repose. Ambition breaks not thy
rest, nor doth this world's empty pomp disturb thee, for the utmost
reach of thy anxiety is to provide for thy ass, since upon my
shoulders thou hast laid the support of thyself, the counterpoise
and burden that nature and custom have imposed upon masters. The
servant sleeps and the master lies awake thinking how he is to feed
him, advance him, and reward him. The distress of seeing the sky
turn brazen, and withhold its needful moisture from the earth, is
not felt by the servant but by the master, who in time of scarcity and
famine must support him who has served him in times of plenty and
abundance."
  To all this Sancho made no reply because he was asleep, nor would he
have wakened up so soon as he did had not Don Quixote brought him to
his senses with the butt of his lance. He awoke at last, drowsy and
lazy, and casting his eyes about in every direction, observed,
"There comes, if I don't mistake, from the quarter of that arcade a
steam and a smell a great deal more like fried rashers than
galingale or thyme; a wedding that begins with smells like that, by my
faith, ought to be plentiful and unstinting."
  "Have done, thou glutton," said Don Quixote; "come, let us go and
witness this bridal, and see what the rejected Basilio does."
  "Let him do what he likes," returned Sancho; "be he not poor, he
would marry Quiteria. To make a grand match for himself, and he
without a farthing; is there nothing else? Faith, senor, it's my
opinion the poor man should be content with what he can get, and not
go looking for dainties in the bottom of the sea. I will bet my arm
that Camacho could bury Basilio in reals; and if that be so, as no
doubt it is, what a fool Quiteria would be to refuse the fine
dresses and jewels Camacho must have given her and will give her,
and take Basilio's bar-throwing and sword-play. They won't give a pint
of wine at the tavern for a good cast of the bar or a neat thrust of
the sword. Talents and accomplishments that can't be turned into
money, let Count Dirlos have them; but when such gifts fall to one
that has hard cash, I wish my condition of life was as becoming as
they are. On a good foundation you can raise a good building, and
the best foundation in the world is money."
  "For God's sake, Sancho," said Don Quixote here, "stop that
harangue; it is my belief, if thou wert allowed to continue all thou
beginnest every instant, thou wouldst have no time left for eating
or sleeping; for thou wouldst spend it all in talking."
  "If your worship had a good memory," replied Sancho, "you would
remember the articles of our agreement before we started from home
this last time; one of them was that I was to be let say all I
liked, so long as it was not against my neighbour or your worship's
authority; and so far, it seems to me, I have not broken the said
article."
  "I remember no such article, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "and even if
it were so, I desire you to hold your tongue and come along; for the
instruments we heard last night are already beginning to enliven the
valleys again, and no doubt the marriage will take place in the cool
of the morning, and not in the heat of the afternoon."
  Sancho did as his master bade him, and putting the saddle on
Rocinante and the pack-saddle on Dapple, they both mounted and at a
leisurely pace entered the arcade. The first thing that presented
itself to Sancho's eyes was a whole ox spitted on a whole elm tree,
and in the fire at which it was to be roasted there was burning a
middling-sized mountain of faggots, and six stewpots that stood
round the blaze had not been made in the ordinary mould of common
pots, for they were six half wine-jars, each fit to hold the
contents of a slaughter-house; they swallowed up whole sheep and hid
them away in their insides without showing any more sign of them
than if they were pigeons. Countless were the hares ready skinned
and the plucked fowls that hung on the trees for burial in the pots,
numberless the wildfowl and game of various sorts suspended from the
branches that the air might keep them cool. Sancho counted more than
sixty wine skins of over six gallons each, and all filled, as it
proved afterwards, with generous wines. There were, besides, piles
of the whitest bread, like the heaps of corn one sees on the
threshing-floors. There was a wall made of cheeses arranged like
open brick-work, and two cauldrons full of oil, bigger than those of a
dyer's shop, served for cooking fritters, which when fried were
taken out with two mighty shovels, and plunged into another cauldron
of prepared honey that stood close by. Of cooks and cook-maids there
were over fifty, all clean, brisk, and blithe. In the capacious
belly of the ox were a dozen soft little sucking-pigs, which, sewn
up there, served to give it tenderness and flavour. The spices of
different kinds did not seem to have been bought by the pound but by
the quarter, and all lay open to view in a great chest. In short,
all the preparations made for the wedding were in rustic style, but
abundant enough to feed an army.
  Sancho observed all, contemplated all, and everything won his heart.
The first to captivate and take his fancy were the pots, out of
which he would have very gladly helped himself to a moderate
pipkinful; then the wine skins secured his affections; and lastly, the
produce of the frying-pans, if, indeed, such imposing cauldrons may be
called frying-pans; and unable to control himself or bear it any
longer, he approached one of the busy cooks and civilly but hungrily
begged permission to soak a scrap of bread in one of the pots; to
which the cook made answer, "Brother, this is not a day on which
hunger is to have any sway, thanks to the rich Camacho; get down and
look about for a ladle and skim off a hen or two, and much good may
they do you."
  "I don't see one," said Sancho.
  "Wait a bit," said the cook; "sinner that I am! how particular and
bashful you are!" and so saying, he seized a bucket and plunging it
into one of the half jars took up three hens and a couple of geese,
and said to Sancho, "Fall to, friend, and take the edge off your
appetite with these skimmings until dinner-time comes."
  "I have nothing to put them in," said Sancho.
  "Well then," said the cook, "take spoon and all; for Camacho's
wealth and happiness furnish everything."
  While Sancho fared thus, Don Quixote was watching the entrance, at
one end of the arcade, of some twelve peasants, all in holiday and
gala dress, mounted on twelve beautiful mares with rich handsome field
trappings and a number of little bells attached to their petrals, who,
marshalled in regular order, ran not one but several courses over
the meadow, with jubilant shouts and cries of "Long live Camacho and
Quiteria! he as rich as she is fair; and she the fairest on earth!"
  Hearing this, Don Quixote said to himself, "It is easy to see
these folk have never seen my Dulcinea del Toboso; for if they had
they would be more moderate in their praises of this Quiteria of
theirs."
  Shortly after this, several bands of dancers of various sorts
began to enter the arcade at different points, and among them one of
sword-dancers composed of some four-and-twenty lads of gallant and
high-spirited mien, clad in the finest and whitest of linen, and
with handkerchiefs embroidered in various colours with fine silk;
and one of those on the mares asked an active youth who led them if
any of the dancers had been wounded. "As yet, thank God, no one has
been wounded," said he, "we are all safe and sound;" and he at once
began to execute complicated figures with the rest of his comrades,
with so many turns and so great dexterity, that although Don Quixote
was well used to see dances of the same kind, he thought he had
never seen any so good as this. He also admired another that came in
composed of fair young maidens, none of whom seemed to be under
fourteen or over eighteen years of age, all clad in green stuff,
with their locks partly braided, partly flowing loose, but all of such
bright gold as to vie with the sunbeams, and over them they wore
garlands of jessamine, roses, amaranth, and honeysuckle. At their head
were a venerable old man and an ancient dame, more brisk and active,
however, than might have been expected from their years. The notes
of a Zamora bagpipe accompanied them, and with modesty in their
countenances and in their eyes, and lightness in their feet, they
looked the best dancers in the world.
  Following these there came an artistic dance of the sort they call
"speaking dances." It was composed of eight nymphs in two files,
with the god Cupid leading one and Interest the other, the former
furnished with wings, bow, quiver and arrows, the latter in a rich
dress of gold and silk of divers colours. The nymphs that followed
Love bore their names written on white parchment in large letters on
their backs. "Poetry" was the name of the first, "Wit" of the
second, "Birth" of the third, and "Valour" of the fourth. Those that
followed Interest were distinguished in the same way; the badge of the
first announced "Liberality," that of the second "Largess," the
third "Treasure," and the fourth "Peaceful Possession." In front of
them all came a wooden castle drawn by four wild men, all clad in
ivy and hemp stained green, and looking so natural that they nearly
terrified Sancho. On the front of the castle and on each of the four
sides of its frame it bore the inscription "Castle of Caution." Four
skillful tabor and flute players accompanied them, and the dance
having been opened, Cupid, after executing two figures, raised his
eyes and bent his bow against a damsel who stood between the turrets
of the castle, and thus addressed her:

       I am the mighty God whose sway
         Is potent over land and sea.
       The heavens above us own me; nay,
         The shades below acknowledge me.
       I know not fear, I have my will,
         Whate'er my whim or fancy be;
       For me there's no impossible,
         I order, bind, forbid, set free.

Having concluded the stanza he discharged an arrow at the top of the
castle, and went back to his place. Interest then came forward and
went through two more figures, and as soon as the tabors ceased, he
said:

       But mightier than Love am I,
         Though Love it be that leads me on,
       Than mine no lineage is more high,
         Or older, underneath the sun.
       To use me rightly few know how,
         To act without me fewer still,
       For I am Interest, and I vow
         For evermore to do thy will.

Interest retired, and Poetry came forward, and when she had gone
through her figures like the others, fixing her eyes on the damsel
of the castle, she said:

       With many a fanciful conceit,
         Fair Lady, winsome Poesy
       Her soul, an offering at thy feet,
         Presents in sonnets unto thee.
       If thou my homage wilt not scorn,
         Thy fortune, watched by envious eyes,
       On wings of poesy upborne
         Shall be exalted to the skies.

Poetry withdrew, and on the side of Interest Liberality advanced,
and after having gone through her figures, said:

       To give, while shunning each extreme,
         The sparing hand, the over-free,
       Therein consists, so wise men deem,
         The virtue Liberality.
       But thee, fair lady, to enrich,
         Myself a prodigal I'll prove,
       A vice not wholly shameful, which
         May find its fair excuse in love.

  In the same manner all the characters of the two bands advanced
and retired, and each executed its figures, and delivered its
verses, some of them graceful, some burlesque, but Don Quixote's
memory (though he had an excellent one) only carried away those that
have been just quoted. All then mingled together, forming chains and
breaking off again with graceful, unconstrained gaiety; and whenever
Love passed in front of the castle he shot his arrows up at it,
while Interest broke gilded pellets against it. At length, after
they had danced a good while, Interest drew out a great purse, made of
the skin of a large brindled cat and to all appearance full of
money, and flung it at the castle, and with the force of the blow
the boards fell asunder and tumbled down, leaving the damsel exposed
and unprotected. Interest and the characters of his band advanced, and
throwing a great chain of gold over her neck pretended to take her and
lead her away captive, on seeing which, Love and his supporters made
as though they would release her, the whole action being to the
accompaniment of the tabors and in the form of a regular dance. The
wild men made peace between them, and with great dexterity
readjusted and fixed the boards of the castle, and the damsel once
more ensconced herself within; and with this the dance wound up, to
the great enjoyment of the beholders.
  Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who it was that had composed and
arranged it. She replied that it was a beneficiary of the town who had
a nice taste in devising things of the sort. "I will lay a wager,"
said Don Quixote, "that the same bachelor or beneficiary is a
greater friend of Camacho's than of Basilio's, and that he is better
at satire than at vespers; he has introduced the accomplishments of
Basilio and the riches of Camacho very neatly into the dance."
Sancho Panza, who was listening to all this, exclaimed, "The king is
my cock; I stick to Camacho." "It is easy to see thou art a clown,
Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and one of that sort that cry 'Long life
to the conqueror.'"
  "I don't know of what sort I am," returned Sancho, "but I know
very well I'll never get such elegant skimmings off Basilio's pots
as these I have got off Camacho's;" and he showed him the bucketful of
geese and hens, and seizing one began to eat with great gaiety and
appetite, saying, "A fig for the accomplishments of Basilio! As much
as thou hast so much art thou worth, and as much as thou art worth
so much hast thou. As a grandmother of mine used to say, there are
only two families in the world, the Haves and the Haven'ts; and she
stuck to the Haves; and to this day, Senor Don Quixote, people would
sooner feel the pulse of 'Have,' than of 'Know;' an ass covered with
gold looks better than a horse with a pack-saddle. So once more I
say I stick to Camacho, the bountiful skimmings of whose pots are
geese and hens, hares and rabbits; but of Basilio's, if any ever
come to hand, or even to foot, they'll be only rinsings."
  "Hast thou finished thy harangue, Sancho?" said Don Quixote. "Of
course I have finished it," replied Sancho, "because I see your
worship takes offence at it; but if it was not for that, there was
work enough cut out for three days."
  "God grant I may see thee dumb before I die, Sancho," said Don
Quixote.
  "At the rate we are going," said Sancho, "I'll be chewing clay
before your worship dies; and then, maybe, I'll be so dumb that I'll
not say a word until the end of the world, or, at least, till the
day of judgment."
  "Even should that happen, O Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thy
silence will never come up to all thou hast talked, art talking, and
wilt talk all thy life; moreover, it naturally stands to reason,
that my death will come before thine; so I never expect to see thee
dumb, not even when thou art drinking or sleeping, and that is the
utmost I can say."
  "In good faith, senor," replied Sancho, "there's no trusting that
fleshless one, I mean Death, who devours the lamb as soon as the
sheep, and, as I have heard our curate say, treads with equal foot
upon the lofty towers of kings and the lowly huts of the poor. That
lady is more mighty than dainty, she is no way squeamish, she
devours all and is ready for all, and fills her alforjas with people
of all sorts, ages, and ranks. She is no reaper that sleeps out the
noontide; at all times she is reaping and cutting down, as well the
dry grass as the green; she never seems to chew, but bolts and
swallows all that is put before her, for she has a canine appetite
that is never satisfied; and though she has no belly, she shows she
has a dropsy and is athirst to drink the lives of all that live, as
one would drink a jug of cold water."
  "Say no more, Sancho," said Don Quixote at this; "don't try to
better it, and risk a fall; for in truth what thou hast said about
death in thy rustic phrase is what a good preacher might have said.
I tell thee, Sancho, if thou hadst discretion equal to thy mother wit,
thou mightst take a pulpit in hand, and go about the world preaching
fine sermons." "He preaches well who lives well," said Sancho, "and
I know no more theology than that."
  "Nor needst thou," said Don Quixote, "but I cannot conceive or
make out how it is that, the fear of God being the beginning of
wisdom, thou, who art more afraid of a lizard than of him, knowest
so much."
  "Pass judgment on your chivalries, senor," returned Sancho, "and
don't set yourself up to judge of other men's fears or braveries,
for I am as good a fearer of God as my neighbours; but leave me to
despatch these skimmings, for all the rest is only idle talk that we
shall be called to account for in the other world;" and so saying,
he began a fresh attack on the bucket, with such a hearty appetite
that he aroused Don Quixote's, who no doubt would have helped him
had he not been prevented by what must be told farther on.
  CHAPTER XXI
  IN WHICH CAMACHO'S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL
INCIDENTS

  WHILE Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the discussion set
forth the last chapter, they heard loud shouts and a great noise,
which were uttered and made by the men on the mares as they went at
full gallop, shouting, to receive the bride and bridegroom, who were
approaching with musical instruments and pageantry of all sorts around
them, and accompanied by the priest and the relatives of both, and all
the most distinguished people of the surrounding villages. When Sancho
saw the bride, he exclaimed, "By my faith, she is not dressed like a
country girl, but like some fine court lady; egad, as well as I can
make out, the patena she wears rich coral, and her green Cuenca
stuff is thirty-pile velvet; and then the white linen trimming- by
my oath, but it's satin! Look at her hands- jet rings on them! May I
never have luck if they're not gold rings, and real gold, and set with
pearls as white as a curdled milk, and every one of them worth an
eye of one's head! Whoreson baggage, what hair she has! if it's not
a wig, I never saw longer or fairer all the days of my life. See how
bravely she bears herself- and her shape! Wouldn't you say she was
like a walking palm tree loaded with clusters of dates? for the
trinkets she has hanging from her hair and neck look just like them. I
swear in my heart she is a brave lass, and fit 'to pass over the banks
of Flanders.'"
  Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's boorish eulogies and thought that,
saving his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he had never seen a more
beautiful woman. The fair Quiteria appeared somewhat pale, which
was, no doubt, because of the bad night brides always pass dressing
themselves out for their wedding on the morrow. They advanced
towards a theatre that stood on one side of the meadow decked with
carpets and boughs, where they were to plight their troth, and from
which they were to behold the dances and plays; but at the moment of
their arrival at the spot they heard a loud outcry behind them, and
a voice exclaiming, "Wait a little, ye, as inconsiderate as ye are
hasty!" At these words all turned round, and perceived that the
speaker was a man clad in what seemed to be a loose black coat
garnished with crimson patches like flames. He was crowned (as was
presently seen) with a crown of gloomy cypress, and in his hand he
held a long staff. As he approached he was recognised by everyone as
the gay Basilio, and all waited anxiously to see what would come of
his words, in dread of some catastrophe in consequence of his
appearance at such a moment. He came up at last weary and
breathless, and planting himself in front of the bridal pair, drove
his staff, which had a steel spike at the end, into the ground, and,
with a pale face and eyes fixed on Quiteria, he thus addressed her
in a hoarse, trembling voice:
  "Well dost thou know, ungrateful Quiteria, that according to the
holy law we acknowledge, so long as live thou canst take no husband;
nor art thou ignorant either that, in my hopes that time and my own
exertions would improve my fortunes, I have never failed to observe
the respect due to thy honour; but thou, casting behind thee all
thou owest to my true love, wouldst surrender what is mine to
another whose wealth serves to bring him not only good fortune but
supreme happiness; and now to complete it (not that I think he
deserves it, but inasmuch as heaven is pleased to bestow it upon him),
I will, with my own hands, do away with the obstacle that may
interfere with it, and remove myself from between you. Long live the
rich Camacho! many a happy year may he live with the ungrateful
Quiteria! and let the poor Basilio die, Basilio whose poverty
clipped the wings of his happiness, and brought him to the grave!"
  And so saying, he seized the staff he had driven into the ground,
and leaving one half of it fixed there, showed it to be a sheath
that concealed a tolerably long rapier; and, what may he called its
hilt being planted in the ground, he swiftly, coolly, and deliberately
threw himself upon it, and in an instant the bloody point and half the
steel blade appeared at his back, the unhappy man falling to the earth
bathed in his blood, and transfixed by his own weapon.
  His friends at once ran to his aid, filled with grief at his
misery and sad fate, and Don Quixote, dismounting from Rocinante,
hastened to support him, and took him in his arms, and found he had
not yet ceased to breathe. They were about to draw out the rapier, but
the priest who was standing by objected to its being withdrawn
before he had confessed him, as the instant of its withdrawal would be
that of this death. Basilio, however, reviving slightly, said in a
weak voice, as though in pain, "If thou wouldst consent, cruel
Quiteria, to give me thy hand as my bride in this last fatal moment, I
might still hope that my rashness would find pardon, as by its means I
attained the bliss of being thine."
  Hearing this the priest bade him think of the welfare of his soul
rather than of the cravings of the body, and in all earnestness
implore God's pardon for his sins and for his rash resolve; to which
Basilio replied that he was determined not to confess unless
Quiteria first gave him her hand in marriage, for that happiness would
compose his mind and give him courage to make his confession.
  Don Quixote hearing the wounded man's entreaty, exclaimed aloud that
what Basilio asked was just and reasonable, and moreover a request
that might be easily complied with; and that it would be as much to
Senor Camacho's honour to receive the lady Quiteria as the widow of
the brave Basilio as if he received her direct from her father.
  "In this case," said he, "it will be only to say 'yes,' and no
consequences can follow the utterance of the word, for the nuptial
couch of this marriage must be the grave."
  Camacho was listening to all this, perplexed and bewildered and
not knowing what to say or do; but so urgent were the entreaties of
Basilio's friends, imploring him to allow Quiteria to give him her
hand, so that his soul, quitting this life in despair, should not be
lost, that they moved, nay, forced him, to say that if Quiteria were
willing to give it he was satisfied, as it was only putting off the
fulfillment of his wishes for a moment. At once all assailed
Quiteria and pressed her, some with prayers, and others with tears,
and others with persuasive arguments, to give her hand to poor
Basilio; but she, harder than marble and more unmoved than any statue,
seemed unable or unwilling to utter a word, nor would she have given
any reply had not the priest bade her decide quickly what she meant to
do, as Basilio now had his soul at his teeth, and there was no time
for hesitation.
  On this the fair Quiteria, to all appearance distressed, grieved,
and repentant, advanced without a word to where Basilio lay, his
eyes already turned in his head, his breathing short and painful,
murmuring the name of Quiteria between his teeth, and apparently about
to die like a heathen and not like a Christian. Quiteria approached
him, and kneeling, demanded his hand by signs without speaking.
Basilio opened his eyes and gazing fixedly at her, said, "O
Quiteria, why hast thou turned compassionate at a moment when thy
compassion will serve as a dagger to rob me of life, for I have not
now the strength left either to bear the happiness thou givest me in
accepting me as thine, or to suppress the pain that is rapidly drawing
the dread shadow of death over my eyes? What I entreat of thee, O thou
fatal star to me, is that the hand thou demandest of me and wouldst
give me, be not given out of complaisance or to deceive me afresh, but
that thou confess and declare that without any constraint upon thy
will thou givest it to me as to thy lawful husband; for it is not meet
that thou shouldst trifle with me at such a moment as this, or have
recourse to falsehoods with one who has dealt so truly by thee."
  While uttering these words he showed such weakness that the
bystanders expected each return of faintness would take his life
with it. Then Quiteria, overcome with modesty and shame, holding in
her right hand the hand of Basilio, said, "No force would bend my
will; as freely, therefore, as it is possible for me to do so, I
give thee the hand of a lawful wife, and take thine if thou givest
it to me of thine own free will, untroubled and unaffected by the
calamity thy hasty act has brought upon thee."
  "Yes, I give it," said Basilio, "not agitated or distracted, but
with unclouded reason that heaven is pleased to grant me, thus do I
give myself to be thy husband."
  "And I give myself to be thy wife," said Quiteria, "whether thou
livest many years, or they carry thee from my arms to the grave."
  "For one so badly wounded," observed Sancho at this point, "this
young man has a great deal to say; they should make him leave off
billing and cooing, and attend to his soul; for to my thinking he
has it more on his tongue than at his teeth."
  Basilio and Quiteria having thus joined hands, the priest, deeply
moved and with tears in his eyes, pronounced the blessing upon them,
and implored heaven to grant an easy passage to the soul of the
newly wedded man, who, the instant he received the blessing, started
nimbly to his feet and with unparalleled effrontery pulled out the
rapier that had been sheathed in his body. All the bystanders were
astounded, and some, more simple than inquiring, began shouting, "A
miracle, a miracle!" But Basilio replied, "No miracle, no miracle;
only a trick, a trick!" The priest, perplexed and amazed, made haste
to examine the wound with both hands, and found that the blade had
passed, not through Basilio's flesh and ribs, but through a hollow
iron tube full of blood, which he had adroitly fixed at the place, the
blood, as was afterwards ascertained, having been so prepared as not
to congeal. In short, the priest and Camacho and most of those present
saw they were tricked and made fools of. The bride showed no signs
of displeasure at the deception; on the contrary, hearing them say
that the marriage, being fraudulent, would not be valid, she said that
she confirmed it afresh, whence they all concluded that the affair had
been planned by agreement and understanding between the pair,
whereat Camacho and his supporters were so mortified that they
proceeded to revenge themselves by violence, and a great number of
them drawing their swords attacked Basilio, in whose protection as
many more swords were in an instant unsheathed, while Don Quixote
taking the lead on horseback, with his lance over his arm and well
covered with his shield, made all give way before him. Sancho, who
never found any pleasure or enjoyment in such doings, retreated to the
wine-jars from which he had taken his delectable skimmings,
considering that, as a holy place, that spot would be respected.
  "Hold, sirs, hold!" cried Don Quixote in a loud voice; "we have no
right to take vengeance for wrongs that love may do to us: remember
love and war are the same thing, and as in war it is allowable and
common to make use of wiles and stratagems to overcome the enemy, so
in the contests and rivalries of love the tricks and devices
employed to attain the desired end are justifiable, provided they be
not to the discredit or dishonour of the loved object. Quiteria
belonged to Basilio and Basilio to Quiteria by the just and beneficent
disposal of heaven. Camacho is rich, and can purchase his pleasure
when, where, and as it pleases him. Basilio has but this ewe-lamb, and
no one, however powerful he may be, shall take her from him; these two
whom God hath joined man cannot separate; and he who attempts it
must first pass the point of this lance;" and so saying he
brandished it so stoutly and dexterously that he overawed all who
did not know him.
  But so deep an impression had the rejection of Quiteria made on
Camacho's mind that it banished her at once from his thoughts; and
so the counsels of the priest, who was a wise and kindly disposed man,
prevailed with him, and by their means he and his partisans were
pacified and tranquillised, and to prove it put up their swords again,
inveighing against the pliancy of Quiteria rather than the
craftiness of Basilio; Camacho maintaining that, if Quiteria as a
maiden had such a love for Basilio, she would have loved him too as
a married woman, and that he ought to thank heaven more for having
taken her than for having given her.
  Camacho and those of his following, therefore, being consoled and
pacified, those on Basilio's side were appeased; and the rich Camacho,
to show that he felt no resentment for the trick, and did not care
about it, desired the festival to go on just as if he were married
in reality. Neither Basilio, however, nor his bride, nor their
followers would take any part in it, and they withdrew to Basilio's
village; for the poor, if they are persons of virtue and good sense,
have those who follow, honour, and uphold them, just as the rich
have those who flatter and dance attendance on them. With them they
carried Don Quixote, regarding him as a man of worth and a stout
one. Sancho alone had a cloud on his soul, for he found himself
debarred from waiting for Camacho's splendid feast and festival, which
lasted until night; and thus dragged away, he moodily followed his
master, who accompanied Basilio's party, and left behind him the
flesh-pots of Egypt; though in his heart he took them with him, and
their now nearly finished skimmings that he carried in the bucket
conjured up visions before his eyes of the glory and abundance of
the good cheer he was losing. And so, vexed and dejected though not
hungry, without dismounting from Dapple he followed in the footsteps
of Rocinante.
  CHAPTER XXII
  WHERIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN
THE HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A
HAPPY TERMINATION

  MANY and great were the attentions shown to Don Quixote by the newly
married couple, who felt themselves under an obligation to him for
coming forward in defence of their cause; and they exalted his
wisdom to the same level with his courage, rating him as a Cid in
arms, and a Cicero in eloquence. Worthy Sancho enjoyed himself for
three days at the expense of the pair, from whom they learned that the
sham wound was not a scheme arranged with the fair Quiteria, but a
device of Basilio's, who counted on exactly the result they had
seen; he confessed, it is true, that he had confided his idea to
some of his friends, so that at the proper time they might aid him
in his purpose and insure the success of the deception.
  "That," said Don Quixote, "is not and ought not to be called
deception which aims at virtuous ends;" and the marriage of lovers
he maintained to be a most excellent end, reminding them, however,
that love has no greater enemy than hunger and constant want; for love
is all gaiety, enjoyment, and happiness, especially when the lover
is in the possession of the object of his love, and poverty and want
are the declared enemies of all these; which he said to urge Senor
Basilio to abandon the practice of those accomplishments he was
skilled in, for though they brought him fame, they brought him no
money, and apply himself to the acquisition of wealth by legitimate
industry, which will never fail those who are prudent and persevering.
The poor man who is a man of honour (if indeed a poor man can be a man
of honour) has a jewel when he has a fair wife, and if she is taken
from him, his honour is taken from him and slain. The fair woman who
is a woman of honour, and whose husband is poor, deserves to be
crowned with the laurels and crowns of victory and triumph. Beauty
by itself attracts the desires of all who behold it, and the royal
eagles and birds of towering flight stoop on it as on a dainty lure;
but if beauty be accompanied by want and penury, then the ravens and
the kites and other birds of prey assail it, and she who stands firm
against such attacks well deserves to be called the crown of her
husband. "Remember, O prudent Basilio," added Don Quixote, "it was the
opinion of a certain sage, I know not whom, that there was not more
than one good woman in the whole world; and his advice was that each
one should think and believe that this one good woman was his own
wife, and in this way he would live happy. I myself am not married,
nor, so far, has it ever entered my thoughts to be so; nevertheless
I would venture to give advice to anyone who might ask it, as to the
mode in which he should seek a wife such as he would be content to
marry. The first thing I would recommend him, would be to look to good
name rather than to wealth, for a good woman does not win a good
name merely by being good, but by letting it he seen that she is so,
and open looseness and freedom do much more damage to a woman's honour
than secret depravity. If you take a good woman into your house it
will he an easy matter to keep her good, and even to make her still
better; but if you take a bad one you will find it hard work to mend
her, for it is no very easy matter to pass from one extreme to
another. I do not say it is impossible, but I look upon it as
difficult."
  Sancho, listening to all this, said to himself, "This master of
mine, when I say anything that has weight and substance, says I
might take a pulpit in hand, and go about the world preaching fine
sermons; but I say of him that, when he begins stringing maxims
together and giving advice not only might he take a pulpit in hand,
but two on each finger, and go into the market-places to his heart's
content. Devil take you for a knight-errant, what a lot of things
you know! I used to think in my heart that the only thing he knew
was what belonged to his chivalry; but there is nothing he won't
have a finger in."
  Sancho muttered this somewhat aloud, and his master overheard him,
and asked, "What art thou muttering there, Sancho?"
  "I'm not saying anything or muttering anything," said Sancho; "I was
only saying to myself that I wish I had heard what your worship has
said just now before I married; perhaps I'd say now, 'The ox that's
loose licks himself well.'"
  "Is thy Teresa so bad then, Sancho?"
  "She is not very bad," replied Sancho; "but she is not very good; at
least she is not as good as I could wish."
  "Thou dost wrong, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "to speak ill of thy
wife; for after all she is the mother of thy children." "We are
quits," returned Sancho; "for she speaks ill of me whenever she
takes it into her head, especially when she is jealous; and Satan
himself could not put up with her then."
  In fine, they remained three days with the newly married couple,
by whom they were entertained and treated like kings. Don Quixote
begged the fencing licentiate to find him a guide to show him the
way to the cave of Montesinos, as he had a great desire to enter it
and see with his own eyes if the wonderful tales that were told of
it all over the country were true. The licentiate said he would get
him a cousin of his own, a famous scholar, and one very much given
to reading books of chivalry, who would have great pleasure in
conducting him to the mouth of the very cave, and would show him the
lakes of Ruidera, which were likewise famous all over La Mancha, and
even all over Spain; and he assured him he would find him
entertaining, for he was a youth who could write books good enough
to be printed and dedicated to princes. The cousin arrived at last,
leading an ass in foal, with a pack-saddle covered with a
parti-coloured carpet or sackcloth; Sancho saddled Rocinante, got
Dapple ready, and stocked his alforjas, along with which went those of
the cousin, likewise well filled; and so, commending themselves to God
and bidding farewell to all, they set out, taking the road for the
famous cave of Montesinos.
  On the way Don Quixote asked the cousin of what sort and character
his pursuits, avocations, and studies were, to which he replied that
he was by profession a humanist, and that his pursuits and studies
were making books for the press, all of great utility and no less
entertainment to the nation. One was called "The Book of Liveries," in
which he described seven hundred and three liveries, with their
colours, mottoes, and ciphers, from which gentlemen of the court might
pick and choose any they fancied for festivals and revels, without
having to go a-begging for them from anyone, or puzzling their brains,
as the saying is, to have them appropriate to their objects and
purposes; "for," said he, "I give the jealous, the rejected, the
forgotten, the absent, what will suit them, and fit them without fail.
I have another book, too, which I shall call 'Metamorphoses, or the
Spanish Ovid,' one of rare and original invention, for imitating
Ovid in burlesque style, I show in it who the Giralda of Seville and
the Angel of the Magdalena were, what the sewer of Vecinguerra at
Cordova was, what the bulls of Guisando, the Sierra Morena, the
Leganitos and Lavapies fountains at Madrid, not forgetting those of
the Piojo, of the Cano Dorado, and of the Priora; and all with their
allegories, metaphors, and changes, so that they are amusing,
interesting, and instructive, all at once. Another book I have which I
call 'The Supplement to Polydore Vergil,' which treats of the
invention of things, and is a work of great erudition and research,
for I establish and elucidate elegantly some things of great
importance which Polydore omitted to mention. He forgot to tell us who
was the first man in the world that had a cold in his head, and who
was the first to try salivation for the French disease, but I give
it accurately set forth, and quote more than five-and-twenty authors
in proof of it, so you may perceive I have laboured to good purpose
and that the book will be of service to the whole world."
  Sancho, who had been very attentive to the cousin's words, said to
him, "Tell me, senor- and God give you luck in printing your books-
can you tell me (for of course you know, as you know everything) who
was the first man that scratched his head? For to my thinking it
must have been our father Adam."
  "So it must," replied the cousin; "for there is no doubt but Adam
had a head and hair; and being the first man in the world he would
have scratched himself sometimes."
  "So I think," said Sancho; "but now tell me, who was the first
tumbler in the world?"
  "Really, brother," answered the cousin, "I could not at this
moment say positively without having investigated it; I will look it
up when I go back to where I have my books, and will satisfy you the
next time we meet, for this will not be the last time."
  "Look here, senor," said Sancho, "don't give yourself any trouble
about it, for I have just this minute hit upon what I asked you. The
first tumbler in the world, you must know, was Lucifer, when they cast
or pitched him out of heaven; for he came tumbling into the bottomless
pit."
  "You are right, friend," said the cousin; and said Don Quixote,
"Sancho, that question and answer are not thine own; thou hast heard
them from some one else."
  "Hold your peace, senor," said Sancho; "faith, if I take to asking
questions and answering, I'll go on from this till to-morrow
morning. Nay! to ask foolish things and answer nonsense I needn't go
looking for help from my neighbours."
  "Thou hast said more than thou art aware of, Sancho," said Don
Quixote; "for there are some who weary themselves out in learning
and proving things that, after they are known and proved, are not
worth a farthing to the understanding or memory."
  In this and other pleasant conversation the day went by, and that
night they put up at a small hamlet whence it was not more than two
leagues to the cave of Montesinos, so the cousin told Don Quixote,
adding, that if he was bent upon entering it, it would be requisite
for him to provide himself with ropes, so that he might be tied and
lowered into its depths. Don Quixote said that even if it reached to
the bottomless pit he meant to see where it went to; so they bought
about a hundred fathoms of rope, and next day at two in the
afternoon they arrived at the cave, the mouth of which is spacious and
wide, but full of thorn and wild-fig bushes and brambles and briars,
so thick and matted that they completely close it up and cover it
over.
  On coming within sight of it the cousin, Sancho, and Don Quixote
dismounted, and the first two immediately tied the latter very
firmly with the ropes, and as they were girding and swathing him
Sancho said to him, "Mind what you are about, master mine; don't go
burying yourself alive, or putting yourself where you'll be like a
bottle put to cool in a well; it's no affair or business of your
worship's to become the explorer of this, which must be worse than a
Moorish dungeon."
  "Tie me and hold thy peace," said Don Quixote, "for an emprise
like this, friend Sancho, was reserved for me;" and said the guide, "I
beg of you, Senor Don Quixote, to observe carefully and examine with a
hundred eyes everything that is within there; perhaps there may be
some things for me to put into my book of 'Transformations.'"
  "The drum is in hands that will know how to beat it well enough,"
said Sancho Panza.
  When he had said this and finished the tying (which was not over the
armour but only over the doublet) Don Quixote observed, "It was
careless of us not to have provided ourselves with a small cattle-bell
to be tied on the rope close to me, the sound of which would show that
I was still descending and alive; but as that is out of the question
now, in God's hand be it to guide me;" and forthwith he fell on his
knees and in a low voice offered up a prayer to heaven, imploring
God to aid him and grant him success in this to all appearance
perilous and untried adventure, and then exclaimed aloud, "O
mistress of my actions and movements, illustrious and peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso, if so be the prayers and supplications of this
fortunate lover can reach thy ears, by thy incomparable beauty I
entreat thee to listen to them, for they but ask thee not to refuse me
thy favour and protection now that I stand in such need of them. I
am about to precipitate, to sink, to plunge myself into the abyss that
is here before me, only to let the world know that while thou dost
favour me there is no impossibility I will not attempt and
accomplish." With these words he approached the cavern, and
perceived that it was impossible to let himself down or effect an
entrance except by sheer force or cleaving a passage; so drawing his
sword he began to demolish and cut away the brambles at the mouth of
the cave, at the noise of which a vast multitude of crows and
choughs flew out of it so thick and so fast that they knocked Don
Quixote down; and if he had been as much of a believer in augury as he
was a Catholic Christian he would have taken it as a bad omen and
declined to bury himself in such a place. He got up, however, and as
there came no more crows, or night-birds like the bats that flew out
at the same time with the crows, the cousin and Sancho giving him
rope, he lowered himself into the depths of the dread cavern; and as
he entered it Sancho sent his blessing after him, making a thousand
crosses over him and saying, "God, and the Pena de Francia, and the
Trinity of Gaeta guide thee, flower and cream of knights-errant. There
thou goest, thou dare-devil of the earth, heart of steel, arm of
brass; once more, God guide thee and send thee back safe, sound, and
unhurt to the light of this world thou art leaving to bury thyself
in the darkness thou art seeking there;" and the cousin offered up
almost the same prayers and supplications.
  Don Quixote kept calling to them to give him rope and more rope, and
they gave it out little by little, and by the time the calls, which
came out of the cave as out of a pipe, ceased to be heard they had let
down the hundred fathoms of rope. They were inclined to pull Don
Quixote up again, as they could give him no more rope; however, they
waited about half an hour, at the end of which time they began to
gather in the rope again with great ease and without feeling any
weight, which made them fancy Don Quixote was remaining below; and
persuaded that it was so, Sancho wept bitterly, and hauled away in
great haste in order to settle the question. When, however, they had
come to, as it seemed, rather more than eighty fathoms they felt a
weight, at which they were greatly delighted; and at last, at ten
fathoms more, they saw Don Quixote distinctly, and Sancho called out
to him, saying, "Welcome back, senor, for we had begun to think you
were going to stop there to found a family." But Don Quixote
answered not a word, and drawing him out entirely they perceived he
had his eyes shut and every appearance of being fast asleep.
  They stretched him on the ground and untied him, but still he did
not awake; however, they rolled him back and forwards and shook and
pulled him about, so that after some time he came to himself,
stretching himself just as if he were waking up from a deep and
sound sleep, and looking about him he said, "God forgive you, friends;
ye have taken me away from the sweetest and most delightful
existence and spectacle that ever human being enjoyed or beheld. Now
indeed do I know that all the pleasures of this life pass away like
a shadow and a dream, or fade like the flower of the field. O
ill-fated Montesinos! O sore-wounded Durandarte! O unhappy Belerma!
O tearful Guadiana, and ye O hapless daughters of Ruidera who show
in your waves the tears that flowed from your beauteous eyes!"
  The cousin and Sancho Panza listened with deep attention to the
words of Don Quixote, who uttered them as though with immense pain
he drew them up from his very bowels. They begged of him to explain
himself, and tell them what he had seen in that hell down there.
  "Hell do you call it?" said Don Quixote; "call it by no such name,
for it does not deserve it, as ye shall soon see."
  He then begged them to give him something to eat, as he was very
hungry. They spread the cousin's sackcloth on the grass, and put the
stores of the alforjas into requisition, and all three sitting down
lovingly and sociably, they made a luncheon and a supper of it all
in one; and when the sackcloth was removed, Don Quixote of La Mancha
said, "Let no one rise, and attend to me, my sons, both of you."
  CHAPTER XXIII
  OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW
IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF
WHICH CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED APOCRYPHAL

  IT WAS about four in the afternoon when the sun, veiled in clouds,
with subdued light and tempered beams, enabled Don Quixote to
relate, without heat or inconvenience, what he had seen in the cave of
Montesinos to his two illustrious hearers, and he began as follows:
  "A matter of some twelve or fourteen times a man's height down in
this pit, on the right-hand side, there is a recess or space, roomy
enough to contain a large cart with its mules. A little light
reaches it through some chinks or crevices, communicating with it
and open to the surface of the earth. This recess or space I perceived
when I was already growing weary and disgusted at finding myself
hanging suspended by the rope, travelling downwards into that dark
region without any certainty or knowledge of where I was going, so I
resolved to enter it and rest myself for a while. I called out,
telling you not to let out more rope until I bade you, but you
cannot have heard me. I then gathered in the rope you were sending me,
and making a coil or pile of it I seated myself upon it, ruminating
and considering what I was to do to lower myself to the bottom, having
no one to hold me up; and as I was thus deep in thought and
perplexity, suddenly and without provocation a profound sleep fell
upon me, and when I least expected it, I know not how, I awoke and
found myself in the midst of the most beautiful, delightful meadow
that nature could produce or the most lively human imagination
conceive. I opened my eyes, I rubbed them, and found I was not
asleep but thoroughly awake. Nevertheless, I felt my head and breast
to satisfy myself whether it was I myself who was there or some
empty delusive phantom; but touch, feeling, the collected thoughts
that passed through my mind, all convinced me that I was the same then
and there that I am this moment. Next there presented itself to my
sight a stately royal palace or castle, with walls that seemed built
of clear transparent crystal; and through two great doors that
opened wide therein, I saw coming forth and advancing towards me a
venerable old man, clad in a long gown of mulberry-coloured serge that
trailed upon the ground. On his shoulders and breast he had a green
satin collegiate hood, and covering his head a black Milanese
bonnet, and his snow-white beard fell below his girdle. He carried
no arms whatever, nothing but a rosary of beads bigger than fair-sized
filberts, each tenth bead being like a moderate ostrich egg; his
bearing, his gait, his dignity and imposing presence held me
spellbound and wondering. He approached me, and the first thing he did
was to embrace me closely, and then he said to me, 'For a long time
now, O valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, we who are here
enchanted in these solitudes have been hoping to see thee, that thou
mayest make known to the world what is shut up and concealed in this
deep cave, called the cave of Montesinos, which thou hast entered,
an achievement reserved for thy invincible heart and stupendous
courage alone to attempt. Come with me, illustrious sir, and I will
show thee the marvels hidden within this transparent castle, whereof I
am the alcaide and perpetual warden; for I am Montesinos himself, from
whom the cave takes its name.'
  "The instant he told me he was Montesinos, I asked him if the
story they told in the world above here was true, that he had taken
out the heart of his great friend Durandarte from his breast with a
little dagger, and carried it to the lady Belerma, as his friend
when at the point of death had commanded him. He said in reply that
they spoke the truth in every respect except as to the dagger, for
it was not a dagger, nor little, but a burnished poniard sharper
than an awl."
  "That poniard must have been made by Ramon de Hoces the
Sevillian," said Sancho.
  "I do not know," said Don Quixote; "it could not have been by that
poniard maker, however, because Ramon de Hoces was a man of yesterday,
and the affair of Roncesvalles, where this mishap occurred, was long
ago; but the question is of no great importance, nor does it affect or
make any alteration in the truth or substance of the story."
  "That is true," said the cousin; "continue, Senor Don Quixote, for I
am listening to you with the greatest pleasure in the world."
  "And with no less do I tell the tale," said Don Quixote; "and so, to
proceed- the venerable Montesinos led me into the palace of crystal,
where, in a lower chamber, strangely cool and entirely of alabaster,
was an elaborately wrought marble tomb, upon which I beheld, stretched
at full length, a knight, not of bronze, or marble, or jasper, as
are seen on other tombs, but of actual flesh and bone. His right
hand (which seemed to me somewhat hairy and sinewy, a sign of great
strength in its owner) lay on the side of his heart; but before I
could put any question to Montesinos, he, seeing me gazing at the tomb
in amazement, said to me, 'This is my friend Durandarte, flower and
mirror of the true lovers and valiant knights of his time. He is
held enchanted here, as I myself and many others are, by that French
enchanter Merlin, who, they say, was the devil's son; but my belief
is, not that he was the devil's son, but that he knew, as the saying
is, a point more than the devil. How or why he enchanted us, no one
knows, but time will tell, and I suspect that time is not far off.
What I marvel at is, that I know it to be as sure as that it is now
day, that Durandarte ended his life in my arms, and that, after his
death, I took out his heart with my own hands; and indeed it must have
weighed more than two pounds, for, according to naturalists, he who
has a large heart is more largely endowed with valour than he who
has a small one. Then, as this is the case, and as the knight did
really die, how comes it that he now moans and sighs from time to
time, as if he were still alive?'
  "As he said this, the wretched Durandarte cried out in a loud voice:

       O cousin Montesinos!
         'T was my last request of thee,
       When my soul hath left the body,
         And that lying dead I be,
       With thy poniard or thy dagger
         Cut the heart from out my breast,
       And bear it to Belerma.
         This was my last request.

On hearing which, the venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before
the unhappy knight, and with tearful eyes exclaimed, 'Long since,
Senor Durandarte, my beloved cousin, long since have I done what you
bade me on that sad day when I lost you; I took out your heart as well
as I could, not leaving an atom of it in your breast, I wiped it
with a lace handkerchief, and I took the road to France with it,
having first laid you in the bosom of the earth with tears enough to
wash and cleanse my hands of the blood that covered them after
wandering among your bowels; and more by token, O cousin of my soul,
at the first village I came to after leaving Roncesvalles, I sprinkled
a little salt upon your heart to keep it sweet, and bring it, if not
fresh, at least pickled, into the presence of the lady Belerma,
whom, together with you, myself, Guadiana your squire, the duenna
Ruidera and her seven daughters and two nieces, and many more of
your friends and acquaintances, the sage Merlin has been keeping
enchanted here these many years; and although more than five hundred
have gone by, not one of us has died; Ruidera and her daughters and
nieces alone are missing, and these, because of the tears they shed,
Merlin, out of the compassion he seems to have felt for them,
changed into so many lakes, which to this day in the world of the
living, and in the province of La Mancha, are called the Lakes of
Ruidera. The seven daughters belong to the kings of Spain and the
two nieces to the knights of a very holy order called the Order of St.
John. Guadiana your squire, likewise bewailing your fate, was
changed into a river of his own name, but when he came to the
surface and beheld the sun of another heaven, so great was his grief
at finding he was leaving you, that he plunged into the bowels of
the earth; however, as he cannot help following his natural course, he
from time to time comes forth and shows himself to the sun and the
world. The lakes aforesaid send him their waters, and with these,
and others that come to him, he makes a grand and imposing entrance
into Portugal; but for all that, go where he may, he shows his
melancholy and sadness, and takes no pride in breeding dainty choice
fish, only coarse and tasteless sorts, very different from those of
the golden Tagus. All this that I tell you now, O cousin mine, I
have told you many times before, and as you make no answer, I fear
that either you believe me not, or do not hear me, whereat I feel
God knows what grief. I have now news to give you, which, if it serves
not to alleviate your sufferings, will not in any wise increase
them. Know that you have here before you (open your eyes and you
will see) that great knight of whom the sage Merlin has prophesied
such great things; that Don Quixote of La Mancha I mean, who has
again, and to better purpose than in past times, revived in these days
knight-errantry, long since forgotten, and by whose intervention and
aid it may be we shall be disenchanted; for great deeds are reserved
for great men.'
  "'And if that may not be,' said the wretched Durandarte in a low and
feeble voice, 'if that may not be, then, my cousin, I say "patience
and shuffle;"' and turning over on his side, he relapsed into his
former silence without uttering another word.
  "And now there was heard a great outcry and lamentation, accompanied
by deep sighs and bitter sobs. I looked round, and through the crystal
wall I saw passing through another chamber a procession of two lines
of fair damsels all clad in mourning, and with white turbans of
Turkish fashion on their heads. Behind, in the rear of these, there
came a lady, for so from her dignity she seemed to be, also clad in
black, with a white veil so long and ample that it swept the ground.
Her turban was twice as large as the largest of any of the others; her
eyebrows met, her nose was rather flat, her mouth was large but with
ruddy lips, and her teeth, of which at times she allowed a glimpse,
were seen to be sparse and ill-set, though as white as peeled almonds.
She carried in her hands a fine cloth, and in it, as well as I could
make out, a heart that had been mummied, so parched and dried was
it. Montesinos told me that all those forming the procession were
the attendants of Durandarte and Belerma, who were enchanted there
with their master and mistress, and that the last, she who carried the
heart in the cloth, was the lady Belerma, who, with her damsels,
four days in the week went in procession singing, or rather weeping,
dirges over the body and miserable heart of his cousin; and that if
she appeared to me somewhat ill-favoured or not so beautiful as fame
reported her, it was because of the bad nights and worse days that she
passed in that enchantment, as I could see by the great dark circles
round her eyes, and her sickly complexion; 'her sallowness, and the
rings round her eyes,' said he, 'are not caused by the periodical
ailment usual with women, for it is many months and even years since
she has had any, but by the grief her own heart suffers because of
that which she holds in her hand perpetually, and which recalls and
brings back to her memory the sad fate of her lost lover; were it
not for this, hardly would the great Dulcinea del Toboso, so
celebrated in all these parts, and even in the world, come up to her
for beauty, grace, and gaiety.'
  "'Hold hard!' said I at this, 'tell your story as you ought, Senor
Don Montesinos, for you know very well that all comparisons are
odious, and there is no occasion to compare one person with another;
the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the lady Dona
Belerma is what she is and has been, and that's enough.' To which he
made answer, 'Forgive me, Senor Don Quixote; I own I was wrong and
spoke unadvisedly in saying that the lady Dulcinea could scarcely come
up to the lady Belerma; for it were enough for me to have learned,
by what means I know not, that youare her knight, to make me bite my
tongue out before I compared her to anything save heaven itself.'
After this apology which the great Montesinos made me, my heart
recovered itself from the shock I had received in hearing my lady
compared with Belerma."
  "Still I wonder," said Sancho, "that your worship did not get upon
the old fellow and bruise every bone of him with kicks, and pluck
his beard until you didn't leave a hair in it."
  "Nay, Sancho, my friend," said Don Quixote, "it would not have
been right in me to do that, for we are all bound to pay respect to
the aged, even though they be not knights, but especially to those who
are, and who are enchanted; I only know I gave him as good as he
brought in the many other questions and answers we exchanged."
  "I cannot understand, Senor Don Quixote," remarked the cousin
here, "how it is that your worship, in such a short space of time as
you have been below there, could have seen so many things, and said
and answered so much."
  "How long is it since I went down?" asked Don Quixote.
  "Little better than an hour," replied Sancho.
  "That cannot be," returned Don Quixote, "because night overtook me
while I was there, and day came, and it was night again and day
again three times; so that, by my reckoning, I have been three days in
those remote regions beyond our ken."
  "My master must be right," replied Sancho; "for as everything that
has happened to him is by enchantment, maybe what seems to us an
hour would seem three days and nights there."
  "That's it," said Don Quixote.
  "And did your worship eat anything all that time, senor?" asked
the cousin.
  "I never touched a morsel," answered Don Quixote, "nor did I feel
hunger, or think of it."
  "And do the enchanted eat?" said the cousin.
  "They neither eat," said Don Quixote; "nor are they subject to the
greater excrements, though it is thought that their nails, beards, and
hair grow."
  "And do the enchanted sleep, now, senor?" asked Sancho.
  "Certainly not," replied Don Quixote; "at least, during those
three days I was with them not one of them closed an eye, nor did I
either."
  "The proverb, 'Tell me what company thou keepest and I'll tell
thee what thou art,' is to the point here," said Sancho; "your worship
keeps company with enchanted people that are always fasting and
watching; what wonder is it, then, that you neither eat nor sleep
while you are with them? But forgive me, senor, if I say that of all
this you have told us now, may God take me- I was just going to say
the devil- if I believe a single particle."
  "What!" said the cousin, "has Senor Don Quixote, then, been lying?
Why, even if he wished it he has not had time to imagine and put
together such a host of lies."
  "I don't believe my master lies," said Sancho.
  "If not, what dost thou believe?" asked Don Quixote.
  "I believe," replied Sancho, "that this Merlin, or those
enchanters who enchanted the whole crew your worship says you saw
and discoursed with down there, stuffed your imagination or your
mind with all this rigmarole you have been treating us to, and all
that is still to come."
  "All that might be, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "but it is not so,
for everything that I have told you I saw with my own eyes, and
touched with my own hands. But what will you say when I tell you now
how, among the countless other marvellous things Montesinos showed
me (of which at leisure and at the proper time I will give thee an
account in the course of our journey, for they would not be all in
place here), he showed me three country girls who went skipping and
capering like goats over the pleasant fields there, and the instant
I beheld them I knew one to be the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, and
the other two those same country girls that were with her and that
we spoke to on the road from El Toboso! I asked Montesinos if he
knew them, and he told me he did not, but he thought they must be some
enchanted ladies of distinction, for it was only a few days before
that they had made their appearance in those meadows; but I was not to
be surprised at that, because there were a great many other ladies
there of times past and present, enchanted in various strange
shapes, and among them he had recognised Queen Guinevere and her
dame Quintanona, she who poured out the wine for Lancelot when he came
from Britain."
  When Sancho Panza heard his master say this he was ready to take
leave of his senses, or die with laughter; for, as he knew the real
truth about the pretended enchantment of Dulcinea, in which he himself
had been the enchanter and concocter of all the evidence, he made up
his mind at last that, beyond all doubt, his master was out of his
wits and stark mad, so he said to him, "It was an evil hour, a worse
season, and a sorrowful day, when your worship, dear master mine, went
down to the other world, and an unlucky moment when you met with Senor
Montesinos, who has sent you back to us like this. You were well
enough here above in your full senses, such as God had given you,
delivering maxims and giving advice at every turn, and not as you
are now, talking the greatest nonsense that can be imagined."
  "As I know thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I heed not thy words."
  "Nor I your worship's," said Sancho, "whether you beat me or kill me
for those I have spoken, and will speak if you don't correct and
mend your own. But tell me, while we are still at peace, how or by
what did you recognise the lady our mistress; and if you spoke to her,
what did you say, and what did she answer?"
  "I recognised her," said Don Quixote, "by her wearing the same
garments she wore when thou didst point her out to me. I spoke to her,
but she did not utter a word in reply; on the contrary, she turned her
back on me and took to flight, at such a pace that crossbow bolt could
not have overtaken her. I wished to follow her, and would have done so
had not Montesinos recommended me not to take the trouble as it
would be useless, particularly as the time was drawing near when it
would be necessary for me to quit the cavern. He told me, moreover,
that in course of time he would let me know how he and Belerma, and
Durandarte, and all who were there, were to be disenchanted. But of
all I saw and observed down there, what gave me most pain was, that
while Montesinos was speaking to me, one of the two companions of
the hapless Dulcinea approached me on one without my having seen her
coming, and with tears in her eyes said to me, in a low, agitated
voice, 'My lady Dulcinea del Toboso kisses your worship's hands, and
entreats you to do her the favour of letting her know how you are;
and, being in great need, she also entreats your worship as
earnestly as she can to be so good as to lend her half a dozen
reals, or as much as you may have about you, on this new dimity
petticoat that I have here; and she promises to repay them very
speedily.' I was amazed and taken aback by such a message, and turning
to Senor Montesinos I asked him, 'Is it possible, Senor Montesinos,
that persons of distinction under enchantment can be in need?' To
which he replied, 'Believe me, Senor Don Quixote, that which is called
need is to be met with everywhere, and penetrates all quarters and
reaches everyone, and does not spare even the enchanted; and as the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso sends to beg those six reals, and the
pledge is to all appearance a good one, there is nothing for it but to
give them to her, for no doubt she must be in some great strait.' 'I
will take no pledge of her,' I replied, 'nor yet can I give her what
she asks, for all I have is four reals; which I gave (they were
those which thou, Sancho, gavest me the other day to bestow in alms
upon the poor I met along the road), and I said, 'Tell your
mistress, my dear, that I am grieved to the heart because of her
distresses, and wish I was a Fucar to remedy them, and that I would
have her know that I cannot be, and ought not be, in health while
deprived of the happiness of seeing her and enjoying her discreet
conversation, and that I implore her as earnestly as I can, to allow
herself to be seen and addressed by this her captive servant and
forlorn knight. Tell her, too, that when she least expects it she will
hear it announced that I have made an oath and vow after the fashion
of that which the Marquis of Mantua made to avenge his nephew Baldwin,
when he found him at the point of death in the heart of the mountains,
which was, not to eat bread off a tablecloth, and other trifling
matters which he added, until he had avenged him; and I will make
the same to take no rest, and to roam the seven regions of the earth
more thoroughly than the Infante Don Pedro of Portugal ever roamed
them, until I have disenchanted her.' 'All that and more, you owe my
lady,' the damsel's answer to me, and taking the four reals, instead
of making me a curtsey she cut a caper, springing two full yards
into the air."
  "O blessed God!" exclaimed Sancho aloud at this, "is it possible
that such things can be in the world, and that enchanters and
enchantments can have such power in it as to have changed my
master's right senses into a craze so full of absurdity! O senor,
senor, for God's sake, consider yourself, have a care for your honour,
and give no credit to this silly stuff that has left you scant and
short of wits."
  "Thou talkest in this way because thou lovest me, Sancho," said
Don Quixote; "and not being experienced in the things of the world,
everything that has some difficulty about it seems to thee impossible;
but time will pass, as I said before, and I will tell thee some of the
things I saw down there which will make thee believe what I have
related now, the truth of which admits of neither reply nor question."
  CHAPTER XXIV
  WHEREIN ARE RELATED A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS TRIVIAL AS
THEY ARE NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

  HE WHO translated this great history from the original written by
its first author, Cide Hamete Benengeli, says that on coming to the
chapter giving the adventures of the cave of Montesinos he found
written on the margin of it, in Hamete's own hand, these exact words:
  "I cannot convince or persuade myself that everything that is
written in the preceding chapter could have precisely happened to
the valiant Don Quixote; and for this reason, that all the
adventures that have occurred up to the present have been possible and
probable; but as for this one of the cave, I see no way of accepting
it as true, as it passes all reasonable bounds. For me to believe that
Don Quixote could lie, he being the most truthful gentleman and the
noblest knight of his time, is impossible; he would not have told a
lie though he were shot to death with arrows. On the other hand, I
reflect that he related and told the story with all the
circumstances detailed, and that he could not in so short a space have
fabricated such a vast complication of absurdities; if, then, this
adventure seems apocryphal, it is no fault of mine; and so, without
affirming its falsehood or its truth, I write it down. Decide for
thyself in thy wisdom, reader; for I am not bound, nor is it in my
power, to do more; though certain it is they say that at the time of
his death he retracted, and said he had invented it, thinking it
matched and tallied with the adventures he had read of in his
histories." And then he goes on to say:
  The cousin was amazed as well at Sancho's boldness as at the
patience of his master, and concluded that the good temper the
latter displayed arose from the happiness he felt at having seen his
lady Dulcinea, even enchanted as she was; because otherwise the
words and language Sancho had addressed to him deserved a thrashing;
for indeed he seemed to him to have been rather impudent to his
master, to whom he now observed, "I, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha,
look upon the time I have spent in travelling with your worship as
very well employed, for I have gained four things in the course of it;
the first is that I have made your acquaintance, which I consider
great good fortune; the second, that I have learned what the cave of
Montesinos contains, together with the transformations of Guadiana and
of the lakes of Ruidera; which will be of use to me for the Spanish
Ovid that I have in hand; the third, to have discovered the
antiquity of cards, that they were in use at least in the time of
Charlemagne, as may be inferred from the words you say Durandarte
uttered when, at the end of that long spell while Montesinos was
talking to him, he woke up and said, 'Patience and shuffle.' This
phrase and expression he could not have learned while he was
enchanted, but only before he had become so, in France, and in the
time of the aforesaid emperor Charlemagne. And this demonstration is
just the thing for me for that other book I am writing, the
'Supplement to Polydore Vergil on the Invention of Antiquities;' for I
believe he never thought of inserting that of cards in his book, as
I mean to do in mine, and it will be a matter of great importance,
particularly when I can cite so grave and veracious an authority as
Senor Durandarte. And the fourth thing is, that I have ascertained the
source of the river Guadiana, heretofore unknown to mankind."
  "You are right," said Don Quixote; "but I should like to know, if by
God's favour they grant you a licence to print those books of yours-
which I doubt- to whom do you mean dedicate them?"
  "There are lords and grandees in Spain to whom they can be
dedicated," said the cousin.
  "Not many," said Don Quixote; "not that they are unworthy of it, but
because they do not care to accept books and incur the obligation of
making the return that seems due to the author's labour and
courtesy. One prince I know who makes up for all the rest, and more-
how much more, if I ventured to say, perhaps I should stir up envy
in many a noble breast; but let this stand over for some more
convenient time, and let us go and look for some place to shelter
ourselves in to-night."
  "Not far from this," said the cousin, "there is a hermitage, where
there lives a hermit, who they say was a soldier, and who has the
reputation of being a good Christian and a very intelligent and
charitable man. Close to the hermitage he has a small house which he
built at his own cost, but though small it is large enough for the
reception of guests."
  "Has this hermit any hens, do you think?" asked Sancho.
  "Few hermits are without them," said Don Quixote; "for those we
see now-a-days are not like the hermits of the Egyptian deserts who
were clad in palm-leaves, and lived on the roots of the earth. But
do not think that by praising these I am disparaging the others; all I
mean to say is that the penances of those of the present day do not
come up to the asceticism and austerity of former times; but it does
not follow from this that they are not all worthy; at least I think
them so; and at the worst the hypocrite who pretends to be good does
less harm than the open sinner."
  At this point they saw approaching the spot where they stood a man
on foot, proceeding at a rapid pace, and beating a mule loaded with
lances and halberds. When he came up to them, he saluted them and
passed on without stopping. Don Quixote called to him, "Stay, good
fellow; you seem to be making more haste than suits that mule."
  "I cannot stop, senor," answered the man; "for the arms you see I
carry here are to be used tomorrow, so I must not delay; God be with
you. But if you want to know what I am carrying them for, I mean to
lodge to-night at the inn that is beyond the hermitage, and if you
be going the same road you will find me there, and I will tell you
some curious things; once more God be with you;" and he urged on his
mule at such a pace that Don Quixote had no time to ask him what these
curious things were that he meant to tell them; and as he was somewhat
inquisitive, and always tortured by his anxiety to learn something
new, he decided to set out at once, and go and pass the night at the
inn instead of stopping at the hermitage, where the cousin would
have had them halt. Accordingly they mounted and all three took the
direct road for the inn, which they reached a little before nightfall.
On the road the cousin proposed they should go up to the hermitage
to drink a sup. The instant Sancho heard this he steered his Dapple
towards it, and Don Quixote and the cousin did the same; but it
seems Sancho's bad luck so ordered it that the hermit was not at home,
for so a sub-hermit they found in the hermitage told them. They called
for some of the best. She replied that her master had none, but that
if they liked cheap water she would give it with great pleasure.
  "If I found any in water," said Sancho, "there are wells along the
road where I could have had enough of it. Ah, Camacho's wedding, and
plentiful house of Don Diego, how often do I miss you!"
  Leaving the hermitage, they pushed on towards the inn, and a
little farther they came upon a youth who was pacing along in front of
them at no great speed, so that they overtook him. He carried a
sword over his shoulder, and slung on it a budget or bundle of his
clothes apparently, probably his breeches or pantaloons, and his cloak
and a shirt or two; for he had on a short jacket of velvet with a
gloss like satin on it in places, and had his shirt out; his stockings
were of silk, and his shoes square-toed as they wear them at court.
His age might have been eighteen or nineteen; he was of a merry
countenance, and to all appearance of an active habit, and he went
along singing seguidillas to beguile the wearisomeness of the road. As
they came up with him he was just finishing one, which the cousin
got by heart and they say ran thus-

         I'm off to the wars
           For the want of pence,
         Oh, had I but money
           I'd show more sense.

  The first to address him was Don Quixote, who said, "You travel very
airily, sir gallant; whither bound, may we ask, if it is your pleasure
to tell us?"
  To which the youth replied, "The heat and my poverty are the
reason of my travelling so airily, and it is to the wars that I am
bound."
  "How poverty?" asked Don Quixote; "the heat one can understand."
  "Senor," replied the youth, "in this bundle I carry velvet
pantaloons to match this jacket; if I wear them out on the road, I
shall not be able to make a decent appearance in them in the city, and
I have not the wherewithal to buy others; and so for this reason, as
well as to keep myself cool, I am making my way in this fashion to
overtake some companies of infantry that are not twelve leagues off,
in which I shall enlist, and there will be no want of baggage trains
to travel with after that to the place of embarkation, which they
say will be Carthagena; I would rather have the King for a master, and
serve him in the wars, than serve a court pauper."
  "And did you get any bounty, now?" asked the cousin.
  "If I had been in the service of some grandee of Spain or
personage of distinction," replied the youth, "I should have been safe
to get it; for that is the advantage of serving good masters, that out
of the servants' hall men come to be ancients or captains, or get a
good pension. But I, to my misfortune, always served place-hunters and
adventurers, whose keep and wages were so miserable and scanty that
half went in paying for the starching of one's collars; it would be
a miracle indeed if a page volunteer ever got anything like a
reasonable bounty."
  "And tell me, for heaven's sake," asked Don Quixote, "is it
possible, my friend, that all the time you served you never got any
livery?"
  "They gave me two," replied the page; "but just as when one quits
a religious community before making profession, they strip him of
the dress of the order and give him back his own clothes, so did my
masters return me mine; for as soon as the business on which they came
to court was finished, they went home and took back the liveries
they had given merely for show."
  "What spilorceria!- as an Italian would say," said Don Quixote; "but
for all that, consider yourself happy in having left court with as
worthy an object as you have, for there is nothing on earth more
honourable or profitable than serving, first of all God, and then
one's king and natural lord, particularly in the profession of arms,
by which, if not more wealth, at least more honour is to be won than
by letters, as I have said many a time; for though letters may have
founded more great houses than arms, still those founded by arms
have I know not what superiority over those founded by letters, and
a certain splendour belonging to them that distinguishes them above
all. And bear in mind what I am now about to say to you, for it will
be of great use and comfort to you in time of trouble; it is, not to
let your mind dwell on the adverse chances that may befall you; for
the worst of all is death, and if it be a good death, the best of
all is to die. They asked Julius Caesar, the valiant Roman emperor,
what was the best death. He answered, that which is unexpected,
which comes suddenly and unforeseen; and though he answered like a
pagan, and one without the knowledge of the true God, yet, as far as
sparing our feelings is concerned, he was right; for suppose you are
killed in the first engagement or skirmish, whether by a cannon ball
or blown up by mine, what matters it? It is only dying, and all is
over; and according to Terence, a soldier shows better dead in battle,
than alive and safe in flight; and the good soldier wins fame in
proportion as he is obedient to his captains and those in command over
him. And remember, my son, that it is better for the soldier to
smell of gunpowder than of civet, and that if old age should come upon
you in this honourable calling, though you may be covered with
wounds and crippled and lame, it will not come upon you without
honour, and that such as poverty cannot lessen; especially now that
provisions are being made for supporting and relieving old and
disabled soldiers; for it is not right to deal with them after the
fashion of those who set free and get rid of their black slaves when
they are old and useless, and, turning them out of their houses
under the pretence of making them free, make them slaves to hunger,
from which they cannot expect to be released except by death. But
for the present I won't say more than get ye up behind me on my
horse as far as the inn, and sup with me there, and to-morrow you
shall pursue your journey, and God give you as good speed as your
intentions deserve."
  The page did not accept the invitation to mount, though he did
that to supper at the inn; and here they say Sancho said to himself,
"God be with you for a master; is it possible that a man who can say
things so many and so good as he has said just now, can say that he
saw the impossible absurdities he reports about the cave of
Montesinos? Well, well, we shall see."
  And now, just as night was falling, they reached the inn, and it was
not without satisfaction that Sancho perceived his master took it
for a real inn, and not for a castle as usual. The instant they
entered Don Quixote asked the landlord after the man with the lances
and halberds, and was told that he was in the stable seeing to his
mule; which was what Sancho and the cousin proceeded to do for their
beasts, giving the best manger and the best place in the stable to
Rocinante.
  CHAPTER XXV
  WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DROLL ONE OF
THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE
DIVINING APE

  DON QUIXOTE'S bread would not bake, as the common saying is, until
he had heard and learned the curious things promised by the man who
carried the arms. He went to seek him where the innkeeper said be
was and having found him, bade him say now at any rate what he had
to say in answer to the question he had asked him on the road. "The
tale of my wonders must be taken more leisurely and not standing,"
said the man; "let me finish foddering my beast, good sir; and then
I'll tell you things that will astonish you."
  "Don't wait for that," said Don Quixote; "I'll help you in
everything," and so he did, sifting the barley for him and cleaning
out the manger; a degree of humility which made the other feel bound
to tell him with a good grace what he had asked; so seating himself on
a bench, with Don Quixote beside him, and the cousin, the page, Sancho
Panza, and the landlord, for a senate and an audience, he began his
story in this way:
  "You must know that in a village four leagues and a half from this
inn, it so happened that one of the regidors, by the tricks and
roguery of a servant girl of his (it's too long a tale to tell),
lost an ass; and though he did all he possibly could to find it, it
was all to no purpose. A fortnight might have gone by, so the story
goes, since the ass had been missing, when, as the regidor who had
lost it was standing in the plaza, another regidor of the same town
said to him, 'Pay me for good news, gossip; your ass has turned up.'
'That I will, and well, gossip,' said the other; 'but tell us, where
has he turned up?' 'In the forest,' said the finder; 'I saw him this
morning without pack-saddle or harness of any sort, and so lean that
it went to one's heart to see him. I tried to drive him before me
and bring him to you, but he is already so wild and shy that when I
went near him he made off into the thickest part of the forest. If you
have a mind that we two should go back and look for him, let me put up
this she-ass at my house and I'll be back at once.' 'You will be doing
me a great kindness,' said the owner of the ass, 'and I'll try to
pay it back in the same coin.' It is with all these circumstances, and
in the very same way I am telling it now, that those who know all
about the matter tell the story. Well then, the two regidors set off
on foot, arm in arm, for the forest, and coming to the place where
they hoped to find the ass they could not find him, nor was he to be
seen anywhere about, search as they might. Seeing, then, that there
was no sign of him, the regidor who had seen him said to the other,
'Look here, gossip; a plan has occurred to me, by which, beyond a
doubt, we shall manage to discover the animal, even if he is stowed
away in the bowels of the earth, not to say the forest. Here it is.
I can bray to perfection, and if you can ever so little, the thing's
as good as done.' 'Ever so little did you say, gossip?' said the
other; 'by God, I'll not give in to anybody, not even to the asses
themselves.' 'We'll soon see,' said the second regidor, 'for my plan
is that you should go one side of the forest, and I the other, so as
to go all round about it; and every now and then you will bray and I
will bray; and it cannot be but that the ass will hear us, and
answer us if he is in the forest.' To which the owner of the ass
replied, 'It's an excellent plan, I declare, gossip, and worthy of
your great genius;' and the two separating as agreed, it so fell out
that they brayed almost at the same moment, and each, deceived by
the braying of the other, ran to look, fancying the ass had turned
up at last. When they came in sight of one another, said the loser,
'Is it possible, gossip, that it was not my ass that brayed?' 'No,
it was I,' said the other. 'Well then, I can tell you, gossip,' said
the ass's owner, 'that between you and an ass there is not an atom
of difference as far as braying goes, for I never in all my life saw
or heard anything more natural.' 'Those praises and compliments belong
to you more justly than to me, gossip,' said the inventor of the plan;
'for, by the God that made me, you might give a couple of brays odds
to the best and most finished brayer in the world; the tone you have
got is deep, your voice is well kept up as to time and pitch, and your
finishing notes come thick and fast; in fact, I own myself beaten, and
yield the palm to you, and give in to you in this rare
accomplishment.' 'Well then,' said the owner, 'I'll set a higher value
on myself for the future, and consider that I know something, as I
have an excellence of some sort; for though I always thought I
brayed well, I never supposed I came up to the pitch of perfection you
say.' 'And I say too,' said the second, 'that there are rare gifts
going to loss in the world, and that they are ill bestowed upon
those who don't know how to make use of them.' 'Ours,' said the
owner of the ass, 'unless it is in cases like this we have now in
hand, cannot be of any service to us, and even in this God grant
they may be of some use.' So saying they separated, and took to
their braying once more, but every instant they were deceiving one
another, and coming to meet one another again, until they arranged
by way of countersign, so as to know that it was they and not the ass,
to give two brays, one after the other. In this way, doubling the
brays at every step, they made the complete circuit of the forest, but
the lost ass never gave them an answer or even the sign of one. How
could the poor ill-starred brute have answered, when, in the
thickest part of the forest, they found him devoured by wolves? As
soon as he saw him his owner said, 'I was wondering he did not answer,
for if he wasn't dead he'd have brayed when he heard us, or he'd
have been no ass; but for the sake of having heard you bray to such
perfection, gossip, I count the trouble I have taken to look for him
well bestowed, even though I have found him dead.' 'It's in a good
hand, gossip,' said the other; 'if the abbot sings well, the acolyte
is not much behind him.' So they returned disconsolate and hoarse to
their village, where they told their friends, neighbours, and
acquaintances what had befallen them in their search for the ass, each
crying up the other's perfection in braying. The whole story came to
be known and spread abroad through the villages of the
neighbourhood; and the devil, who never sleeps, with his love for
sowing dissensions and scattering discord everywhere, blowing mischief
about and making quarrels out of nothing, contrived to make the people
of the other towns fall to braying whenever they saw anyone from our
village, as if to throw the braying of our regidors in our teeth. Then
the boys took to it, which was the same thing for it as getting into
the hands and mouths of all the devils of hell; and braying spread
from one town to another in such a way that the men of the braying
town are as easy to be known as blacks are to be known from whites,
and the unlucky joke has gone so far that several times the scoffed
have come out in arms and in a body to do battle with the scoffers,
and neither king nor rook, fear nor shame, can mend matters. To-morrow
or the day after, I believe, the men of my town, that is, of the
braying town, are going to take the field against another village
two leagues away from ours, one of those that persecute us most; and
that we may turn out well prepared I have bought these lances and
halberds you have seen. These are the curious things I told you I
had to tell, and if you don't think them so, I have got no others;"
and with this the worthy fellow brought his story to a close.
  Just at this moment there came in at the gate of the inn a man
entirely clad in chamois leather, hose, breeches, and doublet, who
said in a loud voice, "Senor host, have you room? Here's the
divining ape and the show of the Release of Melisendra just coming."
  "Ods body!" said the landlord, "why, it's Master Pedro! We're in for
a grand night!" I forgot to mention that the said Master Pedro had his
left eye and nearly half his cheek covered with a patch of green
taffety, showing that something ailed all that side. "Your worship
is welcome, Master Pedro," continued the landlord; "but where are
the ape and the show, for I don't see them?" "They are close at hand,"
said he in the chamois leather, "but I came on first to know if
there was any room." "I'd make the Duke of Alva himself clear out to
make room for Master Pedro," said the landlord; "bring in the ape
and the show; there's company in the inn to-night that will pay to see
that and the cleverness of the ape." "So be it by all means," said the
man with the patch; "I'll lower the price, and he well satisfied if
I only pay my expenses; and now I'll go back and hurry on the cart
with the ape and the show;" and with this he went out of the inn.
  Don Quixote at once asked the landlord what this Master Pedro was,
and what was the show and what was the ape he had with him; which
the landlord replied, "This is a famous puppet-showman, who for some
time past has been going about this Mancha de Aragon, exhibiting a
show of the release of Melisendra by the famous Don Gaiferos, one of
the best and best-represented stories that have been seen in this part
of the kingdom for many a year; he has also with him an ape with the
most extraordinary gift ever seen in an ape or imagined in a human
being; for if you ask him anything, he listens attentively to the
question, and then jumps on his master's shoulder, and pressing
close to his ear tells him the answer which Master Pedro then
delivers. He says a great deal more about things past than about
things to come; and though he does not always hit the truth in every
case, most times he is not far wrong, so that he makes us fancy he has
got the devil in him. He gets two reals for every question if the
ape answers; I mean if his master answers for him after he has
whispered into his ear; and so it is believed that this same Master
Pedro is very rich. He is a 'gallant man' as they say in Italy, and
good company, and leads the finest life in the world; talks more
than six, drinks more than a dozen, and all by his tongue, and his
ape, and his show."
  Master Pedro now came back, and in a cart followed the show and
the ape- a big one, without a tail and with buttocks as bare as
felt, but not vicious-looking. As soon as Don Quixote saw him, he
asked him, "Can you tell me, sir fortune-teller, what fish do we
catch, and how will it be with us? See, here are my two reals," and he
bade Sancho give them to Master Pedro; but he answered for the ape and
said, "Senor, this animal does not give any answer or information
touching things that are to come; of things past he knows something,
and more or less of things present."
  "Gad," said Sancho, "I would not give a farthing to be told what's
past with me, for who knows that better than I do myself? And to pay
for being told what I know would be mighty foolish. But as you know
things present, here are my two reals, and tell me, most excellent sir
ape, what is my wife Teresa Panza doing now, and what is she diverting
herself with?"
  Master Pedro refused to take the money, saying, "I will not
receive payment in advance or until the service has been first
rendered;" and then with his right hand he gave a couple of slaps on
his left shoulder, and with one spring the ape perched himself upon
it, and putting his mouth to his master's ear began chattering his
teeth rapidly; and having kept this up as long as one would be
saying a credo, with another spring he brought himself to the
ground, and the same instant Master Pedro ran in great haste and
fell upon his knees before Don Quixote, and embracing his legs
exclaimed, "These legs do I embrace as I would embrace the two pillars
of Hercules, O illustrious reviver of knight-errantry, so long
consigned to oblivion! O never yet duly extolled knight, Don Quixote
of La Mancha, courage of the faint-hearted, prop of the tottering, arm
of the fallen, staff and counsel of all who are unfortunate!"
  Don Quixote was thunderstruck, Sancho astounded, the cousin
staggered, the page astonished, the man from the braying town agape,
the landlord in perplexity, and, in short, everyone amazed at the
words of the puppet-showman, who went on to say, "And thou, worthy
Sancho Panza, the best squire and squire to the best knight in the
world! Be of good cheer, for thy good wife Teresa is well, and she
is at this moment hackling a pound of flax; and more by token she
has at her left hand a jug with a broken spout that holds a good
drop of wine, with which she solaces herself at her work."
  "That I can well believe," said Sancho. "She is a lucky one, and
if it was not for her jealousy I would not change her for the giantess
Andandona, who by my master's account was a very clever and worthy
woman; my Teresa is one of those that won't let themselves want for
anything, though their heirs may have to pay for it."
  "Now I declare," said Don Quixote, "he who reads much and travels
much sees and knows a great deal. I say so because what amount of
persuasion could have persuaded me that there are apes in the world
that can divine as I have seen now with my own eyes? For I am that
very Don Quixote of La Mancha this worthy animal refers to, though
he has gone rather too far in my praise; but whatever I may be, I
thank heaven that it has endowed me with a tender and compassionate
heart, always disposed to do good to all and harm to none."
  "If I had money," said the page, "I would ask senor ape what will
happen me in the peregrination I am making."
  To this Master Pedro, who had by this time risen from Don
Quixote's feet, replied, "I have already said that this little beast
gives no answer as to the future; but if he did, not having money
would be of no consequence, for to oblige Senor Don Quixote, here
present, I would give up all the profits in the world. And now,
because I have promised it, and to afford him pleasure, I will set
up my show and offer entertainment to all who are in the inn,
without any charge whatever." As soon as he heard this, the
landlord, delighted beyond measure, pointed out a place where the show
might be fixed, which was done at once.
  Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of
the ape, as he did not think it proper that an ape should divine
anything, either past or future; so while Master Pedro was arranging
the show, he retired with Sancho into a corner of the stable, where,
without being overheard by anyone, he said to him, "Look here, Sancho,
I have been seriously thinking over this ape's extraordinary gift, and
have come to the conclusion that beyond doubt this Master Pedro, his
master, has a pact, tacit or express, with the devil."
  "If the packet is express from the devil," said Sancho, "it must
be a very dirty packet no doubt; but what good can it do Master
Pedro to have such packets?"
  "Thou dost not understand me, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "I only
mean he must have made some compact with the devil to infuse this
power into the ape, that he may get his living, and after he has grown
rich he will give him his soul, which is what the enemy of mankind
wants; this I am led to believe by observing that the ape only answers
about things past or present, and the devil's knowledge extends no
further; for the future he knows only by guesswork, and that not
always; for it is reserved for God alone to know the times and the
seasons, and for him there is neither past nor future; all is present.
This being as it is, it is clear that this ape speaks by the spirit of
the devil; and I am astonished they have not denounced him to the Holy
Office, and put him to the question, and forced it out of him by whose
virtue it is that he divines; because it is certain this ape is not an
astrologer; neither his master nor he sets up, or knows how to set up,
those figures they call judiciary, which are now so common in Spain
that there is not a jade, or page, or old cobbler, that will not
undertake to set up a figure as readily as pick up a knave of cards
from the ground, bringing to nought the marvellous truth of the
science by their lies and ignorance. I know of a lady who asked one of
these figure schemers whether her little lap-dog would be in pup and
would breed, and how many and of what colour the little pups would be.
To which senor astrologer, after having set up his figure, made answer
that the bitch would be in pup, and would drop three pups, one
green, another bright red, and the third parti-coloured, provided
she conceived between eleven and twelve either of the day or night,
and on a Monday or Saturday; but as things turned out, two days
after this the bitch died of a surfeit, and senor planet-ruler had the
credit all over the place of being a most profound astrologer, as most
of these planet-rulers have."
  "Still," said Sancho, "I would be glad if your worship would make
Master Pedro ask his ape whether what happened your worship in the
cave of Montesinos is true; for, begging your worship's pardon, I, for
my part, take it to have been all flam and lies, or at any rate
something you dreamt."
  "That may be," replied Don Quixote; "however, I will do what you
suggest; though I have my own scruples about it."
  At this point Master Pedro came up in quest of Don Quixote, to
tell him the show was now ready and to come and see it, for it was
worth seeing. Don Quixote explained his wish, and begged him to ask
his ape at once to tell him whether certain things which had
happened to him in the cave of Montesinos were dreams or realities,
for to him they appeared to partake of both. Upon this Master Pedro,
without answering, went back to fetch the ape, and, having placed it
in front of Don Quixote and Sancho, said: "See here, senor ape, this
gentleman wishes to know whether certain things which happened to
him in the cave called the cave of Montesinos were false or true."
On his making the usual sign the ape mounted on his left shoulder
and seemed to whisper in his ear, and Master Pedro said at once,
"The ape says that the things you saw or that happened to you in
that cave are, part of them false, part true; and that he only knows
this and no more as regards this question; but if your worship
wishes to know more, on Friday next he will answer all that may be
asked him, for his virtue is at present exhausted, and will not return
to him till Friday, as he has said."
  "Did I not say, senor," said Sancho, "that I could not bring
myself to believe that all your worship said about the adventures in
the cave was true, or even the half of it?"
  "The course of events will tell, Sancho," replied Don Quixote;
"time, that discloses all things, leaves nothing that it does not drag
into the light of day, though it be buried in the bosom of the
earth. But enough of that for the present; let us go and see Master
Pedro's show, for I am sure there must be something novel in it."
  "Something!" said Master Pedro; "this show of mine has sixty
thousand novel things in it; let me tell you, Senor Don Quixote, it is
one of the best-worth-seeing things in the world this day; but
operibus credite et non verbis, and now let's get to work, for it is
growing late, and we have a great deal to do and to say and show."
  Don Quixote and Sancho obeyed him and went to where the show was
already put up and uncovered, set all around with lighted wax tapers
which made it look splendid and bright. When they came to it Master
Pedro ensconced himself inside it, for it was he who had to work the
puppets, and a boy, a servant of his, posted himself outside to act as
showman and explain the mysteries of the exhibition, having a wand
in his hand to point to the figures as they came out. And so, all
who were in the inn being arranged in front of the show, some of
them standing, and Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and cousin,
accommodated with the best places, the interpreter began to say what
he will hear or see who reads or hears the next chapter.
  CHAPTER XXVI
  WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD

  ALL were silent, Tyrians and Trojans; I mean all who were watching
the show were hanging on the lips of the interpreter of its wonders,
when drums and trumpets were heard to sound inside it and cannon to go
off. The noise was soon over, and then the boy lifted up his voice and
said, "This true story which is here represented to your worships is
taken word for word from the French chronicles and from the Spanish
ballads that are in everybody's mouth, and in the mouth of the boys
about the streets. Its subject is the release by Senor Don Gaiferos of
his wife Melisendra, when a captive in Spain at the hands of the Moors
in the city of Sansuena, for so they called then what is now called
Saragossa; and there you may see how Don Gaiferos is playing at the
tables, just as they sing it-

       At tables playing Don Gaiferos sits,
       For Melisendra is forgotten now.

And that personage who appears there with a crown on his head and a
sceptre in his hand is the Emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of
Melisendra, who, angered to see his son-in-law's inaction and
unconcern, comes in to chide him; and observe with what vehemence
and energy he chides him, so that you would fancy he was going to give
him half a dozen raps with his sceptre; and indeed there are authors
who say he did give them, and sound ones too; and after having said
a great deal to him about imperilling his honour by not effecting
the release of his wife, he said, so the tale runs,

       Enough I've said, see to it now.

Observe, too, how the emperor turns away, and leaves Don Gaiferos
fuming; and you see now how in a burst of anger, he flings the table
and the board far from him and calls in haste for his armour, and asks
his cousin Don Roland for the loan of his sword, Durindana, and how
Don Roland refuses to lend it, offering him his company in the
difficult enterprise he is undertaking; but he, in his valour and
anger, will not accept it, and says that he alone will suffice to
rescue his wife, even though she were imprisoned deep in the centre of
the earth, and with this he retires to arm himself and set out on
his journey at once. Now let your worships turn your eyes to that
tower that appears there, which is supposed to be one of the towers of
the alcazar of Saragossa, now called the Aljaferia; that lady who
appears on that balcony dressed in Moorish fashion is the peerless
Melisendra, for many a time she used to gaze from thence upon the road
to France, and seek consolation in her captivity by thinking of
Paris and her husband. Observe, too, a new incident which now
occurs, such as, perhaps, never was seen. Do you not see that Moor,
who silently and stealthily, with his finger on his lip, approaches
Melisendra from behind? Observe now how he prints a kiss upon her
lips, and what a hurry she is in to spit, and wipe them with the white
sleeve of her smock, and how she bewails herself, and tears her fair
hair as though it were to blame for the wrong. Observe, too, that
the stately Moor who is in that corridor is King Marsilio of Sansuena,
who, having seen the Moor's insolence, at once orders him (though
his kinsman and a great favourite of his) to be seized and given two
hundred lashes, while carried through the streets of the city
according to custom, with criers going before him and officers of
justice behind; and here you see them come out to execute the
sentence, although the offence has been scarcely committed; for
among the Moors there are no indictments nor remands as with us."
  Here Don Quixote called out, "Child, child, go straight on with your
story, and don't run into curves and slants, for to establish a fact
clearly there is need of a great deal of proof and confirmation;"
and said Master Pedro from within, "Boy, stick to your text and do
as the gentleman bids you; it's the best plan; keep to your plain
song, and don't attempt harmonies, for they are apt to break down from
being over fine."
  "I will," said the boy, and he went on to say, "This figure that you
see here on horseback, covered with a Gascon cloak, is Don Gaiferos
himself, whom his wife, now avenged of the insult of the amorous Moor,
and taking her stand on the balcony of the tower with a calmer and
more tranquil countenance, has perceived without recognising him;
and she addresses her husband, supposing him to be some traveller, and
holds with him all that conversation and colloquy in the ballad that
runs-

       If you, sir knight, to France are bound,
       Oh! for Gaiferos ask-

which I do not repeat here because prolixity begets disgust; suffice
it to observe how Don Gaiferos discovers himself, and that by her
joyful gestures Melisendra shows us she has recognised him; and what
is more, we now see she lowers herself from the balcony to place
herself on the haunches of her good husband's horse. But ah! unhappy
lady, the edge of her petticoat has caught on one of the bars of the
balcony and she is left hanging in the air, unable to reach the
ground. But you see how compassionate heaven sends aid in our sorest
need; Don Gaiferos advances, and without minding whether the rich
petticoat is torn or not, he seizes her and by force brings her to the
ground, and then with one jerk places her on the haunches of his
horse, astraddle like a man, and bids her hold on tight and clasp
her arms round his neck, crossing them on his breast so as not to
fall, for the lady Melisendra was not used to that style of riding.
You see, too, how the neighing of the horse shows his satisfaction
with the gallant and beautiful burden he bears in his lord and lady.
You see how they wheel round and quit the city, and in joy and
gladness take the road to Paris. Go in peace, O peerless pair of
true lovers! May you reach your longed-for fatherland in safety, and
may fortune interpose no impediment to your prosperous journey; may
the eyes of your friends and kinsmen behold you enjoying in peace
and tranquillity the remaining days of your life- and that they may be
as many as those of Nestor!"
  Here Master Pedro called out again and said, "Simplicity, boy!
None of your high flights; all affectation is bad."
  The interpreter made no answer, but went on to say, "There was no
want of idle eyes, that see everything, to see Melisendra come down
and mount, and word was brought to King Marsilio, who at once gave
orders to sound the alarm; and see what a stir there is, and how the
city is drowned with the sound of the bells pealing in the towers of
all the mosques."
  "Nay, nay," said Don Quixote at this; "on that point of the bells
Master Pedro is very inaccurate, for bells are not in use among the
Moors; only kettledrums, and a kind of small trumpet somewhat like our
clarion; to ring bells this way in Sansuena is unquestionably a
great absurdity."
  On hearing this, Master Pedro stopped ringing, and said, "Don't look
into trifles, Senor Don Quixote, or want to have things up to a
pitch of perfection that is out of reach. Are there not almost every
day a thousand comedies represented all round us full of thousands
of inaccuracies and absurdities, and, for all that, they have a
successful run, and are listened to not only with applause, but with
admiration and all the rest of it? Go on, boy, and don't mind; for
so long as I fill my pouch, no matter if I show as many inaccuracies
as there are motes in a sunbeam."
  "True enough," said Don Quixote; and the boy went on: "See what a
numerous and glittering crowd of horsemen issues from the city in
pursuit of the two faithful lovers, what a blowing of trumpets there
is, what sounding of horns, what beating of drums and tabors; I fear
me they will overtake them and bring them back tied to the tail of
their own horse, which would be a dreadful sight."
  Don Quixote, however, seeing such a swarm of Moors and hearing
such a din, thought it would be right to aid the fugitives, and
standing up he exclaimed in a loud voice, "Never, while I live, will I
permit foul play to be practised in my presence on such a famous
knight and fearless lover as Don Gaiferos. Halt! ill-born rabble,
follow him not nor pursue him, or ye will have to reckon with me in
battle!" and suiting the action to the word, he drew his sword, and
with one bound placed himself close to the show, and with unexampled
rapidity and fury began to shower down blows on the puppet troop of
Moors, knocking over some, decapitating others, maiming this one and
demolishing that; and among many more he delivered one down stroke
which, if Master Pedro had not ducked, made himself small, and got out
of the way, would have sliced off his head as easily as if it had been
made of almond-paste. Master Pedro kept shouting, "Hold hard! Senor
Don Quixote! can't you see they're not real Moors you're knocking down
and killing and destroying, but only little pasteboard figures!
Look- sinner that I am!- how you're wrecking and ruining all that
I'm worth!" But in spite of this, Don Quixote did not leave off
discharging a continuous rain of cuts, slashes, downstrokes, and
backstrokes, and at length, in less than the space of two credos, he
brought the whole show to the ground, with all its fittings and
figures shivered and knocked to pieces, King Marsilio badly wounded,
and the Emperor Charlemagne with his crown and head split in two.
The whole audience was thrown into confusion, the ape fled to the roof
of the inn, the cousin was frightened, and even Sancho Panza himself
was in mighty fear, for, as he swore after the storm was over, he
had never seen his master in such a furious passion.
  The complete destruction of the show being thus accomplished, Don
Quixote became a little calmer, said, "I wish I had here before me now
all those who do not or will not believe how useful knights-errant are
in the world; just think, if I had not been here present, what would
have become of the brave Don Gaiferos and the fair Melisendra!
Depend upon it, by this time those dogs would have overtaken them
and inflicted some outrage upon them. So, then, long live
knight-errantry beyond everything living on earth this day!"
  "Let it live, and welcome," said Master Pedro at this in a feeble
voice, "and let me die, for I am so unfortunate that I can say with
King Don Rodrigo-

         Yesterday was I lord of Spain
         To-day I've not a turret left
         That I may call mine own.

Not half an hour, nay, barely a minute ago, I saw myself lord of kings
and emperors, with my stables filled with countless horses, and my
trunks and bags with gay dresses unnumbered; and now I find myself
ruined and laid low, destitute and a beggar, and above all without
my ape, for, by my faith, my teeth will have to sweat for it before
I have him caught; and all through the reckless fury of sir knight
here, who, they say, protects the fatherless, and rights wrongs, and
does other charitable deeds; but whose generous intentions have been
found wanting in my case only, blessed and praised be the highest
heavens! Verily, knight of the rueful figure he must be to have
disfigured mine."
  Sancho Panza was touched by Master Pedro's words, and said to him,
"Don't weep and lament, Master Pedro; you break my heart; let me
tell you my master, Don Quixote, is so catholic and scrupulous a
Christian that, if he can make out that he has done you any wrong,
he will own it, and be willing to pay for it and make it good, and
something over and above."
  "Only let Senor Don Quixote pay me for some part of the work he
has destroyed," said Master Pedro, "and I would be content, and his
worship would ease his conscience, for he cannot be saved who keeps
what is another's against the owner's will, and makes no restitution."
  "That is true," said Don Quixote; "but at present I am not aware
that I have got anything of yours, Master Pedro."
  "What!" returned Master Pedro; "and these relics lying here on the
bare hard ground- what scattered and shattered them but the invincible
strength of that mighty arm? And whose were the bodies they belonged
to but mine? And what did I get my living by but by them?"
  "Now am I fully convinced," said Don Quixote, "of what I had many
a time before believed; that the enchanters who persecute me do
nothing more than put figures like these before my eyes, and then
change and turn them into what they please. In truth and earnest, I
assure you gentlemen who now hear me, that to me everything that has
taken place here seemed to take place literally, that Melisendra was
Melisendra, Don Gaiferos Don Gaiferos, Marsilio Marsilio, and
Charlemagne Charlemagne. That was why my anger was roused; and to be
faithful to my calling as a knight-errant I sought to give aid and
protection to those who fled, and with this good intention I did
what you have seen. If the result has been the opposite of what I
intended, it is no fault of mine, but of those wicked beings that
persecute me; but, for all that, I am willing to condemn myself in
costs for this error of mine, though it did not proceed from malice;
let Master Pedro see what he wants for the spoiled figures, for I
agree to pay it at once in good and current money of Castile."
  Master Pedro made him a bow, saying, "I expected no less of the rare
Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, true helper
and protector of all destitute and needy vagabonds; master landlord
here and the great Sancho Panza shall be the arbitrators and
appraisers between your worship and me of what these dilapidated
figures are worth or may be worth."
  The landlord and Sancho consented, and then Master Pedro picked up
from the ground King Marsilio of Saragossa with his head off, and
said, "Here you see how impossible it is to restore this king to his
former state, so I think, saving your better judgments, that for his
death, decease, and demise, four reals and a half may be given me."
  "Proceed," said Don Quixote.
  "Well then, for this cleavage from top to bottom," continued
Master Pedro, taking up the split Emperor Charlemagne, "it would not
be much if I were to ask five reals and a quarter."
  "It's not little," said Sancho.
  "Nor is it much," said the landlord; "make it even, and say five
reals."
  "Let him have the whole five and a quarter," said Don Quixote;
"for the sum total of this notable disaster does not stand on a
quarter more or less; and make an end of it quickly, Master Pedro, for
it's getting on to supper-time, and I have some hints of hunger."
  "For this figure," said Master Pedro, "that is without a nose, and
wants an eye, and is the fair Melisendra, I ask, and I am reasonable
in my charge, two reals and twelve maravedis."
  "The very devil must be in it," said Don Quixote, "if Melisendra and
her husband are not by this time at least on the French border, for
the horse they rode on seemed to me to fly rather than gallop; so
you needn't try to sell me the cat for the hare, showing me here a
noseless Melisendra when she is now, may be, enjoying herself at her
ease with her husband in France. God help every one to his own, Master
Pedro, and let us all proceed fairly and honestly; and now go on."
  Master Pedro, perceiving that Don Quixote was beginning to wander,
and return to his original fancy, was not disposed to let him
escape, so he said to him, "This cannot be Melisendra, but must be one
of the damsels that waited on her; so if I'm given sixty maravedis for
her, I'll be content and sufficiently paid."
  And so he went on, putting values on ever so many more smashed
figures, which, after the two arbitrators had adjusted them to the
satisfaction of both parties, came to forty reals and
three-quarters; and over and above this sum, which Sancho at once
disbursed, Master Pedro asked for two reals for his trouble in
catching the ape.
  "Let him have them, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "not to catch the
ape, but to get drunk; and two hundred would I give this minute for
the good news, to anyone who could tell me positively, that the lady
Dona Melisandra and Senor Don Gaiferos were now in France and with
their own people."
  "No one could tell us that better than my ape," said Master Pedro;
"but there's no devil that could catch him now; I suspect, however,
that affection and hunger will drive him to come looking for me
to-night; but to-morrow will soon be here and we shall see."
  In short, the puppet-show storm passed off, and all supped in
peace and good fellowship at Don Quixote's expense, for he was the
height of generosity. Before it was daylight the man with the lances
and halberds took his departure, and soon after daybreak the cousin
and the page came to bid Don Quixote farewell, the former returning
home, the latter resuming his journey, towards which, to help him, Don
Quixote gave him twelve reals. Master Pedro did not care to engage
in any more palaver with Don Quixote, whom he knew right well; so he
rose before the sun, and having got together the remains of his show
and caught his ape, he too went off to seek his adventures. The
landlord, who did not know Don Quixote, was as much astonished at
his mad freaks as at his generosity. To conclude, Sancho, by his
master's orders, paid him very liberally, and taking leave of him they
quitted the inn at about eight in the morning and took to the road,
where we will leave them to pursue their journey, for this is
necessary in order to allow certain other matters to be set forth,
which are required to clear up this famous history.
  CHAPTER XXVII
  WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER WITH
THE MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID
NOT CONCLUDE AS HE WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED

  CIDE HAMETE, the chronicler of this great history, begins this
chapter with these words, "I swear as a Catholic Christian;" with
regard to which his translator says that Cide Hamete's swearing as a
Catholic Christian, he being- as no doubt he was- a Moor, only meant
that, just as a Catholic Christian taking an oath swears, or ought
to swear, what is true, and tell the truth in what he avers, so he was
telling the truth, as much as if he swore as a Catholic Christian,
in all he chose to write about Quixote, especially in declaring who
Master Pedro was and what was the divining ape that astonished all the
villages with his divinations. He says, then, that he who has read the
First Part of this history will remember well enough the Gines de
Pasamonte whom, with other galley slaves, Don Quixote set free in
the Sierra Morena: a kindness for which he afterwards got poor
thanks and worse payment from that evil-minded, ill-conditioned set.
This Gines de Pasamonte- Don Ginesillo de Parapilla, Don Quixote
called him- it was that stole Dapple from Sancho Panza; which, because
by the fault of the printers neither the how nor the when was stated
in the First Part, has been a puzzle to a good many people, who
attribute to the bad memory of the author what was the error of the
press. In fact, however, Gines stole him while Sancho Panza was asleep
on his back, adopting the plan and device that Brunello had recourse
to when he stole Sacripante's horse from between his legs at the siege
of Albracca; and, as has been told, Sancho afterwards recovered him.
This Gines, then, afraid of being caught by the officers of justice,
who were looking for him to punish him for his numberless
rascalities and offences (which were so many and so great that he
himself wrote a big book giving an account of them), resolved to shift
his quarters into the kingdom of Aragon, and cover up his left eye,
and take up the trade of a puppet-showman; for this, as well as
juggling, he knew how to practise to perfection. From some released
Christians returning from Barbary, it so happened, he bought the
ape, which he taught to mount upon his shoulder on his making a
certain sign, and to whisper, or seem to do so, in his ear. Thus
prepared, before entering any village whither he was bound with his
show and his ape, he used to inform himself at the nearest village, or
from the most likely person he could find, as to what particular
things had happened there, and to whom; and bearing them well in mind,
the first thing be did was to exhibit his show, sometimes one story,
sometimes another, but all lively, amusing, and familiar. As soon as
the exhibition was over he brought forward the accomplishments of
his ape, assuring the public that he divined all the past and the
present, but as to the future he had no skill. For each question
answered he asked two reals, and for some he made a reduction, just as
he happened to feel the pulse of the questioners; and when now and
then he came to houses where things that he knew of had happened to
the people living there, even if they did not ask him a question,
not caring to pay for it, he would make the sign to the ape and then
declare that it had said so and so, which fitted the case exactly.
In this way he acquired a prodigious name and all ran after him; on
other occasions, being very crafty, he would answer in such a way that
the answers suited the questions; and as no one cross-questioned him
or pressed him to tell how his ape divined, he made fools of them
all and filled his pouch. The instant he entered the inn he knew Don
Quixote and Sancho, and with that knowledge it was easy for him to
astonish them and all who were there; but it would have cost him
dear had Don Quixote brought down his hand a little lower when he
cut off King Marsilio's head and destroyed all his horsemen, as
related in the preceeding chapter.
  So much for Master Pedro and his ape; and now to return to Don
Quixote of La Mancha. After he had left the inn he determined to
visit, first of all, the banks of the Ebro and that neighbourhood,
before entering the city of Saragossa, for the ample time there was
still to spare before the jousts left him enough for all. With this
object in view he followed the road and travelled along it for two
days, without meeting any adventure worth committing to writing
until on the third day, as he was ascending a hill, he heard a great
noise of drums, trumpets, and musket-shots. At first he imagined
some regiment of soldiers was passing that way, and to see them he
spurred Rocinante and mounted the hill. On reaching the top he saw
at the foot of it over two hundred men, as it seemed to him, armed
with weapons of various sorts, lances, crossbows, partisans, halberds,
and pikes, and a few muskets and a great many bucklers. He descended
the slope and approached the band near enough to see distinctly the
flags, make out the colours and distinguish the devices they bore,
especially one on a standard or ensign of white satin, on which
there was painted in a very life-like style an ass like a little sard,
with its head up, its mouth open and its tongue out, as if it were
in the act and attitude of braying; and round it were inscribed in
large characters these two lines-

         They did not bray in vain,
         Our alcaldes twain.

From this device Don Quixote concluded that these people must be
from the braying town, and he said so to Sancho, explaining to him
what was written on the standard. At the same time be observed that
the man who had told them about the matter was wrong in saying that
the two who brayed were regidors, for according to the lines of the
standard they were alcaldes. To which Sancho replied, "Senor,
there's nothing to stick at in that, for maybe the regidors who brayed
then came to he alcaldes of their town afterwards, and so they may
go by both titles; moreover, it has nothing to do with the truth of
the story whether the brayers were alcaldes or regidors, provided at
any rate they did bray; for an alcalde is just as likely to bray as
a regidor." They perceived, in short, clearly that the town which
had been twitted had turned out to do battle with some other that
had jeered it more than was fair or neighbourly.
  Don Quixote proceeded to join them, not a little to Sancho's
uneasiness, for he never relished mixing himself up in expeditions
of that sort. The members of the troop received him into the midst
of them, taking him to he some one who was on their side. Don Quixote,
putting up his visor, advanced with an easy bearing and demeanour to
the standard with the ass, and all the chief men of the army
gathered round him to look at him, staring at him with the usual
amazement that everybody felt on seeing him for the first time. Don
Quixote, seeing them examining him so attentively, and that none of
them spoke to him or put any question to him, determined to take
advantage of their silence; so, breaking his own, he lifted up his
voice and said, "Worthy sirs, I entreat you as earnestly as I can
not to interrupt an argument I wish to address to you, until you
find it displeases or wearies you; and if that come to pass, on the
slightest hint you give me I will put a seal upon my lips and a gag
upon my tongue."
  They all bade him say what he liked, for they would listen to him
willingly.
  With this permission Don Quixote went on to say, "I, sirs, am a
knight-errant whose calling is that of arms, and whose profession is
to protect those who require protection, and give help to such as
stand in need of it. Some days ago I became acquainted with your
misfortune and the cause which impels you to take up arms again and
again to revenge yourselves upon your enemies; and having many times
thought over your business in my mind, I find that, according to the
laws of combat, you are mistaken in holding yourselves insulted; for a
private individual cannot insult an entire community; unless it be
by defying it collectively as a traitor, because he cannot tell who in
particular is guilty of the treason for which he defies it. Of this we
have an example in Don Diego Ordonez de Lara, who defied the whole
town of Zamora, because he did not know that Vellido Dolfos alone
had committed the treachery of slaying his king; and therefore he
defied them all, and the vengeance and the reply concerned all;
though, to be sure, Senor Don Diego went rather too far, indeed very
much beyond the limits of a defiance; for he had no occasion to defy
the dead, or the waters, or the fishes, or those yet unborn, and all
the rest of it as set forth; but let that pass, for when anger
breaks out there's no father, governor, or bridle to check the tongue.
The case being, then, that no one person can insult a kingdom,
province, city, state, or entire community, it is clear there is no
reason for going out to avenge the defiance of such an insult,
inasmuch as it is not one. A fine thing it would be if the people of
the clock town were to be at loggerheads every moment with everyone
who called them by that name, -or the Cazoleros, Berengeneros,
Ballenatos, Jaboneros, or the bearers of all the other names and
titles that are always in the mouth of the boys and common people!
It would be a nice business indeed if all these illustrious cities
were to take huff and revenge themselves and go about perpetually
making trombones of their swords in every petty quarrel! No, no; God
forbid! There are four things for which sensible men and
well-ordered States ought to take up arms, draw their swords, and risk
their persons, lives, and properties. The first is to defend the
Catholic faith; the second, to defend one's life, which is in
accordance with natural and divine law; the third, in defence of one's
honour, family, and property; the fourth, in the service of one's king
in a just war; and if to these we choose to add a fifth (which may
be included in the second), in defence of one's country. To these
five, as it were capital causes, there may be added some others that
may be just and reasonable, and make it a duty to take up arms; but to
take them up for trifles and things to laugh at and he amused by
rather than offended, looks as though he who did so was altogether
wanting in common sense. Moreover, to take an unjust revenge (and
there cannot be any just one) is directly opposed to the sacred law
that we acknowledge, wherein we are commanded to do good to our
enemies and to love them that hate us; a command which, though it
seems somewhat difficult to obey, is only so to those who have in them
less of God than of the world, and more of the flesh than of the
spirit; for Jesus Christ, God and true man, who never lied, and
could not and cannot lie, said, as our law-giver, that his yoke was
easy and his burden light; he would not, therefore, have laid any
command upon us that it was impossible to obey. Thus, sirs, you are
bound to keep quiet by human and divine law."
  "The devil take me," said Sancho to himself at this, "but this
master of mine is a tologian; or, if not, faith, he's as like one as
one egg is like another."
  Don Quixote stopped to take breath, and, observing that silence
was still preserved, had a mind to continue his discourse, and would
have done so had not Sancho interposed with his smartness; for he,
seeing his master pause, took the lead, saying, "My lord Don Quixote
of La Mancha, who once was called the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, but now is called the Knight of the Lions, is a gentleman
of great discretion who knows Latin and his mother tongue like a
bachelor, and in everything that he deals with or advises proceeds
like a good soldier, and has all the laws and ordinances of what
they call combat at his fingers' ends; so you have nothing to do but
to let yourselves be guided by what he says, and on my head be it if
it is wrong. Besides which, you have been told that it is folly to
take offence at merely hearing a bray. I remember when I was a boy I
brayed as often as I had a fancy, without anyone hindering me, and
so elegantly and naturally that when I brayed all the asses in the
town would bray; but I was none the less for that the son of my
parents who were greatly respected; and though I was envied because of
the gift by more than one of the high and mighty ones of the town, I
did not care two farthings for it; and that you may see I am telling
the truth, wait a bit and listen, for this art, like swimming, once
learnt is never forgotten;" and then, taking hold of his nose, he
began to bray so vigorously that all the valleys around rang again.
  One of those, however, that stood near him, fancying he was
mocking them, lifted up a long staff he had in his hand and smote
him such a blow with it that Sancho dropped helpless to the ground.
Don Quixote, seeing him so roughly handled, attacked the man who had
struck him lance in hand, but so many thrust themselves between them
that he could not avenge him. Far from it, finding a shower of
stones rained upon him, and crossbows and muskets unnumbered
levelled at him, he wheeled Rocinante round and, as fast as his best
gallop could take him, fled from the midst of them, commending himself
to God with all his heart to deliver him out of this peril, in dread
every step of some ball coming in at his back and coming out at his
breast, and every minute drawing his breath to see whether it had gone
from him. The members of the band, however, were satisfied with seeing
him take to flight, and did not fire on him. They put up Sancho,
scarcely restored to his senses, on his ass, and let him go after
his master; not that he was sufficiently in his wits to guide the
beast, but Dapple followed the footsteps of Rocinante, from whom he
could not remain a moment separated. Don Quixote having got some way
off looked back, and seeing Sancho coming, waited for him, as he
perceived that no one followed him. The men of the troop stood their
ground till night, and as the enemy did not come out to battle, they
returned to their town exulting; and had they been aware of the
ancient custom of the Greeks, they would have erected a trophy on
the spot.
  CHAPTER XXVIII
  OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM WILL KNOW, IF HE
READS THEM WITH ATTENTION

  WHEN the brave man flees, treachery is manifest and it is for wise
men to reserve themselves for better occasions. This proved to be
the case with Don Quixote, who, giving way before the fury of the
townsfolk and the hostile intentions of the angry troop, took to
flight and, without a thought of Sancho or the danger in which he
was leaving him, retreated to such a distance as he thought made him
safe. Sancho, lying across his ass, followed him, as has been said,
and at length came up, having by this time recovered his senses, and
on joining him let himself drop off Dapple at Rocinante's feet,
sore, bruised, and belaboured. Don Quixote dismounted to examine his
wounds, but finding him whole from head to foot, he said to him,
angrily enough, "In an evil hour didst thou take to braying, Sancho!
Where hast thou learned that it is well done to mention the rope in
the house of the man that has been hanged? To the music of brays
what harmonies couldst thou expect to get but cudgels? Give thanks
to God, Sancho, that they signed the cross on thee just now with a
stick, and did not mark thee per signum crucis with a cutlass."
  "I'm not equal to answering," said Sancho, "for I feel as if I was
speaking through my shoulders; let us mount and get away from this;
I'll keep from braying, but not from saying that knights-errant fly
and leave their good squires to be pounded like privet, or made meal
of at the hands of their enemies."
  "He does not fly who retires," returned Don Quixote; "for I would
have thee know, Sancho, that the valour which is not based upon a
foundation of prudence is called rashness, and the exploits of the
rash man are to be attributed rather to good fortune than to
courage; and so I own that I retired, but not that I fled; and therein
I have followed the example of many valiant men who have reserved
themselves for better times; the histories are full of instances of
this, but as it would not be any good to thee or pleasure to me, I
will not recount them to thee now."
  Sancho was by this time mounted with the help of Don Quixote, who
then himself mounted Rocinante, and at a leisurely pace they proceeded
to take shelter in a grove which was in sight about a quarter of a
league off. Every now and then Sancho gave vent to deep sighs and
dismal groans, and on Don Quixote asking him what caused such acute
suffering, he replied that, from the end of his back-bone up to the
nape of his neck, he was so sore that it nearly drove him out of his
senses.
  "The cause of that soreness," said Don Quixote, "will be, no
doubt, that the staff wherewith they smote thee being a very long one,
it caught thee all down the back, where all the parts that are sore
are situated, and had it reached any further thou wouldst be sorer
still."
  "By God," said Sancho, "your worship has relieved me of a great
doubt, and cleared up the point for me in elegant style! Body o' me!
is the cause of my soreness such a mystery that there's any need to
tell me I am sore everywhere the staff hit me? If it was my ankles
that pained me there might be something in going divining why they
did, but it is not much to divine that I'm sore where they thrashed
me. By my faith, master mine, the ills of others hang by a hair; every
day I am discovering more and more how little I have to hope for
from keeping company with your worship; for if this time you have
allowed me to be drubbed, the next time, or a hundred times more,
we'll have the blanketings of the other day over again, and all the
other pranks which, if they have fallen on my shoulders now, will be
thrown in my teeth by-and-by. I would do a great deal better (if I was
not an ignorant brute that will never do any good all my life), I
would do a great deal better, I say, to go home to my wife and
children and support them and bring them up on what God may please
to give me, instead of following your worship along roads that lead
nowhere and paths that are none at all, with little to drink and
less to eat. And then when it comes to sleeping! Measure out seven
feet on the earth, brother squire, and if that's not enough for you,
take as many more, for you may have it all your own way and stretch
yourself to your heart's content. Oh that I could see burnt and turned
to ashes the first man that meddled with knight-errantry or at any
rate the first who chose to be squire to such fools as all the
knights-errant of past times must have been! Of those of the present
day I say nothing, because, as your worship is one of them, I
respect them, and because I know your worship knows a point more
than the devil in all you say and think."
  "I would lay a good wager with you, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that
now that you are talking on without anyone to stop you, you don't feel
a pain in your whole body. Talk away, my son, say whatever comes
into your head or mouth, for so long as you feel no pain, the
irritation your impertinences give me will he a pleasure to me; and if
you are so anxious to go home to your wife and children, God forbid
that I should prevent you; you have money of mine; see how long it
is since we left our village this third time, and how much you can and
ought to earn every month, and pay yourself out of your own hand."
  "When I worked for Tom Carrasco, the father of the bachelor Samson
Carrasco that your worship knows," replied Sancho, "I used to earn two
ducats a month besides my food; I can't tell what I can earn with your
worship, though I know a knight-errant's squire has harder times of it
than he who works for a farmer; for after all, we who work for
farmers, however much we toil all day, at the worst, at night, we have
our olla supper and sleep in a bed, which I have not slept in since
I have been in your worship's service, if it wasn't the short time
we were in Don Diego de Miranda's house, and the feast I had with
the skimmings I took off Camacho's pots, and what I ate, drank, and
slept in Basilio's house; all the rest of the time I have been
sleeping on the hard ground under the open sky, exposed to what they
call the inclemencies of heaven, keeping life in me with scraps of
cheese and crusts of bread, and drinking water either from the
brooks or from the springs we come to on these by-paths we travel."
  "I own, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that all thou sayest is true;
how much, thinkest thou, ought I to give thee over and above what
Tom Carrasco gave thee?"
  "I think," said Sancho, "that if your worship was to add on two
reals a month I'd consider myself well paid; that is, as far as the
wages of my labour go; but to make up to me for your worship's
pledge and promise to me to give me the government of an island, it
would be fair to add six reals more, making thirty in all."
  "Very good," said Don Quixote; "it is twenty-five days since we left
our village, so reckon up, Sancho, according to the wages you have
made out for yourself, and see how much I owe you in proportion, and
pay yourself, as I said before, out of your own hand."
  "O body o' me!" said Sancho, "but your worship is very much out in
that reckoning; for when it comes to the promise of the island we must
count from the day your worship promised it to me to this present hour
we are at now."
  "Well, how long is it, Sancho, since I promised it to you?" said Don
Quixote.
  "If I remember rightly," said Sancho, "it must be over twenty years,
three days more or less."
  Don Quixote gave himself a great slap on the forehead and began to
laugh heartily, and said he, "Why, I have not been wandering, either
in the Sierra Morena or in the whole course of our sallies, but barely
two months, and thou sayest, Sancho, that it is twenty years since I
promised thee the island. I believe now thou wouldst have all the
money thou hast of mine go in thy wages. If so, and if that be thy
pleasure, I give it to thee now, once and for all, and much good may
it do thee, for so long as I see myself rid of such a good-for-nothing
squire I'll be glad to be left a pauper without a rap. But tell me,
thou perverter of the squirely rules of knight-errantry, where hast
thou ever seen or read that any knight-errant's squire made terms with
his lord, 'you must give me so much a month for serving you'?
Plunge, scoundrel, rogue, monster- for such I take thee to be- plunge,
I say, into the mare magnum of their histories; and if thou shalt find
that any squire ever said or thought what thou hast said now, I will
let thee nail it on my forehead, and give me, over and above, four
sound slaps in the face. Turn the rein, or the halter, of thy
Dapple, and begone home; for one single step further thou shalt not
make in my company. O bread thanklessly received! O promises
ill-bestowed! O man more beast than human being! Now, when I was about
to raise thee to such a position, that, in spite of thy wife, they
would call thee 'my lord,' thou art leaving me? Thou art going now
when I had a firm and fixed intention of making thee lord of the
best island in the world? Well, as thou thyself hast said before
now, honey is not for the mouth of the ass. Ass thou art, ass thou
wilt be, and ass thou wilt end when the course of thy life is run; for
I know it will come to its close before thou dost perceive or
discern that thou art a beast."
  Sancho regarded Don Quixote earnestly while he was giving him this
rating, and was so touched by remorse that the tears came to his eyes,
and in a piteous and broken voice he said to him, "Master mine, I
confess that, to be a complete ass, all I want is a tail; if your
worship will only fix one on to me, I'll look on it as rightly placed,
and I'll serve you as an ass all the remaining days of my life.
Forgive me and have pity on my folly, and remember I know but
little, and, if I talk much, it's more from infirmity than malice; but
he who sins and mends commends himself to God."
  "I should have been surprised, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "if thou
hadst not introduced some bit of a proverb into thy speech. Well,
well, I forgive thee, provided thou dost mend and not show thyself
in future so fond of thine own interest, but try to be of good cheer
and take heart, and encourage thyself to look forward to the
fulfillment of my promises, which, by being delayed, does not become
impossible."
  Sancho said he would do so, and keep up his heart as best he
could. They then entered the grove, and Don Quixote settled himself at
the foot of an elm, and Sancho at that of a beech, for trees of this
kind and others like them always have feet but no hands. Sancho passed
the night in pain, for with the evening dews the blow of the staff
made itself felt all the more. Don Quixote passed it in his
never-failing meditations; but, for all that, they had some winks of
sleep, and with the appearance of daylight they pursued their
journey in quest of the banks of the famous Ebro, where that befell
them which will be told in the following chapter.
  CHAPTER XXIX
  OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK

  BY STAGES as already described or left undescribed, two days after
quitting the grove Don Quixote and Sancho reached the river Ebro,
and the sight of it was a great delight to Don Quixote as he
contemplated and gazed upon the charms of its banks, the clearness
of its stream, the gentleness of its current and the abundance of
its crystal waters; and the pleasant view revived a thousand tender
thoughts in his mind. Above all, he dwelt upon what he had seen in the
cave of Montesinos; for though Master Pedro's ape had told him that of
those things part was true, part false, he clung more to their truth
than to their falsehood, the very reverse of Sancho, who held them all
to be downright lies.
  As they were thus proceeding, then, they discovered a small boat,
without oars or any other gear, that lay at the water's edge tied to
the stem of a tree growing on the bank. Don Quixote looked all
round, and seeing nobody, at once, without more ado, dismounted from
Rocinante and bade Sancho get down from Dapple and tie both beasts
securely to the trunk of a poplar or willow that stood there. Sancho
asked him the reason of this sudden dismounting and tying. Don Quixote
made answer, "Thou must know, Sancho, that this bark is plainly, and
without the possibility of any alternative, calling and inviting me to
enter it, and in it go to give aid to some knight or other person of
distinction in need of it, who is no doubt in some sore strait; for
this is the way of the books of chivalry and of the enchanters who
figure and speak in them. When a knight is involved in some difficulty
from which he cannot be delivered save by the hand of another
knight, though they may be at a distance of two or three thousand
leagues or more one from the other, they either take him up on a
cloud, or they provide a bark for him to get into, and in less than
the twinkling of an eye they carry him where they will and where his
help is required; and so, Sancho, this bark is placed here for the
same purpose; this is as true as that it is now day, and ere this
one passes tie Dapple and Rocinante together, and then in God's hand
be it to guide us; for I would not hold back from embarking, though
barefooted friars were to beg me."
  "As that's the case," said Sancho, "and your worship chooses to give
in to these- I don't know if I may call them absurdities- at every
turn, there's nothing for it but to obey and bow the head, bearing
in mind the proverb, 'Do as thy master bids thee, and sit down to
table with him;' but for all that, for the sake of easing my
conscience, I warn your worship that it is my opinion this bark is
no enchanted one, but belongs to some of the fishermen of the river,
for they catch the best shad in the world here."
  As Sancho said this, he tied the beasts, leaving them to the care
and protection of the enchanters with sorrow enough in his heart.
Don Quixote bade him not be uneasy about deserting the animals, "for
he who would carry themselves over such longinquous roads and
regions would take care to feed them."
  "I don't understand that logiquous," said Sancho, "nor have I ever
heard the word all the days of my life."
  "Longinquous," replied Don Quixote, "means far off; but it is no
wonder thou dost not understand it, for thou art not bound to know
Latin, like some who pretend to know it and don't."
  "Now they are tied," said Sancho; "what are we to do next?"
  "What?" said Don Quixote, "cross ourselves and weigh anchor; I mean,
embark and cut the moorings by which the bark is held;" and the bark
began to drift away slowly from the bank. But when Sancho saw
himself somewhere about two yards out in the river, he began to
tremble and give himself up for lost; but nothing distressed him
more than hearing Dapple bray and seeing Rocinante struggling to get
loose, and said he to his master, "Dapple is braying in grief at our
leaving him, and Rocinante is trying to escape and plunge in after us.
O dear friends, peace be with you, and may this madness that is taking
us away from you, turned into sober sense, bring us back to you."
And with this he fell weeping so bitterly, that Don Quixote said to
him, sharply and angrily, "What art thou afraid of, cowardly creature?
What art thou weeping at, heart of butter-paste? Who pursues or
molests thee, thou soul of a tame mouse? What dost thou want,
unsatisfied in the very heart of abundance? Art thou, perchance,
tramping barefoot over the Riphaean mountains, instead of being seated
on a bench like an archduke on the tranquil stream of this pleasant
river, from which in a short space we shall come out upon the broad
sea? But we must have already emerged and gone seven hundred or
eight hundred leagues; and if I had here an astrolabe to take the
altitude of the pole, I could tell thee how many we have travelled,
though either I know little, or we have already crossed or shall
shortly cross the equinoctial line which parts the two opposite
poles midway."
  "And when we come to that line your worship speaks of," said Sancho,
"how far shall we have gone?"
  "Very far," said Don Quixote, "for of the three hundred and sixty
degrees that this terraqueous globe contains, as computed by
Ptolemy, the greatest cosmographer known, we shall have travelled
one-half when we come to the line I spoke of."
  "By God," said Sancho, "your worship gives me a nice authority for
what you say, putrid Dolly something transmogrified, or whatever it
is."
  Don Quixote laughed at the interpretation Sancho put upon
"computed," and the name of the cosmographer Ptolemy, and said he,
"Thou must know, Sancho, that with the Spaniards and those who
embark at Cadiz for the East Indies, one of the signs they have to
show them when they have passed the equinoctial line I told thee of,
is, that the lice die upon everybody on board the ship, and not a
single one is left, or to be found in the whole vessel if they gave
its weight in gold for it; so, Sancho, thou mayest as well pass thy
hand down thy thigh, and if thou comest upon anything alive we shall
be no longer in doubt; if not, then we have crossed."
  "I don't believe a bit of it," said Sancho; "still, I'll do as
your worship bids me; though I don't know what need there is for
trying these experiments, for I can see with my own eyes that we
have not moved five yards away from the bank, or shifted two yards
from where the animals stand, for there are Rocinante and Dapple in
the very same place where we left them; and watching a point, as I
do now, I swear by all that's good, we are not stirring or moving at
the pace of an ant."
  "Try the test I told thee of, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and
don't mind any other, for thou knowest nothing about colures, lines,
parallels, zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices, equinoxes, planets,
signs, bearings, the measures of which the celestial and terrestrial
spheres are composed; if thou wert acquainted with all these things,
or any portion of them, thou wouldst see clearly how many parallels we
have cut, what signs we have seen, and what constellations we have
left behind and are now leaving behind. But again I tell thee, feel
and hunt, for I am certain thou art cleaner than a sheet of smooth
white paper."
  Sancho felt, and passing his hand gently and carefully down to the
hollow of his left knee, he looked up at his master and said,
"Either the test is a false one, or we have not come to where your
worship says, nor within many leagues of it."
  "Why, how so?" asked Don Quixote; "hast thou come upon aught?"
  "Ay, and aughts," replied Sancho; and shaking his fingers he
washed his whole hand in the river along which the boat was quietly
gliding in midstream, not moved by any occult intelligence or
invisible enchanter, but simply by the current, just there smooth
and gentle.
  They now came in sight of some large water mills that stood in the
middle of the river, and the instant Don Quixote saw them he cried
out, "Seest thou there, my friend? there stands the castle or
fortress, where there is, no doubt, some knight in durance, or
ill-used queen, or infanta, or princess, in whose aid I am brought
hither."
  "What the devil city, fortress, or castle is your worship talking
about, senor?" said Sancho; "don't you see that those are mills that
stand in the river to grind corn?"
  "Hold thy peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "though they look like
mills they are not so; I have already told thee that enchantments
transform things and change their proper shapes; I do not mean to
say they really change them from one form into another, but that it
seems as though they did, as experience proved in the transformation
of Dulcinea, sole refuge of my hopes."
  By this time, the boat, having reached the middle of the stream,
began to move less slowly than hitherto. The millers belonging to
the mills, when they saw the boat coming down the river, and on the
point of being sucked in by the draught of the wheels, ran out in
haste, several of them, with long poles to stop it, and being all
mealy, with faces and garments covered with flour, they presented a
sinister appearance. They raised loud shouts, crying, "Devils of
men, where are you going to? Are you mad? Do you want to drown
yourselves, or dash yourselves to pieces among these wheels?"
  "Did I not tell thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote at this, "that we
had reached the place where I am to show what the might of my arm
can do? See what ruffians and villains come out against me; see what
monsters oppose me; see what hideous countenances come to frighten us!
You shall soon see, scoundrels!" And then standing up in the boat he
began in a loud voice to hurl threats at the millers, exclaiming,
"Ill-conditioned and worse-counselled rabble, restore to liberty and
freedom the person ye hold in durance in this your fortress or prison,
high or low or of whatever rank or quality he be, for I am Don Quixote
of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Lions, for whom, by
the disposition of heaven above, it is reserved to give a happy
issue to this adventure;" and so saying he drew his sword and began
making passes in the air at the millers, who, hearing but not
understanding all this nonsense, strove to stop the boat, which was
now getting into the rushing channel of the wheels. Sancho fell upon
his knees devoutly appealing to heaven to deliver him from such
imminent peril; which it did by the activity and quickness of the
millers, who, pushing against the boat with their poles, stopped it,
not, however, without upsetting and throwing Don Quixote and Sancho
into the water; and lucky it was for Don Quixote that he could swim
like a goose, though the weight of his armour carried him twice to the
bottom; and had it not been for the millers, who plunged in and
hoisted them both out, it would have been Troy town with the pair of
them. As soon as, more drenched than thirsty, they were landed, Sancho
went down on his knees and with clasped hands and eyes raised to
heaven, prayed a long and fervent prayer to God to deliver him
evermore from the rash projects and attempts of his master. The
fishermen, the owners of the boat, which the mill-wheels had knocked
to pieces, now came up, and seeing it smashed they proceeded to
strip Sancho and to demand payment for it from Don Quixote; but he
with great calmness, just as if nothing had happened him, told the
millers and fishermen that he would pay for the bark most
cheerfully, on condition that they delivered up to him, free and
unhurt, the person or persons that were in durance in that castle of
theirs.
  "What persons or what castle art thou talking of, madman? Art thou
for carrying off the people who come to grind corn in these mills?"
  "That's enough," said Don Quixote to himself, "it would be preaching
in the desert to attempt by entreaties to induce this rabble to do any
virtuous action. In this adventure two mighty enchanters must have
encountered one another, and one frustrates what the other attempts;
one provided the bark for me, and the other upset me; God help us,
this world is all machinations and schemes at cross purposes one
with the other. I can do no more." And then turning towards the
mills he said aloud, "Friends, whoe'er ye be that are immured in
that prison, forgive me that, to my misfortune and yours, I cannot
deliver you from your misery; this adventure is doubtless reserved and
destined for some other knight."
  So saying he settled with the fishermen, and paid fifty reals for
the boat, which Sancho handed to them very much against the grain,
saying, "With a couple more bark businesses like this we shall have
sunk our whole capital."
  The fishermen and the millers stood staring in amazement at the
two figures, so very different to all appearance from ordinary men,
and were wholly unable to make out the drift of the observations and
questions Don Quixote addressed to them; and coming to the
conclusion that they were madmen, they left them and betook
themselves, the millers to their mills, and the fishermen to their
huts. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to their beasts, and to their
life of beasts, and so ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.
  CHAPTER XXX
  OF DON QUIXOTE'S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS

  THEY reached their beasts in low spirits and bad humour enough,
knight and squire, Sancho particularly, for with him what touched
the stock of money touched his heart, and when any was taken from
him he felt as if he was robbed of the apples of his eyes. In fine,
without exchanging a word, they mounted and quitted the famous
river, Don Quixote absorbed in thoughts of his love, Sancho in
thinking of his advancement, which just then, it seemed to him, he was
very far from securing; for, fool as he was, he saw clearly enough
that his master's acts were all or most of them utterly senseless; and
he began to cast about for an opportunity of retiring from his service
and going home some day, without entering into any explanations or
taking any farewell of him. Fortune, however, ordered matters after
a fashion very much the opposite of what he contemplated.
  It so happened that the next day towards sunset, on coming out of
a wood, Don Quixote cast his eyes over a green meadow, and at the
far end of it observed some people, and as he drew nearer saw that
it was a hawking party. Coming closer, he distinguished among them a
lady of graceful mien, on a pure white palfrey or hackney
caparisoned with green trappings and a silver-mounted side-saddle. The
lady was also in green, and so richly and splendidly dressed that
splendour itself seemed personified in her. On her left hand she
bore a hawk, a proof to Don Quixote's mind that she must be some great
lady and the mistress of the whole hunting party, which was the
fact; so he said to Sancho, "Run Sancho, my son, and say to that
lady on the palfrey with the hawk that I, the Knight of the Lions,
kiss the hands of her exalted beauty, and if her excellence will grant
me leave I will go and kiss them in person and place myself at her
service for aught that may be in my power and her highness may
command; and mind, Sancho, how thou speakest, and take care not to
thrust in any of thy proverbs into thy message."
  "You've got a likely one here to thrust any in!" said Sancho; "leave
me alone for that! Why, this is not the first time in my life I have
carried messages to high and exalted ladies."
  "Except that thou didst carry to the lady Dulcinea," said Don
Quixote, "I know not that thou hast carried any other, at least in
my service."
  "That is true," replied Sancho; "but pledges don't distress a good
payer, and in a house where there's plenty supper is soon cooked; I
mean there's no need of telling or warning me about anything; for
I'm ready for everything and know a little of everything."
  "That I believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "go and good luck to
thee, and God speed thee."
  Sancho went off at top speed, forcing Dapple out of his regular
pace, and came to where the fair huntress was standing, and
dismounting knelt before her and said, "Fair lady, that knight that
you see there, the Knight of the Lions by name, is my master, and I am
a squire of his, and at home they call me Sancho Panza. This same
Knight of the Lions, who was called not long since the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, sends by me to say may it please your highness
to give him leave that, with your permission, approbation, and
consent, he may come and carry out his wishes, which are, as he says
and I believe, to serve your exalted loftiness and beauty; and if
you give it, your ladyship will do a thing which will redound to
your honour, and he will receive a most distinguished favour and
happiness."
  "You have indeed, squire," said the lady, "delivered your message
with all the formalities such messages require; rise up, for it is not
right that the squire of a knight so great as he of the Rueful
Countenance, of whom we have heard a great deal here, should remain on
his knees; rise, my friend, and bid your master welcome to the
services of myself and the duke my husband, in a country house we have
here."
  Sancho got up, charmed as much by the beauty of the good lady as
by her high-bred air and her courtesy, but, above all, by what she had
said about having heard of his master, the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance; for if she did not call him Knight of the Lions it was no
doubt because he had so lately taken the name. "Tell me, brother
squire," asked the duchess (whose title, however, is not known), "this
master of yours, is he not one of whom there is a history extant in
print, called 'The Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote of La Mancha,' who
has for the lady of his heart a certain Dulcinea del Toboso?"
  "He is the same, senora," replied Sancho; "and that squire of his
who figures, or ought to figure, in the said history under the name of
Sancho Panza, is myself, unless they have changed me in the cradle,
I mean in the press."
  "I am rejoiced at all this," said the duchess; "go, brother Panza,
and tell your master that he is welcome to my estate, and that nothing
could happen me that could give me greater pleasure."
  Sancho returned to his master mightily pleased with this
gratifying answer, and told him all the great lady had said to him,
lauding to the skies, in his rustic phrase, her rare beauty, her
graceful gaiety, and her courtesy. Don Quixote drew himself up briskly
in his saddle, fixed himself in his stirrups, settled his visor,
gave Rocinante the spur, and with an easy bearing advanced to kiss the
hands of the duchess, who, having sent to summon the duke her husband,
told him while Don Quixote was approaching all about the message;
and as both of them had read the First Part of this history, and
from it were aware of Don Quixote's crazy turn, they awaited him
with the greatest delight and anxiety to make his acquaintance,
meaning to fall in with his humour and agree with everything he
said, and, so long as he stayed with them, to treat him as a
knight-errant, with all the ceremonies usual in the books of
chivalry they had read, for they themselves were very fond of them.
  Don Quixote now came up with his visor raised, and as he seemed
about to dismount Sancho made haste to go and hold his stirrup for
him; but in getting down off Dapple he was so unlucky as to hitch
his foot in one of the ropes of the pack-saddle in such a way that
he was unable to free it, and was left hanging by it with his face and
breast on the ground. Don Quixote, who was not used to dismount
without having the stirrup held, fancying that Sancho had by this time
come to hold it for him, threw himself off with a lurch and brought
Rocinante's saddle after him, which was no doubt badly girthed, and
saddle and he both came to the ground; not without discomfiture to him
and abundant curses muttered between his teeth against the unlucky
Sancho, who had his foot still in the shackles. The duke ordered his
huntsmen to go to the help of knight and squire, and they raised Don
Quixote, sorely shaken by his fall; and he, limping, advanced as
best he could to kneel before the noble pair. This, however, the
duke would by no means permit; on the contrary, dismounting from his
horse, he went and embraced Don Quixote, saying, "I am grieved, Sir
Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that your first experience on my
ground should have been such an unfortunate one as we have seen; but
the carelessness of squires is often the cause of worse accidents."
  "That which has happened me in meeting you, mighty prince,"
replied Don Quixote, "cannot be unfortunate, even if my fall had not
stopped short of the depths of the bottomless pit, for the glory of
having seen you would have lifted me up and delivered me from it. My
squire, God's curse upon him, is better at unloosing his tongue in
talking impertinence than in tightening the girths of a saddle to keep
it steady; but however I may be, allen or raised up, on foot or on
horseback, I shall always be at your service and that of my lady the
duchess, your worthy consort, worthy queen of beauty and paramount
princess of courtesy."
  "Gently, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha," said the duke; "where my
lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso is, it is not right that other
beauties should he praised."
  Sancho, by this time released from his entanglement, was standing
by, and before his master could answer he said, "There is no
denying, and it must be maintained, that my lady Dulcinea del Toboso
is very beautiful; but the hare jumps up where one least expects it;
and I have heard say that what we call nature is like a potter that
makes vessels of clay, and he who makes one fair vessel can as well
make two, or three, or a hundred; I say so because, by my faith, my
lady the duchess is in no way behind my mistress the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso."
  Don Quixote turned to the duchess and said, "Your highness may
conceive that never had knight-errant in this world a more talkative
or a droller squire than I have, and he will prove the truth of what I
say, if your highness is pleased to accept of my services for a few
days."
  To which the duchess made answer, "that worthy Sancho is droll I
consider a very good thing, because it is a sign that he is shrewd;
for drollery and sprightliness, Senor Don Quixote, as you very well
know, do not take up their abode with dull wits; and as good Sancho is
droll and sprightly I here set him down as shrewd."
  "And talkative," added Don Quixote.
  "So much the better," said the duke, "for many droll things cannot
be said in few words; but not to lose time in talking, come, great
Knight of the Rueful Countenance-"
  "Of the Lions, your highness must say," said Sancho, "for there is
no Rueful Countenance nor any such character now."
  "He of the Lions be it," continued the duke; "I say, let Sir
Knight of the Lions come to a castle of mine close by, where he
shall be given that reception which is due to so exalted a
personage, and which the duchess and I are wont to give to all
knights-errant who come there."
  By this time Sancho had fixed and girthed Rocinante's saddle, and
Don Quixote having got on his back and the duke mounted a fine
horse, they placed the duchess in the middle and set out for the
castle. The duchess desired Sancho to come to her side, for she
found infinite enjoyment in listening to his shrewd remarks. Sancho
required no pressing, but pushed himself in between them and the duke,
who thought it rare good fortune to receive such a knight-errant and
such a homely squire in their castle.
  CHAPTER XXXI
  WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS

  SUPREME was the satisfaction that Sancho felt at seeing himself,
as it seemed, an established favourite with the duchess, for he looked
forward to finding in her castle what he had found in Don Diego's
house and in Basilio's; he was always fond of good living, and
always seized by the forelock any opportunity of feasting himself
whenever it presented itself. The history informs us, then, that
before they reached the country house or castle, the duke went on in
advance and instructed all his servants how they were to treat Don
Quixote; and so the instant he came up to the castle gates with the
duchess, two lackeys or equerries, clad in what they call morning
gowns of fine crimson satin reaching to their feet, hastened out,
and catching Don Quixote in their arms before he saw or heard them,
said to him, "Your highness should go and take my lady the duchess off
her horse." Don Quixote obeyed, and great bandying of compliments
followed between the two over the matter; but in the end the duchess's
determination carried the day, and she refused to get down or dismount
from her palfrey except in the arms of the duke, saying she did not
consider herself worthy to impose so unnecessary a burden on so
great a knight. At length the duke came out to take her down, and as
they entered a spacious court two fair damsels came forward and
threw over Don Quixote's shoulders a large mantle of the finest
scarlet cloth, and at the same instant all the galleries of the
court were lined with the men-servants and women-servants of the
household, crying, "Welcome, flower and cream of knight-errantry!"
while all or most of them flung pellets filled with scented water over
Don Quixote and the duke and duchess; at all which Don Quixote was
greatly astonished, and this was the first time that he thoroughly
felt and believed himself to be a knight-errant in reality and not
merely in fancy, now that he saw himself treated in the same way as he
had read of such knights being treated in days of yore.
  Sancho, deserting Dapple, hung on to the duchess and entered the
castle, but feeling some twinges of conscience at having left the
ass alone, he approached a respectable duenna who had come out with
the rest to receive the duchess, and in a low voice he said to her,
"Senora Gonzalez, or however your grace may be called-"
  "I am called Dona Rodriguez de Grijalba," replied the duenna;
"what is your will, brother?" To which Sancho made answer, "I should
be glad if your worship would do me the favour to go out to the castle
gate, where you will find a grey ass of mine; make them, if you
please, put him in the stable, or put him there yourself, for the poor
little beast is rather easily frightened, and cannot bear being
alone at all."
  "If the master is as wise as the man," said the duenna, "we have got
a fine bargain. Be off with you, brother, and bad luck to you and
him who brought you here; go, look after your ass, for we, the duennas
of this house, are not used to work of that sort."
  "Well then, in troth," returned Sancho, "I have heard my master, who
is the very treasure-finder of stories, telling the story of
Lancelot when he came from Britain, say that ladies waited upon him
and duennas upon his hack; and, if it comes to my ass, I wouldn't
change him for Senor Lancelot's hack."
  "If you are a jester, brother," said the duenna, "keep your
drolleries for some place where they'll pass muster and be paid for;
for you'll get nothing from me but a fig."
  "At any rate, it will be a very ripe one," said Sancho, "for you
won't lose the trick in years by a point too little."
  "Son of a bitch," said the duenna, all aglow with anger, "whether
I'm old or not, it's with God I have to reckon, not with you, you
garlic-stuffed scoundrel!" and she said it so loud, that the duchess
heard it, and turning round and seeing the duenna in such a state of
excitement, and her eyes flaming so, asked whom she was wrangling
with.
  "With this good fellow here," said the duenna, "who has particularly
requested me to go and put an ass of his that is at the castle gate
into the stable, holding it up to me as an example that they did the
same I don't know where- that some ladies waited on one Lancelot,
and duennas on his hack; and what is more, to wind up with, he
called me old."
  "That," said the duchess, "I should have considered the greatest
affront that could be offered me;" and addressing Sancho, she said
to him, "You must know, friend Sancho, that Dona Rodriguez is very
youthful, and that she wears that hood more for authority and custom
sake than because of her years."
  "May all the rest of mine be unlucky," said Sancho, "if I meant it
that way; I only spoke because the affection I have for my ass is so
great, and I thought I could not commend him to a more kind-hearted
person than the lady Dona Rodriguez."
  Don Quixote, who was listening, said to him, "Is this proper
conversation for the place, Sancho?"
  "Senor," replied Sancho, "every one must mention what he wants
wherever he may be; I thought of Dapple here, and I spoke of him here;
if I had thought of him in the stable I would have spoken there."
  On which the duke observed, "Sancho is quite right, and there is
no reason at all to find fault with him; Dapple shall be fed to his
heart's content, and Sancho may rest easy, for he shall be treated
like himself."
  While this conversation, amusing to all except Don Quixote, was
proceeding, they ascended the staircase and ushered Don Quixote into a
chamber hung with rich cloth of gold and brocade; six damsels relieved
him of his armour and waited on him like pages, all of them prepared
and instructed by the duke and duchess as to what they were to do, and
how they were to treat Don Quixote, so that he might see and believe
they were treating him like a knight-errant. When his armour was
removed, there stood Don Quixote in his tight-fitting breeches and
chamois doublet, lean, lanky, and long, with cheeks that seemed to
be kissing each other inside; such a figure, that if the damsels
waiting on him had not taken care to check their merriment (which
was one of the particular directions their master and mistress had
given them), they would have burst with laughter. They asked him to
let himself be stripped that they might put a shirt on him, but he
would not on any account, saying that modesty became knights-errant
just as much as valour. However, he said they might give the shirt
to Sancho; and shutting himself in with him in a room where there
was a sumptuous bed, he undressed and put on the shirt; and then,
finding himself alone with Sancho, he said to him, "Tell me, thou
new-fledged buffoon and old booby, dost thou think it right to
offend and insult a duenna so deserving of reverence and respect as
that one just now? Was that a time to bethink thee of thy Dapple, or
are these noble personages likely to let the beasts fare badly when
they treat their owners in such elegant style? For God's sake, Sancho,
restrain thyself, and don't show the thread so as to let them see what
a coarse, boorish texture thou art of. Remember, sinner that thou art,
the master is the more esteemed the more respectable and well-bred his
servants are; and that one of the greatest advantages that princes
have over other men is that they have servants as good as themselves
to wait on them. Dost thou not see- shortsighted being that thou
art, and unlucky mortal that I am!- that if they perceive thee to be a
coarse clown or a dull blockhead, they will suspect me to be some
impostor or swindler? Nay, nay, Sancho friend, keep clear, oh, keep
clear of these stumbling-blocks; for he who falls into the way of
being a chatterbox and droll, drops into a wretched buffoon the
first time he trips; bridle thy tongue, consider and weigh thy words
before they escape thy mouth, and bear in mind we are now in
quarters whence, by God's help, and the strength of my arm, we shall
come forth mightily advanced in fame and fortune."
  Sancho promised him with much earnestness to keep his mouth shut,
and to bite off his tongue before he uttered a word that was not
altogether to the purpose and well considered, and told him he might
make his mind easy on that point, for it should never be discovered
through him what they were.
  Don Quixote dressed himself, put on his baldric with his sword,
threw the scarlet mantle over his shoulders, placed on his head a
montera of green satin that the damsels had given him, and thus
arrayed passed out into the large room, where he found the damsels
drawn up in double file, the same number on each side, all with the
appliances for washing the hands, which they presented to him with
profuse obeisances and ceremonies. Then came twelve pages, together
with the seneschal, to lead him to dinner, as his hosts were already
waiting for him. They placed him in the midst of them, and with much
pomp and stateliness they conducted him into another room, where there
was a sumptuous table laid with but four covers. The duchess and the
duke came out to the door of the room to receive him, and with them
a grave ecclesiastic, one of those who rule noblemen's houses; one
of those who, not being born magnates themselves, never know how to
teach those who are how to behave as such; one of those who would have
the greatness of great folk measured by their own narrowness of
mind; one of those who, when they try to introduce economy into the
household they rule, lead it into meanness. One of this sort, I say,
must have been the grave churchman who came out with the duke and
duchess to receive Don Quixote.
  A vast number of polite speeches were exchanged, and at length,
taking Don Quixote between them, they proceeded to sit down to
table. The duke pressed Don Quixote to take the head of the table,
and, though he refused, the entreaties of the duke were so urgent that
he had to accept it.
  The ecclesiastic took his seat opposite to him, and the duke and
duchess those at the sides. All this time Sancho stood by, gaping with
amazement at the honour he saw shown to his master by these
illustrious persons; and observing all the ceremonious pressing that
had passed between the duke and Don Quixote to induce him to take
his seat at the head of the table, he said, "If your worship will give
me leave I will tell you a story of what happened in my village
about this matter of seats."
  The moment Sancho said this Don Quixote trembled, making sure that
he was about to say something foolish. Sancho glanced at him, and
guessing his thoughts, said, "Don't be afraid of my going astray,
senor, or saying anything that won't be pat to the purpose; I
haven't forgotten the advice your worship gave me just now about
talking much or little, well or ill."
  "I have no recollection of anything, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "say
what thou wilt, only say it quickly."
  "Well then," said Sancho, "what I am going to say is so true that my
master Don Quixote, who is here present, will keep me from lying."
  "Lie as much as thou wilt for all I care, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
"for I am not going to stop thee, but consider what thou art going
to say."
  "I have so considered and reconsidered," said Sancho, "that the
bell-ringer's in a safe berth; as will be seen by what follows."
  "It would be well," said Don Quixote, "if your highnesses would
order them to turn out this idiot, for he will talk a heap of
nonsense."
  "By the life of the duke, Sancho shall not be taken away from me for
a moment," said the duchess; "I am very fond of him, for I know he
is very discreet."
  "Discreet be the days of your holiness," said Sancho, "for the
good opinion you have of my wit, though there's none in me; but the
story I want to tell is this. There was an invitation given by a
gentleman of my town, a very rich one, and one of quality, for he
was one of the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married to Dona
Mencia de Quinones, the daughter of Don Alonso de Maranon, Knight of
the Order of Santiago, that was drowned at the Herradura- him there
was that quarrel about years ago in our village, that my master Don
Quixote was mixed up in, to the best of my belief, that Tomasillo
the scapegrace, the son of Balbastro the smith, was wounded in.- Isn't
all this true, master mine? As you live, say so, that these gentlefolk
may not take me for some lying chatterer."
  "So far," said the ecclesiastic, "I take you to be more a
chatterer than a liar; but I don't know what I shall take you for
by-and-by."
  "Thou citest so many witnesses and proofs, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, "that I have no choice but to say thou must be telling the
truth; go on, and cut the story short, for thou art taking the way not
to make an end for two days to come."
  "He is not to cut it short," said the duchess; "on the contrary, for
my gratification, he is to tell it as he knows it, though he should
not finish it these six days; and if he took so many they would be
to me the pleasantest I ever spent."
  "Well then, sirs, I say," continued Sancho, "that this same
gentleman, whom I know as well as I do my own hands, for it's not a
bowshot from my house to his, invited a poor but respectable
labourer-"
  "Get on, brother," said the churchman; "at the rate you are going
you will not stop with your story short of the next world."
  "I'll stop less than half-way, please God," said Sancho; "and so I
say this labourer, coming to the house of the gentleman I spoke of
that invited him- rest his soul, he is now dead; and more by token
he died the death of an angel, so they say; for I was not there, for
just at that time I had gone to reap at Tembleque-"
  "As you live, my son," said the churchman, "make haste back from
Tembleque, and finish your story without burying the gentleman, unless
you want to make more funerals."
  "Well then, it so happened," said Sancho, "that as the pair of
them were going to sit down to table -and I think I can see them now
plainer than ever-"
  Great was the enjoyment the duke and duchess derived from the
irritation the worthy churchman showed at the long-winded, halting way
Sancho had of telling his story, while Don Quixote was chafing with
rage and vexation.
  "So, as I was saying," continued Sancho, "as the pair of them were
going to sit down to table, as I said, the labourer insisted upon
the gentleman's taking the head of the table, and the gentleman
insisted upon the labourer's taking it, as his orders should be obeyed
in his house; but the labourer, who plumed himself on his politeness
and good breeding, would not on any account, until the gentleman,
out of patience, putting his hands on his shoulders, compelled him
by force to sit down, saying, 'Sit down, you stupid lout, for wherever
I sit will he the head to you; and that's the story, and, troth, I
think it hasn't been brought in amiss here."
  Don Quixote turned all colours, which, on his sunburnt face, mottled
it till it looked like jasper. The duke and duchess suppressed their
laughter so as not altogether to mortify Don Quixote, for they saw
through Sancho's impertinence; and to change the conversation, and
keep Sancho from uttering more absurdities, the duchess asked Don
Quixote what news he had of the lady Dulcinea, and if he had sent
her any presents of giants or miscreants lately, for he could not
but have vanquished a good many.
  To which Don Quixote replied, "Senora, my misfortunes, though they
had a beginning, will never have an end. I have vanquished giants
and I have sent her caitiffs and miscreants; but where are they to
find her if she is enchanted and turned into the most ill-favoured
peasant wench that can be imagined?"
  "I don't know," said Sancho Panza; "to me she seems the fairest
creature in the world; at any rate, in nimbleness and jumping she
won't give in to a tumbler; by my faith, senora duchess, she leaps
from the ground on to the back of an ass like a cat."
  "Have you seen her enchanted, Sancho?" asked the duke.
  "What, seen her!" said Sancho; "why, who the devil was it but myself
that first thought of the enchantment business? She is as much
enchanted as my father."
  The ecclesiastic, when he heard them talking of giants and
caitiffs and enchantments, began to suspect that this must be Don
Quixote of La Mancha, whose story the duke was always reading; and
he had himself often reproved him for it, telling him it was foolish
to read such fooleries; and becoming convinced that his suspicion
was correct, addressing the duke, he said very angrily to him, "Senor,
your excellence will have to give account to God for what this good
man does. This Don Quixote, or Don Simpleton, or whatever his name is,
cannot, I imagine, be such a blockhead as your excellence would have
him, holding out encouragement to him to go on with his vagaries and
follies." Then turning to address Don Quixote he said, "And you,
num-skull, who put it into your head that you are a knight-errant, and
vanquish giants and capture miscreants? Go your ways in a good hour,
and in a good hour be it said to you. Go home and bring up your
children if you have any, and attend to your business, and give over
going wandering about the world, gaping and making a laughing-stock of
yourself to all who know you and all who don't. Where, in heaven's
name, have you discovered that there are or ever were
knights-errant? Where are there giants in Spain or miscreants in La
Mancha, or enchanted Dulcineas, or all the rest of the silly things
they tell about you?"
  Don Quixote listened attentively to the reverend gentleman's
words, and as soon as he perceived he had done speaking, regardless of
the presence of the duke and duchess, he sprang to his feet with angry
looks and an agitated countenance, and said -But the reply deserves
a chapter to itself.
  CHAPTER XXXII
  OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS,
GRAVE AND DROLL

  DON QUIXOTE, then, having risen to his feet, trembling from head
to foot like a man dosed with mercury, said in a hurried, agitated
voice, "The place I am in, the presence in which I stand, and the
respect I have and always have had for the profession to which your
worship belongs, hold and bind the hands of my just indignation; and
as well for these reasons as because I know, as everyone knows, that a
gownsman's weapon is the same as a woman's, the tongue, I will with
mine engage in equal combat with your worship, from whom one might
have expected good advice instead of foul abuse. Pious, well-meant
reproof requires a different demeanour and arguments of another
sort; at any rate, to have reproved me in public, and so roughly,
exceeds the bounds of proper reproof, for that comes better with
gentleness than with rudeness; and it is not seemly to call the sinner
roundly blockhead and booby, without knowing anything of the sin
that is reproved. Come, tell me, for which of the stupidities you have
observed in me do you condemn and abuse me, and bid me go home and
look after my house and wife and children, without knowing whether I
have any? Is nothing more needed than to get a footing, by hook or
by crook, in other people's houses to rule over the masters (and that,
perhaps, after having been brought up in all the straitness of some
seminary, and without having ever seen more of the world than may
lie within twenty or thirty leagues round), to fit one to lay down the
law rashly for chivalry, and pass judgment on knights-errant? Is it,
haply, an idle occupation, or is the time ill-spent that is spent in
roaming the world in quest, not of its enjoyments, but of those
arduous toils whereby the good mount upwards to the abodes of
everlasting life? If gentlemen, great lords, nobles, men of high
birth, were to rate me as a fool I should take it as an irreparable
insult; but I care not a farthing if clerks who have never entered
upon or trod the paths of chivalry should think me foolish. Knight I
am, and knight I will die, if such be the pleasure of the Most High.
Some take the broad road of overweening ambition; others that of
mean and servile flattery; others that of deceitful hypocrisy, and
some that of true religion; but I, led by my star, follow the narrow
path of knight-errantry, and in pursuit of that calling I despise
wealth, but not honour. I have redressed injuries, righted wrongs,
punished insolences, vanquished giants, and crushed monsters; I am
in love, for no other reason than that it is incumbent on
knights-errant to be so; but though I am, I am no carnal-minded lover,
but one of the chaste, platonic sort. My intentions are always
directed to worthy ends, to do good to all and evil to none; and if he
who means this, does this, and makes this his practice deserves to
be called a fool, it is for your highnesses to say, O most excellent
duke and duchess."
  "Good, by God!" cried Sancho; "say no more in your own defence,
master mine, for there's nothing more in the world to be said,
thought, or insisted on; and besides, when this gentleman denies, as
he has, that there are or ever have been any knights-errant in the
world, is it any wonder if he knows nothing of what he has been
talking about?"
  "Perhaps, brother," said the ecclesiastic, "you are that Sancho
Panza that is mentioned, to whom your master has promised an island?"
  "Yes, I am," said Sancho, "and what's more, I am one who deserves it
as much as anyone; I am one of the sort- 'Attach thyself to the
good, and thou wilt be one of them,' and of those, 'Not with whom thou
art bred, but with whom thou art fed,' and of those, 'Who leans
against a good tree, a good shade covers him;' I have leant upon a
good master, and I have been for months going about with him, and
please God I shall be just such another; long life to him and long
life to me, for neither will he be in any want of empires to rule,
or I of islands to govern."
  "No, Sancho my friend, certainly not," said the duke, "for in the
name of Senor Don Quixote I confer upon you the government of one of
no small importance that I have at my disposal."
  "Go down on thy knees, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and kiss the feet
of his excellence for the favour he has bestowed upon thee."
  Sancho obeyed, and on seeing this the ecclesiastic stood up from
table completely out of temper, exclaiming, "By the gown I wear, I
am almost inclined to say that your excellence is as great a fool as
these sinners. No wonder they are mad, when people who are in their
senses sanction their madness! I leave your excellence with them,
for so long as they are in the house, I will remain in my own, and
spare myself the trouble of reproving what I cannot remedy;" and
without uttering another word, or eating another morsel, he went
off, the entreaties of the duke and duchess being entirely
unavailing to stop him; not that the duke said much to him, for he
could not, because of the laughter his uncalled-for anger provoked.
  When he had done laughing, he said to Don Quixote, "You have replied
on your own behalf so stoutly, Sir Knight of the Lions, that there
is no occasion to seek further satisfaction for this, which, though it
may look like an offence, is not so at all, for, as women can give
no offence, no more can ecclesiastics, as you very well know."
  "That is true," said Don Quixote, "and the reason is, that he who is
not liable to offence cannot give offence to anyone. Women,
children, and ecclesiastics, as they cannot defend themselves,
though they may receive offence cannot be insulted, because between
the offence and the insult there is, as your excellence very well
knows, this difference: the insult comes from one who is capable of
offering it, and does so, and maintains it; the offence may come
from any quarter without carrying insult. To take an example: a man is
standing unsuspectingly in the street and ten others come up armed and
beat him; he draws his sword and quits himself like a man, but the
number of his antagonists makes it impossible for him to effect his
purpose and avenge himself; this man suffers an offence but not an
insult. Another example will make the same thing plain: a man is
standing with his back turned, another comes up and strikes him, and
after striking him takes to flight, without waiting an instant, and
the other pursues him but does not overtake him; he who received the
blow received an offence, but not an insult, because an insult must be
maintained. If he who struck him, though he did so sneakingly and
treacherously, had drawn his sword and stood and faced him, then he
who had been struck would have received offence and insult at the same
time; offence because he was struck treacherously, insult because he
who struck him maintained what he had done, standing his ground
without taking to flight. And so, according to the laws of the
accursed duel, I may have received offence, but not insult, for
neither women nor children can maintain it, nor can they wound, nor
have they any way of standing their ground, and it is just the same
with those connected with religion; for these three sorts of persons
are without arms offensive or defensive, and so, though naturally they
are bound to defend themselves, they have no right to offend
anybody; and though I said just now I might have received offence, I
say now certainly not, for he who cannot receive an insult can still
less give one; for which reasons I ought not to feel, nor do I feel,
aggrieved at what that good man said to me; I only wish he had
stayed a little longer, that I might have shown him the mistake he
makes in supposing and maintaining that there are not and never have
been any knights-errant in the world; had Amadis or any of his
countless descendants heard him say as much, I am sure it would not
have gone well with his worship."
  "I will take my oath of that," said Sancho; "they would have given
him a slash that would have slit him down from top to toe like a
pomegranate or a ripe melon; they were likely fellows to put up with
jokes of that sort! By my faith, I'm certain if Reinaldos of Montalvan
had heard the little man's words he would have given him such a
spank on the mouth that he wouldn't have spoken for the next three
years; ay, let him tackle them, and he'll see how he'll get out of
their hands!"
  The duchess, as she listened to Sancho, was ready to die with
laughter, and in her own mind she set him down as droller and madder
than his master; and there were a good many just then who were of
the same opinion.
  Don Quixote finally grew calm, and dinner came to an end, and as the
cloth was removed four damsels came in, one of them with a silver
basin, another with a jug also of silver, a third with two fine
white towels on her shoulder, and the fourth with her arms bared to
the elbows, and in her white hands (for white they certainly were) a
round ball of Naples soap. The one with the basin approached, and with
arch composure and impudence, thrust it under Don Quixote's chin, who,
wondering at such a ceremony, said never a word, supposing it to be
the custom of that country to wash beards instead of hands; he
therefore stretched his out as far as he could, and at the same
instant the jug began to pour and the damsel with the soap rubbed
his beard briskly, raising snow-flakes, for the soap lather was no
less white, not only over the beard, but all over the face, and over
the eyes of the submissive knight, so that they were perforce
obliged to keep shut. The duke and duchess, who had not known anything
about this, waited to see what came of this strange washing. The
barber damsel, when she had him a hand's breadth deep in lather,
pretended that there was no more water, and bade the one with the
jug go and fetch some, while Senor Don Quixote waited. She did so, and
Don Quixote was left the strangest and most ludicrous figure that
could be imagined. All those present, and there were a good many, were
watching him, and as they saw him there with half a yard of neck,
and that uncommonly brown, his eyes shut, and his beard full of
soap, it was a great wonder, and only by great discretion, that they
were able to restrain their laughter. The damsels, the concocters of
the joke, kept their eyes down, not daring to look at their master and
mistress; and as for them, laughter and anger struggled within them,
and they knew not what to do, whether to punish the audacity of the
girls, or to reward them for the amusement they had received from
seeing Don Quixote in such a plight.
  At length the damsel with the jug returned and they made an end of
washing Don Quixote, and the one who carried the towels very
deliberately wiped him and dried him; and all four together making him
a profound obeisance and curtsey, they were about to go, when the
duke, lest Don Quixote should see through the joke, called out to
the one with the basin saying, "Come and wash me, and take care that
there is water enough." The girl, sharp-witted and prompt, came and
placed the basin for the duke as she had done for Don Quixote, and
they soon had him well soaped and washed, and having wiped him dry
they made their obeisance and retired. It appeared afterwards that the
duke had sworn that if they had not washed him as they had Don Quixote
he would have punished them for their impudence, which they adroitly
atoned for by soaping him as well.
  Sancho observed the ceremony of the washing very attentively, and
said to himself, "God bless me, if it were only the custom in this
country to wash squires' beards too as well as knights'. For by God
and upon my soul I want it badly; and if they gave me a scrape of
the razor besides I'd take it as a still greater kindness."
  "What are you saying to yourself, Sancho?" asked the duchess.
  "I was saying, senora," he replied, "that in the courts of other
princes, when the cloth is taken away, I have always heard say they
give water for the hands, but not lye for the beard; and that shows it
is good to live long that you may see much; to be sure, they say too
that he who lives a long life must undergo much evil, though to
undergo a washing of that sort is pleasure rather than pain."
  "Don't be uneasy, friend Sancho," said the duchess; "I will take
care that my damsels wash you, and even put you in the tub if
necessary."
  "I'll be content with the beard," said Sancho, "at any rate for
the present; and as for the future, God has decreed what is to be."
  "Attend to worthy Sancho's request, seneschal," said the duchess,
"and do exactly what he wishes."
  The seneschal replied that Senor Sancho should be obeyed in
everything; and with that he went away to dinner and took Sancho along
with him, while the duke and duchess and Don Quixote remained at table
discussing a great variety of things, but all bearing on the calling
of arms and knight-errantry.
  The duchess begged Don Quixote, as he seemed to have a retentive
memory, to describe and portray to her the beauty and features of
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for, judging by what fame trumpeted
abroad of her beauty, she felt sure she must be the fairest creature
in the world, nay, in all La Mancha.
  Don Quixote sighed on hearing the duchess's request, and said, "If I
could pluck out my heart, and lay it on a plate on this table here
before your highness's eyes, it would spare my tongue the pain of
telling what can hardly be thought of, for in it your excellence would
see her portrayed in full. But why should I attempt to depict and
describe in detail, and feature by feature, the beauty of the peerless
Dulcinea, the burden being one worthy of other shoulders than mine, an
enterprise wherein the pencils of Parrhasius, Timantes, and Apelles,
and the graver of Lysippus ought to be employed, to paint it in
pictures and carve it in marble and bronze, and Ciceronian and
Demosthenian eloquence to sound its praises?"
  "What does Demosthenian mean, Senor Don Quixote?" said the
duchess; "it is a word I never heard in all my life."
  "Demosthenian eloquence," said Don Quixote, "means the eloquence
of Demosthenes, as Ciceronian means that of Cicero, who were the two
most eloquent orators in the world."
  "True," said the duke; "you must have lost your wits to ask such a
question. Nevertheless, Senor Don Quixote would greatly gratify us
if he would depict her to us; for never fear, even in an outline or
sketch she will be something to make the fairest envious."
  "I would do so certainly," said Don Quixote, "had she not been
blurred to my mind's eye by the misfortune that fell upon her a
short time since, one of such a nature that I am more ready to weep
over it than to describe it. For your highnesses must know that, going
a few days back to kiss her hands and receive her benediction,
approbation, and permission for this third sally, I found her
altogether a different being from the one I sought; I found her
enchanted and changed from a princess into a peasant, from fair to
foul, from an angel into a devil, from fragrant to pestiferous, from
refined to clownish, from a dignified lady into a jumping tomboy, and,
in a word, from Dulcinea del Toboso into a coarse Sayago wench."
  "God bless me!" said the duke aloud at this, "who can have done
the world such an injury? Who can have robbed it of the beauty that
gladdened it, of the grace and gaiety that charmed it, of the
modesty that shed a lustre upon it?"
  "Who?" replied Don Quixote; "who could it be but some malignant
enchanter of the many that persecute me out of envy- that accursed
race born into the world to obscure and bring to naught the
achievements of the good, and glorify and exalt the deeds of the
wicked? Enchanters have persecuted me, enchanters persecute me
still, and enchanters will continue to persecute me until they have
sunk me and my lofty chivalry in the deep abyss of oblivion; and
they injure and wound me where they know I feel it most. For to
deprive a knight-errant of his lady is to deprive him of the eyes he
sees with, of the sun that gives him light, of the food whereby he
lives. Many a time before have I said it, and I say it now once
more, a knight-errant without a lady is like a tree without leaves,
a building without a foundation, or a shadow without the body that
causes it."
  "There is no denying it," said the duchess; "but still, if we are to
believe the history of Don Quixote that has come out here lately
with general applause, it is to be inferred from it, if I mistake not,
that you never saw the lady Dulcinea, and that the said lady is
nothing in the world but an imaginary lady, one that you yourself
begot and gave birth to in your brain, and adorned with whatever
charms and perfections you chose."
  "There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Don Quixote;
"God knows whether there he any Dulcinea or not in the world, or
whether she is imaginary or not imaginary; these are things the
proof of which must not be pushed to extreme lengths. I have not
begotten nor given birth to my lady, though I behold her as she
needs must be, a lady who contains in herself all the qualities to
make her famous throughout the world, beautiful without blemish,
dignified without haughtiness, tender and yet modest, gracious from
courtesy and courteous from good breeding, and lastly, of exalted
lineage, because beauty shines forth and excels with a higher degree
of perfection upon good blood than in the fair of lowly birth."
  "That is true," said the duke; "but Senor Don Quixote will give me
leave to say what I am constrained to say by the story of his exploits
that I have read, from which it is to be inferred that, granting there
is a Dulcinea in El Toboso, or out of it, and that she is in the
highest degree beautiful as you have described her to us, as regards
the loftiness of her lineage she is not on a par with the Orianas,
Alastrajareas, Madasimas, or others of that sort, with whom, as you
well know, the histories abound."
  "To that I may reply," said Don Quixote, "that Dulcinea is the
daughter of her own works, and that virtues rectify blood, and that
lowly virtue is more to be regarded and esteemed than exalted vice.
Dulcinea, besides, has that within her that may raise her to be a
crowned and sceptred queen; for the merit of a fair and virtuous woman
is capable of performing greater miracles; and virtually, though not
formally, she has in herself higher fortunes."
  "I protest, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, "that in all you
say, you go most cautiously and lead in hand, as the saying is;
henceforth I will believe myself, and I will take care that everyone
in my house believes, even my lord the duke if needs be, that there is
a Dulcinea in El Toboso, and that she is living to-day, and that she
is beautiful and nobly born and deserves to have such a knight as
Senor Don Quixote in her service, and that is the highest praise
that it is in my power to give her or that I can think of. But I
cannot help entertaining a doubt, and having a certain grudge
against Sancho Panza; the doubt is this, that the aforesaid history
declares that the said Sancho Panza, when he carried a letter on
your worship's behalf to the said lady Dulcinea, found her sifting a
sack of wheat; and more by token it says it was red wheat; a thing
which makes me doubt the loftiness of her lineage."
  To this Don Quixote made answer, "Senora, your highness must know
that everything or almost everything that happens me transcends the
ordinary limits of what happens to other knights-errant; whether it he
that it is directed by the inscrutable will of destiny, or by the
malice of some jealous enchanter. Now it is an established fact that
all or most famous knights-errant have some special gift, one that
of being proof against enchantment, another that of being made of such
invulnerable flesh that he cannot be wounded, as was the famous
Roland, one of the twelve peers of France, of whom it is related
that he could not be wounded except in the sole of his left foot,
and that it must be with the point of a stout pin and not with any
other sort of weapon whatever; and so, when Bernardo del Carpio slew
him at Roncesvalles, finding that he could not wound him with steel,
he lifted him up from the ground in his arms and strangled him,
calling to mind seasonably the death which Hercules inflicted on
Antaeus, the fierce giant that they say was the son of Terra. I
would infer from what I have mentioned that perhaps I may have some
gift of this kind, not that of being invulnerable, because
experience has many times proved to me that I am of tender flesh and
not at all impenetrable; nor that of being proof against
enchantment, for I have already seen myself thrust into a cage, in
which all the world would not have been able to confine me except by
force of enchantments. But as I delivered myself from that one, I am
inclined to believe that there is no other that can hurt me; and so,
these enchanters, seeing that they cannot exert their vile craft
against my person, revenge themselves on what I love most, and seek to
rob me of life by maltreating that of Dulcinea in whom I live; and
therefore I am convinced that when my squire carried my message to
her, they changed her into a common peasant girl, engaged in such a
mean occupation as sifting wheat; I have already said, however, that
that wheat was not red wheat, nor wheat at all, but grains of orient
pearl. And as a proof of all this, I must tell your highnesses that,
coming to El Toboso a short time back, I was altogether unable to
discover the palace of Dulcinea; and that the next day, though Sancho,
my squire, saw her in her own proper shape, which is the fairest in
the world, to me she appeared to be a coarse, ill-favoured farm-wench,
and by no means a well-spoken one, she who is propriety itself. And
so, as I am not and, so far as one can judge, cannot be enchanted, she
it is that is enchanted, that is smitten, that is altered, changed,
and transformed; in her have my enemies revenged themselves upon me,
and for her shall I live in ceaseless tears, until I see her in her
pristine state. I have mentioned this lest anybody should mind what
Sancho said about Dulcinea's winnowing or sifting; for, as they
changed her to me, it is no wonder if they changed her to him.
Dulcinea is illustrious and well-born, and of one of the gentle
families of El Toboso, which are many, ancient, and good. Therein,
most assuredly, not small is the share of the peerless Dulcinea,
through whom her town will be famous and celebrated in ages to come,
as Troy was through Helen, and Spain through La Cava, though with a
better title and tradition. For another thing; I would have your
graces understand that Sancho Panza is one of the drollest squires
that ever served knight-errant; sometimes there is a simplicity
about him so acute that it is an amusement to try and make out whether
he is simple or sharp; he has mischievous tricks that stamp him rogue,
and blundering ways that prove him a booby; he doubts everything and
believes everything; when I fancy he is on the point of coming down
headlong from sheer stupidity, he comes out with something shrewd that
sends him up to the skies. After all, I would not exchange him for
another squire, though I were given a city to boot, and therefore I am
in doubt whether it will be well to send him to the government your
highness has bestowed upon him; though I perceive in him a certain
aptitude for the work of governing, so that, with a little trimming of
his understanding, he would manage any government as easily as the
king does his taxes; and moreover, we know already ample experience
that it does not require much cleverness or much learning to be a
governor, for there are a hundred round about us that scarcely know
how to read, and govern like gerfalcons. The main point is that they
should have good intentions and be desirous of doing right in all
things, for they will never be at a loss for persons to advise and
direct them in what they have to do, like those knight-governors
who, being no lawyers, pronounce sentences with the aid of an
assessor. My advice to him will be to take no bribe and surrender no
right, and I have some other little matters in reserve, that shall
be produced in due season for Sancho's benefit and the advantage of
the island he is to govern."
  The duke, duchess, and Don Quixote had reached this point in their
conversation, when they heard voices and a great hubbub in the palace,
and Sancho burst abruptly into the room all glowing with anger, with a
straining-cloth by way of a bib, and followed by several servants, or,
more properly speaking, kitchen-boys and other underlings, one of whom
carried a small trough full of water, that from its colour and
impurity was plainly dishwater. The one with the trough pursued him
and followed him everywhere he went, endeavouring with the utmost
persistence to thrust it under his chin, while another kitchen-boy
seemed anxious to wash his beard.
  "What is all this, brothers?" asked the duchess. "What is it? What
do you want to do to this good man? Do you forget he is a
governor-elect?"
  To which the barber kitchen-boy replied, "The gentleman will not let
himself be washed as is customary, and as my lord the and the senor
his master have been."
  "Yes, I will," said Sancho, in a great rage; "but I'd like it to
be with cleaner towels, clearer lye, and not such dirty hands; for
there's not so much difference between me and my master that he should
be washed with angels' water and I with devil's lye. The customs of
countries and princes' palaces are only good so long as they give no
annoyance; but the way of washing they have here is worse than doing
penance. I have a clean beard, and I don't require to be refreshed
in that fashion, and whoever comes to wash me or touch a hair of my
head, I mean to say my beard, with all due respect be it said, I'll
give him a punch that will leave my fist sunk in his skull; for
cirimonies and soapings of this sort are more like jokes than the
polite attentions of one's host."
  The duchess was ready to die with laughter when she saw Sancho's
rage and heard his words; but it was no pleasure to Don Quixote to see
him in such a sorry trim, with the dingy towel about him, and the
hangers-on of the kitchen all round him; so making a low bow to the
duke and duchess, as if to ask their permission to speak, he addressed
the rout in a dignified tone: "Holloa, gentlemen! you let that youth
alone, and go back to where you came from, or anywhere else if you
like; my squire is as clean as any other person, and those troughs are
as bad as narrow thin-necked jars to him; take my advice and leave him
alone, for neither he nor I understand joking."
  Sancho took the word out of his mouth and went on, "Nay, let them
come and try their jokes on the country bumpkin, for it's about as
likely I'll stand them as that it's now midnight! Let them bring me
a comb here, or what they please, and curry this beard of mine, and if
they get anything out of it that offends against cleanliness, let them
clip me to the skin."
  Upon this, the duchess, laughing all the while, said, "Sancho
Panza is right, and always will be in all he says; he is clean, and,
as he says himself, he does not require to be washed; and if our
ways do not please him, he is free to choose. Besides, you promoters
of cleanliness have been excessively careless and thoughtless, I don't
know if I ought not to say audacious, to bring troughs and wooden
utensils and kitchen dishclouts, instead of basins and jugs of pure
gold and towels of holland, to such a person and such a beard; but,
after all, you are ill-conditioned and ill-bred, and spiteful as you
are, you cannot help showing the grudge you have against the squires
of knights-errant."
  The impudent servitors, and even the seneschal who came with them,
took the duchess to be speaking in earnest, so they removed the
straining-cloth from Sancho's neck, and with something like shame
and confusion of face went off all of them and left him; whereupon he,
seeing himself safe out of that extreme danger, as it seemed to him,
ran and fell on his knees before the duchess, saying, "From great
ladies great favours may be looked for; this which your grace has done
me today cannot be requited with less than wishing I was dubbed a
knight-errant, to devote myself all the days of my life to the service
of so exalted a lady. I am a labouring man, my name is Sancho Panza, I
am married, I have children, and I am serving as a squire; if in any
one of these ways I can serve your highness, I will not he longer in
obeying than your grace in commanding."
  "It is easy to see, Sancho," replied the duchess, "that you have
learned to he polite in the school of politeness itself; I mean to say
it is easy to see that you have been nursed in the bosom of Senor
Don Quixote, who is, of course, the cream of good breeding and
flower of ceremony- or cirimony, as you would say yourself. Fair be
the fortunes of such a master and such a servant, the one the cynosure
of knight-errantry, the other the star of squirely fidelity! Rise,
Sancho, my friend; I will repay your courtesy by taking care that my
lord the duke makes good to you the promised gift of the government as
soon as possible."
  With this, the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote
retired to take his midday sleep; but the duchess begged Sancho,
unless he had a very great desire to go to sleep, to come and spend
the afternoon with her and her damsels in a very cool chamber.
Sancho replied that, though he certainly had the habit of sleeping
four or five hours in the heat of the day in summer, to serve her
excellence he would try with all his might not to sleep even one
that day, and that he would come in obedience to her command, and with
that he went off. The duke gave fresh orders with respect to
treating Don Quixote as a knight-errant, without departing even in
smallest particular from the style in which, as the stories tell us,
they used to treat the knights of old.
  CHAPTER XXXIII
  OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD
WITH SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH READING AND NOTING

  THE history records that Sancho did not sleep that afternoon, but in
order to keep his word came, before he had well done dinner, to
visit the duchess, who, finding enjoyment in listening to him, made
him sit down beside her on a low seat, though Sancho, out of pure good
breeding, wanted not to sit down; the duchess, however, told him he
was to sit down as governor and talk as squire, as in both respects he
was worthy of even the chair of the Cid Ruy Diaz the Campeador. Sancho
shrugged his shoulders, obeyed, and sat down, and all the duchess's
damsels and duennas gathered round him, waiting in profound silence to
hear what he would say. It was the duchess, however, who spoke
first, saying:
  "Now that we are alone, and that there is nobody here to overhear
us, I should be glad if the senor governor would relieve me of certain
doubts I have, rising out of the history of the great Don Quixote that
is now in print. One is: inasmuch as worthy Sancho never saw Dulcinea,
I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, nor took Don Quixote's letter
to her, for it was left in the memorandum book in the Sierra Morena,
how did he dare to invent the answer and all that about finding her
sifting wheat, the whole story being a deception and falsehood, and so
much to the prejudice of the peerless Dulcinea's good name, a thing
that is not at all becoming the character and fidelity of a good
squire?"
  At these words, Sancho, without uttering one in reply, got up from
his chair, and with noiseless steps, with his body bent and his finger
on his lips, went all round the room lifting up the hangings; and this
done, he came back to his seat and said, "Now, senora, that I have
seen that there is no one except the bystanders listening to us on the
sly, I will answer what you have asked me, and all you may ask me,
without fear or dread. And the first thing I have got to say is,
that for my own part I hold my master Don Quixote to be stark mad,
though sometimes he says things that, to my mind, and indeed
everybody's that listens to him, are so wise, and run in such a
straight furrow, that Satan himself could not have said them better;
but for all that, really, and beyond all question, it's my firm belief
he is cracked. Well, then, as this is clear to my mind, I can
venture to make him believe things that have neither head nor tail,
like that affair of the answer to the letter, and that other of six or
eight days ago, which is not yet in history, that is to say, the
affair of the enchantment of my lady Dulcinea; for I made him
believe she is enchanted, though there's no more truth in it than over
the hills of Ubeda.
  The duchess begged him to tell her about the enchantment or
deception, so Sancho told the whole story exactly as it had
happened, and his hearers were not a little amused by it; and then
resuming, the duchess said, "In consequence of what worthy Sancho
has told me, a doubt starts up in my mind, and there comes a kind of
whisper to my ear that says, 'If Don Quixote be mad, crazy, and
cracked, and Sancho Panza his squire knows it, and, notwithstanding,
serves and follows him, and goes trusting to his empty promises, there
can be no doubt he must be still madder and sillier than his master;
and that being so, it will be cast in your teeth, senora duchess, if
you give the said Sancho an island to govern; for how will he who does
not know how to govern himself know how to govern others?'"
  "By God, senora," said Sancho, "but that doubt comes timely; but
your grace may say it out, and speak plainly, or as you like; for I
know what you say is true, and if I were wise I should have left my
master long ago; but this was my fate, this was my bad luck; I can't
help it, I must follow him; we're from the same village, I've eaten
his bread, I'm fond of him, I'm grateful, he gave me his ass-colts,
and above all I'm faithful; so it's quite impossible for anything to
separate us, except the pickaxe and shovel. And if your highness
does not like to give me the government you promised, God made me
without it, and maybe your not giving it to me will be all the
better for my conscience, for fool as I am I know the proverb 'to
her hurt the ant got wings,' and it may be that Sancho the squire will
get to heaven sooner than Sancho the governor. 'They make as good
bread here as in France,' and 'by night all cats are grey,' and 'a
hard case enough his, who hasn't broken his fast at two in the
afternoon,' and 'there's no stomach a hand's breadth bigger than
another,' and the same can he filled 'with straw or hay,' as the
saying is, and 'the little birds of the field have God for their
purveyor and caterer,' and 'four yards of Cuenca frieze keep one
warmer than four of Segovia broad-cloth,' and 'when we quit this world
and are put underground the prince travels by as narrow a path as
the journeyman,' and 'the Pope's body does not take up more feet of
earth than the sacristan's,' for all that the one is higher than the
other; for when we go to our graves we all pack ourselves up and
make ourselves small, or rather they pack us up and make us small in
spite of us, and then- good night to us. And I say once more, if
your ladyship does not like to give me the island because I'm a
fool, like a wise man I will take care to give myself no trouble about
it; I have heard say that 'behind the cross there's the devil,' and
that 'all that glitters is not gold,' and that from among the oxen,
and the ploughs, and the yokes, Wamba the husbandman was taken to be
made King of Spain, and from among brocades, and pleasures, and
riches, Roderick was taken to be devoured by adders, if the verses
of the old ballads don't lie."
  "To be sure they don't lie!" exclaimed Dona Rodriguez, the duenna,
who was one of the listeners. "Why, there's a ballad that says they
put King Rodrigo alive into a tomb full of toads, and adders, and
lizards, and that two days afterwards the king, in a plaintive, feeble
voice, cried out from within the tomb-

       They gnaw me now, they gnaw me now,
       There where I most did sin.

And according to that the gentleman has good reason to say he would
rather be a labouring man than a king, if vermin are to eat him."
  The duchess could not help laughing at the simplicity of her duenna,
or wondering at the language and proverbs of Sancho, to whom she said,
"Worthy Sancho knows very well that when once a knight has made a
promise he strives to keep it, though it should cost him his life.
My lord and husband the duke, though not one of the errant sort, is
none the less a knight for that reason, and will keep his word about
the promised island, in spite of the envy and malice of the world. Let
Sancho he of good cheer; for when he least expects it he will find
himself seated on the throne of his island and seat of dignity, and
will take possession of his government that he may discard it for
another of three-bordered brocade. The charge I give him is to be
careful how he governs his vassals, bearing in mind that they are
all loyal and well-born."
  "As to governing them well," said Sancho, "there's no need of
charging me to do that, for I'm kind-hearted by nature, and full of
compassion for the poor; there's no stealing the loaf from him who
kneads and bakes;' and by my faith it won't do to throw false dice
with me; I am an old dog, and I know all about 'tus, tus;' I can be
wide-awake if need be, and I don't let clouds come before my eyes, for
I know where the shoe pinches me; I say so, because with me the good
will have support and protection, and the bad neither footing nor
access. And it seems to me that, in governments, to make a beginning
is everything; and maybe, after having been governor a fortnight, I'll
take kindly to the work and know more about it than the field labour I
have been brought up to."
  "You are right, Sancho," said the duchess, "for no one is born ready
taught, and the bishops are made out of men and not out of stones. But
to return to the subject we were discussing just now, the
enchantment of the lady Dulcinea, I look upon it as certain, and
something more than evident, that Sancho's idea of practising a
deception upon his master, making him believe that the peasant girl
was Dulcinea and that if he did not recognise her it must be because
she was enchanted, was all a device of one of the enchanters that
persecute Don Quixote. For in truth and earnest, I know from good
authority that the coarse country wench who jumped up on the ass was
and is Dulcinea del Toboso, and that worthy Sancho, though he
fancies himself the deceiver, is the one that is deceived; and that
there is no more reason to doubt the truth of this, than of anything
else we never saw. Senor Sancho Panza must know that we too have
enchanters here that are well disposed to us, and tell us what goes on
in the world, plainly and distinctly, without subterfuge or deception;
and believe me, Sancho, that agile country lass was and is Dulcinea
del Toboso, who is as much enchanted as the mother that bore her;
and when we least expect it, we shall see her in her own proper
form, and then Sancho will he disabused of the error he is under at
present."
  "All that's very possible," said Sancho Panza; "and now I'm
willing to believe what my master says about what he saw in the cave
of Montesinos, where he says he saw the lady Dulcinea del Toboso in
the very same dress and apparel that I said I had seen her in when I
enchanted her all to please myself. It must be all exactly the other
way, as your ladyship says; because it is impossible to suppose that
out of my poor wit such a cunning trick could be concocted in a
moment, nor do I think my master is so mad that by my weak and
feeble persuasion he could be made to believe a thing so out of all
reason. But, senora, your excellence must not therefore think me
ill-disposed, for a dolt like me is not bound to see into the thoughts
and plots of those vile enchanters. I invented all that to escape my
master's scolding, and not with any intention of hurting him; and if
it has turned out differently, there is a God in heaven who judges our
hearts."
  "That is true," said the duchess; "but tell me, Sancho, what is this
you say about the cave of Montesinos, for I should like to know."
  Sancho upon this related to her, word for word, what has been said
already touching that adventure, and having heard it the duchess said,
"From this occurrence it may be inferred that, as the great Don
Quixote says he saw there the same country wench Sancho saw on the way
from El Toboso, it is, no doubt, Dulcinea, and that there are some
very active and exceedingly busy enchanters about."
  "So I say," said Sancho, "and if my lady Dulcinea is enchanted, so
much the worse for her, and I'm not going to pick a quarrel with my
master's enemies, who seem to be many and spiteful. The truth is
that the one I saw was a country wench, and I set her down to be a
country wench; and if that was Dulcinea it must not be laid at my
door, nor should I be called to answer for it or take the
consequences. But they must go nagging at me at every step- 'Sancho
said it, Sancho did it, Sancho here, Sancho there,' as if Sancho was
nobody at all, and not that same Sancho Panza that's now going all
over the world in books, so Samson Carrasco told me, and he's at any
rate one that's a bachelor of Salamanca; and people of that sort can't
lie, except when the whim seizes them or they have some very good
reason for it. So there's no occasion for anybody to quarrel with
me; and then I have a good character, and, as I have heard my master
say, 'a good name is better than great riches;' let them only stick me
into this government and they'll see wonders, for one who has been a
good squire will be a good governor."
  "All worthy Sancho's observations," said the duchess, "are
Catonian sentences, or at any rate out of the very heart of Michael
Verino himself, who florentibus occidit annis. In fact, to speak in
his own style, 'under a bad cloak there's often a good drinker.'"
  "Indeed, senora," said Sancho, "I never yet drank out of wickedness;
from thirst I have very likely, for I have nothing of the hypocrite in
me; I drink when I'm inclined, or, if I'm not inclined, when they
offer it to me, so as not to look either strait-laced or ill-bred; for
when a friend drinks one's health what heart can be so hard as not
to return it? But if I put on my shoes I don't dirty them; besides,
squires to knights-errant mostly drink water, for they are always
wandering among woods, forests and meadows, mountains and crags,
without a drop of wine to be had if they gave their eyes for it."
  "So I believe," said the duchess; "and now let Sancho go and take
his sleep, and we will talk by-and-by at greater length, and settle
how he may soon go and stick himself into the government, as he says."
  Sancho once more kissed the duchess's hand, and entreated her to let
good care be taken of his Dapple, for he was the light of his eyes.
  "What is Dapple?" said the duchess.
  "My ass," said Sancho, "which, not to mention him by that name,
I'm accustomed to call Dapple; I begged this lady duenna here to
take care of him when I came into the castle, and she got as angry
as if I had said she was ugly or old, though it ought to be more
natural and proper for duennas to feed asses than to ornament
chambers. God bless me! what a spite a gentleman of my village had
against these ladies!"
  "He must have been some clown," said Dona Rodriguez the duenna; "for
if he had been a gentleman and well-born he would have exalted them
higher than the horns of the moon."
  "That will do," said the duchess; "no more of this; hush, Dona
Rodriguez, and let Senor Panza rest easy and leave the treatment of
Dapple in my charge, for as he is a treasure of Sancho's, I'll put him
on the apple of my eye."
  "It will be enough for him to he in the stable," said Sancho, "for
neither he nor I are worthy to rest a moment in the apple of your
highness's eye, and I'd as soon stab myself as consent to it; for
though my master says that in civilities it is better to lose by a
card too many than a card too few, when it comes to civilities to
asses we must mind what we are about and keep within due bounds."
  "Take him to your government, Sancho," said the duchess, "and
there you will be able to make as much of him as you like, and even
release him from work and pension him off."
  "Don't think, senora duchess, that you have said anything absurd,"
said Sancho; "I have seen more than two asses go to governments, and
for me to take mine with me would he nothing new."
  Sancho's words made the duchess laugh again and gave her fresh
amusement, and dismissing him to sleep she went away to tell the
duke the conversation she had had with him, and between them they
plotted and arranged to play a joke upon Don Quixote that was to be
a rare one and entirely in knight-errantry style, and in that same
style they practised several upon him, so much in keeping and so
clever that they form the best adventures this great history contains.
  CHAPTER XXXIV
  WHICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO
DISENCHANT THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE
RAREST ADVENTURES IN THIS BOOK

  GREAT was the pleasure the duke and duchess took in the conversation
of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; and, more bent than ever upon the
plan they had of practising some jokes upon them that should have
the look and appearance of adventures, they took as their basis of
action what Don Quixote had already told them about the cave of
Montesinos, in order to play him a famous one. But what the duches
marvelled at above all was that Sancho's simplicity could be so
great as to make him believe as absolute truth that Dulcinea had
been enchanted, when it was he himself who had been the enchanter
and trickster in the business. Having, therefore, instructed their
servants in everything they were to do, six days afterwards they
took him out to hunt, with as great a retinue of huntsmen and
beaters as a crowned king.
  They presented Don Quixote with a hunting suit, and Sancho with
another of the finest green cloth; but Don Quixote declined to put his
on, saying that he must soon return to the hard pursuit of arms, and
could not carry wardrobes or stores with him. Sancho, however, took
what they gave him, meaning to sell it the first opportunity.
  The appointed day having arrived, Don Quixote armed himself, and
Sancho arrayed himself, and mounted on his Dapple (for he would not
give him up though they offered him a horse), he placed himself in the
midst of the troop of huntsmen. The duchess came out splendidly
attired, and Don Quixote, in pure courtesy and politeness, held the
rein of her palfrey, though the duke wanted not to allow him; and at
last they reached a wood that lay between two high mountains, where,
after occupying various posts, ambushes, and paths, and distributing
the party in different positions, the hunt began with great noise,
shouting, and hallooing, so that, between the baying of the hounds and
the blowing of the horns, they could not hear one another. The duchess
dismounted, and with a sharp boar-spear in her hand posted herself
where she knew the wild boars were in the habit of passing. The duke
and Don Quixote likewise dismounted and placed themselves one at
each side of her. Sancho took up a position in the rear of all without
dismounting from Dapple, whom he dared not desert lest some mischief
should befall him. Scarcely had they taken their stand in a line
with several of their servants, when they saw a huge boar, closely
pressed by the hounds and followed by the huntsmen, making towards
them, grinding his teeth and tusks, and scattering foam from his
mouth. As soon as he saw him Don Quixote, bracing his shield on his
arm, and drawing his sword, advanced to meet him; the duke with
boar-spear did the same; but the duchess would have gone in front of
them all had not the duke prevented her. Sancho alone, deserting
Dapple at the sight of the mighty beast, took to his heels as hard
as he could and strove in vain to mount a tall oak. As he was clinging
to a branch, however, half-way up in his struggle to reach the top,
the bough, such was his ill-luck and hard fate, gave way, and caught
in his fall by a broken limb of the oak, he hung suspended in the
air unable to reach the ground. Finding himself in this position,
and that the green coat was beginning to tear, and reflecting that
if the fierce animal came that way he might be able to get at him,
he began to utter such cries, and call for help so earnestly, that all
who heard him and did not see him felt sure he must be in the teeth of
some wild beast. In the end the tusked boar fell pierced by the blades
of the many spears they held in front of him; and Don Quixote, turning
round at the cries of Sancho, for he knew by them that it was he,
saw him hanging from the oak head downwards, with Dapple, who did
not forsake him in his distress, close beside him; and Cide Hamete
observes that he seldom saw Sancho Panza without seeing Dapple, or
Dapple without seeing Sancho Panza; such was their attachment and
loyalty one to the other. Don Quixote went over and unhooked Sancho,
who, as soon as he found himself on the ground, looked at the rent
in his huntingcoat and was grieved to the heart, for he thought he had
got a patrimonial estate in that suit.
  Meanwhile they had slung the mighty boar across the back of a
mule, and having covered it with sprigs of rosemary and branches of
myrtle, they bore it away as the spoils of victory to some large
field-tents which had been pitched in the middle of the wood, where
they found the tables laid and dinner served, in such grand and
sumptuous style that it was easy to see the rank and magnificence of
those who had provided it. Sancho, as he showed the rents in his
torn suit to the duchess, observed, "If we had been hunting hares,
or after small birds, my coat would have been safe from being in the
plight it's in; I don't know what pleasure one can find in lying in
wait for an animal that may take your life with his tusk if he gets at
you. I recollect having heard an old ballad sung that says,

       By bears be thou devoured, as erst
           Was famous Favila."

  "That," said Don Quixote, "was a Gothic king, who, going
a-hunting, was devoured by a bear."
  "Just so," said Sancho; "and I would not have kings and princes
expose themselves to such dangers for the sake of a pleasure which, to
my mind, ought not to be one, as it consists in killing an animal that
has done no harm whatever."
  "Quite the contrary, Sancho; you are wrong there," said the duke;
"for hunting is more suitable and requisite for kings and princes than
for anybody else. The chase is the emblem of war; it has stratagems,
wiles, and crafty devices for overcoming the enemy in safety; in it
extreme cold and intolerable heat have to be borne, indolence and
sleep are despised, the bodily powers are invigorated, the limbs of
him who engages in it are made supple, and, in a word, it is a pursuit
which may be followed without injury to anyone and with enjoyment to
many; and the best of it is, it is not for everybody, as
field-sports of other sorts are, except hawking, which also is only
for kings and great lords. Reconsider your opinion therefore,
Sancho, and when you are governor take to hunting, and you will find
the good of it."
  "Nay," said Sancho, "the good governor should have a broken leg
and keep at home;" it would be a nice thing if, after people had
been at the trouble of coming to look for him on business, the
governor were to be away in the forest enjoying himself; the
government would go on badly in that fashion. By my faith, senor,
hunting and amusements are more fit for idlers than for governors;
what I intend to amuse myself with is playing all fours at Eastertime,
and bowls on Sundays and holidays; for these huntings don't suit my
condition or agree with my conscience."
  "God grant it may turn out so," said the duke; "because it's a
long step from saying to doing."
  "Be that as it may," said Sancho, "'pledges don't distress a good
payer,' and 'he whom God helps does better than he who gets up early,'
and 'it's the tripes that carry the feet and not the feet the tripes;'
I mean to say that if God gives me help and I do my duty honestly,
no doubt I'll govern better than a gerfalcon. Nay, let them only put a
finger in my mouth, and they'll see whether I can bite or not."
  "The curse of God and all his saints upon thee, thou accursed
Sancho!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "when will the day come- as I have
often said to thee- when I shall hear thee make one single coherent,
rational remark without proverbs? Pray, your highnesses, leave this
fool alone, for he will grind your souls between, not to say two,
but two thousand proverbs, dragged in as much in season, and as much
to the purpose as- may God grant as much health to him, or to me if
I want to listen to them!"
  "Sancho Panza's proverbs," said the duchess, "though more in
number than the Greek Commander's, are not therefore less to be
esteemed for the conciseness of the maxims. For my own part, I can say
they give me more pleasure than others that may be better brought in
and more seasonably introduced."
  In pleasant conversation of this sort they passed out of the tent
into the wood, and the day was spent in visiting some of the posts and
hiding-places, and then night closed in, not, however, as
brilliantly or tranquilly as might have been expected at the season,
for it was then midsummer; but bringing with it a kind of haze that
greatly aided the project of the duke and duchess; and thus, as
night began to fall, and a little after twilight set in, suddenly
the whole wood on all four sides seemed to be on fire, and shortly
after, here, there, on all sides, a vast number of trumpets and
other military instruments were heard, as if several troops of cavalry
were passing through the wood. The blaze of the fire and the noise
of the warlike instruments almost blinded the eyes and deafened the
ears of those that stood by, and indeed of all who were in the wood.
Then there were heard repeated lelilies after the fashion of the Moors
when they rush to battle; trumpets and clarions brayed, drums beat,
fifes played, so unceasingly and so fast that he could not have had
any senses who did not lose them with the confused din of so many
instruments. The duke was astounded, the duchess amazed, Don Quixote
wondering, Sancho Panza trembling, and indeed, even they who were
aware of the cause were frightened. In their fear, silence fell upon
them, and a postillion, in the guise of a demon, passed in front of
them, blowing, in lieu of a bugle, a huge hollow horn that gave out
a horrible hoarse note.
  "Ho there! brother courier," cried the duke, "who are you? Where are
you going? What troops are these that seem to be passing through the
wood?"
  To which the courier replied in a harsh, discordant voice, "I am the
devil; I am in search of Don Quixote of La Mancha; those who are
coming this way are six troops of enchanters, who are bringing on a
triumphal car the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso; she comes under
enchantment, together with the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to give
instructions to Don Quixote as to how, she the said lady, may be
disenchanted."
  "If you were the devil, as you say and as your appearance
indicates," said the duke, "you would have known the said knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha, for you have him here before you."
  "By God and upon my conscience," said the devil, "I never observed
it, for my mind is occupied with so many different things that I was
forgetting the main thing I came about."
  "This demon must be an honest fellow and a good Christian," said
Sancho; "for if he wasn't he wouldn't swear by God and his conscience;
I feel sure now there must be good souls even in hell itself."
  Without dismounting, the demon then turned to Don Quixote and
said, "The unfortunate but valiant knight Montesinos sends me to thee,
the Knight of the Lions (would that I saw thee in their claws),
bidding me tell thee to wait for him wherever I may find thee, as he
brings with him her whom they call Dulcinea del Toboso, that he may
show thee what is needful in order to disenchant her; and as I came
for no more I need stay no longer; demons of my sort be with thee, and
good angels with these gentles;" and so saying he blew his huge
horn, turned about and went off without waiting for a reply from
anyone.
  They all felt fresh wonder, but particularly Sancho and Don Quixote;
Sancho to see how, in defiance of the truth, they would have it that
Dulcinea was enchanted; Don Quixote because he could not feel sure
whether what had happened to him in the cave of Montesinos was true or
not; and as he was deep in these cogitations the duke said to him, "Do
you mean to wait, Senor Don Quixote?"
  "Why not?" replied he; "here will I wait, fearless and firm,
though all hell should come to attack me."
  "Well then, if I see another devil or hear another horn like the
last, I'll wait here as much as in Flanders," said Sancho.
  Night now closed in more completely, and many lights began to flit
through the wood, just as those fiery exhalations from the earth, that
look like shooting-stars to our eyes, flit through the heavens; a
frightful noise, too, was heard, like that made by the solid wheels
the ox-carts usually have, by the harsh, ceaseless creaking of
which, they say, the bears and wolves are put to flight, if there
happen to be any where they are passing. In addition to all this
commotion, there came a further disturbance to increase the tumult,
for now it seemed as if in truth, on all four sides of the wood,
four encounters or battles were going on at the same time; in one
quarter resounded the dull noise of a terrible cannonade, in another
numberless muskets were being discharged, the shouts of the combatants
sounded almost close at hand, and farther away the Moorish lelilies
were raised again and again. In a word, the bugles, the horns, the
clarions, the trumpets, the drums, the cannon, the musketry, and above
all the tremendous noise of the carts, all made up together a din so
confused and terrific that Don Quixote had need to summon up all his
courage to brave it; but Sancho's gave way, and he fell fainting on
the skirt of the duchess's robe, who let him lie there and promptly
bade them throw water in his face. This was done, and he came to
himself by the time that one of the carts with the creaking wheels
reached the spot. It was drawn by four plodding oxen all covered
with black housings; on each horn they had fixed a large lighted wax
taper, and on the top of the cart was constructed a raised seat, on
which sat a venerable old man with a beard whiter than the very
snow, and so long that it fell below his waist; he was dressed in a
long robe of black buckram; for as the cart was thickly set with a
multitude of candles it was easy to make out everything that was on
it. Leading it were two hideous demons, also clad in buckram, with
countenances so frightful that Sancho, having once seen them, shut his
eyes so as not to see them again. As soon as the cart came opposite
the spot the old man rose from his lofty seat, and standing up said in
a loud voice, "I am the sage Lirgandeo," and without another word
the cart then passed on. Behind it came another of the same form, with
another aged man enthroned, who, stopping the cart, said in a voice no
less solemn than that of the first, "I am the sage Alquife, the
great friend of Urganda the Unknown," and passed on. Then another cart
came by at the same pace, but the occupant of the throne was not old
like the others, but a man stalwart and robust, and of a forbidding
countenance, who as he came up said in a voice far hoarser and more
devilish, "I am the enchanter Archelaus, the mortal enemy of Amadis of
Gaul and all his kindred," and then passed on. Having gone a short
distance the three carts halted and the monotonous noise of their
wheels ceased, and soon after they heard another, not noise, but sound
of sweet, harmonious music, of which Sancho was very glad, taking it
to be a good sign; and said he to the duchess, from whom he did not
stir a step, or for a single instant, "Senora, where there's music
there can't be mischief."
  "Nor where there are lights and it is bright," said the duchess;
to which Sancho replied, "Fire gives light, and it's bright where
there are bonfires, as we see by those that are all round us and
perhaps may burn us; but music is a sign of mirth and merrymaking."
  "That remains to be seen," said Don Quixote, who was listening to
all that passed; and he was right, as is shown in the following
chapter.
  CHAPTER XXXV
  WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN TO DON QUIXOTE TOUCHING
THE DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MARVELLOUS
INCIDENTS

  THEY saw advancing towards them, to the sound of this pleasing
music, what they call a triumphal car, drawn by six grey mules with
white linen housings, on each of which was mounted a penitent, robed
also in white, with a large lighted wax taper in his hand. The car was
twice or, perhaps, three times as large as the former ones, and in
front and on the sides stood twelve more penitents, all as white as
snow and all with lighted tapers, a spectacle to excite fear as well
as wonder; and on a raised throne was seated a nymph draped in a
multitude of silver-tissue veils with an embroidery of countless
gold spangles glittering all over them, that made her appear, if not
richly, at least brilliantly, apparelled. She had her face covered
with thin transparent sendal, the texture of which did not prevent the
fair features of a maiden from being distinguished, while the numerous
lights made it possible to judge of her beauty and of her years, which
seemed to be not less than seventeen but not to have yet reached
twenty. Beside her was a figure in a robe of state, as they call it,
reaching to the feet, while the head was covered with a black veil.
But the instant the car was opposite the duke and duchess and Don
Quixote the music of the clarions ceased, and then that of the lutes
and harps on the car, and the figure in the robe rose up, and flinging
it apart and removing the veil from its face, disclosed to their
eyes the shape of Death itself, fleshless and hideous, at which
sight Don Quixote felt uneasy, Sancho frightened, and the duke and
duchess displayed a certain trepidation. Having risen to its feet,
this living death, in a sleepy voice and with a tongue hardly awake,
held forth as follows:

  I am that Merlin who the legends say
  The devil had for father, and the lie
  Hath gathered credence with the lapse of time.
  Of magic prince, of Zoroastric lore
  Monarch and treasurer, with jealous eye
  I view the efforts of the age to hide
  The gallant deeds of doughty errant knights,
  Who are, and ever have been, dear to me.
    Enchanters and magicians and their kind
  Are mostly hard of heart; not so am I;
  For mine is tender, soft, compassionate,
  And its delight is doing good to all.
  In the dim caverns of the gloomy Dis,
  Where, tracing mystic lines and characters,
  My soul abideth now, there came to me
  The sorrow-laden plaint of her, the fair,
  The peerless Dulcinea del Toboso.
  I knew of her enchantment and her fate,
  From high-born dame to peasant wench transformed
  And touched with pity, first I turned the leaves
  Of countless volumes of my devilish craft,
  And then, in this grim grisly skeleton
  Myself encasing, hither have I come
  To show where lies the fitting remedy
  To give relief in such a piteous case.
    O thou, the pride and pink of all that wear
  The adamantine steel! O shining light,
  O beacon, polestar, path and guide of all
  Who, scorning slumber and the lazy down,
  Adopt the toilsome life of bloodstained arms!
  To thee, great hero who all praise transcends,
  La Mancha's lustre and Iberia's star,
  Don Quixote, wise as brave, to thee I say-
  For peerless Dulcinea del Toboso
  Her pristine form and beauty to regain,
  'T is needful that thy esquire Sancho shall,
  On his own sturdy buttocks bared to heaven,
  Three thousand and three hundred lashes lay,
  And that they smart and sting and hurt him well.
  Thus have the authors of her woe resolved.
  And this is, gentles, wherefore I have come.

  "By all that's good," exclaimed Sancho at this, "I'll just as soon
give myself three stabs with a dagger as three, not to say three
thousand, lashes. The devil take such a way of disenchanting! I
don't see what my backside has got to do with enchantments. By God, if
Senor Merlin has not found out some other way of disenchanting the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, she may go to her grave enchanted."
  "But I'll take you, Don Clown stuffed with garlic," said Don
Quixote, "and tie you to a tree as naked as when your mother brought
you forth, and give you, not to say three thousand three hundred,
but six thousand six hundred lashes, and so well laid on that they
won't be got rid of if you try three thousand three hundred times;
don't answer me a word or I'll tear your soul out."
  On hearing this Merlin said, "That will not do, for the lashes
worthy Sancho has to receive must be given of his own free will and
not by force, and at whatever time he pleases, for there is no fixed
limit assigned to him; but it is permitted him, if he likes to commute
by half the pain of this whipping, to let them be given by the hand of
another, though it may be somewhat weighty."
  "Not a hand, my own or anybody else's, weighty or weighable, shall
touch me," said Sancho. "Was it I that gave birth to the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso, that my backside is to pay for the sins of her eyes? My
master, indeed, that's a part of her- for,he's always calling her
'my life' and 'my soul,' and his stay and prop- may and ought to
whip himself for her and take all the trouble required for her
disenchantment. But for me to whip myself! Abernuncio!"
  As soon as Sancho had done speaking the nymph in silver that was
at the side of Merlin's ghost stood up, and removing the thin veil
from her face disclosed one that seemed to all something more than
exceedingly beautiful; and with a masculine freedom from embarrassment
and in a voice not very like a lady's, addressing Sancho directly,
said, "Thou wretched squire, soul of a pitcher, heart of a cork
tree, with bowels of flint and pebbles; if, thou impudent thief,
they bade thee throw thyself down from some lofty tower; if, enemy
of mankind, they asked thee to swallow a dozen of toads, two of
lizards, and three of adders; if they wanted thee to slay thy wife and
children with a sharp murderous scimitar, it would be no wonder for
thee to show thyself stubborn and squeamish. But to make a piece of
work about three thousand three hundred lashes, what every poor little
charity-boy gets every month- it is enough to amaze, astonish, astound
the compassionate bowels of all who hear it, nay, all who come to hear
it in the course of time. Turn, O miserable, hard-hearted animal,
turn, I say, those timorous owl's eyes upon these of mine that are
compared to radiant stars, and thou wilt see them weeping trickling
streams and rills, and tracing furrows, tracks, and paths over the
fair fields of my cheeks. Let it move thee, crafty, ill-conditioned
monster, to see my blooming youth- still in its teens, for I am not
yet twenty- wasting and withering away beneath the husk of a rude
peasant wench; and if I do not appear in that shape now, it is a
special favour Senor Merlin here has granted me, to the sole end
that my beauty may soften thee; for the tears of beauty in distress
turn rocks into cotton and tigers into ewes. Lay on to that hide of
thine, thou great untamed brute, rouse up thy lusty vigour that only
urges thee to eat and eat, and set free the softness of my flesh,
the gentleness of my nature, and the fairness of my face. And if
thou wilt not relent or come to reason for me, do so for the sake of
that poor knight thou hast beside thee; thy master I mean, whose
soul I can this moment see, how he has it stuck in his throat not
ten fingers from his lips, and only waiting for thy inflexible or
yielding reply to make its escape by his mouth or go back again into
his stomach."
  Don Quixote on hearing this felt his throat, and turning to the duke
he said, "By God, senor, Dulcinea says true, I have my soul stuck here
in my throat like the nut of a crossbow."
  "What say you to this, Sancho?" said the duchess.
  "I say, senora," returned Sancho, "what I said before; as for the
lashes, abernuncio!"
  "Abrenuncio, you should say, Sancho, and not as you do," said the
duke.
  "Let me alone, your highness," said Sancho. "I'm not in a humour now
to look into niceties or a letter more or less, for these lashes
that are to be given me, or I'm to give myself, have so upset me, that
I don't know what I'm saying or doing. But I'd like to know of this
lady, my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, where she learned this way she
has of asking favours. She comes to ask me to score my flesh with
lashes, and she calls me soul of a pitcher, and great untamed brute,
and a string of foul names that the devil is welcome to. Is my flesh
brass? or is it anything to me whether she is enchanted or not? Does
she bring with her a basket of fair linen, shirts, kerchiefs, socks-
not that wear any- to coax me? No, nothing but one piece of abuse
after another, though she knows the proverb they have here that 'an
ass loaded with gold goes lightly up a mountain,' and that 'gifts
break rocks,' and 'praying to God and plying the hammer,' and that
'one "take" is better than two "I'll give thee's."' Then there's my
master, who ought to stroke me down and pet me to make me turn wool
and carded cotton; he says if he gets hold of me he'll tie me naked to
a tree and double the tale of lashes on me. These tender-hearted
gentry should consider that it's not merely a squire, but a governor
they are asking to whip himself; just as if it was 'drink with
cherries.' Let them learn, plague take them, the right way to ask, and
beg, and behave themselves; for all times are not alike, nor are
people always in good humour. I'm now ready to burst with grief at
seeing my green coat torn, and they come to ask me to whip myself of
my own free will, I having as little fancy for it as for turning
cacique."
  "Well then, the fact is, friend Sancho," said the duke, "that unless
you become softer than a ripe fig, you shall not get hold of the
government. It would be a nice thing for me to send my islanders a
cruel governor with flinty bowels, who won't yield to the tears of
afflicted damsels or to the prayers of wise, magisterial, ancient
enchanters and sages. In short, Sancho, either you must be whipped
by yourself, or they must whip you, or you shan't be governor."
  "Senor," said Sancho, "won't two days' grace be given me in which to
consider what is best for me?"
  "No, certainly not," said Merlin; "here, this minute, and on the
spot, the matter must be settled; either Dulcinea will return to the
cave of Montesinos and to her former condition of peasant wench, or
else in her present form shall be carried to the Elysian fields, where
she will remain waiting until the number of stripes is completed."
  "Now then, Sancho!" said the duchess, "show courage, and gratitude
for your master Don Quixote's bread that you have eaten; we are all
bound to oblige and please him for his benevolent disposition and
lofty chivalry. Consent to this whipping, my son; to the devil with
the devil, and leave fear to milksops, for 'a stout heart breaks bad
luck,' as you very well know."
  To this Sancho replied with an irrelevant remark, which,
addressing Merlin, he made to him, "Will your worship tell me, Senor
Merlin- when that courier devil came up he gave my master a message
from Senor Montesinos, charging him to wait for him here, as he was
coming to arrange how the lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso was to be
disenchanted; but up to the present we have not seen Montesinos, nor
anything like him."
  To which Merlin made answer, "The devil, Sancho, is a blockhead
and a great scoundrel; I sent him to look for your master, but not
with a message from Montesinos but from myself; for Montesinos is in
his cave expecting, or more properly speaking, waiting for his
disenchantment; for there's the tail to be skinned yet for him; if
he owes you anything, or you have any business to transact with him,
I'll bring him to you and put him where you choose; but for the
present make up your mind to consent to this penance, and believe me
it will be very good for you, for soul as well for body- for your soul
because of the charity with which you perform it, for your body
because I know that you are of a sanguine habit and it will do you
no harm to draw a little blood."
  "There are a great many doctors in the world; even the enchanters
are doctors," said Sancho; "however, as everybody tells me the same
thing -though I can't see it myself- I say I am willing to give myself
the three thousand three hundred lashes, provided I am to lay them
on whenever I like, without any fixing of days or times; and I'll
try and get out of debt as quickly as I can, that the world may
enjoy the beauty of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; as it seems,
contrary to what I thought, that she is beautiful after all. It must
be a condition, too, that I am not to be bound to draw blood with
the scourge, and that if any of the lashes happen to he fly-flappers
they are to count. Item, that, in case I should make any mistake in
the reckoning, Senor Merlin, as he knows everything, is to keep count,
and let me know how many are still wanting or over the number."
  "There will be no need to let you know of any over," said Merlin,
"because, when you reach the full number, the lady Dulcinea will at
once, and that very instant, be disenchanted, and will come in her
gratitude to seek out the worthy Sancho, and thank him, and even
reward him for the good work. So you have no cause to be uneasy
about stripes too many or too few; heaven forbid I should cheat anyone
of even a hair of his head."
  "Well then, in God's hands be it," said Sancho; "in the hard case
I'm in I give in; I say I accept the penance on the conditions laid
down."
  The instant Sancho uttered these last words the music of the
clarions struck up once more, and again a host of muskets were
discharged, and Don Quixote hung on Sancho's neck kissing him again
and again on the forehead and cheeks. The duchess and the duke
expressed the greatest satisfaction, the car began to move on, and
as it passed the fair Dulcinea bowed to the duke and duchess and
made a low curtsey to Sancho.
  And now bright smiling dawn came on apace; the flowers of the field,
revived, raised up their heads, and the crystal waters of the
brooks, murmuring over the grey and white pebbles, hastened to pay
their tribute to the expectant rivers; the glad earth, the unclouded
sky, the fresh breeze, the clear light, each and all showed that the
day that came treading on the skirts of morning would be calm and
bright. The duke and duchess, pleased with their hunt and at having
carried out their plans so cleverly and successfully, returned to
their castle resolved to follow up their joke; for to them there was
no reality that could afford them more amusement.
  CHAPTER XXXVI
  WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE
DISTRESSED DUENNA, ALIAS THE COUNTESS TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER
WHICH SANCHO PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA

  THE duke had a majordomo of a very facetious and sportive turn,
and he it was that played the part of Merlin, made all the
arrangements for the late adventure, composed the verses, and got a
page to represent Dulcinea; and now, with the assistance of his master
and mistress, he got up another of the drollest and strangest
contrivances that can be imagined.
  The duchess asked Sancho the next day if he had made a beginning
with his penance task which he had to perform for the disenchantment
of Dulcinea. He said he had, and had given himself five lashes
overnight.
  The duchess asked him what he had given them with.
  He said with his hand.
  "That," said the duchess, "is more like giving oneself slaps than
lashes; I am sure the sage Merlin will not be satisfied with such
tenderness; worthy Sancho must make a scourge with claws, or a
cat-o'-nine tails, that will make itself felt; for it's with blood
that letters enter, and the release of so great a lady as Dulcinea
will not be granted so cheaply, or at such a paltry price; and
remember, Sancho, that works of charity done in a lukewarm and
half-hearted way are without merit and of no avail."
  To which Sancho replied, "If your ladyship will give me a proper
scourge or cord, I'll lay on with it, provided it does not hurt too
much; for you must know, boor as I am, my flesh is more cotton than
hemp, and it won't do for me to destroy myself for the good of anybody
else."
  "So be it by all means," said the duchess; "tomorrow I'll give you a
scourge that will be just the thing for you, and will accommodate
itself to the tenderness of your flesh, as if it was its own sister."
  Then said Sancho, "Your highness must know, dear lady of my soul,
that I have a letter written to my wife, Teresa Panza, giving her an
account of all that has happened me since I left her; I have it here
in my bosom, and there's nothing wanting but to put the address to it;
I'd be glad if your discretion would read it, for I think it runs in
the governor style; I mean the way governors ought to write."
  "And who dictated it?" asked the duchess.
  "Who should have dictated but myself, sinner as I am?" said Sancho.
  "And did you write it yourself?" said the duchess.
  "That I didn't," said Sancho; "for I can neither read nor write,
though I can sign my name."
  "Let us see it," said the duchess, "for never fear but you display
in it the quality and quantity of your wit."
  Sancho drew out an open letter from his bosom, and the duchess,
taking it, found it ran in this fashion:

       SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA

  If I was well whipped I went mounted like a gentleman; if I have got
a good government it is at the cost of a good whipping. Thou wilt
not understand this just now, my Teresa; by-and-by thou wilt know what
it means. I may tell thee, Teresa, I mean thee to go in a coach, for
that is a matter of importance, because every other way of going is
going on all-fours. Thou art a governor's wife; take care that
nobody speaks evil of thee behind thy back. I send thee here a green
hunting suit that my lady the duchess gave me; alter it so as to
make a petticoat and bodice for our daughter. Don Quixote, my
master, if I am to believe what I hear in these parts, is a madman
of some sense, and a droll blockhead, and I am no way behind him. We
have been in the cave of Montesinos, and the sage Merlin has laid hold
of me for the disenchantment of Dulcinea del Toboso, her that is
called Aldonza Lorenzo over there. With three thousand three hundred
lashes, less five, that I'm to give myself, she will be left as
entirely disenchanted as the mother that bore her. Say nothing of this
to anyone; for, make thy affairs public, and some will say they are
white and others will say they are black. I shall leave this in a
few days for my government, to which I am going with a mighty great
desire to make money, for they tell me all new governors set out
with the same desire; I will feel the pulse of it and will let thee
know if thou art to come and live with me or not. Dapple is well and
sends many remembrances to thee; I am not going to leave him behind
though they took me away to be Grand Turk. My lady the duchess
kisses thy hands a thousand times; do thou make a return with two
thousand, for as my master says, nothing costs less or is cheaper than
civility. God has not been pleased to provide another valise for me
with another hundred crowns, like the one the other day; but never
mind, my Teresa, the bell-ringer is in safe quarters, and all will
come out in the scouring of the government; only it troubles me
greatly what they tell me- that once I have tasted it I will eat my
hands off after it; and if that is so it will not come very cheap to
me; though to be sure the maimed have a benefice of their own in the
alms they beg for; so that one way or another thou wilt be rich and in
luck. God give it to thee as he can, and keep me to serve thee. From
this castle, the 20th of July, 1614.
                    Thy husband, the governor.
                                        SANCHO PANZA

  When she had done reading the letter the duchess said to Sancho, "On
two points the worthy governor goes rather astray; one is in saying or
hinting that this government has been bestowed upon him for the lashes
that he is to give himself, when he knows (and he cannot deny it) that
when my lord the duke promised it to him nobody ever dreamt of such
a thing as lashes; the other is that he shows himself here to he
very covetous; and I would not have him a money-seeker, for
'covetousness bursts the bag,' and the covetous governor does
ungoverned justice."
  "I don't mean it that way, senora," said Sancho; "and if you think
the letter doesn't run as it ought to do, it's only to tear it up
and make another; and maybe it will be a worse one if it is left to my
gumption."
  "No, no," said the duchess, "this one will do, and I wish the duke
to see it."
  With this they betook themselves to a garden where they were to
dine, and the duchess showed Sancho's letter to the duke, who was
highly delighted with it. They dined, and after the cloth had been
removed and they had amused themselves for a while with Sancho's
rich conversation, the melancholy sound of a fife and harsh discordant
drum made itself heard. All seemed somewhat put out by this dull,
confused, martial harmony, especially Don Quixote, who could not
keep his seat from pure disquietude; as to Sancho, it is needless to
say that fear drove him to his usual refuge, the side or the skirts of
the duchess; and indeed and in truth the sound they heard was a most
doleful and melancholy one. While they were still in uncertainty
they saw advancing towards them through the garden two men clad in
mourning robes so long and flowing that they trailed upon the
ground. As they marched they beat two great drums which were
likewise draped in black, and beside them came the fife player,
black and sombre like the others. Following these came a personage
of gigantic stature enveloped rather than clad in a gown of the
deepest black, the skirt of which was of prodigious dimensions. Over
the gown, girdling or crossing his figure, he had a broad baldric
which was also black, and from which hung a huge scimitar with a black
scabbard and furniture. He had his face covered with a transparent
black veil, through which might be descried a very long beard as white
as snow. He came on keeping step to the sound of the drums with
great gravity and dignity; and, in short, his stature, his gait, the
sombreness of his appearance and his following might well have
struck with astonishment, as they did, all who beheld him without
knowing who he was. With this measured pace and in this guise he
advanced to kneel before the duke, who, with the others, awaited him
standing. The duke, however, would not on any account allow him to
speak until he had risen. The prodigious scarecrow obeyed, and
standing up, removed the veil from his face and disclosed the most
enormous, the longest, the whitest and the thickest beard that human
eyes had ever beheld until that moment, and then fetching up a
grave, sonorous voice from the depths of his broad, capacious chest,
and fixing his eyes on the duke, he said:
  "Most high and mighty senor, my name is Trifaldin of the White
Beard; I am squire to the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the
Distressed Duenna, on whose behalf I bear a message to your
highness, which is that your magnificence will be pleased to grant her
leave and permission to come and tell you her trouble, which is one of
the strangest and most wonderful that the mind most familiar with
trouble in the world could have imagined; but first she desires to
know if the valiant and never vanquished knight, Don Quixote of La
Mancha, is in this your castle, for she has come in quest of him on
foot and without breaking her fast from the kingdom of Kandy to your
realms here; a thing which may and ought to be regarded as a miracle
or set down to enchantment; she is even now at the gate of this
fortress or plaisance, and only waits for your permission to enter.
I have spoken." And with that he coughed, and stroked down his beard
with both his hands, and stood very tranquilly waiting for the
response of the duke, which was to this effect: "Many days ago, worthy
squire Trifaldin of the White Beard, we heard of the misfortune of
my lady the Countess Trifaldi, whom the enchanters have caused to be
called the Distressed Duenna. Bid her enter, O stupendous squire,
and tell her that the valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha is here,
and from his generous disposition she may safely promise herself every
protection and assistance; and you may tell her, too, that if my aid
be necessary it will not be withheld, for I am bound to give it to her
by my quality of knight, which involves the protection of women of all
sorts, especially widowed, wronged, and distressed dames, such as
her ladyship seems to be."
  On hearing this Trifaldin bent the knee to the ground, and making
a sign to the fifer and drummers to strike up, he turned and marched
out of the garden to the same notes and at the same pace as when he
entered, leaving them all amazed at his bearing and solemnity. Turning
to Don Quixote, the duke said, "After all, renowned knight, the
mists of malice and ignorance are unable to hide or obscure the
light of valour and virtue. I say so, because your excellence has been
barely six days in this castle, and already the unhappy and the
afflicted come in quest of you from lands far distant and remote,
and not in coaches or on dromedaries, but on foot and fasting,
confident that in that mighty arm they will find a cure for their
sorrows and troubles; thanks to your great achievements, which are
circulated all over the known earth."
  "I wish, senor duke," replied Don Quixote, "that blessed
ecclesiastic, who at table the other day showed such ill-will and
bitter spite against knights-errant, were here now to see with his own
eyes whether knights of the sort are needed in the world; he would
at any rate learn by experience that those suffering any extraordinary
affliction or sorrow, in extreme cases and unusual misfortunes do
not go to look for a remedy to the houses of jurists or village
sacristans, or to the knight who has never attempted to pass the
bounds of his own town, or to the indolent courtier who only seeks for
news to repeat and talk of, instead of striving to do deeds and
exploits for others to relate and record. Relief in distress, help
in need, protection for damsels, consolation for widows, are to be
found in no sort of persons better than in knights-errant; and I
give unceasing thanks to heaven that I am one, and regard any
misfortune or suffering that may befall me in the pursuit of so
honourable a calling as endured to good purpose. Let this duenna
come and ask what she will, for I will effect her relief by the
might of my arm and the dauntless resolution of my bold heart."
  CHAPTER XXXVII
  WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA

  THE duke and duchess were extremely glad to see how readily Don
Quixote fell in with their scheme; but at this moment Sancho observed,
"I hope this senora duenna won't be putting any difficulties in the
way of the promise of my government; for I have heard a Toledo
apothecary, who talked like a goldfinch, say that where duennas were
mixed up nothing good could happen. God bless me, how he hated them,
that same apothecary! And so what I'm thinking is, if all duennas,
of whatever sort or condition they may be, are plagues and busybodies,
what must they be that are distressed, like this Countess Three-skirts
or Three-tails!- for in my country skirts or tails, tails or skirts,
it's all one."
  "Hush, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote; "since this lady duenna
comes in quest of me from such a distant land she cannot be one of
those the apothecary meant; moreover this is a countess, and when
countesses serve as duennas it is in the service of queens and
empresses, for in their own houses they are mistresses paramount and
have other duennas to wait on them."
  To this Dona Rodriguez, who was present, made answer, "My lady the
duchess has duennas in her service that might be countesses if it
was the will of fortune; 'but laws go as kings like;' let nobody speak
ill of duennas, above all of ancient maiden ones; for though I am
not one myself, I know and am aware of the advantage a maiden duenna
has over one that is a widow; but 'he who clipped us has kept the
scissors.'"
  "For all that," said Sancho, "there's so much to be clipped about
duennas, so my barber said, that 'it will be better not to stir the
rice even though it sticks.'"
  "These squires," returned Dona Rodriguez, "are always our enemies;
and as they are the haunting spirits of the antechambers and watch
us at every step, whenever they are not saying their prayers (and
that's often enough) they spend their time in tattling about us,
digging up our bones and burying our good name. But I can tell these
walking blocks that we will live in spite of them, and in great houses
too, though we die of hunger and cover our flesh, be it delicate or
not, with widow's weeds, as one covers or hides a dunghill on a
procession day. By my faith, if it were permitted me and time allowed,
I could prove, not only to those here present, but to all the world,
that there is no virtue that is not to be found in a duenna."
  "I have no doubt," said the duchess, "that my good Dona Rodriguez is
right, and very much so; but she had better bide her time for fighting
her own battle and that of the rest of the duennas, so as to crush the
calumny of that vile apothecary, and root out the prejudice in the
great Sancho Panza's mind."
  To which Sancho replied, "Ever since I have sniffed the governorship
I have got rid of the humours of a squire, and I don't care a wild fig
for all the duennas in the world."
  They would have carried on this duenna dispute further had they
not heard the notes of the fife and drums once more, from which they
concluded that the Distressed Duenna was making her entrance. The
duchess asked the duke if it would be proper to go out to receive her,
as she was a countess and a person of rank.
  "In respect of her being a countess," said Sancho, before the duke
could reply, "I am for your highnesses going out to receive her; but
in respect of her being a duenna, it is my opinion you should not stir
a step."
  "Who bade thee meddle in this, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
  "Who, senor?" said Sancho; "I meddle for I have a right to meddle,
as a squire who has learned the rules of courtesy in the school of
your worship, the most courteous and best-bred knight in the whole
world of courtliness; and in these things, as I have heard your
worship say, as much is lost by a card too many as by a card too
few, and to one who has his ears open, few words."
  "Sancho is right," said the duke; "we'll see what the countess is
like, and by that measure the courtesy that is due to her."
  And now the drums and fife made their entrance as before; and here
the author brought this short chapter to an end and began the next,
following up the same adventure, which is one of the most notable in
the history.
  CHAPTER XXXVIII
  WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA'S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES

  FOLLOWING the melancholy musicians there filed into the garden as
many as twelve duennas, in two lines, all dressed in ample mourning
robes apparently of milled serge, with hoods of fine white gauze so
long that they allowed only the border of the robe to be seen.
Behind them came the Countess Trifaldi, the squire Trifaldin of the
White Beard leading her by the hand, clad in the finest unnapped black
baize, such that, had it a nap, every tuft would have shown as big
as a Martos chickpea; the tail, or skirt, or whatever it might be
called, ended in three points which were borne up by the hands of
three pages, likewise dressed in mourning, forming an elegant
geometrical figure with the three acute angles made by the three
points, from which all who saw the peaked skirt concluded that it must
be because of it the countess was called Trifaldi, as though it were
Countess of the Three Skirts; and Benengeli says it was so, and that
by her right name she was called the Countess Lobuna, because wolves
bred in great numbers in her country; and if, instead of wolves,
they had been foxes, she would have been called the Countess
Zorruna, as it was the custom in those parts for lords to take
distinctive titles from the thing or things most abundant in their
dominions; this countess, however, in honour of the new fashion of her
skirt, dropped Lobuna and took up Trifaldi.
  The twelve duennas and the lady came on at procession pace, their
faces being covered with black veils, not transparent ones like
Trifaldin's, but so close that they allowed nothing to be seen through
them. As soon as the band of duennas was fully in sight, the duke, the
duchess, and Don Quixote stood up, as well as all who were watching
the slow-moving procession. The twelve duennas halted and formed a
lane, along which the Distressed One advanced, Trifaldin still holding
her hand. On seeing this the duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote went
some twelve paces forward to meet her. She then, kneeling on the
ground, said in a voice hoarse and rough, rather than fine and
delicate, "May it please your highnesses not to offer such
courtesies to this your servant, I should say to this your handmaid,
for I am in such distress that I shall never be able to make a
proper return, because my strange and unparalleled misfortune has
carried off my wits, and I know not whither; but it must be a long way
off, for the more I look for them the less I find them."
  "He would be wanting in wits, senora countess," said the duke,
"who did not perceive your worth by your person, for at a glance it
may be seen it deserves all the cream of courtesy and flower of polite
usage;" and raising her up by the hand he led her to a seat beside the
duchess, who likewise received her with great urbanity. Don Quixote
remained silent, while Sancho was dying to see the features of
Trifaldi and one or two of her many duennas; but there was no
possibility of it until they themselves displayed them of their own
accord and free will.
  All kept still, waiting to see who would break silence, which the
Distressed Duenna did in these words: "I am confident, most mighty
lord, most fair lady, and most discreet company, that my most
miserable misery will be accorded a reception no less dispassionate
than generous and condolent in your most valiant bosoms, for it is one
that is enough to melt marble, soften diamonds, and mollify the
steel of the most hardened hearts in the world; but ere it is
proclaimed to your hearing, not to say your ears, I would fain be
enlightened whether there be present in this society, circle, or
company, that knight immaculatissimus, Don Quixote de la
Manchissima, and his squirissimus Panza."
  "The Panza is here," said Sancho, before anyone could reply, "and
Don Quixotissimus too; and so, most distressedest Duenissima, you
may say what you willissimus, for we are all readissimus to do you any
servissimus."
  On this Don Quixote rose, and addressing the Distressed Duenna,
said, "If your sorrows, afflicted lady, can indulge in any hope of
relief from the valour or might of any knight-errant, here are mine,
which, feeble and limited though they be, shall be entirely devoted to
your service. I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose calling it is to
give aid to the needy of all sorts; and that being so, it is not
necessary for you, senora, to make any appeal to benevolence, or
deal in preambles, only to tell your woes plainly and
straightforwardly: for you have hearers that will know how, if not
to remedy them, to sympathise with them."
  On hearing this, the Distressed Duenna made as though she would
throw herself at Don Quixote's feet, and actually did fall before them
and said, as she strove to embrace them, "Before these feet and legs I
cast myself, O unconquered knight, as before, what they are, the
foundations and pillars of knight-errantry; these feet I desire to
kiss, for upon their steps hangs and depends the sole remedy for my
misfortune, O valorous errant, whose veritable achievements leave
behind and eclipse the fabulous ones of the Amadises, Esplandians, and
Belianises!" Then turning from Don Quixote to Sancho Panza, and
grasping his hands, she said, "O thou, most loyal squire that ever
served knight-errant in this present age or ages past, whose
goodness is more extensive than the beard of Trifaldin my companion
here of present, well mayest thou boast thyself that, in serving the
great Don Quixote, thou art serving, summed up in one, the whole
host of knights that have ever borne arms in the world. I conjure
thee, by what thou owest to thy most loyal goodness, that thou wilt
become my kind intercessor with thy master, that he speedily give
aid to this most humble and most unfortunate countess."
  To this Sancho made answer, "As to my goodness, senora, being as
long and as great as your squire's beard, it matters very little to
me; may I have my soul well bearded and moustached when it comes to
quit this life, that's the point; about beards here below I care
little or nothing; but without all these blandishments and prayers,
I will beg my master (for I know he loves me, and, besides, he has
need of me just now for a certain business) to help and aid your
worship as far as he can; unpack your woes and lay them before us, and
leave us to deal with them, for we'll be all of one mind."
  The duke and duchess, as it was they who had made the experiment
of this adventure, were ready to burst with laughter at all this,
and between themselves they commended the clever acting of the
Trifaldi, who, returning to her seat, said, "Queen Dona Maguncia
reigned over the famous kingdom of Kandy, which lies between the great
Trapobana and the Southern Sea, two leagues beyond Cape Comorin. She
was the widow of King Archipiela, her lord and husband, and of their
marriage they had issue the Princess Antonomasia, heiress of the
kingdom; which Princess Antonomasia was reared and brought up under my
care and direction, I being the oldest and highest in rank of her
mother's duennas. Time passed, and the young Antonomasia reached the
age of fourteen, and such a perfection of beauty, that nature could
not raise it higher. Then, it must not be supposed her intelligence
was childish; she was as intelligent as she was fair, and she was
fairer than all the world; and is so still, unless the envious fates
and hard-hearted sisters three have cut for her the thread of life.
But that they have not, for Heaven will not suffer so great a wrong to
Earth, as it would be to pluck unripe the grapes of the fairest
vineyard on its surface. Of this beauty, to which my poor feeble
tongue has failed to do justice, countless princes, not only of that
country, but of others, were enamoured, and among them a private
gentleman, who was at the court, dared to raise his thoughts to the
heaven of so great beauty, trusting to his youth, his gallant bearing,
his numerous accomplishments and graces, and his quickness and
readiness of wit; for I may tell your highnesses, if I am not wearying
you, that he played the guitar so as to make it speak, and he was,
besides, a poet and a great dancer, and he could make birdcages so
well, that by making them alone he might have gained a livelihood, had
he found himself reduced to utter poverty; and gifts and graces of
this kind are enough to bring down a mountain, not to say a tender
young girl. But all his gallantry, wit, and gaiety, all his graces and
accomplishments, would have been of little or no avail towards gaining
the fortress of my pupil, had not the impudent thief taken the
precaution of gaining me over first. First, the villain and
heartless vagabond sought to win my good-will and purchase my
compliance, so as to get me, like a treacherous warder, to deliver
up to him the keys of the fortress I had in charge. In a word, he
gained an influence over my mind, and overcame my resolutions with I
know not what trinkets and jewels he gave me; but it was some verses I
heard him singing one night from a grating that opened on the street
where he lived, that, more than anything else, made me give way and
led to my fall; and if I remember rightly they ran thus:

     From that sweet enemy of mine
       My bleeding heart hath had its wound;
       And to increase the pain I'm bound
     To suffer and to make no sign.

The lines seemed pearls to me and his voice sweet as syrup; and
afterwards, I may say ever since then, looking at the misfortune
into which I have fallen, I have thought that poets, as Plato advised,
ought to he banished from all well-ordered States; at least the
amatory ones, for they write verses, not like those of 'The Marquis of
Mantua,' that delight and draw tears from the women and children,
but sharp-pointed conceits that pierce the heart like soft thorns, and
like the lightning strike it, leaving the raiment uninjured. Another
time he sang:

     Come Death, so subtly veiled that I
       Thy coming know not, how or when,
       Lest it should give me life again
     To find how sweet it is to die.

-and other verses and burdens of the same sort, such as enchant when
sung and fascinate when written. And then, when they condescend to
compose a sort of verse that was at that time in vogue in Kandy, which
they call seguidillas! Then it is that hearts leap and laughter breaks
forth, and the body grows restless and all the senses turn
quicksilver. And so I say, sirs, that these troubadours richly deserve
to be banished to the isles of the lizards. Though it is not they that
are in fault, but the simpletons that extol them, and the fools that
believe in them; and had I been the faithful duenna I should have
been, his stale conceits would have never moved me, nor should I
have been taken in by such phrases as 'in death I live,' 'in ice I
burn,' 'in flames I shiver,' 'hopeless I hope,' 'I go and stay,' and
paradoxes of that sort which their writings are full of. And then when
they promise the Phoenix of Arabia, the crown of Ariadne, the horses
of the Sun, the pearls of the South, the gold of Tibar, and the balsam
of Panchaia! Then it is they give a loose to their pens, for it
costs them little to make promises they have no intention or power
of fulfilling. But where am I wandering to? Woe is me, unfortunate
being! What madness or folly leads me to speak of the faults of
others, when there is so much to be said about my own? Again, woe is
me, hapless that I am! it was not verses that conquered me, but my own
simplicity; it was not music made me yield, but my own imprudence;
my own great ignorance and little caution opened the way and cleared
the path for Don Clavijo's advances, for that was the name of the
gentleman I have referred to; and so, with my help as go-between, he
found his way many a time into the chamber of the deceived Antonomasia
(deceived not by him but by me) under the title of a lawful husband;
for, sinner though I was, would not have allowed him to approach the
edge of her shoe-sole without being her husband. No, no, not that;
marriage must come first in any business of this sort that I take in
hand. But there was one hitch in this case, which was that of
inequality of rank, Don Clavijo being a private gentleman, and the
Princess Antonomasia, as I said, heiress to the kingdom. The
entanglement remained for some time a secret, kept hidden by my
cunning precautions, until I perceived that a certain expansion of
waist in Antonomasia must before long disclose it, the dread of
which made us all there take counsel together, and it was agreed
that before the mischief came to light, Don Clavijo should demand
Antonomasia as his wife before the Vicar, in virtue of an agreement to
marry him made by the princess, and drafted by my wit in such
binding terms that the might of Samson could not have broken it. The
necessary steps were taken; the Vicar saw the agreement, and took
the lady's confession; she confessed everything in full, and he
ordered her into the custody of a very worthy alguacil of the court."
  "Are there alguacils of the court in Kandy, too," said Sancho at
this, "and poets, and seguidillas? I swear I think the world is the
same all over! But make haste, Senora Trifaldi; for it is late, and
I am dying to know the end of this long story."
  "I will," replied the countess.
  CHAPTER XXXIX
  IN WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY

  BY EVERY word that Sancho uttered, the duchess was as much delighted
as Don Quixote was driven to desperation. He bade him hold his tongue,
and the Distressed One went on to say: "At length, after much
questioning and answering, as the princess held to her story,
without changing or varying her previous declaration, the Vicar gave
his decision in favour of Don Clavijo, and she was delivered over to
him as his lawful wife; which the Queen Dona Maguncia, the Princess
Antonomasia's mother, so took to heart, that within the space of three
days we buried her."
  "She died, no doubt," said Sancho.
  "Of course," said Trifaldin; "they don't bury living people in
Kandy, only the dead."
  "Senor Squire," said Sancho, "a man in a swoon has been known to
be buried before now, in the belief that he was dead; and it struck me
that Queen Maguncia ought to have swooned rather than died; because
with life a great many things come right, and the princess's folly was
not so great that she need feel it so keenly. If the lady had
married some page of hers, or some other servant of the house, as many
another has done, so I have heard say, then the mischief would have
been past curing. But to marry such an elegant accomplished
gentleman as has been just now described to us- indeed, indeed, though
it was a folly, it was not such a great one as you think; for
according to the rules of my master here- and he won't allow me to
lie- as of men of letters bishops are made, so of gentlemen knights,
specially if they be errant, kings and emperors may be made."
  "Thou art right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for with a
knight-errant, if he has but two fingers' breadth of good fortune,
it is on the cards to become the mightiest lord on earth. But let
senora the Distressed One proceed; for I suspect she has got yet to
tell us the bitter part of this so far sweet story."
  "The bitter is indeed to come," said the countess; "and such
bitter that colocynth is sweet and oleander toothsome in comparison.
The queen, then, being dead, and not in a swoon, we buried her; and
hardly had we covered her with earth, hardly had we said our last
farewells, when, quis talia fando temperet a lachrymis? over the
queen's grave there appeared, mounted upon a wooden horse, the giant
Malambruno, Maguncia's first cousin, who besides being cruel is an
enchanter; and he, to revenge the death of his cousin, punish the
audacity of Don Clavijo, and in wrath at the contumacy of Antonomasia,
left them both enchanted by his art on the grave itself; she being
changed into an ape of brass, and he into a horrible crocodile of some
unknown metal; while between the two there stands a pillar, also of
metal, with certain characters in the Syriac language inscribed upon
it, which, being translated into Kandian, and now into Castilian,
contain the following sentence: 'These two rash lovers shall not
recover their former shape until the valiant Manchegan comes to do
battle with me in single combat; for the Fates reserve this unexampled
adventure for his mighty valour alone.' This done, he drew from its
sheath a huge broad scimitar, and seizing me by the hair he made as
though he meant to cut my throat and shear my head clean off. I was
terror-stricken, my voice stuck in my throat, and I was in the deepest
distress; nevertheless I summoned up my strength as well as I could,
and in a trembling and piteous voice I addressed such words to him
as induced him to stay the infliction of a punishment so severe. He
then caused all the duennas of the palace, those that are here
present, to be brought before him; and after having dwelt upon the
enormity of our offence, and denounced duennas, their characters,
their evil ways and worse intrigues, laying to the charge of all
what I alone was guilty of, he said he would not visit us with capital
punishment, but with others of a slow nature which would be in
effect civil death for ever; and the very instant he ceased speaking
we all felt the pores of our faces opening, and pricking us, as if
with the points of needles. We at once put our hands up to our faces
and found ourselves in the state you now see."
  Here the Distressed One and the other duennas raised the veils
with which they were covered, and disclosed countenances all bristling
with beards, some red, some black, some white, and some grizzled, at
which spectacle the duke and duchess made a show of being filled
with wonder. Don Quixote and Sancho were overwhelmed with amazement,
and the bystanders lost in astonishment, while the Trifaldi went on to
say: "Thus did that malevolent villain Malambruno punish us,
covering the tenderness and softness of our faces with these rough
bristles! Would to heaven that he had swept off our heads with his
enormous scimitar instead of obscuring the light of our countenances
with these wool-combings that cover us! For if we look into the
matter, sirs (and what I am now going to say I would say with eyes
flowing like fountains, only that the thought of our misfortune and
the oceans they have already wept, keep them as dry as barley
spears, and so I say it without tears), where, I ask, can a duenna
with a beard to to? What father or mother will feel pity for her?
Who will help her? For, if even when she has a smooth skin, and a face
tortured by a thousand kinds of washes and cosmetics, she can hardly
get anybody to love her, what will she do when she shows a
countenace turned into a thicket? Oh duennas, companions mine! it
was an unlucky moment when we were born and an ill-starred hour when
our fathers begot us!" And as she said this she showed signs of
being about to faint.
  CHAPTER XL
  OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND TO THIS
MEMORABLE HISTORY

  VERILY and truly all those who find pleasure in histories like
this ought show their gratitude to Cide Hamete, its original author,
for the scrupulous care he has taken to set before us all its minute
particulars, not leaving anything, however trifling it may be, that he
does not make clear and plain. He portrays the thoughts, he reveals
the fancies, he answers implied questions, clears up doubts, sets
objections at rest, and, in a word, makes plain the smallest points
the most inquisitive can desire to know. O renowned author! O happy
Don Quixote! O famous famous droll Sancho! All and each, may ye live
countless ages for the delight and amusement of the dwellers on earth!
  The history goes on to say that when Sancho saw the Distressed One
faint he exclaimed: "I swear by the faith of an honest man and the
shades of all my ancestors the Panzas, that never I did see or hear
of, nor has my master related or conceived in his mind, such an
adventure as this. A thousand devils- not to curse thee- take thee,
Malambruno, for an enchanter and a giant! Couldst thou find no other
sort of punishment for these sinners but bearding them? Would it not
have been better- it would have been better for them- to have taken
off half their noses from the middle upwards, even though they'd
have snuffled when they spoke, than to have put beards on them? I'll
bet they have not the means of paying anybody to shave them."
  "That is the truth, senor," said one of the twelve; "we have not the
money to get ourselves shaved, and so we have, some of us, taken to
using sticking-plasters by way of an economical remedy, for by
applying them to our faces and plucking them off with a jerk we are
left as bare and smooth as the bottom of a stone mortar. There are, to
be sure, women in Kandy that go about from house to house to remove
down, and trim eyebrows, and make cosmetics for the use of the
women, but we, the duennas of my lady, would never let them in, for
most of them have a flavour of agents that have ceased to be
principals; and if we are not relieved by Senor Don Quixote we shall
be carried to our graves with beards."
  "I will pluck out my own in the land of the Moors," said Don
Quixote, "if I don't cure yours."
  At this instant the Trifaldi recovered from her swoon and said, "The
chink of that promise, valiant knight, reached my ears in the midst of
my swoon, and has been the means of reviving me and bringing back my
senses; and so once more I implore you, illustrious errant,
indomitable sir, to let your gracious promises be turned into deeds."
  "There shall be no delay on my part," said Don Quixote. "Bethink
you, senora, of what I must do, for my heart is most eager to serve
you."
  "The fact is," replied the Distressed One, "it is five thousand
leagues, a couple more or less, from this to the kingdom of Kandy,
if you go by land; but if you go through the air and in a straight
line, it is three thousand two hundred and twenty-seven. You must
know, too, that Malambruno told me that, whenever fate provided the
knight our deliverer, he himself would send him a steed far better and
with less tricks than a post-horse; for he will be that same wooden
horse on which the valiant Pierres carried off the fair Magalona;
which said horse is guided by a peg he has in his forehead that serves
for a bridle, and flies through the air with such rapidity that you
would fancy the very devils were carrying him. This horse, according
to ancient tradition, was made by Merlin. He lent him to Pierres,
who was a friend of his, and who made long journeys with him, and,
as has been said, carried off the fair Magalona, bearing her through
the air on its haunches and making all who beheld them from the
earth gape with astonishment; and he never lent him save to those whom
he loved or those who paid him well; and since the great Pierres we
know of no one having mounted him until now. From him Malambruno stole
him by his magic art, and he has him now in his possession, and
makes use of him in his journeys which he constantly makes through
different parts of the world; he is here to-day, to-morrow in
France, and the next day in Potosi; and the best of it is the said
horse neither eats nor sleeps nor wears out shoes, and goes at an
ambling pace through the air without wings, so that he whom he has
mounted upon him can carry a cup full of water in his hand without
spilling a drop, so smoothly and easily does he go, for which reason
the fair Magalona enjoyed riding him greatly."
  "For going smoothly and easily," said Sancho at this, "give me my
Dapple, though he can't go through the air; but on the ground I'll
back him against all the amblers in the world."
  They all laughed, and the Distressed One continued: "And this same
horse, if so be that Malambruno is disposed to put an end to our
sufferings, will be here before us ere the night shall have advanced
half an hour; for he announced to me that the sign he would give me
whereby I might know that I had found the knight I was in quest of,
would be to send me the horse wherever he might be, speedily and
promptly."
  "And how many is there room for on this horse?" asked Sancho.
  "Two," said the Distressed One, "one in the saddle, and the other on
the croup; and generally these two are knight and squire, when there
is no damsel that's being carried off."
  "I'd like to know, Senora Distressed One," said Sancho, "what is the
name of this horse?"
  "His name," said the Distressed One, "is not the same as
Bellerophon's horse that was called Pegasus, or Alexander the Great's,
called Bucephalus, or Orlando Furioso's, the name of which was
Brigliador, nor yet Bayard, the horse of Reinaldos of Montalvan, nor
Frontino like Ruggiero's, nor Bootes or Peritoa, as they say the
horses of the sun were called, nor is he called Orelia, like the horse
on which the unfortunate Rodrigo, the last king of the Goths, rode
to the battle where he lost his life and his kingdom."
  "I'll bet," said Sancho, "that as they have given him none of
these famous names of well-known horses, no more have they given him
the name of my master's Rocinante, which for being apt surpasses all
that have been mentioned."
  "That is true," said the bearded countess, "still it fits him very
well, for he is called Clavileno the Swift, which name is in
accordance with his being made of wood, with the peg he has in his
forehead, and with the swift pace at which he travels; and so, as
far as name goes, he may compare with the famous Rocinante."
  "I have nothing to say against his name," said Sancho; "but with
what sort of bridle or halter is he managed?"
  "I have said already," said the Trifaldi, "that it is with a peg, by
turning which to one side or the other the knight who rides him
makes him go as he pleases, either through the upper air, or
skimming and almost sweeping the earth, or else in that middle
course that is sought and followed in all well-regulated proceedings."
  "I'd like to see him," said Sancho; "but to fancy I'm going to mount
him, either in the saddle or on the croup, is to ask pears of the
elm tree. A good joke indeed! I can hardly keep my seat upon Dapple,
and on a pack-saddle softer than silk itself, and here they'd have
me hold on upon haunches of plank without pad or cushion of any
sort! Gad, I have no notion of bruising myself to get rid of
anyone's beard; let each one shave himself as best he can; I'm not
going to accompany my master on any such long journey; besides, I
can't give any help to the shaving of these beards as I can to the
disenchantment of my lady Dulcinea."
  "Yes, you can, my friend," replied the Trifaldi; "and so much,
that without you, so I understand, we shall be able to do nothing."
  "In the king's name!" exclaimed Sancho, "what have squires got to do
with the adventures of their masters? Are they to have the fame of
such as they go through, and we the labour? Body o' me! if the
historians would only say, 'Such and such a knight finished such and
such an adventure, but with the help of so and so, his squire, without
which it would have been impossible for him to accomplish it;' but
they write curtly, "Don Paralipomenon of the Three Stars
accomplished the adventure of the six monsters;' without mentioning
such a person as his squire, who was there all the time, just as if
there was no such being. Once more, sirs, I say my master may go
alone, and much good may it do him; and I'll stay here in the
company of my lady the duchess; and maybe when he comes back, he
will find the lady Dulcinea's affair ever so much advanced; for I mean
in leisure hours, and at idle moments, to give myself a spell of
whipping without so much as a hair to cover me."
  "For all that you must go if it be necessary, my good Sancho,"
said the duchess, "for they are worthy folk who ask you; and the faces
of these ladies must not remain overgrown in this way because of
your idle fears; that would be a hard case indeed."
  "In the king's name, once more!" said Sancho; "If this charitable
work were to be done for the sake of damsels in confinement or
charity-girls, a man might expose himself to some hardships; but to
bear it for the sake of stripping beards off duennas! Devil take it!
I'd sooner see them all bearded, from the highest to the lowest, and
from the most prudish to the most affected."
  "You are very hard on duennas, Sancho my friend," said the
duchess; "you incline very much to the opinion of the Toledo
apothecary. But indeed you are wrong; there are duennas in my house
that may serve as patterns of duennas; and here is my Dona
Rodriguez, who will not allow me to say otherwise."
  "Your excellence may say it if you like," said the Rodriguez; "for
God knows the truth of everything; and whether we duennas are good
or bad, bearded or smooth, we are our mothers' daughters like other
women; and as God sent us into the world, he knows why he did, and
on his mercy I rely, and not on anybody's beard."
  "Well, Senora Rodriguez, Senora Trifaldi, and present company," said
Don Quixote, "I trust in Heaven that it will look with kindly eyes
upon your troubles, for Sancho will do as I bid him. Only let
Clavileno come and let me find myself face to face with Malambruno,
and I am certain no razor will shave you more easily than my sword
shall shave Malambruno's head off his shoulders; for 'God bears with
the wicked, but not for ever."
  "Ah!" exclaimed the Distressed One at this, "may all the stars of
the celestial regions look down upon your greatness with benign
eyes, valiant knight, and shed every prosperity and valour upon your
heart, that it may be the shield and safeguard of the abused and
downtrodden race of duennas, detested by apothecaries, sneered at by
squires, and made game of by pages. Ill betide the jade that in the
flower of her youth would not sooner become a nun than a duenna!
Unfortunate beings that we are, we duennas! Though we may be descended
in the direct male line from Hector of Troy himself, our mistresses
never fail to address us as 'you' if they think it makes queens of
them. O giant Malambruno, though thou art an enchanter, thou art
true to thy promises. Send us now the peerless Clavileno, that our
misfortune may be brought to an end; for if the hot weather sets in
and these beards of ours are still there, alas for our lot!"
  The Trifaldi said this in such a pathetic way that she drew tears
from the eyes of all and even Sancho's filled up; and he resolved in
his heart to accompany his master to the uttermost ends of the
earth, if so be the removal of the wool from those venerable
countenances depended upon it.
  CHAPTER XLI
  OF THE ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE

  AND now night came, and with it the appointed time for the arrival
of the famous horse Clavileno, the non-appearance of which was already
beginning to make Don Quixote uneasy, for it struck him that, as
Malambruno was so long about sending it, either he himself was not the
knight for whom the adventure was reserved, or else Malambruno did not
dare to meet him in single combat. But lo! suddenly there came into
the garden four wild-men all clad in green ivy bearing on their
shoulders a great wooden horse. They placed it on its feet on the
ground, and one of the wild-men said, "Let the knight who has heart
for it mount this machine."
  Here Sancho exclaimed, "I don't mount, for neither have I the
heart nor am I a knight."
  "And let the squire, if he has one," continued the wild-man, "take
his seat on the croup, and let him trust the valiant Malambruno; for
by no sword save his, nor by the malice of any other, shall he be
assailed. It is but to turn this peg the horse has in his neck, and he
will bear them through the air to where Malambruno awaits them; but
lest the vast elevation of their course should make them giddy,
their eyes must be covered until the horse neighs, which will be the
sign of their having completed their journey."
  With these words, leaving Clavileno behind them, they retired with
easy dignity the way they came. As soon as the Distressed One saw
the horse, almost in tears she exclaimed to Don Quixote, "Valiant
knight, the promise of Malambruno has proved trustworthy; the horse
has come, our beards are growing, and by every hair in them all of
us implore thee to shave and shear us, as it is only mounting him with
thy squire and making a happy beginning with your new journey."
  "That I will, Senora Countess Trifaldi," said Don Quixote, "most
gladly and with right goodwill, without stopping to take a cushion
or put on my spurs, so as not to lose time, such is my desire to see
you and all these duennas shaved clean."
  "That I won't," said Sancho, "with good-will or bad-will, or any way
at all; and if this shaving can't be done without my mounting on the
croup, my master had better look out for another squire to go with
him, and these ladies for some other way of making their faces smooth;
I'm no witch to have a taste for travelling through the air. What
would my islanders say when they heard their governor was going,
strolling about on the winds? And another thing, as it is three
thousand and odd leagues from this to Kandy, if the horse tires, or
the giant takes huff, we'll he half a dozen years getting back, and
there won't be isle or island in the world that will know me: and
so, as it is a common saying 'in delay there's danger,' and 'when they
offer thee a heifer run with a halter,' these ladies' beards must
excuse me; 'Saint Peter is very well in Rome;' I mean I am very well
in this house where so much is made of me, and I hope for such a
good thing from the master as to see myself a governor."
  "Friend Sancho," said the duke at this, "the island that I have
promised you is not a moving one, or one that will run away; it has
roots so deeply buried in the bowels of the earth that it will be no
easy matter to pluck it up or shift it from where it is; you know as
well as I do that there is no sort of office of any importance that is
not obtained by a bribe of some kind, great or small; well then,
that which I look to receive for this government is that you go with
your master Don Quixote, and bring this memorable adventure to a
conclusion; and whether you return on Clavileno as quickly as his
speed seems to promise, or adverse fortune brings you back on foot
travelling as a pilgrim from hostel to hostel and from inn to inn, you
will always find your island on your return where you left it, and
your islanders with the same eagerness they have always had to receive
you as their governor, and my good-will will remain the same; doubt
not the truth of this, Senor Sancho, for that would be grievously
wronging my disposition to serve you."
  "Say no more, senor," said Sancho; "I am a poor squire and not equal
to carrying so much courtesy; let my master mount; bandage my eyes and
commit me to God's care, and tell me if I may commend myself to our
Lord or call upon the angels to protect me when we go towering up
there."
  To this the Trifaldi made answer, "Sancho, you may freely commend
yourself to God or whom you will; for Malambruno though an enchanter
is a Christian, and works his enchantments with great
circumspection, taking very good care not to fall out with anyone."
  "Well then," said Sancho, "God and the most holy Trinity of Gaeta
give me help!"
  "Since the memorable adventure of the fulling mills," said Don
Quixote, "I have never seen Sancho in such a fright as now; were I
as superstitious as others his abject fear would cause me some
little trepidation of spirit. But come here, Sancho, for with the
leave of these gentles I would say a word or two to thee in
private;" and drawing Sancho aside among the trees of the garden and
seizing both his hands he said, "Thou seest, brother Sancho, the
long journey we have before us, and God knows when we shall return, or
what leisure or opportunities this business will allow us; I wish thee
therefore to retire now to thy chamber, as though thou wert going to
fetch something required for the road, and in a trice give thyself
if it be only five hundred lashes on account of the three thousand
three hundred to which thou art bound; it will be all to the good, and
to make a beginning with a thing is to have it half finished."
  "By God," said Sancho, "but your worship must be out of your senses!
This is like the common saying, 'You see me with child, and you want
me a virgin.' Just as I'm about to go sitting on a bare board, your
worship would have me score my backside! Indeed, your worship is not
reasonable. Let us be off to shave these duennas; and on our return
I promise on my word to make such haste to wipe off all that's due
as will satisfy your worship; I can't say more."
  "Well, I will comfort myself with that promise, my good Sancho,"
replied Don Quixote, "and I believe thou wilt keep it; for indeed
though stupid thou art veracious."
  "I'm not voracious," said Sancho, "only peckish; but even if I was a
little, still I'd keep my word."
  With this they went back to mount Clavileno, and as they were
about to do so Don Quixote said, "Cover thine eyes, Sancho, and mount;
for one who sends for us from lands so far distant cannot mean to
deceive us for the sake of the paltry glory to be derived from
deceiving persons who trust in him; though all should turn out the
contrary of what I hope, no malice will be able to dim the glory of
having undertaken this exploit."
  "Let us be off, senor," said Sancho, "for I have taken the beards
and tears of these ladies deeply to heart, and I shan't eat a bit to
relish it until I have seen them restored to their former
smoothness. Mount, your worship, and blindfold yourself, for if I am
to go on the croup, it is plain the rider in the saddle must mount
first."
  "That is true," said Don Quixote, and, taking a handkerchief out
of his pocket, he begged the Distressed One to bandage his eyes very
carefully; but after having them bandaged he uncovered them again,
saying, "If my memory does not deceive me, I have read in Virgil of
the Palladium of Troy, a wooden horse the Greeks offered to the
goddess Pallas, which was big with armed knights, who were
afterwards the destruction of Troy; so it would he as well to see,
first of all, what Clavileno has in his stomach."
  "There is no occasion," said the Distressed One; "I will be bail for
him, and I know that Malambruno has nothing tricky or treacherous
about him; you may mount without any fear, Senor Don Quixote; on my
head be it if any harm befalls you."
  Don Quixote thought that to say anything further with regard to
his safety would be putting his courage in an unfavourable light;
and so, without more words, he mounted Clavileno, and tried the peg,
which turned easily; and as he had no stirrups and his legs hung down,
he looked like nothing so much as a figure in some Roman triumph
painted or embroidered on a Flemish tapestry.
  Much against the grain, and very slowly, Sancho proceeded to
mount, and, after settling himself as well as he could on the croup,
found it rather hard, and not at all soft, and asked the duke if it
would be possible to oblige him with a pad of some kind, or a cushion;
even if it were off the couch of his lady the duchess, or the bed of
one of the pages; as the haunches of that horse were more like
marble than wood. On this the Trifaldi observed that Clavileno would
not bear any kind of harness or trappings, and that his best plan
would be to sit sideways like a woman, as in that way he would not
feel the hardness so much.
  Sancho did so, and, bidding them farewell, allowed his eyes to he
bandaged, but immediately afterwards uncovered them again, and looking
tenderly and tearfully on those in the garden, bade them help him in
his present strait with plenty of Paternosters and Ave Marias, that
God might provide some one to say as many for them, whenever they
found themselves in a similar emergency.
  At this Don Quixote exclaimed, "Art thou on the gallows, thief, or
at thy last moment, to use pitiful entreaties of that sort?
Cowardly, spiritless creature, art thou not in the very place the fair
Magalona occupied, and from which she descended, not into the grave,
but to become Queen of France; unless the histories lie? And I who
am here beside thee, may I not put myself on a par with the valiant
Pierres, who pressed this very spot that I now press? Cover thine
eyes, cover thine eyes, abject animal, and let not thy fear escape thy
lips, at least in my presence."
  "Blindfold me," said Sancho; "as you won't let me commend myself
or be commended to God, is it any wonder if I am afraid there is a
region of devils about here that will carry us off to Peralvillo?"
  They were then blindfolded, and Don Quixote, finding himself settled
to his satisfaction, felt for the peg, and the instant he placed his
fingers on it, all the duennas and all who stood by lifted up their
voices exclaiming, "God guide thee, valiant knight! God be with
thee, intrepid squire! Now, now ye go cleaving the air more swiftly
than an arrow! Now ye begin to amaze and astonish all who are gazing
at you from the earth! Take care not to wobble about, valiant
Sancho! Mind thou fall not, for thy fall will be worse than that
rash youth's who tried to steer the chariot of his father the Sun!"
  As Sancho heard the voices, clinging tightly to his master and
winding his arms round him, he said, "Senor, how do they make out we
are going up so high, if their voices reach us here and they seem to
be speaking quite close to us?"
  "Don't mind that, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for as affairs of this
sort, and flights like this are out of the common course of things,
you can see and hear as much as you like a thousand leagues off; but
don't squeeze me so tight or thou wilt upset me; and really I know not
what thou hast to be uneasy or frightened at, for I can safely swear I
never mounted a smoother-going steed all the days of my life; one
would fancy we never stirred from one place. Banish fear, my friend,
for indeed everything is going as it ought, and we have the wind
astern."
  "That's true," said Sancho, "for such a strong wind comes against me
on this side, that it seems as if people were blowing on me with a
thousand pair of bellows;" which was the case; they were puffing at
him with a great pair of bellows; for the whole adventure was so
well planned by the duke, the duchess, and their majordomo, that
nothing was omitted to make it perfectly successful.
  Don Quixote now, feeling the blast, said, "Beyond a doubt, Sancho,
we must have already reached the second region of the air, where the
hail and snow are generated; the thunder, the lightning, and the
thunderbolts are engendered in the third region, and if we go on
ascending at this rate, we shall shortly plunge into the region of
fire, and I know not how to regulate this peg, so as not to mount up
where we shall be burned."
  And now they began to warm their faces, from a distance, with tow
that could be easily set on fire and extinguished again, fixed on
the end of a cane. On feeling the heat Sancho said, "May I die if we
are not already in that fire place, or very near it, for a good part
of my beard has been singed, and I have a mind, senor, to uncover
and see whereabouts we are."
  "Do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; "remember the true story
of the licentiate Torralva that the devils carried flying through
the air riding on a stick with his eyes shut; who in twelve hours
reached Rome and dismounted at Torre di Nona, which is a street of the
city, and saw the whole sack and storming and the death of Bourbon,
and was back in Madrid the next morning, where he gave an account of
all he had seen; and he said moreover that as he was going through the
air, the devil bade him open his eyes, and he did so, and saw
himself so near the body of the moon, so it seemed to him, that he
could have laid hold of it with his hand, and that he did not dare
to look at the earth lest he should be seized with giddiness. So that,
Sancho, it will not do for us to uncover ourselves, for he who has
us in charge will be responsible for us; and perhaps we are gaining an
altitude and mounting up to enable us to descend at one swoop on the
kingdom of Kandy, as the saker or falcon does on the heron, so as to
seize it however high it may soar; and though it seems to us not
half an hour since we left the garden, believe me we must have
travelled a great distance."
  "I don't know how that may be," said Sancho; "all I know is that
if the Senora Magallanes or Magalona was satisfied with this croup,
she could not have been very tender of flesh."
  The duke, the duchess, and all in the garden were listening to the
conversation of the two heroes, and were beyond measure amused by
it; and now, desirous of putting a finishing touch to this rare and
well-contrived adventure, they applied a light to Clavileno's tail
with some tow, and the horse, being full of squibs and crackers,
immediately blew up with a prodigious noise, and brought Don Quixote
and Sancho Panza to the ground half singed. By this time the bearded
band of duennas, the Trifaldi and all, had vanished from the garden,
and those that remained lay stretched on the ground as if in a
swoon. Don Quixote and Sancho got up rather shaken, and, looking about
them, were filled with amazement at finding themselves in the same
garden from which they had started, and seeing such a number of people
stretched on the ground; and their astonishment was increased when
at one side of the garden they perceived a tall lance planted in the
ground, and hanging from it by two cords of green silk a smooth
white parchment on which there was the following inscription in
large gold letters: "The illustrious knight Don Quixote of La Mancha
has, by merely attempting it, finished and concluded the adventure
of the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the Distressed Duenna;
Malambruno is now satisfied on every point, the chins of the duennas
are now smooth and clean, and King Don Clavijo and Queen Antonomasia
in their original form; and when the squirely flagellation shall
have been completed, the white dove shall find herself delivered
from the pestiferous gerfalcons that persecute her, and in the arms of
her beloved mate; for such is the decree of the sage Merlin,
arch-enchanter of enchanters."
  As soon as Don Quixote had read the inscription on the parchment
he perceived clearly that it referred to the disenchantment of
Dulcinea, and returning hearty thanks to heaven that he had with so
little danger achieved so grand an exploit as to restore to their
former complexion the countenances of those venerable duennas, he
advanced towards the duke and duchess, who had not yet come to
themselves, and taking the duke by the hand he said, "Be of good
cheer, worthy sir, be of good cheer; it's nothing at all; the
adventure is now over and without any harm done, as the inscription
fixed on this post shows plainly."
  The duke came to himself slowly and like one recovering
consciousness after a heavy sleep, and the duchess and all who had
fallen prostrate about the garden did the same, with such
demonstrations of wonder and amazement that they would have almost
persuaded one that what they pretended so adroitly in jest had
happened to them in reality. The duke read the placard with
half-shut eyes, and then ran to embrace Don Quixote with-open arms,
declaring him to be the best knight that had ever been seen in any
age. Sancho kept looking about for the Distressed One, to see what her
face was like without the beard, and if she was as fair as her elegant
person promised; but they told him that, the instant Clavileno
descended flaming through the air and came to the ground, the whole
band of duennas with the Trifaldi vanished, and that they were already
shaved and without a stump left.
  The duchess asked Sancho how he had fared on that long journey, to
which Sancho replied, "I felt, senora, that we were flying through the
region of fire, as my master told me, and I wanted to uncover my
eyes for a bit; but my master, when I asked leave to uncover myself,
would not let me; but as I have a little bit of curiosity about me,
and a desire to know what is forbidden and kept from me, quietly and
without anyone seeing me I drew aside the handkerchief covering my
eyes ever so little, close to my nose, and from underneath looked
towards the earth, and it seemed to me that it was altogether no
bigger than a grain of mustard seed, and that the men walking on it
were little bigger than hazel nuts; so you may see how high we must
have got to then."
  To this the duchess said, "Sancho, my friend, mind what you are
saying; it seems you could not have seen the earth, but only the men
walking on it; for if the earth looked to you like a grain of
mustard seed, and each man like a hazel nut, one man alone would
have covered the whole earth."
  "That is true," said Sancho, "but for all that I got a glimpse of
a bit of one side of it, and saw it all."
  "Take care, Sancho," said the duchess, "with a bit of one side one
does not see the whole of what one looks at."
  "I don't understand that way of looking at things," said Sancho;
"I only know that your ladyship will do well to bear in mind that as
we were flying by enchantment so I might have seen the whole earth and
all the men by enchantment whatever way I looked; and if you won't
believe this, no more will you believe that, uncovering myself
nearly to the eyebrows, I saw myself so close to the sky that there
was not a palm and a half between me and it; and by everything that
I can swear by, senora, it is mighty great! And it so happened we came
by where the seven goats are, and by God and upon my soul, as in my
youth I was a goatherd in my own country, as soon as I saw them I felt
a longing to be among them for a little, and if I had not given way to
it I think I'd have burst. So I come and take, and what do I do?
without saying anything to anybody, not even to my master, softly
and quietly I got down from Clavileno and amused myself with the
goats- which are like violets, like flowers- for nigh three-quarters
of an hour; and Clavileno never stirred or moved from one spot."
  "And while the good Sancho was amusing himself with the goats," said
the duke, "how did Senor Don Quixote amuse himself?"
  To which Don Quixote replied, "As all these things and such like
occurrences are out of the ordinary course of nature, it is no
wonder that Sancho says what he does; for my own part I can only say
that I did not uncover my eyes either above or below, nor did I see
sky or earth or sea or shore. It is true I felt that I was passing
through the region of the air, and even that I touched that of fire;
but that we passed farther I cannot believe; for the region of fire
being between the heaven of the moon and the last region of the air,
we could not have reached that heaven where the seven goats Sancho
speaks of are without being burned; and as we were not burned,
either Sancho is lying or Sancho is dreaming."
  "I am neither lying nor dreaming," said Sancho; "only ask me the
tokens of those same goats, and you'll see by that whether I'm telling
the truth or not."
  "Tell us them then, Sancho," said the duchess.
  "Two of them," said Sancho, "are green, two blood-red, two blue, and
one a mixture of all colours."
  "An odd sort of goat, that," said the duke; "in this earthly
region of ours we have no such colours; I mean goats of such colours."
  "That's very plain," said Sancho; "of course there must be a
difference between the goats of heaven and the goats of the earth."
  "Tell me, Sancho," said the duke, "did you see any he-goat among
those goats?"
  "No, senor," said Sancho; "but I have heard say that none ever
passed the horns of the moon."
  They did not care to ask him anything more about his journey, for
they saw he was in the vein to go rambling all over the heavens giving
an account of everything that went on there, without having ever
stirred from the garden. Such, in short, was the end of the
adventure of the Distressed Duenna, which gave the duke and duchess
laughing matter not only for the time being, but for all their
lives, and Sancho something to talk about for ages, if he lived so
long; but Don Quixote, coming close to his ear, said to him,
"Sancho, as you would have us believe what you saw in heaven, I
require you to believe me as to what I saw in the cave of
Montesinos; I say no more."
  CHAPTER XLII
  OF THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE SET
OUT TO GOVERN THE ISLAND, TOGETHER WITH OTHER WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS

  THE duke and duchess were so well pleased with the successful and
droll result of the adventure of the Distressed One, that they
resolved to carry on the joke, seeing what a fit subject they had to
deal with for making it all pass for reality. So having laid their
plans and given instructions to their servants and vassals how to
behave to Sancho in his government of the promised island, the next
day, that following Clavileno's flight, the duke told Sancho to
prepare and get ready to go and be governor, for his islanders were
already looking out for him as for the showers of May.
  Sancho made him an obeisance, and said, "Ever since I came down from
heaven, and from the top of it beheld the earth, and saw how little it
is, the great desire I had to be a governor has been partly cooled
in me; for what is there grand in being ruler on a grain of mustard
seed, or what dignity or authority in governing half a dozen men about
as big as hazel nuts; for, so far as I could see, there were no more
on the whole earth? If your lordship would be so good as to give me
ever so small a bit of heaven, were it no more than half a league, I'd
rather have it than the best island in the world."
  "Recollect, Sancho," said the duke, "I cannot give a bit of
heaven, no not so much as the breadth of my nail, to anyone; rewards
and favours of that sort are reserved for God alone. What I can give I
give you, and that is a real, genuine island, compact, well
proportioned, and uncommonly fertile and fruitful, where, if you
know how to use your opportunities, you may, with the help of the
world's riches, gain those of heaven."
  "Well then," said Sancho, "let the island come; and I'll try and
be such a governor, that in spite of scoundrels I'll go to heaven; and
it's not from any craving to quit my own humble condition or better
myself, but from the desire I have to try what it tastes like to be
a governor."
  "If you once make trial of it, Sancho," said the duke, "you'll eat
your fingers off after the government, so sweet a thing is it to
command and be obeyed. Depend upon it when your master comes to be
emperor (as he will beyond a doubt from the course his affairs are
taking), it will be no easy matter to wrest the dignity from him,
and he will be sore and sorry at heart to have been so long without
becoming one."
  "Senor," said Sancho, "it is my belief it's a good thing to be in
command, if it's only over a drove of cattle."
  "May I be buried with you, Sancho," said the duke, "but you know
everything; I hope you will make as good a governor as your sagacity
promises; and that is all I have to say; and now remember to-morrow is
the day you must set out for the government of the island, and this
evening they will provide you with the proper attire for you to
wear, and all things requisite for your departure."
  "Let them dress me as they like," said Sancho; "however I'm
dressed I'll be Sancho Panza."
  "That's true," said the duke; "but one's dress must be suited to the
office or rank one holds; for it would not do for a jurist to dress
like a soldier, or a soldier like a priest. You, Sancho, shall go
partly as a lawyer, partly as a captain, for, in the island I am
giving you, arms are needed as much as letters, and letters as much as
arms."
  "Of letters I know but little," said Sancho, "for I don't even
know the A B C; but it is enough for me to have the Christus in my
memory to be a good governor. As for arms, I'll handle those they give
me till I drop, and then, God be my help!"
  "With so good a memory," said the duke, "Sancho cannot go wrong in
anything."
  Here Don Quixote joined them; and learning what passed, and how soon
Sancho was to go to his government, he with the duke's permission took
him by the hand, and retired to his room with him for the purpose of
giving him advice as to how he was to demean himself in his office. As
soon as they had entered the chamber he closed the door after him, and
almost by force made Sancho sit down beside him, and in a quiet tone
thus addressed him: "I give infinite thanks to heaven, friend
Sancho, that, before I have met with any good luck, fortune has come
forward to meet thee. I who counted upon my good fortune to
discharge the recompense of thy services, find myself still waiting
for advancement, while thou, before the time, and contrary to all
reasonable expectation, seest thyself blessed in the fulfillment of
thy desires. Some will bribe, beg, solicit, rise early, entreat,
persist, without attaining the object of their suit; while another
comes, and without knowing why or wherefore, finds himself invested
with the place or office so many have sued for; and here it is that
the common saying, 'There is good luck as well as bad luck in
suits,' applies. Thou, who, to my thinking, art beyond all doubt a
dullard, without early rising or night watching or taking any trouble,
with the mere breath of knight-errantry that has breathed upon thee,
seest thyself without more ado governor of an island, as though it
were a mere matter of course. This I say, Sancho, that thou
attribute not the favour thou hast received to thine own merits, but
give thanks to heaven that disposes matters beneficently, and secondly
thanks to the great power the profession of knight-errantry contains
in itself. With a heart, then, inclined to believe what I have said to
thee, attend, my son, to thy Cato here who would counsel thee and be
thy polestar and guide to direct and pilot thee to a safe haven out of
this stormy sea wherein thou art about to ingulf thyself; for
offices and great trusts are nothing else but a mighty gulf of
troubles.
  "First of all, my son, thou must fear God, for in the fear of him is
wisdom, and being wise thou canst not err in aught.
  "Secondly, thou must keep in view what thou art, striving to know
thyself, the most difficult thing to know that the mind can imagine.
If thou knowest thyself, it will follow thou wilt not puff thyself
up like the frog that strove to make himself as large as the ox; if
thou dost, the recollection of having kept pigs in thine own country
will serve as the ugly feet for the wheel of thy folly."
  "That's the truth," said Sancho; "but that was when I was a boy;
afterwards when I was something more of a man it was geese I kept, not
pigs. But to my thinking that has nothing to do with it; for all who
are governors don't come of a kingly stock."
  "True," said Don Quixote, "and for that reason those who are not
of noble origin should take care that the dignity of the office they
hold he accompanied by a gentle suavity, which wisely managed will
save them from the sneers of malice that no station escapes.
  "Glory in thy humble birth, Sancho, and he not ashamed of saying
thou art peasant-born; for when it is seen thou art not ashamed no one
will set himself to put thee to the blush; and pride thyself rather
upon being one of lowly virtue than a lofty sinner. Countless are they
who, born of mean parentage, have risen to the highest dignities,
pontifical and imperial, and of the truth of this I could give thee
instances enough to weary thee.
  "Remember, Sancho, if thou make virtue thy aim, and take a pride
in doing virtuous actions, thou wilt have no cause to envy those who
have princely and lordly ones, for blood is an inheritance, but virtue
an acquisition, and virtue has in itself alone a worth that blood does
not possess.
  "This being so, if perchance anyone of thy kinsfolk should come to
see thee when thou art in thine island, thou art not to repel or
slight him, but on the contrary to welcome him, entertain him, and
make much of him; for in so doing thou wilt be approved of heaven
(which is not pleased that any should despise what it hath made),
and wilt comply with the laws of well-ordered nature.
  "If thou carriest thy wife with thee (and it is not well for those
that administer governments to be long without their wives), teach and
instruct her, and strive to smooth down her natural roughness; for all
that may be gained by a wise governor may be lost and wasted by a
boorish stupid wife.
  "If perchance thou art left a widower- a thing which may happen- and
in virtue of thy office seekest a consort of higher degree, choose not
one to serve thee for a hook, or for a fishing-rod, or for the hood of
thy 'won't have it;' for verily, I tell thee, for all the judge's wife
receives, the husband will be held accountable at the general
calling to account; where he will have repay in death fourfold,
items that in life he regarded as naught.
  "Never go by arbitrary law, which is so much favoured by ignorant
men who plume themselves on cleverness.
  "Let the tears of the poor man find with thee more compassion, but
not more justice, than the pleadings of the rich.
  "Strive to lay bare the truth, as well amid the promises and
presents of the rich man, as amid the sobs and entreaties of the poor.
  "When equity may and should be brought into play, press not the
utmost rigour of the law against the guilty; for the reputation of the
stern judge stands not higher than that of the compassionate.
  "If perchance thou permittest the staff of justice to swerve, let it
be not by the weight of a gift, but by that of mercy.
  "If it should happen thee to give judgment in the cause of one who
is thine enemy, turn thy thoughts away from thy injury and fix them on
the justice of the case.
  "Let not thine own passion blind thee in another man's cause; for
the errors thou wilt thus commit will be most frequently irremediable;
or if not, only to be remedied at the expense of thy good name and
even of thy fortune.
  "If any handsome woman come to seek justice of thee, turn away thine
eyes from her tears and thine ears from her lamentations, and consider
deliberately the merits of her demand, if thou wouldst not have thy
reason swept away by her weeping, and thy rectitude by her sighs.
  "Abuse not by word him whom thou hast to punish in deed, for the
pain of punishment is enough for the unfortunate without the
addition of thine objurgations.
  "Bear in mind that the culprit who comes under thy jurisdiction is
but a miserable man subject to all the propensities of our depraved
nature, and so far as may be in thy power show thyself lenient and
forbearing; for though the attributes of God are all equal, to our
eyes that of mercy is brighter and loftier than that of justice.
  "If thou followest these precepts and rules, Sancho, thy days will
be long, thy fame eternal, thy reward abundant, thy felicity
unutterable; thou wilt marry thy children as thou wouldst; they and
thy grandchildren will bear titles; thou wilt live in peace and
concord with all men; and, when life draws to a close, death will come
to thee in calm and ripe old age, and the light and loving hands of
thy great-grandchildren will close thine eyes.
  "What I have thus far addressed to thee are instructions for the
adornment of thy mind; listen now to those which tend to that of the
body."
  CHAPTER XLIII
  OF THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA

  WHO, hearing the foregoing discourse of Don Quixote, would not
have set him down for a person of great good sense and greater
rectitude of purpose? But, as has been frequently observed in the
course of this great history, he only talked nonsense when he
touched on chivalry, and in discussing all other subjects showed
that he had a clear and unbiassed understanding; so that at every turn
his acts gave the lie to his intellect, and his intellect to his acts;
but in the case of these second counsels that he gave Sancho he showed
himself to have a lively turn of humour, and displayed conspicuously
his wisdom, and also his folly.
  Sancho listened to him with the deepest attention, and endeavoured
to fix his counsels in his memory, like one who meant to follow them
and by their means bring the full promise of his government to a happy
issue. Don Quixote, then, went on to say:
  "With regard to the mode in which thou shouldst govern thy person
and thy house, Sancho, the first charge I have to give thee is to be
clean, and to cut thy nails, not letting them grow as some do, whose
ignorance makes them fancy that long nails are an ornament to their
hands, as if those excrescences they neglect to cut were nails, and
not the talons of a lizard-catching kestrel- a filthy and unnatural
abuse.
  "Go not ungirt and loose, Sancho; for disordered attire is a sign of
an unstable mind, unless indeed the slovenliness and slackness is to
he set down to craft, as was the common opinion in the case of
Julius Caesar.
  "Ascertain cautiously what thy office may be worth; and if it will
allow thee to give liveries to thy servants, give them respectable and
serviceable, rather than showy and gay ones, and divide them between
thy servants and the poor; that is to say, if thou canst clothe six
pages, clothe three and three poor men, and thus thou wilt have
pages for heaven and pages for earth; the vainglorious never think
of this new mode of giving liveries.
  "Eat not garlic nor onions, lest they find out thy boorish origin by
the smell; walk slowly and speak deliberately, but not in such a way
as to make it seem thou art listening to thyself, for all
affectation is bad.
  "Dine sparingly and sup more sparingly still; for the health of
the whole body is forged in the workshop of the stomach.
  "Be temperate in drinking, bearing in mind that wine in excess keeps
neither secrets nor promises.
  "Take care, Sancho, not to chew on both sides, and not to eruct in
anybody's presence."
  "Eruct!" said Sancho; "I don't know what that means."
  "To eruct, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "means to belch, and that is
one of the filthiest words in the Spanish language, though a very
expressive one; and therefore nice folk have had recourse to the
Latin, and instead of belch say eruct, and instead of belches say
eructations; and if some do not understand these terms it matters
little, for custom will bring them into use in the course of time,
so that they will be readily understood; this is the way a language is
enriched; custom and the public are all-powerful there."
  "In truth, senor," said Sancho, "one of the counsels and cautions
I mean to bear in mind shall be this, not to belch, for I'm constantly
doing it."
  "Eruct, Sancho, not belch," said Don Quixote.
  "Eruct, I shall say henceforth, and I swear not to forget it,"
said Sancho.
  "Likewise, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou must not mingle such a
quantity of proverbs in thy discourse as thou dost; for though
proverbs are short maxims, thou dost drag them in so often by the head
and shoulders that they savour more of nonsense than of maxims."
  "God alone can cure that," said Sancho; "for I have more proverbs in
me than a book, and when I speak they come so thick together into my
mouth that they fall to fighting among themselves to get out; that's
why my tongue lets fly the first that come, though they may not be pat
to the purpose. But I'll take care henceforward to use such as befit
the dignity of my office; for 'in a house where there's plenty, supper
is soon cooked,' and 'he who binds does not wrangle,' and 'the
bell-ringer's in a safe berth,' and 'giving and keeping require
brains.'"
  "That's it, Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "pack, tack, string
proverbs together; nobody is hindering thee! 'My mother beats me,
and I go on with my tricks.' I am bidding thee avoid proverbs, and
here in a second thou hast shot out a whole litany of them, which have
as much to do with what we are talking about as 'over the hills of
Ubeda.' Mind, Sancho, I do not say that a proverb aptly brought in
is objectionable; but to pile up and string together proverbs at
random makes conversation dull and vulgar.
  "When thou ridest on horseback, do not go lolling with thy body on
the back of the saddle, nor carry thy legs stiff or sticking out
from the horse's belly, nor yet sit so loosely that one would
suppose thou wert on Dapple; for the seat on a horse makes gentlemen
of some and grooms of others.
  "Be moderate in thy sleep; for he who does not rise early does not
get the benefit of the day; and remember, Sancho, diligence is the
mother of good fortune, and indolence, its opposite, never yet
attained the object of an honest ambition.
  "The last counsel I will give thee now, though it does not tend to
bodily improvement, I would have thee carry carefully in thy memory,
for I believe it will be no less useful to thee than those I have
given thee already, and it is this- never engage in a dispute about
families, at least in the way of comparing them one with another;
for necessarily one of those compared will be better than the other,
and thou wilt be hated by the one thou hast disparaged, and get
nothing in any shape from the one thou hast exalted.
  "Thy attire shall be hose of full length, a long jerkin, and a cloak
a trifle longer; loose breeches by no means, for they are becoming
neither for gentlemen nor for governors.
  "For the present, Sancho, this is all that has occurred to me to
advise thee; as time goes by and occasions arise my instructions shall
follow, if thou take care to let me know how thou art circumstanced."
  "Senor," said Sancho, "I see well enough that all these things
your worship has said to me are good, holy, and profitable; but what
use will they be to me if I don't remember one of them? To be sure
that about not letting my nails grow, and marrying again if I have the
chance, will not slip out of my head; but all that other hash, muddle,
and jumble- I don't and can't recollect any more of it than of last
year's clouds; so it must be given me in writing; for though I can't
either read or write, I'll give it to my confessor, to drive it into
me and remind me of it whenever it is necessary."
  "Ah, sinner that I am!" said Don Quixote, "how bad it looks in
governors not to know how to read or write; for let me tell thee,
Sancho, when a man knows not how to read, or is left-handed, it argues
one of two things; either that he was the son of exceedingly mean
and lowly parents, or that he himself was so incorrigible and
ill-conditioned that neither good company nor good teaching could make
any impression on him. It is a great defect that thou labourest under,
and therefore I would have thee learn at any rate to sign thy name."
 "I can sign my name well enough," said Sancho, "for when I was
steward of the brotherhood in my village I learned to make certain
letters, like the marks on bales of goods, which they told me made out
my name. Besides I can pretend my right hand is disabled and make some
one else sign for me, for 'there's a remedy for everything except
death;' and as I shall be in command and hold the staff, I can do as I
like; moreover, 'he who has the alcalde for his father-,' and I'll
be governor, and that's higher than alcalde. Only come and see! Let
them make light of me and abuse me; 'they'll come for wool and go back
shorn;' 'whom God loves, his house is known to Him;' 'the silly
sayings of the rich pass for saws in the world;' and as I'll be
rich, being a governor, and at the same time generous, as I mean to
be, no fault will he seen in me. 'Only make yourself honey and the
flies will suck you;' 'as much as thou hast so much art thou worth,'
as my grandmother used to say; and 'thou canst have no revenge of a
man of substance.'"
  "Oh, God's curse upon thee, Sancho!" here exclaimed Don Quixote;
"sixty thousand devils fly away with thee and thy proverbs! For the
last hour thou hast been stringing them together and inflicting the
pangs of torture on me with every one of them. Those proverbs will
bring thee to the gallows one day, I promise thee; thy subjects will
take the government from thee, or there will be revolts among them.
Tell me, where dost thou pick them up, thou booby? How dost thou apply
them, thou blockhead? For with me, to utter one and make it apply
properly, I have to sweat and labour as if I were digging."
  "By God, master mine," said Sancho, "your worship is making a fuss
about very little. Why the devil should you be vexed if I make use
of what is my own? And I have got nothing else, nor any other stock in
trade except proverbs and more proverbs; and here are three just
this instant come into my head, pat to the purpose and like pears in a
basket; but I won't repeat them, for 'sage silence is called Sancho.'"
  "That, Sancho, thou art not," said Don Quixote; "for not only art
thou not sage silence, but thou art pestilent prate and perversity;
still I would like to know what three proverbs have just now come into
thy memory, for I have been turning over mine own- and it is a good
one- and none occurs to me."
  "What can be better," said Sancho, "than 'never put thy thumbs
between two back teeth;' and 'to "get out of my house" and "what do
you want with my wife?" there is no answer;' and 'whether the
pitcher hits the stove, or the stove the pitcher, it's a bad
business for the pitcher;' all which fit to a hair? For no one
should quarrel with his governor, or him in authority over him,
because he will come off the worst, as he does who puts his finger
between two back and if they are not back teeth it makes no
difference, so long as they are teeth; and to whatever the governor
may say there's no answer, any more than to 'get out of my house'
and 'what do you want with my wife?' and then, as for that about the
stone and the pitcher, a blind man could see that. So that he 'who
sees the mote in another's eye had need to see the beam in his own,'
that it be not said of himself, 'the dead woman was frightened at
the one with her throat cut;' and your worship knows well that 'the
fool knows more in his own house than the wise man in another's.'"
  "Nay, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "the fool knows nothing, either
in his own house or in anybody else's, for no wise structure of any
sort can stand on a foundation of folly; but let us say no more
about it, Sancho, for if thou governest badly, thine will he the fault
and mine the shame; but I comfort myself with having done my duty in
advising thee as earnestly and as wisely as I could; and thus I am
released from my obligations and my promise. God guide thee, Sancho,
and govern thee in thy government, and deliver me from the misgiving I
have that thou wilt turn the whole island upside down, a thing I might
easily prevent by explaining to the duke what thou art and telling him
that all that fat little person of thine is nothing else but a sack
full of proverbs and sauciness."
  "Senor," said Sancho, "if your worship thinks I'm not fit for this
government, I give it up on the spot; for the mere black of the nail
of my soul is dearer to me than my whole body; and I can live just
as well, simple Sancho, on bread and onions, as governor, on
partridges and capons; and what's more, while we're asleep we're all
equal, great and small, rich and poor. But if your worship looks
into it, you will see it was your worship alone that put me on to this
business of governing; for I know no more about the government of
islands than a buzzard; and if there's any reason to think that
because of my being a governor the devil will get hold of me, I'd
rather go Sancho to heaven than governor to hell."
  "By God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for those last words thou
hast uttered alone, I consider thou deservest to be governor of a
thousand islands. Thou hast good natural instincts, without which no
knowledge is worth anything; commend thyself to God, and try not to
swerve in the pursuit of thy main object; I mean, always make it thy
aim and fixed purpose to do right in all matters that come before
thee, for heaven always helps good intentions; and now let us go to
dinner, for I think my lord and lady are waiting for us."
  CHAPTER XLIV
  HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE
ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE

  IT iS stated, they say, in the true original of this history, that
when Cide Hamete came to write this chapter, his interpreter did not
translate it as he wrote it- that is, as a kind of complaint the
Moor made against himself for having taken in hand a story so dry
and of so little variety as this of Don Quixote, for he found
himself forced to speak perpetually of him and Sancho, without
venturing to indulge in digressions and episodes more serious and more
interesting. He said, too, that to go on, mind, hand, pen always
restricted to writing upon one single subject, and speaking through
the mouths of a few characters, was intolerable drudgery, the result
of which was never equal to the author's labour, and that to avoid
this he had in the First Part availed himself of the device of novels,
like "The Ill-advised Curiosity," and "The Captive Captain," which
stand, as it were, apart from the story; the others are given there
being incidents which occurred to Don Quixote himself and could not be
omitted. He also thought, he says, that many, engrossed by the
interest attaching to the exploits of Don Quixote, would take none
in the novels, and pass them over hastily or impatiently without
noticing the elegance and art of their composition, which would be
very manifest were they published by themselves and not as mere
adjuncts to the crazes of Don Quixote or the simplicities of Sancho.
Therefore in this Second Part he thought it best not to insert novels,
either separate or interwoven, but only episodes, something like them,
arising out of the circumstances the facts present; and even these
sparingly, and with no more words than suffice to make them plain; and
as he confines and restricts himself to the narrow limits of the
narrative, though he has ability; capacity, and brains enough to
deal with the whole universe, he requests that his labours may not
be despised, and that credit be given him, not alone for what he
writes, but for what he has refrained from writing.
  And so he goes on with his story, saying that the day Don Quixote
gave the counsels to Sancho, the same afternoon after dinner he handed
them to him in writing so that he might get some one to read them to
him. They had scarcely, however, been given to him when he let them
drop, and they fell into the hands of the duke, who showed them to the
duchess and they were both amazed afresh at the madness and wit of Don
Quixote. To carry on the joke, then, the same evening they
despatched Sancho with a large following to the village that was to
serve him for an island. It happened that the person who had him in
charge was a majordomo of the duke's, a man of great discretion and
humour- and there can be no humour without discretion- and the same
who played the part of the Countess Trifaldi in the comical way that
has been already described; and thus qualified, and instructed by
his master and mistress as to how to deal with Sancho, he carried
out their scheme admirably. Now it came to pass that as soon as Sancho
saw this majordomo he seemed in his features to recognise those of the
Trifaldi, and turning to his master, he said to him, "Senor, either
the devil will carry me off, here on this spot, righteous and
believing, or your worship will own to me that the face of this
majordomo of the duke's here is the very face of the Distressed One."
  Don Quixote regarded the majordomo attentively, and having done
so, said to Sancho, "There is no reason why the devil should carry
thee off, Sancho, either righteous or believing- and what thou meanest
by that I know not; the face of the Distressed One is that of the
majordomo, but for all that the majordomo is not the Distressed One;
for his being so would involve a mighty contradiction; but this is not
the time for going into questions of the sort, which would be
involving ourselves in an inextricable labyrinth. Believe me, my
friend, we must pray earnestly to our Lord that he deliver us both
from wicked wizards and enchanters."
  "It is no joke, senor," said Sancho, "for before this I heard him
speak, and it seemed exactly as if the voice of the Trifaldi was
sounding in my ears. Well, I'll hold my peace; but I'll take care to
be on the look-out henceforth for any sign that may be seen to confirm
or do away with this suspicion."
  "Thou wilt do well, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and thou wilt let me
know all thou discoverest, and all that befalls thee in thy
government."
  Sancho at last set out attended by a great number of people. He
was dressed in the garb of a lawyer, with a gaban of tawny watered
camlet over all and a montera cap of the same material, and mounted
a la gineta upon a mule. Behind him, in accordance with the duke's
orders, followed Dapple with brand new ass-trappings and ornaments
of silk, and from time to time Sancho turned round to look at his ass,
so well pleased to have him with him that he would not have changed
places with the emperor of Germany. On taking leave he kissed the
hands of the duke and duchess and got his master's blessing, which Don
Quixote gave him with tears, and he received blubbering.
  Let worthy Sancho go in peace, and good luck to him, Gentle
Reader; and look out for two bushels of laughter, which the account of
how he behaved himself in office will give thee. In the meantime
turn thy attention to what happened his master the same night, and
if thou dost not laugh thereat, at any rate thou wilt stretch thy
mouth with a grin; for Don Quixote's adventures must be honoured
either with wonder or with laughter.
  It is recorded, then, that as soon as Sancho had gone, Don Quixote
felt his loneliness, and had it been possible for him to revoke the
mandate and take away the government from him he would have done so.
The duchess observed his dejection and asked him why he was
melancholy; because, she said, if it was for the loss of Sancho, there
were squires, duennas, and damsels in her house who would wait upon
him to his full satisfaction.
  "The truth is, senora," replied Don Quixote, "that I do feel the
loss of Sancho; but that is not the main cause of my looking sad;
and of all the offers your excellence makes me, I accept only the
good-will with which they are made, and as to the remainder I
entreat of your excellence to permit and allow me alone to wait upon
myself in my chamber."
  "Indeed, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, "that must not be;
four of my damsels, as beautiful as flowers, shall wait upon you."
  "To me," said Don Quixote, "they will not be flowers, but thorns
to pierce my heart. They, or anything like them, shall as soon enter
my chamber as fly. If your highness wishes to gratify me still
further, though I deserve it not, permit me to please myself, and wait
upon myself in my own room; for I place a barrier between my
inclinations and my virtue, and I do not wish to break this rule
through the generosity your highness is disposed to display towards
me; and, in short, I will sleep in my clothes, sooner than allow
anyone to undress me."
  "Say no more, Senor Don Quixote, say no more," said the duchess;
"I assure you I will give orders that not even a fly, not to say a
damsel, shall enter your room. I am not the one to undermine the
propriety of Senor Don Quixote, for it strikes me that among his
many virtues the one that is pre-eminent is that of modesty. Your
worship may undress and dress in private and in your own way, as you
please and when you please, for there will be no one to hinder you;
and in your chamber you will find all the utensils requisite to supply
the wants of one who sleeps with his door locked, to the end that no
natural needs compel you to open it. May the great Dulcinea del Toboso
live a thousand years, and may her fame extend all over the surface of
the globe, for she deserves to be loved by a knight so valiant and
so virtuous; and may kind heaven infuse zeal into the heart of our
governor Sancho Panza to finish off his discipline speedily, so that
the world may once more enjoy the beauty of so grand a lady."
  To which Don Quixote replied, "Your highness has spoken like what
you are; from the mouth of a noble lady nothing bad can come; and
Dulcinea will be more fortunate, and better known to the world by
the praise of your highness than by all the eulogies the greatest
orators on earth could bestow upon her."
  "Well, well, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, is nearly
supper-time, and the duke is is probably waiting; come let us go to
supper, and retire to rest early, for the journey you made yesterday
from Kandy was not such a short one but that it must have caused you
some fatigue."
  "I feel none, senora," said Don Quixote, "for I would go so far as
to swear to your excellence that in all my life I never mounted a
quieter beast, or a pleasanter paced one, than Clavileno; and I
don't know what could have induced Malambruno to discard a steed so
swift and so gentle, and burn it so recklessly as he did."
  "Probably," said the duchess, "repenting of the evil he had done
to the Trifaldi and company, and others, and the crimes he must have
committed as a wizard and enchanter, he resolved to make away with all
the instruments of his craft; and so burned Clavileno as the chief
one, and that which mainly kept him restless, wandering from land to
land; and by its ashes and the trophy of the placard the valour of the
great Don Quixote of La Mancha is established for ever."
  Don Quixote renewed his thanks to the duchess; and having supped,
retired to his chamber alone, refusing to allow anyone to enter with
him to wait on him, such was his fear of encountering temptations that
might lead or drive him to forget his chaste fidelity to his lady
Dulcinea; for he had always present to his mind the virtue of
Amadis, that flower and mirror of knights-errant. He locked the door
behind him, and by the light of two wax candles undressed himself, but
as he was taking off his stockings- O disaster unworthy of such a
personage!- there came a burst, not of sighs, or anything belying
his delicacy or good breeding, but of some two dozen stitches in one
of his stockings, that made it look like a window-lattice. The
worthy gentleman was beyond measure distressed, and at that moment
he would have given an ounce of silver to have had half a drachm of
green silk there; I say green silk, because the stockings were green.
  Here Cide Hamete exclaimed as he was writing, "O poverty, poverty! I
know not what could have possessed the great Cordovan poet to call
thee 'holy gift ungratefully received.' Although a Moor, I know well
enough from the intercourse I have had with Christians that holiness
consists in charity, humility, faith, obedience, and poverty; but
for all that, I say he must have a great deal of godliness who can
find any satisfaction in being poor; unless, indeed, it be the kind of
poverty one of their greatest saints refers to, saying, 'possess all
things as though ye possessed them not;' which is what they call
poverty in spirit. But thou, that other poverty- for it is of thee I
am speaking now- why dost thou love to fall out with gentlemen and men
of good birth more than with other people? Why dost thou compel them
to smear the cracks in their shoes, and to have the buttons of their
coats, one silk, another hair, and another glass? Why must their ruffs
be always crinkled like endive leaves, and not crimped with a crimping
iron?" (From this we may perceive the antiquity of starch and
crimped ruffs.) Then he goes on: "Poor gentleman of good family!
always cockering up his honour, dining miserably and in secret, and
making a hypocrite of the toothpick with which he sallies out into the
street after eating nothing to oblige him to use it! Poor fellow, I
say, with his nervous honour, fancying they perceive a league off
the patch on his shoe, the sweat-stains on his hat, the shabbiness
of his cloak, and the hunger of his stomach!"
  All this was brought home to Don Quixote by the bursting of his
stitches; however, he comforted himself on perceiving that Sancho
had left behind a pair of travelling boots, which he resolved to
wear the next day. At last he went to bed, out of spirits and heavy at
heart, as much because he missed Sancho as because of the
irreparable disaster to his stockings, the stitches of which he
would have even taken up with silk of another colour, which is one
of the greatest signs of poverty a gentleman can show in the course of
his never-failing embarrassments. He put out the candles; but the
night was warm and he could not sleep; he rose from his bed and opened
slightly a grated window that looked out on a beautiful garden, and as
he did so he perceived and heard people walking and talking in the
garden. He set himself to listen attentively, and those below raised
their voices so that he could hear these words:
  "Urge me not to sing, Emerencia, for thou knowest that ever since
this stranger entered the castle and my eyes beheld him, I cannot sing
but only weep; besides my lady is a light rather than a heavy sleeper,
and I would not for all the wealth of the world that she found us
here; and even if she were asleep and did not waken, my singing
would be in vain, if this strange AEneas, who has come into my
neighbourhood to flout me, sleeps on and wakens not to hear it."
  "Heed not that, dear Altisidora," replied a voice; "the duchess is
no doubt asleep, and everybody in the house save the lord of thy heart
and disturber of thy soul; for just now I perceived him open the
grated window of his chamber, so he must be awake; sing, my poor
sufferer, in a low sweet tone to the accompaniment of thy harp; and
even if the duchess hears us we can lay the blame on the heat of the
night."
  "That is not the point, Emerencia," replied Altisidora, "it is
that I would not that my singing should lay bare my heart, and that
I should be thought a light and wanton maiden by those who know not
the mighty power of love; but come what may; better a blush on the
cheeks than a sore in the heart;" and here a harp softly touched
made itself heard. As he listened to all this Don Quixote was in a
state of breathless amazement, for immediately the countless
adventures like this, with windows, gratings, gardens, serenades,
lovemakings, and languishings, that he had read of in his trashy books
of chivalry, came to his mind. He at once concluded that some damsel
of the duchess's was in love with him, and that her modesty forced her
to keep her passion secret. He trembled lest he should fall, and
made an inward resolution not to yield; and commending himself with
all his might and soul to his lady Dulcinea he made up his mind to
listen to the music; and to let them know he was there he gave a
pretended sneeze, at which the damsels were not a little delighted,
for all they wanted was that Don Quixote should hear them. So having
tuned the harp, Altisidora, running her hand across the strings, began
this ballad:

       O thou that art above in bed,
         Between the holland sheets,
       A-lying there from night till morn,
         With outstretched legs asleep;

       O thou, most valiant knight of all
         The famed Manchegan breed,
       Of purity and virtue more
         Than gold of Araby;

       Give ear unto a suffering maid,
         Well-grown but evil-starr'd,
       For those two suns of thine have lit
         A fire within her heart.

       Adventures seeking thou dost rove,
         To others bringing woe;
       Thou scatterest wounds, but, ah, the balm
         To heal them dost withhold!

       Say, valiant youth, and so may God
         Thy enterprises speed,
       Didst thou the light mid Libya's sands
         Or Jaca's rocks first see?

       Did scaly serpents give thee suck?
         Who nursed thee when a babe?
       Wert cradled in the forest rude,
         Or gloomy mountain cave?

       O Dulcinea may be proud,
         That plump and lusty maid;
       For she alone hath had the power
         A tiger fierce to tame.

       And she for this shall famous be
         From Tagus to Jarama,
       From Manzanares to Genil,
         From Duero to Arlanza.

       Fain would I change with her, and give
         A petticoat to boot,
       The best and bravest that I have,
         All trimmed with gold galloon.

       O for to be the happy fair
         Thy mighty arms enfold,
       Or even sit beside thy bed
         And scratch thy dusty poll!

       I rave,- to favours such as these
         Unworthy to aspire;
       Thy feet to tickle were enough
         For one so mean as I.

       What caps, what slippers silver-laced,
         Would I on thee bestow!
       What damask breeches make for thee;
         What fine long holland cloaks!

       And I would give thee pearls that should
         As big as oak-galls show;
       So matchless big that each might well
         Be called the great "Alone."

       Manchegan Nero, look not down
         From thy Tarpeian Rock
       Upon this burning heart, nor add
         The fuel of thy wrath.

       A virgin soft and young am I,
         Not yet fifteen years old;
       (I'm only three months past fourteen,
         I swear upon my soul).

       I hobble not nor do I limp,
         All blemish I'm without,
       And as I walk my lily locks
         Are trailing on the ground.

       And though my nose be rather flat,
         And though my mouth be wide,
       My teeth like topazes exalt
         My beauty to the sky.

       Thou knowest that my voice is sweet,
         That is if thou dost hear;
       And I am moulded in a form
         Somewhat below the mean.

       These charms, and many more, are thine,
         Spoils to thy spear and bow all;
       A damsel of this house am I,
         By name Altisidora.

  Here the lay of the heart-stricken Altisidora came to an end,
while the warmly wooed Don Quixote began to feel alarm; and with a
deep sigh he said to himself, "O that I should be such an unlucky
knight that no damsel can set eyes on me but falls in love with me!
O that the peerless Dulcinea should be so unfortunate that they cannot
let her enjoy my incomparable constancy in peace! What would ye with
her, ye queens? Why do ye persecute her, ye empresses? Why ye pursue
her, ye virgins of from fourteen to fifteen? Leave the unhappy being
to triumph, rejoice and glory in the lot love has been pleased to
bestow upon her in surrendering my heart and yielding up my soul to
her. Ye love-smitten host, know that to Dulcinea only I am dough and
sugar-paste, flint to all others; for her I am honey, for you aloes.
For me Dulcinea alone is beautiful, wise, virtuous, graceful, and
high-bred, and all others are ill-favoured, foolish, light, and
low-born. Nature sent me into the world to be hers and no other's;
Altisidora may weep or sing, the lady for whose sake they belaboured
me in the castle of the enchanted Moor may give way to despair, but
I must be Dulcinea's, boiled or roast, pure, courteous, and chaste, in
spite of all the magic-working powers on earth." And with that he shut
the window with a bang, and, as much out of temper and out of sorts as
if some great misfortune had befallen him, stretched himself on his
bed, where we will leave him for the present, as the great Sancho
Panza, who is about to set up his famous government, now demands our
attention.
  CHAPTER XLV
  OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND
OF HOW HE MADE A BEGINNING IN GOVERNING

  O PERPETUAL discoverer of the antipodes, torch of the world, eye
of heaven, sweet stimulator of the water-coolers! Thimbraeus here,
Phoebus there, now archer, now physician, father of poetry, inventor
of music; thou that always risest and, notwithstanding appearances,
never settest! To thee, O Sun, by whose aid man begetteth man, to thee
I appeal to help me and lighten the darkness of my wit that I may be
able to proceed with scrupulous exactitude in giving an account of the
great Sancho Panza's government; for without thee I feel myself
weak, feeble, and uncertain.
  To come to the point, then- Sancho with all his attendants arrived
at a village of some thousand inhabitants, and one of the largest
the duke possessed. They informed him that it was called the island of
Barataria, either because the name of the village was Baratario, or
because of the joke by way of which the government had been
conferred upon him. On reaching the gates of the town, which was a
walled one, the municipality came forth to meet him, the bells rang
out a peal, and the inhabitants showed every sign of general
satisfaction; and with great pomp they conducted him to the
principal church to give thanks to God, and then with burlesque
ceremonies they presented him with the keys of the town, and
acknowledged him as perpetual governor of the island of Barataria. The
costume, the beard, and the fat squat figure of the new governor
astonished all those who were not in the secret, and even all who
were, and they were not a few. Finally, leading him out of the
church they carried him to the judgment seat and seated him on it, and
the duke's majordomo said to him, "It is an ancient custom in this
island, senor governor, that he who comes to take possession of this
famous island is bound to answer a question which shall be put to him,
and which must he a somewhat knotty and difficult one; and by his
answer the people take the measure of their new governor's wit, and
hail with joy or deplore his arrival accordingly."
  While the majordomo was making this speech Sancho was gazing at
several large letters inscribed on the wall opposite his seat, and
as he could not read he asked what that was that was painted on the
wall. The answer was, "Senor, there is written and recorded the day on
which your lordship took possession of this island, and the
inscription says, 'This day, the so-and-so of such-and-such a month
and year, Senor Don Sancho Panza took possession of this island;
many years may he enjoy it.'"
  "And whom do they call Don Sancho Panza?" asked Sancho.
  "Your lordship," replied the majordomo; "for no other Panza but
the one who is now seated in that chair has ever entered this island."
  "Well then, let me tell you, brother," said Sancho, "I haven't got
the 'Don,' nor has any one of my family ever had it; my name is
plain Sancho Panza, and Sancho was my father's name, and Sancho was my
grandfather's and they were all Panzas, without any Dons or Donas
tacked on; I suspect that in this island there are more Dons than
stones; but never mind; God knows what I mean, and maybe if my
government lasts four days I'll weed out these Dons that no doubt
are as great a nuisance as the midges, they're so plenty. Let the
majordomo go on with his question, and I'll give the best answer I
can, whether the people deplore or not."
  At this instant there came into court two old men, one carrying a
cane by way of a walking-stick, and the one who had no stick said,
"Senor, some time ago I lent this good man ten gold-crowns in gold
to gratify him and do him a service, on the condition that he was to
return them to me whenever I should ask for them. A long time passed
before I asked for them, for I would not put him to any greater
straits to return them than he was in when I lent them to him; but
thinking he was growing careless about payment I asked for them once
and several times; and not only will he not give them back, but he
denies that he owes them, and says I never lent him any such crowns;
or if I did, that he repaid them; and I have no witnesses either of
the loan, or the payment, for he never paid me; I want your worship to
put him to his oath, and if he swears he returned them to me I forgive
him the debt here and before God."
  "What say you to this, good old man, you with the stick?" said
Sancho.
  To which the old man replied, "I admit, senor, that he lent them
to me; but let your worship lower your staff, and as he leaves it to
my oath, I'll swear that I gave them back, and paid him really and
truly."
  The governor lowered the staff, and as he did so the old man who had
the stick handed it to the other old man to hold for him while he
swore, as if he found it in his way; and then laid his hand on the
cross of the staff, saying that it was true the ten crowns that were
demanded of him had been lent him; but that he had with his own hand
given them back into the hand of the other, and that he, not
recollecting it, was always asking for them.
  Seeing this the great governor asked the creditor what answer he had
to make to what his opponent said. He said that no doubt his debtor
had told the truth, for he believed him to be an honest man and a good
Christian, and he himself must have forgotten when and how he had
given him back the crowns; and that from that time forth he would make
no further demand upon him.
  The debtor took his stick again, and bowing his head left the court.
Observing this, and how, without another word, he made off, and
observing too the resignation of the plaintiff, Sancho buried his head
in his bosom and remained for a short space in deep thought, with
the forefinger of his right hand on his brow and nose; then he
raised his head and bade them call back the old man with the stick,
for he had already taken his departure. They brought him back, and
as soon as Sancho saw him he said, "Honest man, give me that stick,
for I want it."
  "Willingly," said the old man; "here it is senor," and he put it
into his hand.
  Sancho took it and, handing it to the other old man, said to him,
"Go, and God be with you; for now you are paid."
  "I, senor!" returned the old man; "why, is this cane worth ten
gold-crowns?"
  "Yes," said the governor, "or if not I am the greatest dolt in the
world; now you will see whether I have got the headpiece to govern a
whole kingdom;" and he ordered the cane to be broken in two, there, in
the presence of all. It was done, and in the middle of it they found
ten gold-crowns. All were filled with amazement, and looked upon their
governor as another Solomon. They asked him how he had come to the
conclusion that the ten crowns were in the cane; he replied, that
observing how the old man who swore gave the stick to his opponent
while he was taking the oath, and swore that he had really and truly
given him the crowns, and how as soon as he had done swearing he asked
for the stick again, it came into his head that the sum demanded
must be inside it; and from this he said it might be seen that God
sometimes guides those who govern in their judgments, even though they
may be fools; besides he had himself heard the curate of his village
mention just such another case, and he had so good a memory, that if
it was not that he forgot everything he wished to remember, there
would not be such a memory in all the island. To conclude, the old men
went off, one crestfallen, and the other in high contentment, all
who were present were astonished, and he who was recording the
words, deeds, and movements of Sancho could not make up his mind
whether he was to look upon him and set him down as a fool or as a man
of sense.
  As soon as this case was disposed of, there came into court a
woman holding on with a tight grip to a man dressed like a
well-to-do cattle dealer, and she came forward making a great outcry
and exclaiming, "Justice, senor governor, justice! and if I don't
get it on earth I'll go look for it in heaven. Senor governor of my
soul, this wicked man caught me in the middle of the fields here and
used my body as if it was an ill-washed rag, and, woe is me! got
from me what I had kept these three-and-twenty years and more,
defending it against Moors and Christians, natives and strangers;
and I always as hard as an oak, and keeping myself as pure as a
salamander in the fire, or wool among the brambles, for this good
fellow to come now with clean hands to handle me!"
  "It remains to be proved whether this gallant has clean hands or
not," said Sancho; and turning to the man he asked him what he had
to say in answer to the woman's charge.
  He all in confusion made answer, "Sirs, I am a poor pig dealer,
and this morning I left the village to sell (saving your presence)
four pigs, and between dues and cribbings they got out of me little
less than the worth of them. As I was returning to my village I fell
in on the road with this good dame, and the devil who makes a coil and
a mess out of everything, yoked us together. I paid her fairly, but
she not contented laid hold of me and never let go until she brought
me here; she says I forced her, but she lies by the oath I swear or am
ready to swear; and this is the whole truth and every particle of it."
  The governor on this asked him if he had any money in silver about
him; he said he had about twenty ducats in a leather purse in his
bosom. The governor bade him take it out and hand it to the
complainant; he obeyed trembling; the woman took it, and making a
thousand salaams to all and praying to God for the long life and
health of the senor governor who had such regard for distressed
orphans and virgins, she hurried out of court with the purse grasped
in both her hands, first looking, however, to see if the money it
contained was silver.
  As soon as she was gone Sancho said to the cattle dealer, whose
tears were already starting and whose eyes and heart were following
his purse, "Good fellow, go after that woman and take the purse from
her, by force even, and come back with it here;" and he did not say it
to one who was a fool or deaf, for the man was off like a flash of
lightning, and ran to do as he was bid.
  All the bystanders waited anxiously to see the end of the case,
and presently both man and woman came back at even closer grips than
before, she with her petticoat up and the purse in the lap of it,
and he struggling hard to take it from her, but all to no purpose,
so stout was the woman's defence, she all the while crying out,
"Justice from God and the world! see here, senor governor, the
shamelessness and boldness of this villain, who in the middle of the
town, in the middle of the street, wanted to take from me the purse
your worship bade him give me."
  "And did he take it?" asked the governor.
  "Take it!" said the woman; "I'd let my life be taken from me
sooner than the purse. A pretty child I'd be! It's another sort of cat
they must throw in my face, and not that poor scurvy knave. Pincers
and hammers, mallets and chisels would not get it out of my grip;
no, nor lions' claws; the soul from out of my body first!"
  "She is right," said the man; "I own myself beaten and powerless;
I confess I haven't the strength to take it from her;" and he let go
his hold of her.
  Upon this the governor said to the woman, "Let me see that purse, my
worthy and sturdy friend." She handed it to him at once, and the
governor returned it to the man, and said to the unforced mistress
of force, "Sister, if you had shown as much, or only half as much,
spirit and vigour in defending your body as you have shown in
defending that purse, the strength of Hercules could not have forced
you. Be off, and God speed you, and bad luck to you, and don't show
your face in all this island, or within six leagues of it on any side,
under pain of two hundred lashes; be off at once, I say, you
shameless, cheating shrew."
  The woman was cowed and went off disconsolately, hanging her head;
and the governor said to the man, "Honest man, go home with your
money, and God speed you; and for the future, if you don't want to
lose it, see that you don't take it into your head to yoke with
anybody." The man thanked him as clumsily as he could and went his
way, and the bystanders were again filled with admiration at their new
governor's judgments and sentences.
  Next, two men, one apparently a farm labourer, and the other a
tailor, for he had a pair of shears in his hand, presented
themselves before him, and the tailor said, "Senor governor, this
labourer and I come before your worship by reason of this honest man
coming to my shop yesterday (for saving everybody's presence I'm a
passed tailor, God be thanked), and putting a piece of cloth into my
hands and asking me, 'Senor, will there be enough in this cloth to
make me a cap?' Measuring the cloth I said there would. He probably
suspected- as I supposed, and I supposed right- that I wanted to steal
some of the cloth, led to think so by his own roguery and the bad
opinion people have of tailors; and he told me to see if there would
he enough for two. I guessed what he would be at, and I said 'yes.'
He, still following up his original unworthy notion, went on adding
cap after cap, and I 'yes' after 'yes,' until we got as far as five.
He has just this moment come for them; I gave them to him, but he
won't pay me for the making; on the contrary, he calls upon me to
pay him, or else return his cloth."
  "Is all this true, brother?" said Sancho.
  "Yes," replied the man; "but will your worship make him show the
five caps he has made me?"
  "With all my heart," said the tailor; and drawing his hand from
under his cloak he showed five caps stuck upon the five fingers of it,
and said, "there are the caps this good man asks for; and by God and
upon my conscience I haven't a scrap of cloth left, and I'll let the
work be examined by the inspectors of the trade."
  All present laughed at the number of caps and the novelty of the
suit; Sancho set himself to think for a moment, and then said, "It
seems to me that in this case it is not necessary to deliver
long-winded arguments, but only to give off-hand the judgment of an
honest man; and so my decision is that the tailor lose the making
and the labourer the cloth, and that the caps go to the prisoners in
the gaol, and let there be no more about it."
  If the previous decision about the cattle dealer's purse excited the
admiration of the bystanders, this provoked their laughter; however,
the governor's orders were after all executed. All this, having been
taken down by his chronicler, was at once despatched to the duke,
who was looking out for it with great eagerness; and here let us leave
the good Sancho; for his master, sorely troubled in mind by
Altisidora's music, has pressing claims upon us now.
  CHAPTER XLVI
  OF THE TERRIBLE BELL AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE
COURSE OF THE ENAMOURED ALTISIDORA'S WOOING

  WE left Don Quixote wrapped up in the reflections which the music of
the enamourned maid Altisidora had given rise to. He went to bed
with them, and just like fleas they would not let him sleep or get a
moment's rest, and the broken stitches of his stockings helped them.
But as Time is fleet and no obstacle can stay his course, he came
riding on the hours, and morning very soon arrived. Seeing which Don
Quixote quitted the soft down, and, nowise slothful, dressed himself
in his chamois suit and put on his travelling boots to hide the
disaster to his stockings. He threw over him his scarlet mantle, put
on his head a montera of green velvet trimmed with silver edging,
flung across his shoulder the baldric with his good trenchant sword,
took up a large rosary that he always carried with him, and with great
solemnity and precision of gait proceeded to the antechamber where the
duke and duchess were already dressed and waiting for him. But as he
passed through a gallery, Altisidora and the other damsel, her friend,
were lying in wait for him, and the instant Altisidora saw him she
pretended to faint, while her friend caught her in her lap, and
began hastily unlacing the bosom of her dress.
  Don Quixote observed it, and approaching them said, "I know very
well what this seizure arises from."
  "I know not from what," replied the friend, "for Altisidora is the
healthiest damsel in all this house, and I have never heard her
complain all the time I have known her. A plague on all the
knights-errant in the world, if they be all ungrateful! Go away, Senor
Don Quixote; for this poor child will not come to herself again so
long as you are here."
  To which Don Quixote returned, "Do me the favour, senora, to let a
lute be placed in my chamber to-night; and I will comfort this poor
maiden to the best of my power; for in the early stages of love a
prompt disillusion is an approved remedy;" and with this he retired,
so as not to be remarked by any who might see him there.
  He had scarcely withdrawn when Altisidora, recovering from her
swoon, said to her companion, "The lute must be left, for no doubt Don
Quixote intends to give us some music; and being his it will not be
bad."
  They went at once to inform the duchess of what was going on, and of
the lute Don Quixote asked for, and she, delighted beyond measure,
plotted with the duke and her two damsels to play him a trick that
should be amusing but harmless; and in high glee they waited for
night, which came quickly as the day had come; and as for the day, the
duke and duchess spent it in charming conversation with Don Quixote.
  When eleven o'clock came, Don Quixote found a guitar in his chamber;
he tried it, opened the window, and perceived that some persons were
walking in the garden; and having passed his fingers over the frets of
the guitar and tuned it as well as he could, he spat and cleared his
chest, and then with a voice a little hoarse but full-toned, he sang
the following ballad, which he had himself that day composed:

       Mighty Love the hearts of maidens
         Doth unsettle and perplex,
       And the instrument he uses
         Most of all is idleness.

       Sewing, stitching, any labour,
         Having always work to do,
       To the poison Love instilleth
         Is the antidote most sure.

       And to proper-minded maidens
         Who desire the matron's name
       Modesty's a marriage portion,
         Modesty their highest praise.

       Men of prudence and discretion,
         Courtiers gay and gallant knights,
       With the wanton damsels dally,
         But the modest take to wife.

       There are passions, transient, fleeting,
         Loves in hostelries declar'd,
       Sunrise loves, with sunset ended,
         When the guest hath gone his way.

       Love that springs up swift and sudden,
         Here to-day, to-morrow flown,
       Passes, leaves no trace behind it,
         Leaves no image on the soul.

       Painting that is laid on painting
         Maketh no display or show;
       Where one beauty's in possession
         There no other can take hold.

       Dulcinea del Toboso
         Painted on my heart I wear;
       Never from its tablets, never,
         Can her image be eras'd.

       The quality of all in lovers
         Most esteemed is constancy;
       'T is by this that love works wonders,
         This exalts them to the skies.

  Don Quixote had got so far with his song, to which the duke, the
duchess, Altisidora, and nearly the whole household of the castle were
listening, when all of a sudden from a gallery above that was
exactly over his window they let down a cord with more than a
hundred bells attached to it, and immediately after that discharged
a great sack full of cats, which also had bells of smaller size tied
to their tails. Such was the din of the bells and the squalling of the
cats, that though the duke and duchess were the contrivers of the joke
they were startled by it, while Don Quixote stood paralysed with fear;
and as luck would have it, two or three of the cats made their way
in through the grating of his chamber, and flying from one side to the
other, made it seem as if there was a legion of devils at large in it.
They extinguished the candles that were burning in the room, and
rushed about seeking some way of escape; the cord with the large bells
never ceased rising and falling; and most of the people of the castle,
not knowing what was really the matter, were at their wits' end with
astonishment. Don Quixote sprang to his feet, and drawing his sword,
began making passes at the grating, shouting out, "Avaunt, malignant
enchanters! avaunt, ye witchcraft-working rabble! I am Don Quixote
of La Mancha, against whom your evil machinations avail not nor have
any power." And turning upon the cats that were running about the
room, he made several cuts at them. They dashed at the grating and
escaped by it, save one that, finding itself hard pressed by the
slashes of Don Quixote's sword, flew at his face and held on to his
nose tooth and nail, with the pain of which he began to shout his
loudest. The duke and duchess hearing this, and guessing what it
was, ran with all haste to his room, and as the poor gentleman was
striving with all his might to detach the cat from his face, they
opened the door with a master-key and went in with lights and
witnessed the unequal combat. The duke ran forward to part the
combatants, but Don Quixote cried out aloud, "Let no one take him from
me; leave me hand to hand with this demon, this wizard, this
enchanter; I will teach him, I myself, who Don Quixote of La Mancha
is." The cat, however, never minding these threats, snarled and held
on; but at last the duke pulled it off and flung it out of the window.
Don Quixote was left with a face as full of holes as a sieve and a
nose not in very good condition, and greatly vexed that they did not
let him finish the battle he had been so stoutly fighting with that
villain of an enchanter. They sent for some oil of John's wort, and
Altisidora herself with her own fair hands bandaged all the wounded
parts; and as she did so she said to him in a low voice. "All these
mishaps have befallen thee, hardhearted knight, for the sin of thy
insensibility and obstinacy; and God grant thy squire Sancho may
forget to whip himself, so that that dearly beloved Dulcinea of
thine may never be released from her enchantment, that thou mayest
never come to her bed, at least while I who adore thee am alive."
  To all this Don Quixote made no answer except to heave deep sighs,
and then stretched himself on his bed, thanking the duke and duchess
for their kindness, not because he stood in any fear of that
bell-ringing rabble of enchanters in cat shape, but because he
recognised their good intentions in coming to his rescue. The duke and
duchess left him to repose and withdrew greatly grieved at the
unfortunate result of the joke; as they never thought the adventure
would have fallen so heavy on Don Quixote or cost him so dear, for
it cost him five days of confinement to his bed, during which he had
another adventure, pleasanter than the late one, which his
chronicler will not relate just now in order that he may turn his
attention to Sancho Panza, who was proceeding with great diligence and
drollery in his government.
  CHAPTER XLVII
  WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED
HIMSELF IN HIS GOVERNMENT

  THE history says that from the justice court they carried Sancho
to a sumptuous palace, where in a spacious chamber there was a table
laid out with royal magnificence. The clarions sounded as Sancho
entered the room, and four pages came forward to present him with
water for his hands, which Sancho received with great dignity. The
music ceased, and Sancho seated himself at the head of the table,
for there was only that seat placed, and no more than one cover
laid. A personage, who it appeared afterwards was a physician,
placed himself standing by his side with a whalebone wand in his hand.
They then lifted up a fine white cloth covering fruit and a great
variety of dishes of different sorts; one who looked like a student
said grace, and a page put a laced bib on Sancho, while another who
played the part of head carver placed a dish of fruit before him.
But hardly had he tasted a morsel when the man with the wand touched
the plate with it, and they took it away from before him with the
utmost celerity. The carver, however, brought him another dish, and
Sancho proceeded to try it; but before he could get at it, not to
say taste it, already the wand had touched it and a page had carried
it off with the same promptitude as the fruit. Sancho seeing this
was puzzled, and looking from one to another asked if this dinner
was to be eaten after the fashion of a jugglery trick.
  To this he with the wand replied, "It is not to be eaten, senor
governor, except as is usual and customary in other islands where
there are governors. I, senor, am a physician, and I am paid a
salary in this island to serve its governors as such, and I have a
much greater regard for their health than for my own, studying day and
night and making myself acquainted with the governor's constitution,
in order to be able to cure him when he falls sick. The chief thing
I have to do is to attend at his dinners and suppers and allow him
to eat what appears to me to be fit for him, and keep from him what
I think will do him harm and be injurious to his stomach; and
therefore I ordered that plate of fruit to be removed as being too
moist, and that other dish I ordered to he removed as being too hot
and containing many spices that stimulate thirst; for he who drinks
much kills and consumes the radical moisture wherein life consists."
  "Well then," said Sancho, "that dish of roast partridges there
that seems so savoury will not do me any harm."
  To this the physician replied, "Of those my lord the governor
shall not eat so long as I live."
  "Why so?" said Sancho.
  "Because," replied the doctor, "our master Hippocrates, the polestar
and beacon of medicine, says in one of his aphorisms omnis saturatio
mala, perdicis autem pessima, which means 'all repletion is bad, but
that of partridge is the worst of all."
  "In that case," said Sancho, "let senor doctor see among the
dishes that are on the table what will do me most good and least harm,
and let me eat it, without tapping it with his stick; for by the
life of the governor, and so may God suffer me to enjoy it, but I'm
dying of hunger; and in spite of the doctor and all he may say, to
deny me food is the way to take my life instead of prolonging it."
  "Your worship is right, senor governor," said the physician; "and
therefore your worship, I consider, should not eat of those stewed
rabbits there, because it is a furry kind of food; if that veal were
not roasted and served with pickles, you might try it; but it is out
of the question."
  "That big dish that is smoking farther off," said Sancho, "seems
to me to be an olla podrida, and out of the diversity of things in
such ollas, I can't fail to light upon something tasty and good for
me."
  "Absit," said the doctor; "far from us be any such base thought!
There is nothing in the world less nourishing than an olla podrida; to
canons, or rectors of colleges, or peasants' weddings with your
ollas podridas, but let us have none of them on the tables of
governors, where everything that is present should be delicate and
refined; and the reason is, that always, everywhere and by
everybody, simple medicines are more esteemed than compound ones,
for we cannot go wrong in those that are simple, while in the compound
we may, by merely altering the quantity of the things composing
them. But what I am of opinion the governor should cat now in order to
preserve and fortify his health is a hundred or so of wafer cakes
and a few thin slices of conserve of quinces, which will settle his
stomach and help his digestion."
  Sancho on hearing this threw himself back in his chair and
surveyed the doctor steadily, and in a solemn tone asked him what
his name was and where he had studied.
  He replied, "My name, senor governor, is Doctor Pedro Recio de
Aguero I am a native of a place called Tirteafuera which lies
between Caracuel and Almodovar del Campo, on the right-hand side,
and I have the degree of doctor from the university of Osuna."
  To which Sancho, glowing all over with rage, returned, "Then let
Doctor Pedro Recio de Malaguero, native of Tirteafuera, a place that's
on the right-hand side as we go from Caracuel to Almodovar del
Campo, graduate of Osuna, get out of my presence at once; or I swear
by the sun I'll take a cudgel, and by dint of blows, beginning with
him, I'll not leave a doctor in the whole island; at least of those
I know to be ignorant; for as to learned, wise, sensible physicians,
them I will reverence and honour as divine persons. Once more I say
let Pedro Recio get out of this or I'll take this chair I am sitting
on and break it over his head. And if they call me to account for
it, I'll clear myself by saying I served God in killing a bad
doctor- a general executioner. And now give me something to eat, or
else take your government; for a trade that does not feed its master
is not worth two beans."
  The doctor was dismayed when he saw the governor in such a
passion, and he would have made a Tirteafuera out of the room but that
the same instant a post-horn sounded in the street; and the carver
putting his head out of the window turned round and said, "It's a
courier from my lord the duke, no doubt with some despatch of
importance."
  The courier came in all sweating and flurried, and taking a paper
from his bosom, placed it in the governor's hands. Sancho handed it to
the majordomo and bade him read the superscription, which ran thus: To
Don Sancho Panza, Governor of the Island of Barataria, into his own
hands or those of his secretary. Sancho when he heard this said,
"Which of you is my secretary?" "I am, senor," said one of those
present, "for I can read and write, and am a Biscayan." "With that
addition," said Sancho, "you might be secretary to the emperor
himself; open this paper and see what it says." The new-born secretary
obeyed, and having read the contents said the matter was one to be
discussed in private. Sancho ordered the chamber to be cleared, the
majordomo and the carver only remaining; so the doctor and the
others withdrew, and then the secretary read the letter, which was
as follows:

  It has come to my knowledge, Senor Don Sancho Panza, that certain
enemies of mine and of the island are about to make a furious attack
upon it some night, I know not when. It behoves you to be on the alert
and keep watch, that they surprise you not. I also know by trustworthy
spies that four persons have entered the town in disguise in order
to take your life, because they stand in dread of your great capacity;
keep your eyes open and take heed who approaches you to address you,
and eat nothing that is presented to you. I will take care to send you
aid if you find yourself in difficulty, but in all things you will act
as may be expected of your judgment. From this place, the Sixteenth of
August, at four in the morning.
                              Your friend,
                                       THE DUKE

  Sancho was astonished, and those who stood by made believe to be
so too, and turning to the majordomo he said to him, "What we have got
to do first, and it must be done at once, is to put Doctor Recio in
the lock-up; for if anyone wants to kill me it is he, and by a slow
death and the worst of all, which is hunger."
  "Likewise," said the carver, "it is my opinion your worship should
not eat anything that is on this table, for the whole was a present
from some nuns; and as they say, 'behind the cross there's the
devil.'"
  "I don't deny it," said Sancho; "so for the present give me a
piece of bread and four pounds or so of grapes; no poison can come
in them; for the fact is I can't go on without eating; and if we are
to be prepared for these battles that are threatening us we must be
well provisioned; for it is the tripes that carry the heart and not
the heart the tripes. And you, secretary, answer my lord the duke
and tell him that all his commands shall be obeyed to the letter, as
he directs; and say from me to my lady the duchess that I kiss her
hands, and that I beg of her not to forget to send my letter and
bundle to my wife Teresa Panza by a messenger; and I will take it as a
great favour and will not fail to serve her in all that may lie within
my power; and as you are about it you may enclose a kiss of the hand
to my master Don Quixote that he may see I am grateful bread; and as a
good secretary and a good Biscayan you may add whatever you like and
whatever will come in best; and now take away this cloth and give me
something to eat, and I'll be ready to meet all the spies and
assassins and enchanters that may come against me or my island."
  At this instant a page entered saying, "Here is a farmer on
business, who wants to speak to your lordship on a matter of great
importance, he says."
  "It's very odd," said Sancho, "the ways of these men on business; is
it possible they can be such fools as not to see that an hour like
this is no hour for coming on business? We who govern and we who are
judges- are we not men of flesh and blood, and are we not to be
allowed the time required for taking rest, unless they'd have us
made of marble? By God and on my conscience, if the government remains
in my hands (which I have a notion it won't), I'll bring more than one
man on business to order. However, tell this good man to come in;
but take care first of all that he is not some spy or one of my
assassins."
  "No, my lord," said the page, "for he looks like a simple fellow,
and either I know very little or he is as good as good bread."
  "There is nothing to be afraid of," said the majordomo, "for we
are all here."
  "Would it be possible, carver," said Sancho, "now that Doctor
Pedro Recio is not here, to let me eat something solid and
substantial, if it were even a piece of bread and an onion?"
  "To-night at supper," said the carver, "the shortcomings of the
dinner shall be made good, and your lordship shall be fully
contented."
  "God grant it," said Sancho.
  The farmer now came in, a well-favoured man that one might see a
thousand leagues off was an honest fellow and a good soul. The first
thing he said was, "Which is the lord governor here?"
  "Which should it be," said the secretary, "but he who is seated in
the chair?"
  "Then I humble myself before him," said the farmer; and going on his
knees he asked for his hand, to kiss it. Sancho refused it, and bade
him stand up and say what he wanted. The farmer obeyed, and then said,
"I am a farmer, senor, a native of Miguelturra, a village two
leagues from Ciudad Real."
  "Another Tirteafuera!" said Sancho; "say on, brother; I know
Miguelturra very well I can tell you, for it's not very far from my
own town."
  "The case is this, senor," continued the farmer, "that by God's
mercy I am married with the leave and licence of the holy Roman
Catholic Church; I have two sons, students, and the younger is
studying to become bachelor, and the elder to be licentiate; I am a
widower, for my wife died, or more properly speaking, a bad doctor
killed her on my hands, giving her a purge when she was with child;
and if it had pleased God that the child had been born, and was a boy,
I would have put him to study for doctor, that he might not envy his
brothers the bachelor and the licentiate."
  "So that if your wife had not died, or had not been killed, you
would not now be a widower," said Sancho.
  "No, senor, certainly not," said the farmer.
  "We've got that much settled," said Sancho; "get on, brother, for
it's more bed-time than business-time."
  "Well then," said the farmer, "this son of mine who is going to be a
bachelor, fell in love in the said town with a damsel called Clara
Perlerina, daughter of Andres Perlerino, a very rich farmer; and
this name of Perlerines does not come to them by ancestry or
descent, but because all the family are paralytics, and for a better
name they call them Perlerines; though to tell the truth the damsel is
as fair as an Oriental pearl, and like a flower of the field, if you
look at her on the right side; on the left not so much, for on that
side she wants an eye that she lost by small-pox; and though her
face is thickly and deeply pitted, those who love her say they are not
pits that are there, but the graves where the hearts of her lovers are
buried. She is so cleanly that not to soil her face she carries her
nose turned up, as they say, so that one would fancy it was running
away from her mouth; and with all this she looks extremely well, for
she has a wide mouth; and but for wanting ten or a dozen teeth and
grinders she might compare and compete with the comeliest. Of her lips
I say nothing, for they are so fine and thin that, if lips might be
reeled, one might make a skein of them; but being of a different
colour from ordinary lips they are wonderful, for they are mottled,
blue, green, and purple- let my lord the governor pardon me for
painting so minutely the charms of her who some time or other will
be my daughter; for I love her, and I don't find her amiss."
  "Paint what you will," said Sancho; "I enjoy your painting, and if I
had dined there could be no dessert more to my taste than your
portrait."
  "That I have still to furnish," said the farmer; "but a time will
come when we may be able if we are not now; and I can tell you, senor,
if I could paint her gracefulness and her tall figure, it would
astonish you; but that is impossible because she is bent double with
her knees up to her mouth; but for all that it is easy to see that
if she could stand up she'd knock her head against the ceiling; and
she would have given her hand to my bachelor ere this, only that she
can't stretch it out, for it's contracted; but still one can see its
elegance and fine make by its long furrowed nails."
  "That will do, brother," said Sancho; "consider you have painted her
from head to foot; what is it you want now? Come to the point
without all this beating about the bush, and all these scraps and
additions."
  "I want your worship, senor," said the farmer, "to do me the
favour of giving me a letter of recommendation to the girl's father,
begging him to be so good as to let this marriage take place, as we
are not ill-matched either in the gifts of fortune or of nature; for
to tell the truth, senor governor, my son is possessed of a devil, and
there is not a day but the evil spirits torment him three or four
times; and from having once fallen into the fire, he has his face
puckered up like a piece of parchment, and his eyes watery and
always running; but he has the disposition of an angel, and if it
was not for belabouring and pummelling himself he'd be a saint."
  "Is there anything else you want, good man?" said Sancho.
  "There's another thing I'd like," said the farmer, "but I'm afraid
to mention it; however, out it must; for after all I can't let it be
rotting in my breast, come what may. I mean, senor, that I'd like your
worship to give me three hundred or six hundred ducats as a help to my
bachelor's portion, to help him in setting up house; for they must, in
short, live by themselves, without being subject to the
interferences of their fathers-in-law."
  "Just see if there's anything else you'd like," said Sancho, "and
don't hold back from mentioning it out of bashfulness or modesty."
  "No, indeed there is not," said the farmer.
  The moment he said this the governor started to his feet, and
seizing the chair he had been sitting on exclaimed, "By all that's
good, you ill-bred, boorish Don Bumpkin, if you don't get out of
this at once and hide yourself from my sight, I'll lay your head
open with this chair. You whoreson rascal, you devil's own painter,
and is it at this hour you come to ask me for six hundred ducats!
How should I have them, you stinking brute? And why should I give them
to you if I had them, you knave and blockhead? What have I to do
with Miguelturra or the whole family of the Perlerines? Get out I say,
or by the life of my lord the duke I'll do as I said. You're not
from Miguelturra, but some knave sent here from hell to tempt me. Why,
you villain, I have not yet had the government half a day, and you
want me to have six hundred ducats already!"
  The carver made signs to the farmer to leave the room, which he
did with his head down, and to all appearance in terror lest the
governor should carry his threats into effect, for the rogue knew very
well how to play his part.
  But let us leave Sancho in his wrath, and peace be with them all;
and let us return to Don Quixote, whom we left with his face
bandaged and doctored after the cat wounds, of which he was not
cured for eight days; and on one of these there befell him what Cide
Hamete promises to relate with that exactitude and truth with which he
is wont to set forth everything connected with this great history,
however minute it may be.
  CHAPTER XLVIII
  OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DONA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS'S
DUENNA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL
REMEMBRANCE

  EXCEEDINGLY moody and dejected was the sorely wounded Don Quixote,
with his face bandaged and marked, not by the hand of God, but by
the claws of a cat, mishaps incidental to knight-errantry. Six days he
remained without appearing in public, and one night as he lay awake
thinking of his misfortunes and of Altisidora's pursuit of him, he
perceived that some one was opening the door of his room with a key,
and he at once made up his mind that the enamoured damsel was coming
to make an assault upon his chastity and put him in danger of
failing in the fidelity he owed to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso. "No,"
said he, firmly persuaded of the truth of his idea (and he said it
loud enough to be heard), "the greatest beauty upon earth shall not
avail to make me renounce my adoration of her whom I bear stamped
and graved in the core of my heart and the secret depths of my bowels;
be thou, lady mine, transformed into a clumsy country wench, or into a
nymph of golden Tagus weaving a web of silk and gold, let Merlin or
Montesinos hold thee captive where they will; whereer thou art, thou
art mine, and where'er I am, must he thine." The very instant he had
uttered these words, the door opened. He stood up on the bed wrapped
from head to foot in a yellow satin coverlet, with a cap on his
head, and his face and his moustaches tied up, his face because of the
scratches, and his moustaches to keep them from drooping and falling
down, in which trim he looked the most extraordinary scarecrow that
could be conceived. He kept his eyes fixed on the door, and just as he
was expecting to see the love-smitten and unhappy Altisidora make
her appearance, he saw coming in a most venerable duenna, in a long
white-bordered veil that covered and enveloped her from head to
foot. Between the fingers of her left hand she held a short lighted
candle, while with her right she shaded it to keep the light from
her eyes, which were covered by spectacles of great size, and she
advanced with noiseless steps, treading very softly.
  Don Quixote kept an eye upon her from his watchtower, and
observing her costume and noting her silence, he concluded that it
must be some witch or sorceress that was coming in such a guise to
work him some mischief, and he began crossing himself at a great rate.
The spectre still advanced, and on reaching the middle of the room,
looked up and saw the energy with which Don Quixote was crossing
himself; and if he was scared by seeing such a figure as hers, she was
terrified at the sight of his; for the moment she saw his tall
yellow form with the coverlet and the bandages that disfigured him,
she gave a loud scream, and exclaiming, "Jesus! what's this I see?"
let fall the candle in her fright, and then finding herself in the
dark, turned about to make off, but stumbling on her skirts in her
consternation, she measured her length with a mighty fall.
  Don Quixote in his trepidation began saying, "I conjure thee,
phantom, or whatever thou art, tell me what thou art and what thou
wouldst with me. If thou art a soul in torment, say so, and all that
my powers can do I will do for thee; for I am a Catholic Christian and
love to do good to all the world, and to this end I have embraced
the order of knight-errantry to which I belong, the province of
which extends to doing good even to souls in purgatory."
  The unfortunate duenna hearing herself thus conjured, by her own
fear guessed Don Quixote's and in a low plaintive voice answered,
"Senor Don Quixote- if so be you are indeed Don Quixote- I am no
phantom or spectre or soul in purgatory, as you seem to think, but
Dona Rodriguez, duenna of honour to my lady the duchess, and I come to
you with one of those grievances your worship is wont to redress."
  "Tell me, Senora Dona Rodriguez," said Don Quixote, "do you
perchance come to transact any go-between business? Because I must
tell you I am not available for anybody's purpose, thanks to the
peerless beauty of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso. In short, Senora
Dona Rodriguez, if you will leave out and put aside all love messages,
you may go and light your candle and come back, and we will discuss
all the commands you have for me and whatever you wish, saving only,
as I said, all seductive communications."
  "I carry nobody's messages, senor," said the duenna; "little you
know me. Nay, I'm not far enough advanced in years to take to any such
childish tricks. God be praised I have a soul in my body still, and
all my teeth and grinders in my mouth, except one or two that the
colds, so common in this Aragon country, have robbed me of. But wait a
little, while I go and light my candle, and I will return
immediately and lay my sorrows before you as before one who relieves
those of all the world;" and without staying for an answer she quitted
the room and left Don Quixote tranquilly meditating while he waited
for her. A thousand thoughts at once suggested themselves to him on
the subject of this new adventure, and it struck him as being ill done
and worse advised in him to expose himself to the danger of breaking
his plighted faith to his lady; and said he to himself, "Who knows but
that the devil, being wily and cunning, may be trying now to entrap me
with a duenna, having failed with empresses, queens, duchesses,
marchionesses, and countesses? Many a time have I heard it said by
many a man of sense that he will sooner offer you a flat-nosed wench
than a roman-nosed one; and who knows but this privacy, this
opportunity, this silence, may awaken my sleeping desires, and lead me
in these my latter years to fall where I have never tripped? In
cases of this sort it is better to flee than to await the battle.
But I must be out of my senses to think and utter such nonsense; for
it is impossible that a long, white-hooded spectacled duenna could
stir up or excite a wanton thought in the most graceless bosom in
the world. Is there a duenna on earth that has fair flesh? Is there
a duenna in the world that escapes being ill-tempered, wrinkled, and
prudish? Avaunt, then, ye duenna crew, undelightful to all mankind.
Oh, but that lady did well who, they say, had at the end of her
reception room a couple of figures of duennas with spectacles and
lace-cushions, as if at work, and those statues served quite as well
to give an air of propriety to the room as if they had been real
duennas."
  So saying he leaped off the bed, intending to close the door and not
allow Senora Rodriguez to enter; but as he went to shut it Senora
Rodriguez returned with a wax candle lighted, and having a closer view
of Don Quixote, with the coverlet round him, and his bandages and
night-cap, she was alarmed afresh, and retreating a couple of paces,
exclaimed, "Am I safe, sir knight? for I don't look upon it as a
sign of very great virtue that your worship should have got up out
of bed."
  "I may well ask the same, senora," said Don Quixote; "and I do ask
whether I shall be safe from being assailed and forced?"
  "Of whom and against whom do you demand that security, sir
knight?" said the duenna.
  "Of you and against you I ask it," said Don Quixote; "for I am not
marble, nor are you brass, nor is it now ten o'clock in the morning,
but midnight, or a trifle past it I fancy, and we are in a room more
secluded and retired than the cave could have been where the
treacherous and daring AEneas enjoyed the fair soft-hearted Dido.
But give me your hand, senora; I require no better protection than
my own continence, and my own sense of propriety; as well as that
which is inspired by that venerable head-dress;" and so saying he
kissed her right hand and took it in his own, she yielding it to him
with equal ceremoniousness. And here Cide Hamete inserts a parenthesis
in which he says that to have seen the pair marching from the door
to the bed, linked hand in hand in this way, he would have given the
best of the two tunics he had.
  Don Quixote finally got into bed, and Dona Rodriguez took her seat
on a chair at some little distance from his couch, without taking
off her spectacles or putting aside the candle. Don Quixote wrapped
the bedclothes round him and covered himself up completely, leaving
nothing but his face visible, and as soon as they had both regained
their composure he broke silence, saying, "Now, Senora Dona Rodriguez,
you may unbosom yourself and out with everything you have in your
sorrowful heart and afflicted bowels; and by me you shall be
listened to with chaste ears, and aided by compassionate exertions."
  "I believe it," replied the duenna; "from your worship's gentle
and winning presence only such a Christian answer could be expected.
The fact is, then, Senor Don Quixote, that though you see me seated in
this chair, here in the middle of the kingdom of Aragon, and in the
attire of a despised outcast duenna, I am from the Asturias of Oviedo,
and of a family with which many of the best of the province are
connected by blood; but my untoward fate and the improvidence of my
parents, who, I know not how, were unseasonably reduced to poverty,
brought me to the court of Madrid, where as a provision and to avoid
greater misfortunes, my parents placed me as seamstress in the service
of a lady of quality, and I would have you know that for hemming and
sewing I have never been surpassed by any all my life. My parents left
me in service and returned to their own country, and a few years later
went, no doubt, to heaven, for they were excellent good Catholic
Christians. I was left an orphan with nothing but the miserable
wages and trifling presents that are given to servants of my sort in
palaces; but about this time, without any encouragement on my part,
one of the esquires of the household fell in love with me, a man
somewhat advanced in years, full-bearded and personable, and above all
as good a gentleman as the king himself, for he came of a mountain
stock. We did not carry on our loves with such secrecy but that they
came to the knowledge of my lady, and she, not to have any fuss
about it, had us married with the full sanction of the holy mother
Roman Catholic Church, of which marriage a daughter was born to put an
end to my good fortune, if I had any; not that I died in childbirth,
for I passed through it safely and in due season, but because
shortly afterwards my husband died of a certain shock he received, and
had I time to tell you of it I know your worship would be
surprised;" and here she began to weep bitterly and said, "Pardon
me, Senor Don Quixote, if I am unable to control myself, for every
time I think of my unfortunate husband my eyes fill up with tears. God
bless me, with what an air of dignity he used to carry my lady
behind him on a stout mule as black as jet! for in those days they did
not use coaches or chairs, as they say they do now, and ladies rode
behind their squires. This much at least I cannot help telling you,
that you may observe the good breeding and punctiliousness of my
worthy husband. As he was turning into the Calle de Santiago in
Madrid, which is rather narrow, one of the alcaldes of the Court, with
two alguacils before him, was coming out of it, and as soon as my good
squire saw him he wheeled his mule about and made as if he would
turn and accompany him. My lady, who was riding behind him, said to
him in a low voice, 'What are you about, you sneak, don't you see that
I am here?' The alcalde like a polite man pulled up his horse and said
to him, 'Proceed, senor, for it is I, rather, who ought to accompany
my lady Dona Casilda'- for that was my mistress's name. Still my
husband, cap in hand, persisted in trying to accompany the alcalde,
and seeing this my lady, filled with rage and vexation, pulled out a
big pin, or, I rather think, a bodkin, out of her needle-case and
drove it into his back with such force that my husband gave a loud
yell, and writhing fell to the ground with his lady. Her two
lacqueys ran to rise her up, and the alcalde and the alguacils did the
same; the Guadalajara gate was all in commotion -I mean the idlers
congregated there; my mistress came back on foot, and my husband
hurried away to a barber's shop protesting that he was run right
through the guts. The courtesy of my husband was noised abroad to such
an extent, that the boys gave him no peace in the street; and on
this account, and because he was somewhat shortsighted, my lady
dismissed him; and it was chagrin at this I am convinced beyond a
doubt that brought on his death. I was left a helpless widow, with a
daughter on my hands growing up in beauty like the sea-foam; at
length, however, as I had the character of being an excellent
needlewoman, my lady the duchess, then lately married to my lord the
duke, offered to take me with her to this kingdom of Aragon, and my
daughter also, and here as time went by my daughter grew up and with
her all the graces in the world; she sings like a lark, dances quick
as thought, foots it like a gipsy, reads and writes like a
schoolmaster, and does sums like a miser; of her neatness I say
nothing, for the running water is not purer, and her age is now, if my
memory serves me, sixteen years five months and three days, one more
or less. To come to the point, the son of a very rich farmer, living
in a village of my lord the duke's not very far from here, fell in
love with this girl of mine; and in short, how I know not, they came
together, and under the promise of marrying her he made a fool of my
daughter, and will not keep his word. And though my lord the duke is
aware of it (for I have complained to him, not once but many and
many a time, and entreated him to order the farmer to marry my
daughter), he turns a deaf ear and will scarcely listen to me; the
reason being that as the deceiver's father is so rich, and lends him
money, and is constantly going security for his debts, he does not
like to offend or annoy him in any way. Now, senor, I want your
worship to take it upon yourself to redress this wrong either by
entreaty or by arms; for by what all the world says you came into it
to redress grievances and right wrongs and help the unfortunate. Let
your worship put before you the unprotected condition of my
daughter, her youth, and all the perfections I have said she
possesses; and before God and on my conscience, out of all the damsels
my lady has, there is not one that comes up to the sole of her shoe,
and the one they call Altisidora, and look upon as the boldest and
gayest of them, put in comparison with my daughter, does not come
within two leagues of her. For I would have you know, senor, all is
not gold that glitters, and that same little Altisidora has more
forwardness than good looks, and more impudence than modesty;
besides being not very sound, for she has such a disagreeable breath
that one cannot bear to be near her for a moment; and even my lady the
duchess- but I'll hold my tongue, for they say that walls have ears."
  "For heaven's sake, Dona Rodriguez, what ails my lady the
duchess?" asked Don Quixote.
  "Adjured in that way," replied the duenna, "I cannot help
answering the question and telling the whole truth. Senor Don Quixote,
have you observed the comeliness of my lady the duchess, that smooth
complexion of hers like a burnished polished sword, those two cheeks
of milk and carmine, that gay lively step with which she treads or
rather seems to spurn the earth, so that one would fancy she went
radiating health wherever she passed? Well then, let me tell you she
may thank, first of all God, for this, and next, two issues that she
has, one in each leg, by which all the evil humours, of which the
doctors say she is full, are discharged."
  "Blessed Virgin!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "and is it possible that my
lady the duchess has drains of that sort? I would not have believed it
if the barefoot friars had told it me; but as the lady Dona
Rodriguez says so, it must be so. But surely such issues, and in
such places, do not discharge humours, but liquid amber. Verily, I
do believe now that this practice of opening issues is a very
important matter for the health."
  Don Quixote had hardly said this, when the chamber door flew open
with a loud bang, and with the start the noise gave her Dona Rodriguez
let the candle fall from her hand, and the room was left as dark as
a wolf's mouth, as the saying is. Suddenly the poor duenna felt two
hands seize her by the throat, so tightly that she could not croak,
while some one else, without uttering a word, very briskly hoisted
up her petticoats, and with what seemed to be a slipper began to lay
on so heartily that anyone would have felt pity for her; but
although Don Quixote felt it he never stirred from his bed, but lay
quiet and silent, nay apprehensive that his turn for a drubbing
might be coming. Nor was the apprehension an idle one; one; for
leaving the duenna (who did not dare to cry out) well basted, the
silent executioners fell upon Don Quixote, and stripping him of the
sheet and the coverlet, they pinched him so fast and so hard that he
was driven to defend himself with his fists, and all this in
marvellous silence. The battle lasted nearly half an hour, and then
the phantoms fled; Dona Rodriguez gathered up her skirts, and
bemoaning her fate went out without saying a word to Don Quixote,
and he, sorely pinched, puzzled, and dejected, remained alone, and
there we will leave him, wondering who could have been the perverse
enchanter who had reduced him to such a state; but that shall be
told in due season, for Sancho claims our attention, and the
methodical arrangement of the story demands it.
  CHAPTER XLIX
  OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND

  WE left the great governor angered and irritated by that
portrait-painting rogue of a farmer who, instructed the majordomo,
as the majordomo was by the duke, tried to practise upon him; he
however, fool, boor, and clown as he was, held his own against them
all, saying to those round him and to Doctor Pedro Recio, who as
soon as the private business of the duke's letter was disposed of
had returned to the room, "Now I see plainly enough that judges and
governors ought to be and must be made of brass not to feel the
importunities of the applicants that at all times and all seasons
insist on being heard, and having their business despatched, and their
own affairs and no others attended to, come what may; and if the
poor judge does not hear them and settle the matter- either because he
cannot or because that is not the time set apart for hearing them-
forthwith they abuse him, and run him down, and gnaw at his bones, and
even pick holes in his pedigree. You silly, stupid applicant, don't be
in a hurry; wait for the proper time and season for doing business;
don't come at dinner-hour, or at bed-time; for judges are only flesh
and blood, and must give to Nature what she naturally demands of them;
all except myself, for in my case I give her nothing to eat, thanks to
Senor Doctor Pedro Recio Tirteafuera here, who would have me die of
hunger, and declares that death to be life; and the same sort of
life may God give him and all his kind- I mean the bad doctors; for
the good ones deserve palms and laurels."
  All who knew Sancho Panza were astonished to hear him speak so
elegantly, and did not know what to attribute it to unless it were
that office and grave responsibility either smarten or stupefy men's
wits. At last Doctor Pedro Recio Agilers of Tirteafuera promised to
let him have supper that night though it might be in contravention
of all the aphorisms of Hippocrates. With this the governor was
satisfied and looked forward to the approach of night and
supper-time with great anxiety; and though time, to his mind, stood
still and made no progress, nevertheless the hour he so longed for
came, and they gave him a beef salad with onions and some boiled
calves' feet rather far gone. At this he fell to with greater relish
than if they had given him francolins from Milan, pheasants from Rome,
veal from Sorrento, partridges from Moron, or geese from Lavajos,
and turning to the doctor at supper he said to him, "Look here,
senor doctor, for the future don't trouble yourself about giving me
dainty things or choice dishes to eat, for it will be only taking my
stomach off its hinges; it is accustomed to goat, cow, bacon, hung
beef, turnips and onions; and if by any chance it is given these
palace dishes, it receives them squeamishly, and sometimes with
loathing. What the head-carver had best do is to serve me with what
they call ollas podridas (and the rottener they are the better they
smell); and he can put whatever he likes into them, so long as it is
good to eat, and I'll be obliged to him, and will requite him some
day. But let nobody play pranks on me, for either we are or we are
not; let us live and eat in peace and good-fellowship, for when God
sends the dawn, be sends it for all. I mean to govern this island
without giving up a right or taking a bribe; let everyone keep his eye
open, and look out for the arrow; for I can tell them 'the devil's
in Cantillana,' and if they drive me to it they'll see something
that will astonish them. Nay! make yourself honey and the flies eat
you."
  "Of a truth, senor governor," said the carver, "your worship is in
the right of it in everything you have said; and I promise you in
the name of all the inhabitants of this island that they will serve
your worship with all zeal, affection, and good-will, for the mild
kind of government you have given a sample of to begin with, leaves
them no ground for doing or thinking anything to your worship's
disadvantage."
  "That I believe," said Sancho; "and they would be great fools if
they did or thought otherwise; once more I say, see to my feeding
and my Dapple's for that is the great point and what is most to the
purpose; and when the hour comes let us go the rounds, for it is my
intention to purge this island of all manner of uncleanness and of all
idle good-for-nothing vagabonds; for I would have you know that lazy
idlers are the same thing in a State as the drones in a hive, that eat
up the honey the industrious bees make. I mean to protect the
husbandman, to preserve to the gentleman his privileges, to reward the
virtuous, and above all to respect religion and honour its
ministers. What say you to that, my friends? Is there anything in what
I say, or am I talking to no purpose?"
  "There is so much in what your worship says, senor governor," said
the majordomo, "that I am filled with wonder when I see a man like
your worship, entirely without learning (for I believe you have none
at all), say such things, and so full of sound maxims and sage
remarks, very different from what was expected of your worship's
intelligence by those who sent us or by us who came here. Every day we
see something new in this world; jokes become realities, and the
jokers find the tables turned upon them."
  Night came, and with the permission of Doctor Pedro Recio, the
governor had supper. They then got ready to go the rounds, and he
started with the majordomo, the secretary, the head-carver, the
chronicler charged with recording his deeds, and alguacils and
notaries enough to form a fair-sized squadron. In the midst marched
Sancho with his staff, as fine a sight as one could wish to see, and
but a few streets of the town had been traversed when they heard a
noise as of a clashing of swords. They hastened to the spot, and found
that the combatants were but two, who seeing the authorities
approaching stood still, and one of them exclaimed, "Help, in the name
of God and the king! Are men to he allowed to rob in the middle of
this town, and rush out and attack people in the very streets?"
  "Be calm, my good man," said Sancho, "and tell me what the cause
of this quarrel is; for I am the governor."
  Said the other combatant, "Senor governor, I will tell you in a very
few words. Your worship must know that this gentleman has just now won
more than a thousand reals in that gambling house opposite, and God
knows how. I was there, and gave more than one doubtful point in his
favour, very much against what my conscience told me. He made off with
his winnings, and when I made sure he was going to give me a crown
or so at least by way of a present, as it is usual and customary to
give men of quality of my sort who stand by to see fair or foul
play, and back up swindles, and prevent quarrels, he pocketed his
money and left the house. Indignant at this I followed him, and
speaking him fairly and civilly asked him to give me if it were only
eight reals, for he knows I am an honest man and that I have neither
profession nor property, for my parents never brought me up to any
or left me any; but the rogue, who is a greater thief than Cacus and a
greater sharper than Andradilla, would not give me more than four
reals; so your worship may see how little shame and conscience he has.
But by my faith if you had not come up I'd have made him disgorge
his winnings, and he'd have learned what the range of the steel-yard
was."
  "What say you to this?" asked Sancho. The other replied that all his
antagonist said was true, and that he did not choose to give him
more than four reals because he very often gave him money; and that
those who expected presents ought to be civil and take what is given
them with a cheerful countenance, and not make any claim against
winners unless they know them for certain to be sharpers and their
winnings to be unfairly won; and that there could be no better proof
that he himself was an honest man than his having refused to give
anything; for sharpers always pay tribute to lookers-on who know them.
  "That is true," said the majordomo; "let your worship consider
what is to be done with these men."
  "What is to be done," said Sancho, "is this; you, the winner, be you
good, bad, or indifferent, give this assailant of yours a hundred
reals at once, and you must disburse thirty more for the poor
prisoners; and you who have neither profession nor property, and
hang about the island in idleness, take these hundred reals now, and
some time of the day to-morrow quit the island under sentence of
banishment for ten years, and under pain of completing it in another
life if you violate the sentence, for I'll hang you on a gibbet, or at
least the hangman will by my orders; not a word from either of you, or
I'll make him feel my hand."
  The one paid down the money and the other took it, and the latter
quitted the island, while the other went home; and then the governor
said, "Either I am not good for much, or I'll get rid of these
gambling houses, for it strikes me they are very mischievous."
  "This one at least," said one of the notaries, "your worship will
not be able to get rid of, for a great man owns it, and what he
loses every year is beyond all comparison more than what he makes by
the cards. On the minor gambling houses your worship may exercise your
power, and it is they that do most harm and shelter the most barefaced
practices; for in the houses of lords and gentlemen of quality the
notorious sharpers dare not attempt to play their tricks; and as the
vice of gambling has become common, it is better that men should
play in houses of repute than in some tradesman's, where they catch an
unlucky fellow in the small hours of the morning and skin him alive."
  "I know already, notary, that there is a good deal to he said on
that point," said Sancho.
  And now a tipstaff came up with a young man in his grasp, and
said, "Senor governor, this youth was coming towards us, and as soon
as he saw the officers of justice he turned about and ran like a deer,
a sure proof that he must be some evil-doer; I ran after him, and
had it not been that he stumbled and fell, I should never have
caught him."
  "What did you run for, fellow?" said Sancho.
  To which the young man replied, "Senor, it was to avoid answering
all the questions officers of justice put."
  "What are you by trade?"
  "A weaver."
  "And what do you weave?"
  "Lance heads, with your worship's good leave."
  "You're facetious with me! You plume yourself on being a wag? Very
good; and where were you going just now?"
  "To take the air, senor."
  "And where does one take the air in this island?"
  "Where it blows."
  "Good! your answers are very much to the point; you are a smart
youth; but take notice that I am the air, and that I blow upon you
a-stern, and send you to gaol. Ho there! lay hold of him and take
him off; I'll make him sleep there to-night without air."
  "By God," said the young man, "your worship will make me sleep in
gaol just as soon as make me king."
  "Why shan't I make thee sleep in gaol?" said Sancho. "Have I not the
power to arrest thee and release thee whenever I like?"
  "All the power your worship has," said the young man, "won't be able
to make me sleep in gaol."
  "How? not able!" said Sancho; "take him away at once where he'll see
his mistake with his own eyes, even if the gaoler is willing to
exert his interested generosity on his behalf; for I'll lay a
penalty of two thousand ducats on him if he allows him to stir a
step from the prison."
  "That's ridiculous," said the young man; "the fact is, all the men
on earth will not make me sleep in prison."
  "Tell me, you devil," said Sancho, "have you got any angel that will
deliver you, and take off the irons I am going to order them to put
upon you?"
  "Now, senor governor," said the young man in a sprightly manner,
"let us be reasonable and come to the point. Granted your worship
may order me to be taken to prison, and to have irons and chains put
on me, and to be shut up in a cell, and may lay heavy penalties on the
gaoler if he lets me out, and that he obeys your orders; still, if I
don't choose to sleep, and choose to remain awake all night without
closing an eye, will your worship with all your power be able to
make me sleep if I don't choose?"
  "No, truly," said the secretary, "and the fellow has made his
point."
  "So then," said Sancho, "it would be entirely of your own choice you
would keep from sleeping; not in opposition to my will?"
  "No, senor," said the youth, "certainly not."
  "Well then, go, and God be with you," said Sancho; "be off home to
sleep, and God give you sound sleep, for I don't want to rob you of
it; but for the future, let me advise you don't joke with the
authorities, because you may come across some one who will bring
down the joke on your own skull."
  The young man went his way, and the governor continued his round,
and shortly afterwards two tipstaffs came up with a man in custody,
and said, "Senor governor, this person, who seems to be a man, is
not so, but a woman, and not an ill-favoured one, in man's clothes."
They raised two or three lanterns to her face, and by their light they
distinguished the features of a woman to all appearance of the age
of sixteen or a little more, with her hair gathered into a gold and
green silk net, and fair as a thousand pearls. They scanned her from
head to foot, and observed that she had on red silk stockings with
garters of white taffety bordered with gold and pearl; her breeches
were of green and gold stuff, and under an open jacket or jerkin of
the same she wore a doublet of the finest white and gold cloth; her
shoes were white and such as men wear; she carried no sword at her
belt, but only a richly ornamented dagger, and on her fingers she
had several handsome rings. In short, the girl seemed fair to look
at in the eyes of all, and none of those who beheld her knew her,
the people of the town said they could not imagine who she was, and
those who were in the secret of the jokes that were to be practised
upon Sancho were the ones who were most surprised, for this incident
or discovery had not been arranged by them; and they watched anxiously
to see how the affair would end.
  Sancho was fascinated by the girl's beauty, and he asked her who she
was, where she was going, and what had induced her to dress herself in
that garb. She with her eyes fixed on the ground answered in modest
confusion, "I cannot tell you, senor, before so many people what it is
of such consequence to me to have kept secret; one thing I wish to
be known, that I am no thief or evildoer, but only an unhappy maiden
whom the power of jealousy has led to break through the respect that
is due to modesty."
  Hearing this the majordomo said to Sancho, "Make the people stand
back, senor governor, that this lady may say what she wishes with less
embarrassment."
  Sancho gave the order, and all except the majordomo, the
head-carver, and the secretary fell back. Finding herself then in
the presence of no more, the damsel went on to say, "I am the
daughter, sirs, of Pedro Perez Mazorca, the wool-farmer of this
town, who is in the habit of coming very often to my father's house."
  "That won't do, senora," said the majordomo; "for I know Pedro Perez
very well, and I know he has no child at all, either son or
daughter; and besides, though you say he is your father, you add
then that he comes very often to your father's house."
  "I had already noticed that," said Sancho.
  "I am confused just now, sirs," said the damsel, "and I don't know
what I am saying; but the truth is that I am the daughter of Diego
de la Llana, whom you must all know."
  "Ay, that will do," said the majordomo; "for I know Diego de la
Llana, and know that he is a gentleman of position and a rich man, and
that he has a son and a daughter, and that since he was left a widower
nobody in all this town can speak of having seen his daughter's
face; for he keeps her so closely shut up that he does not give even
the sun a chance of seeing her; and for all that report says she is
extremely beautiful."
  "It is true," said the damsel, "and I am that daughter; whether
report lies or not as to my beauty, you, sirs, will have decided by
this time, as you have seen me;" and with this she began to weep
bitterly.
  On seeing this the secretary leant over to the head-carver's ear,
and said to him in a low voice, "Something serious has no doubt
happened this poor maiden, that she goes wandering from home in such a
dress and at such an hour, and one of her rank too." "There can be
no doubt about it," returned the carver, "and moreover her tears
confirm your suspicion." Sancho gave her the best comfort he could,
and entreated her to tell them without any fear what had happened her,
as they would all earnestly and by every means in their power
endeavour to relieve her.
  "The fact is, sirs," said she, "that my father has kept me shut up
these ten years, for so long is it since the earth received my mother.
Mass is said at home in a sumptuous chapel, and all this time I have
seen but the sun in the heaven by day, and the moon and the stars by
night; nor do I know what streets are like, or plazas, or churches, or
even men, except my father and a brother I have, and Pedro Perez the
wool-farmer; whom, because he came frequently to our house, I took
it into my head to call my father, to avoid naming my own. This
seclusion and the restrictions laid upon my going out, were it only to
church, have been keeping me unhappy for many a day and month past;
I longed to see the world, or at least the town where I was born,
and it did not seem to me that this wish was inconsistent with the
respect maidens of good quality should have for themselves. When I
heard them talking of bull-fights taking place, and of javelin
games, and of acting plays, I asked my brother, who is a year
younger than myself, to tell me what sort of things these were, and
many more that I had never seen; he explained them to me as well as he
could, but the only effect was to kindle in me a still stronger desire
to see them. At last, to cut short the story of my ruin, I begged
and entreated my brother- O that I had never made such an entreaty-"
And once more she gave way to a burst of weeping.
  "Proceed, senora," said the majordomo, "and finish your story of
what has happened to you, for your words and tears are keeping us
all in suspense."
  "I have but little more to say, though many a tear to shed," said
the damsel; "for ill-placed desires can only be paid for in some
such way."
  The maiden's beauty had made a deep impression on the
head-carver's heart, and he again raised his lantern for another
look at her, and thought they were not tears she was shedding, but
seed-pearl or dew of the meadow, nay, he exalted them still higher,
and made Oriental pearls of them, and fervently hoped her misfortune
might not be so great a one as her tears and sobs seemed to
indicate. The governor was losing patience at the length of time the
girl was taking to tell her story, and told her not to keep them
waiting any longer; for it was late, and there still remained a good
deal of the town to be gone over.
  She, with broken sobs and half-suppressed sighs, went on to say, "My
misfortune, my misadventure, is simply this, that I entreated my
brother to dress me up as a man in a suit of his clothes, and take
me some night, when our father was asleep, to see the whole town;
he, overcome by my entreaties, consented, and dressing me in this suit
and himself in clothes of mine that fitted him as if made for him (for
he has not a hair on his chin, and might pass for a very beautiful
young girl), to-night, about an hour ago, more or less, we left the
house, and guided by our youthful and foolish impulse we made the
circuit of the whole town, and then, as we were about to return
home, we saw a great troop of people coming, and my brother said to
me, 'Sister, this must be the round, stir your feet and put wings to
them, and follow me as fast as you can, lest they recognise us, for
that would be a bad business for us;' and so saying he turned about
and began, I cannot say to run but to fly; in less than six paces I
fell from fright, and then the officer of justice came up and
carried me before your worships, where I find myself put to shame
before all these people as whimsical and vicious."
  "So then, senora," said Sancho, "no other mishap has befallen you,
nor was it jealousy that made you leave home, as you said at the
beginning of your story?"
  "Nothing has happened me," said she, "nor was it jealousy that
brought me out, but merely a longing to see the world, which did not
go beyond seeing the streets of this town."
  The appearance of the tipstaffs with her brother in custody, whom
one of them had overtaken as he ran away from his sister, now fully
confirmed the truth of what the damsel said. He had nothing on but a
rich petticoat and a short blue damask cloak with fine gold lace,
and his head was uncovered and adorned only with its own hair, which
looked like rings of gold, so bright and curly was it. The governor,
the majordomo, and the carver went aside with him, and, unheard by his
sister, asked him how he came to be in that dress, and he with no less
shame and embarrassment told exactly the same story as his sister,
to the great delight of the enamoured carver; the governor, however,
said to them, "In truth, young lady and gentleman, this has been a
very childish affair, and to explain your folly and rashness there was
no necessity for all this delay and all these tears and sighs; for
if you had said we are so-and-so, and we escaped from our father's
house in this way in order to ramble about, out of mere curiosity
and with no other object, there would have been an end of the
matter, and none of these little sobs and tears and all the rest of
it."
  "That is true," said the damsel, "but you see the confusion I was in
was so great it did not let me behave as I ought."
  "No harm has been done," said Sancho; "come, we will leave you at
your father's house; perhaps they will not have missed you; and
another time don't be so childish or eager to see the world; for a
respectable damsel should have a broken leg and keep at home; and
the woman and the hen by gadding about are soon lost; and she who is
eager to see is also eager to be seen; I say no more."
  The youth thanked the governor for his kind offer to take them home,
and they directed their steps towards the house, which was not far
off. On reaching it the youth threw a pebble up at a grating, and
immediately a woman-servant who was waiting for them came down and
opened the door to them, and they went in, leaving the party
marvelling as much at their grace and beauty as at the fancy they
had for seeing the world by night and without quitting the village;
which, however, they set down to their youth.
  The head-carver was left with a heart pierced through and through,
and he made up his mind on the spot to demand the damsel in marriage
of her father on the morrow, making sure she would not be refused
him as he was a servant of the duke's; and even to Sancho ideas and
schemes of marrying the youth to his daughter Sanchica suggested
themselves, and he resolved to open the negotiation at the proper
season, persuading himself that no husband could be refused to a
governor's daughter. And so the night's round came to an end, and a
couple of days later the government, whereby all his plans were
overthrown and swept away, as will be seen farther on.
  CHAPTER L
  WHEREIN IS SET FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS WERE WHO
FLOGGED THE DUENNA AND PINCHED DON QUIXOTE, AND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE
PAGE WHO CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO PANZA'S WIFE

  CIDE HAMETE, the painstaking investigator of the minute points of
this veracious history, says that when Dona Rodriguez left her own
room to go to Don Quixote's, another duenna who slept with her
observed her, and as all duennas are fond of prying, listening, and
sniffing, she followed her so silently that the good Rodriguez never
perceived it; and as soon as the duenna saw her enter Don Quixote's
room, not to fail in a duenna's invariable practice of tattling, she
hurried off that instant to report to the duchess how Dona Rodriguez
was closeted with Don Quixote. The duchess told the duke, and asked
him to let her and Altisidora go and see what the said duenna wanted
with Don Quixote. The duke gave them leave, and the pair cautiously
and quietly crept to the door of the room and posted themselves so
close to it that they could hear all that was said inside. But when
the duchess heard how the Rodriguez had made public the Aranjuez of
her issues she could not restrain herself, nor Altisidora either;
and so, filled with rage and thirsting for vengeance, they burst
into the room and tormented Don Quixote and flogged the duenna in
the manner already described; for indignities offered to their
charms and self-esteem mightily provoke the anger of women and make
them eager for revenge. The duchess told the duke what had happened,
and he was much amused by it; and she, in pursuance of her design of
making merry and diverting herself with Don Quixote, despatched the
page who had played the part of Dulcinea in the negotiations for her
disenchantment (which Sancho Panza in the cares of government had
forgotten all about) to Teresa Panza his wife with her husband's
letter and another from herself, and also a great string of fine coral
beads as a present.
  Now the history says this page was very sharp and quick-witted;
and eager to serve his lord and lady he set off very willingly for
Sancho's village. Before he entered it he observed a number of women
washing in a brook, and asked them if they could tell him whether
there lived there a woman of the name of Teresa Panza, wife of one
Sancho Panza, squire to a knight called Don Quixote of La Mancha. At
the question a young girl who was washing stood up and said, "Teresa
Panza is my mother, and that Sancho is my father, and that knight is
our master."
  "Well then, miss," said the page, "come and show me where your
mother is, for I bring her a letter and a present from your father."
  "That I will with all my heart, senor," said the girl, who seemed to
be about fourteen, more or less; and leaving the clothes she was
washing to one of her companions, and without putting anything on
her head or feet, for she was bare-legged and had her hair hanging
about her, away she skipped in front of the page's horse, saying,
"Come, your worship, our house is at the entrance of the town, and
my mother is there, sorrowful enough at not having had any news of
my father this ever so long."
  "Well," said the page, "I am bringing her such good news that she
will have reason to thank God."
  And then, skipping, running, and capering, the girl reached the
town, but before going into the house she called out at the door,
"Come out, mother Teresa, come out, come out; here's a gentleman
with letters and other things from my good father." At these words her
mother Teresa Panza came out spinning a bundle of flax, in a grey
petticoat (so short was it one would have fancied "they to her shame
had cut it short"), a grey bodice of the same stuff, and a smock.
She was not very old, though plainly past forty, strong, healthy,
vigorous, and sun-dried; and seeing her daughter and the page on
horseback, she exclaimed, "What's this, child? What gentleman is
this?"
  "A servant of my lady, Dona Teresa Panza," replied the page; and
suiting the action to the word he flung himself off his horse, and
with great humility advanced to kneel before the lady Teresa,
saying, "Let me kiss your hand, Senora Dona Teresa, as the lawful
and only wife of Senor Don Sancho Panza, rightful governor of the
island of Barataria."
  "Ah, senor, get up, do that," said Teresa; "for I'm not a bit of a
court lady, but only a poor country woman, the daughter of a
clodcrusher, and the wife of a squire-errant and not of any governor
at all."
  "You are," said the page, "the most worthy wife of a most
arch-worthy governor; and as a proof of what I say accept this
letter and this present;" and at the same time he took out of his
pocket a string of coral beads with gold clasps, and placed it on
her neck, and said, "This letter is from his lordship the governor,
and the other as well as these coral beads from my lady the duchess,
who sends me to your worship."
  Teresa stood lost in astonishment, and her daughter just as much,
and the girl said, "May I die but our master Don Quixote's at the
bottom of this; he must have given father the government or county
he so often promised him."
  "That is the truth," said the page; "for it is through Senor Don
Quixote that Senor Sancho is now governor of the island of
Barataria, as will be seen by this letter."
  "Will your worship read it to me, noble sir?" said Teresa; "for
though I can spin I can't read, not a scrap."
  "Nor I either," said Sanchica; "but wait a bit, and I'll go and
fetch some one who can read it, either the curate himself or the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, and they'll come gladly to hear any news
of my father."
  "There is no need to fetch anybody," said the page; "for though I
can't spin I can read, and I'll read it;" and so he read it through,
but as it has been already given it is not inserted here; and then
he took out the other one from the duchess, which ran as follows:

  Friend Teresa,- Your husband Sancho's good qualities, of heart as
well as of head, induced and compelled me to request my husband the
duke to give him the government of one of his many islands. I am
told he governs like a gerfalcon, of which I am very glad, and my lord
the duke, of course, also; and I am very thankful to heaven that I
have not made a mistake in choosing him for that same government;
for I would have Senora Teresa know that a good governor is hard to
find in this world and may God make me as good as Sancho's way of
governing. Herewith I send you, my dear, a string of coral beads
with gold clasps; I wish they were Oriental pearls; but "he who
gives thee a bone does not wish to see thee dead;" a time will come
when we shall become acquainted and meet one another, but God knows
the future. Commend me to your daughter Sanchica, and tell her from me
to hold herself in readiness, for I mean to make a high match for
her when she least expects it. They tell me there are big acorns in
your village; send me a couple of dozen or so, and I shall value
them greatly as coming from your hand; and write to me at length to
assure me of your health and well-being; and if there be anything
you stand in need of, it is but to open your mouth, and that shall
be the measure; and so God keep you.
                      From this place.
                              Your loving friend,
                                            THE DUCHESS.

  "Ah, what a good, plain, lowly lady!" said Teresa when she heard the
letter; "that I may be buried with ladies of that sort, and not the
gentlewomen we have in this town, that fancy because they are
gentlewomen the wind must not touch them, and go to church with as
much airs as if they were queens, no less, and seem to think they
are disgraced if they look at a farmer's wife! And see here how this
good lady, for all she's a duchess, calls me 'friend,' and treats me
as if I was her equal- and equal may I see her with the tallest
church-tower in La Mancha! And as for the acorns, senor, I'll send her
ladyship a peck and such big ones that one might come to see them as a
show and a wonder. And now, Sanchica, see that the gentleman is
comfortable; put up his horse, and get some eggs out of the stable,
and cut plenty of bacon, and let's give him his dinner like a
prince; for the good news he has brought, and his own bonny face
deserve it all; and meanwhile I'll run out and give the neighbours the
news of our good luck, and father curate, and Master Nicholas the
barber, who are and always have been such friends of thy father's."
  "That I will, mother," said Sanchica; "but mind, you must give me
half of that string; for I don't think my lady the duchess could
have been so stupid as to send it all to you."
  "It is all for thee, my child," said Teresa; "but let me wear it
round my neck for a few days; for verily it seems to make my heart
glad."
  "You will be glad too," said the page, "when you see the bundle
there is in this portmanteau, for it is a suit of the finest cloth,
that the governor only wore one day out hunting and now sends, all for
Senora Sanchica."
  "May he live a thousand years," said Sanchica, "and the bearer as
many, nay two thousand, if needful."
  With this Teresa hurried out of the house with the letters, and with
the string of beads round her neck, and went along thrumming the
letters as if they were a tambourine, and by chance coming across
the curate and Samson Carrasco she began capering and saying, "None of
us poor now, faith! We've got a little government! Ay, let the
finest fine lady tackle me, and I'll give her a setting down!"
  "What's all this, Teresa Panza," said they; "what madness is this,
and what papers are those?"
  "The madness is only this," said she, "that these are the letters of
duchesses and governors, and these I have on my neck are fine coral
beads, with ave-marias and paternosters of beaten gold, and I am a
governess."
  "God help us," said the curate, "we don't understand you, Teresa, or
know what you are talking about."
  "There, you may see it yourselves," said Teresa, and she handed them
the letters.
  The curate read them out for Samson Carrasco to hear, and Samson and
he regarded one another with looks of astonishment at what they had
read, and the bachelor asked who had brought the letters. Teresa in
reply bade them come with her to her house and they would see the
messenger, a most elegant youth, who had brought another present which
was worth as much more. The curate took the coral beads from her
neck and examined them again and again, and having satisfied himself
as to their fineness he fell to wondering afresh, and said, "By the
gown I wear I don't know what to say or think of these letters and
presents; on the one hand I can see and feel the fineness of these
coral beads, and on the other I read how a duchess sends to beg for
a couple of dozen of acorns."
  "Square that if you can," said Carrasco; "well, let's go and see the
messenger, and from him we'll learn something about this mystery
that has turned up."
  They did so, and Teresa returned with them. They found the page
sifting a little barley for his horse, and Sanchica cutting a rasher
of bacon to be paved with eggs for his dinner. His looks and his
handsome apparel pleased them both greatly; and after they had saluted
him courteously, and he them, Samson begged him to give them his news,
as well of Don Quixote as of Sancho Panza, for, he said, though they
had read the letters from Sancho and her ladyship the duchess, they
were still puzzled and could not make out what was meant by Sancho's
government, and above all of an island, when all or most of those in
the Mediterranean belonged to his Majesty.
  To this the page replied, "As to Senor Sancho Panza's being a
governor there is no doubt whatever; but whether it is an island or
not that he governs, with that I have nothing to do; suffice it that
it is a town of more than a thousand inhabitants; with regard to the
acorns I may tell you my lady the duchess is so unpretending and
unassuming that, not to speak of sending to beg for acorns from a
peasant woman, she has been known to send to ask for the loan of a
comb from one of her neighbours; for I would have your worships know
that the ladies of Aragon, though they are just as illustrious, are
not so punctilious and haughty as the Castilian ladies; they treat
people with greater familiarity."
  In the middle of this conversation Sanchica came in with her skirt
full of eggs, and said she to the page, "Tell me, senor, does my
father wear trunk-hose since he has been governor?"
  "I have not noticed," said the page; "but no doubt he wears them."
  "Ah! my God!" said Sanchica, "what a sight it must be to see my
father in tights! Isn't it odd that ever since I was born I have had a
longing to see my father in trunk-hose?"
  "As things go you will see that if you live," said the page; "by God
he is in the way to take the road with a sunshade if the government
only lasts him two months more."
  The curate and the bachelor could see plainly enough that the page
spoke in a waggish vein; but the fineness of the coral beads, and
the hunting suit that Sancho sent (for Teresa had already shown it
to them) did away with the impression; and they could not help
laughing at Sanchica's wish, and still more when Teresa said, "Senor
curate, look about if there's anybody here going to Madrid or
Toledo, to buy me a hooped petticoat, a proper fashionable one of
the best quality; for indeed and indeed I must do honour to my
husband's government as well as I can; nay, if I am put to it and have
to, I'll go to Court and set a coach like all the world; for she who
has a governor for her husband may very well have one and keep one."
  "And why not, mother!" said Sanchica; "would to God it were to-day
instead of to-morrow, even though they were to say when they saw me
seated in the coach with my mother, 'See that rubbish, that
garlic-stuffed fellow's daughter, how she goes stretched at her ease
in a coach as if she was a she-pope!' But let them tramp through the
mud, and let me go in my coach with my feet off the ground. Bad luck
to backbiters all over the world; 'let me go warm and the people may
laugh.' Do I say right, mother?"
  "To be sure you do, my child," said Teresa; "and all this good luck,
and even more, my good Sancho foretold me; and thou wilt see, my
daughter, he won't stop till he has made me a countess; for to make
a beginning is everything in luck; and as I have heard thy good father
say many a time (for besides being thy father he's the father of
proverbs too), 'When they offer thee a heifer, run with a halter; when
they offer thee a government, take it; when they would give thee a
county, seize it; when they say, "Here, here!" to thee with
something good, swallow it.' Oh no! go to sleep, and don't answer
the strokes of good fortune and the lucky chances that are knocking at
the door of your house!"
  "And what do I care," added Sanchica, "whether anybody says when
he sees me holding my head up, 'The dog saw himself in hempen
breeches,' and the rest of it?"
  Hearing this the curate said, "I do believe that all this family
of the Panzas are born with a sackful of proverbs in their insides,
every one of them; I never saw one of them that does not pour them out
at all times and on all occasions."
  "That is true," said the page, "for Senor Governor Sancho utters
them at every turn; and though a great many of them are not to the
purpose, still they amuse one, and my lady the duchess and the duke
praise them highly."
  "Then you still maintain that all this about Sancho's government
is true, senor," said the bachelor, "and that there actually is a
duchess who sends him presents and writes to him? Because we, although
we have handled the present and read the letters, don't believe it and
suspect it to be something in the line of our fellow-townsman Don
Quixote, who fancies that everything is done by enchantment; and for
this reason I am almost ready to say that I'd like to touch and feel
your worship to see whether you are a mere ambassador of the
imagination or a man of flesh and blood."
  "All I know, sirs," replied the page, "is that I am a real
ambassador, and that Senor Sancho Panza is governor as a matter of
fact, and that my lord and lady the duke and duchess can give, and
have given him this same government, and that I have heard the said
Sancho Panza bears himself very stoutly therein; whether there be
any enchantment in all this or not, it is for your worships to settle
between you; for that's all I know by the oath I swear, and that is by
the life of my parents whom I have still alive, and love dearly."
  "It may be so," said the bachelor; "but dubitat Augustinus."
  "Doubt who will," said the page; "what I have told you is the truth,
and that will always rise above falsehood as oil above water; if not
operibus credite, et non verbis. Let one of you come with me, and he
will see with his eyes what he does not believe with his ears."
  "It's for me to make that trip," said Sanchica; "take me with you,
senor, behind you on your horse; for I'll go with all my heart to
see my father."
  "Governors' daughters," said the page, "must not travel along the
roads alone, but accompanied by coaches and litters and a great number
of attendants."
  "By God," said Sanchica, "I can go just as well mounted on a she-ass
as in a coach; what a dainty lass you must take me for!"
  "Hush, girl," said Teresa; "you don't know what you're talking
about; the gentleman is quite right, for 'as the time so the
behaviour;' when it was Sancho it was 'Sancha;' when it is governor
it's 'senora;' I don't know if I'm right."
  "Senora Teresa says more than she is aware of," said the page;
"and now give me something to eat and let me go at once, for I mean to
return this evening."
  "Come and do penance with me," said the curate at this; "for
Senora Teresa has more will than means to serve so worthy a guest."
  The page refused, but had to consent at last for his own sake; and
the curate took him home with him very gladly, in order to have an
opportunity of questioning him at leisure about Don Quixote and his
doings. The bachelor offered to write the letters in reply for Teresa;
but she did not care to let him mix himself up in her affairs, for she
thought him somewhat given to joking; and so she gave a cake and a
couple of eggs to a young acolyte who was a penman, and he wrote for
her two letters, one for her husband and the other for the duchess,
dictated out of her own head, which are not the worst inserted in this
great history, as will be seen farther on.
  CHAPTER LI
  OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO'S GOVERNMENT, AND OTHER SUCH
ENTERTAINING MATTERS

  DAY came after the night of the governor's round; a night which
the head-carver passed without sleeping, so were his thoughts of the
face and air and beauty of the disguised damsel, while the majordomo
spent what was left of it in writing an account to his lord and lady
of all Sancho said and did, being as much amazed at his sayings as
at his doings, for there was a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity in
all his words and deeds. The senor governor got up, and by Doctor
Pedro Recio's directions they made him break his fast on a little
conserve and four sups of cold water, which Sancho would have
readily exchanged for a piece of bread and a bunch of grapes; but
seeing there was no help for it, he submitted with no little sorrow of
heart and discomfort of stomach; Pedro Recio having persuaded him that
light and delicate diet enlivened the wits, and that was what was most
essential for persons placed in command and in responsible situations,
where they have to employ not only the bodily powers but those of
the mind also.
  By means of this sophistry Sancho was made to endure hunger, and
hunger so keen that in his heart he cursed the government, and even
him who had given it to him; however, with his hunger and his conserve
he undertook to deliver judgments that day, and the first thing that
came before him was a question that was submitted to him by a
stranger, in the presence of the majordomo and the other attendants,
and it was in these words: "Senor, a large river separated two
districts of one and the same lordship- will your worship please to
pay attention, for the case is an important and a rather knotty one?
Well then, on this river there was a bridge, and at one end of it a
gallows, and a sort of tribunal, where four judges commonly sat to
administer the law which the lord of river, bridge and the lordship
had enacted, and which was to this effect, 'If anyone crosses by
this bridge from one side to the other he shall declare on oath
where he is going to and with what object; and if he swears truly,
he shall be allowed to pass, but if falsely, he shall be put to
death for it by hanging on the gallows erected there, without any
remission.' Though the law and its severe penalty were known, many
persons crossed, but in their declarations it was easy to see at
once they were telling the truth, and the judges let them pass free.
It happened, however, that one man, when they came to take his
declaration, swore and said that by the oath he took he was going to
die upon that gallows that stood there, and nothing else. The judges
held a consultation over the oath, and they said, 'If we let this
man pass free he has sworn falsely, and by the law he ought to die;
but if we hang him, as he swore he was going to die on that gallows,
and therefore swore the truth, by the same law he ought to go free.'
It is asked of your worship, senor governor, what are the judges to do
with this man? For they are still in doubt and perplexity; and
having heard of your worship's acute and exalted intellect, they
have sent me to entreat your worship on their behalf to give your
opinion on this very intricate and puzzling case."
  To this Sancho made answer, "Indeed those gentlemen the judges
that send you to me might have spared themselves the trouble, for I
have more of the obtuse than the acute in me; but repeat the case over
again, so that I may understand it, and then perhaps I may be able
to hit the point."
  The querist repeated again and again what he had said before, and
then Sancho said, "It seems to me I can set the matter right in a
moment, and in this way; the man swears that he is going to die upon
the gallows; but if he dies upon it, he has sworn the truth, and by
the law enacted deserves to go free and pass over the bridge; but if
they don't hang him, then he has sworn falsely, and by the same law
deserves to be hanged."
  "It is as the senor governor says," said the messenger; "and as
regards a complete comprehension of the case, there is nothing left to
desire or hesitate about."
  "Well then I say," said Sancho, "that of this man they should let
pass the part that has sworn truly, and hang the part that has lied;
and in this way the conditions of the passage will be fully complied
with."
  "But then, senor governor," replied the querist, "the man will
have to be divided into two parts; and if he is divided of course he
will die; and so none of the requirements of the law will be carried
out, and it is absolutely necessary to comply with it."
  "Look here, my good sir," said Sancho; "either I'm a numskull or
else there is the same reason for this passenger dying as for his
living and passing over the bridge; for if the truth saves him the
falsehood equally condemns him; and that being the case it is my
opinion you should say to the gentlemen who sent you to me that as the
arguments for condemning him and for absolving him are exactly
balanced, they should let him pass freely, as it is always more
praiseworthy to do good than to do evil; this I would give signed with
my name if I knew how to sign; and what I have said in this case is
not out of my own head, but one of the many precepts my master Don
Quixote gave me the night before I left to become governor of this
island, that came into my mind, and it was this, that when there was
any doubt about the justice of a case I should lean to mercy; and it
is God's will that I should recollect it now, for it fits this case as
if it was made for it."
  "That is true," said the majordomo; "and I maintain that Lycurgus
himself, who gave laws to the Lacedemonians, could not have pronounced
a better decision than the great Panza has given; let the morning's
audience close with this, and I will see that the senor governor has
dinner entirely to his liking."
  "That's all I ask for- fair play," said Sancho; "give me my
dinner, and then let it rain cases and questions on me, and I'll
despatch them in a twinkling."
  The majordomo kept his word, for he felt it against his conscience
to kill so wise a governor by hunger; particularly as he intended to
have done with him that same night, playing off the last joke he was
commissioned to practise upon him.
  It came to pass, then, that after he had dined that day, in
opposition to the rules and aphorisms of Doctor Tirteafuera, as they
were taking away the cloth there came a courier with a letter from Don
Quixote for the governor. Sancho ordered the secretary to read it to
himself, and if there was nothing in it that demanded secrecy to
read it aloud. The secretary did so, and after he had skimmed the
contents he said, "It may well be read aloud, for what Senor Don
Quixote writes to your worship deserves to be printed or written in
letters of gold, and it is as follows."

       DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA'S LETTER TO SANCHO PANZA,
             GOVERNOR OF THE ISLAND OF BARATARIA.

  When I was expecting to hear of thy stupidities and blunders, friend
Sancho, I have received intelligence of thy displays of good sense,
for which I give special thanks to heaven that can raise the poor from
the dunghill and of fools to make wise men. They tell me thou dost
govern as if thou wert a man, and art a man as if thou wert a beast,
so great is the humility wherewith thou dost comport thyself. But I
would have thee bear in mind, Sancho, that very often it is fitting
and necessary for the authority of office to resist the humility of
the heart; for the seemly array of one who is invested with grave
duties should be such as they require and not measured by what his own
humble tastes may lead him to prefer. Dress well; a stick dressed up
does not look like a stick; I do not say thou shouldst wear trinkets
or fine raiment, or that being a judge thou shouldst dress like a
soldier, but that thou shouldst array thyself in the apparel thy
office requires, and that at the same time it be neat and handsome. To
win the good-will of the people thou governest there are two things,
among others, that thou must do; one is to be civil to all (this,
however, I told thee before), and the other to take care that food
be abundant, for there is nothing that vexes the heart of the poor
more than hunger and high prices. Make not many proclamations; but
those thou makest take care that they be good ones, and above all that
they be observed and carried out; for proclamations that are not
observed are the same as if they did not exist; nay, they encourage
the idea that the prince who had the wisdom and authority to make them
had not the power to enforce them; and laws that threaten and are
not enforced come to he like the log, the king of the frogs, that
frightened them at first, but that in time they despised and mounted
upon. Be a father to virtue and a stepfather to vice. Be not always
strict, nor yet always lenient, but observe a mean between these two
extremes, for in that is the aim of wisdom. Visit the gaols, the
slaughter-houses, and the market-places; for the presence of the
governor is of great importance in such places; it comforts the
prisoners who are in hopes of a speedy release, it is the bugbear of
the butchers who have then to give just weight, and it is the terror
of the market-women for the same reason. Let it not be seen that
thou art (even if perchance thou art, which I do not believe)
covetous, a follower of women, or a glutton; for when the people and
those that have dealings with thee become aware of thy special
weakness they will bring their batteries to bear upon thee in that
quarter, till they have brought thee down to the depths of
perdition. Consider and reconsider, con and con over again the advices
and the instructions I gave thee before thy departure hence to thy
government, and thou wilt see that in them, if thou dost follow
them, thou hast a help at hand that will lighten for thee the troubles
and difficulties that beset governors at every step. Write to thy lord
and lady and show thyself grateful to them, for ingratitude is the
daughter of pride, and one of the greatest sins we know of; and he who
is grateful to those who have been good to him shows that he will be
so to God also who has bestowed and still bestows so many blessings
upon him.
  My lady the duchess sent off a messenger with thy suit and another
present to thy wife Teresa Panza; we expect the answer every moment. I
have been a little indisposed through a certain scratching I came in
for, not very much to the benefit of my nose; but it was nothing;
for if there are enchanters who maltreat me, there are also some who
defend me. Let me know if the majordomo who is with thee had any share
in the Trifaldi performance, as thou didst suspect; and keep me
informed of everything that happens thee, as the distance is so short;
all the more as I am thinking of giving over very shortly this idle
life I am now leading, for I was not born for it. A thing has occurred
to me which I am inclined to think will put me out of favour with
the duke and duchess; but though I am sorry for it I do not care,
for after all I must obey my calling rather than their pleasure, in
accordance with the common saying, amicus Plato, sed magis amica
veritas. I quote this Latin to thee because I conclude that since thou
hast been a governor thou wilt have learned it. Adieu; God keep thee
from being an object of pity to anyone.
                                Thy friend,
                                DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.

  Sancho listened to the letter with great attention, and it was
praised and considered wise by all who heard it; he then rose up
from table, and calling his secretary shut himself in with him in
his own room, and without putting it off any longer set about
answering his master Don Quixote at once; and he bade the secretary
write down what he told him without adding or suppressing anything,
which he did, and the answer was to the following effect.

      SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.

  The pressure of business is so great upon me that I have no time
to scratch my head or even to cut my nails; and I have them so long-
God send a remedy for it. I say this, master of my soul, that you
may not be surprised if I have not until now sent you word of how I
fare, well or ill, in this government, in which I am suffering more
hunger than when we two were wandering through the woods and wastes.
  My lord the duke wrote to me the other day to warn me that certain
spies had got into this island to kill me; but up to the present I
have not found out any except a certain doctor who receives a salary
in this town for killing all the governors that come here; he is
called Doctor Pedro Recio, and is from Tirteafuera; so you see what
a name he has to make me dread dying under his hands. This doctor says
of himself that he does not cure diseases when there are any, but
prevents them coming, and the medicines he uses are diet and more diet
until he brings one down to bare bones; as if leanness was not worse
than fever.
  In short he is killing me with hunger, and I am dying myself of
vexation; for when I thought I was coming to this government to get my
meat hot and my drink cool, and take my ease between holland sheets on
feather beds, I find I have come to do penance as if I was a hermit;
and as I don't do it willingly I suspect that in the end the devil
will carry me off.
  So far I have not handled any dues or taken any bribes, and I
don't know what to think of it; for here they tell me that the
governors that come to this island, before entering it have plenty
of money either given to them or lent to them by the people of the
town, and that this is the usual custom not only here but with all who
enter upon governments.
  Last night going the rounds I came upon a fair damsel in man's
clothes, and a brother of hers dressed as a woman; my head-carver
has fallen in love with the girl, and has in his own mind chosen her
for a wife, so he says, and I have chosen youth for a son-in-law;
to-day we are going to explain our intentions to the father of the
pair, who is one Diego de la Llana, a gentleman and an old Christian
as much as you please.
  I have visited the market-places, as your worship advises me, and
yesterday I found a stall-keeper selling new hazel nuts and proved her
to have mixed a bushel of old empty rotten nuts with a bushel of
new; I confiscated the whole for the children of the charity-school,
who will know how to distinguish them well enough, and I sentenced her
not to come into the market-place for a fortnight; they told me I
did bravely. I can tell your worship it is commonly said in this
town that there are no people worse than the market-women, for they
are all barefaced, unconscionable, and impudent, and I can well
believe it from what I have seen of them in other towns.
  I am very glad my lady the duchess has written to my wife Teresa
Panza and sent her the present your worship speaks of; and I will
strive to show myself grateful when the time comes; kiss her hands for
me, and tell her I say she has not thrown it into a sack with a hole
in it, as she will see in the end. I should not like your worship to
have any difference with my lord and lady; for if you fall out with
them it is plain it must do me harm; and as you give me advice to be
grateful it will not do for your worship not to be so yourself to
those who have shown you such kindness, and by whom you have been
treated so hospitably in their castle.
  That about the scratching I don't understand; but I suppose it
must be one of the ill-turns the wicked enchanters are always doing
your worship; when we meet I shall know all about it. I wish I could
send your worship something; but I don't know what to send, unless
it be some very curious clyster pipes, to work with bladders, that
they make in this island; but if the office remains with me I'll
find out something to send, one way or another. If my wife Teresa
Panza writes to me, pay the postage and send me the letter, for I have
a very great desire to hear how my house and wife and children are
going on. And so, may God deliver your worship from evil-minded
enchanters, and bring me well and peacefully out of this government,
which I doubt, for I expect to take leave of it and my life
together, from the way Doctor Pedro Recio treats me.
                  Your worship's servant
                               SANCHO PANZA THE GOVERNOR.

  The secretary sealed the letter, and immediately dismissed the
courier; and those who were carrying on the joke against Sancho
putting their heads together arranged how he was to be dismissed
from the government. Sancho spent the afternoon in drawing up
certain ordinances relating to the good government of what he
fancied the island; and he ordained that there were to be no provision
hucksters in the State, and that men might import wine into it from
any place they pleased, provided they declared the quarter it came
from, so that a price might be put upon it according to its quality,
reputation, and the estimation it was held in; and he that watered his
wine, or changed the name, was to forfeit his life for it. He
reduced the prices of all manner of shoes, boots, and stockings, but
of shoes in particular, as they seemed to him to run extravagantly
high. He established a fixed rate for servants' wages, which were
becoming recklessly exorbitant. He laid extremely heavy penalties upon
those who sang lewd or loose songs either by day or night. He
decreed that no blind man should sing of any miracle in verse,
unless he could produce authentic evidence that it was true, for it
was his opinion that most of those the blind men sing are trumped
up, to the detriment of the true ones. He established and created an
alguacil of the poor, not to harass them, but to examine them and
see whether they really were so; for many a sturdy thief or drunkard
goes about under cover of a make-believe crippled limb or a sham sore.
In a word, he made so many good rules that to this day they are
preserved there, and are called The constitutions of the great
governor Sancho Panza.
  CHAPTER LII
  WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED OR
AFFLICTED DUENNA, OTHERWISE CALLED DONA RODRIGUEZ

  CIDE HAMETE relates that Don Quixote being now cured of his
scratches felt that the life he was leading in the castle was entirely
inconsistent with the order of chivalry he professed, so he determined
to ask the duke and duchess to permit him to take his departure for
Saragossa, as the time of the festival was now drawing near, and he
hoped to win there the suit of armour which is the prize at
festivals of the sort. But one day at table with the duke and duchess,
just as he was about to carry his resolution into effect and ask for
their permission, lo and behold suddenly there came in through the
door of the great hall two women, as they afterwards proved to be,
draped in mourning from head to foot, one of whom approaching Don
Quixote flung herself at full length at his feet, pressing her lips to
them, and uttering moans so sad, so deep, and so doleful that she
put all who heard and saw her into a state of perplexity; and though
the duke and duchess supposed it must be some joke their servants were
playing off upon Don Quixote, still the earnest way the woman sighed
and moaned and wept puzzled them and made them feel uncertain, until
Don Quixote, touched with compassion, raised her up and made her
unveil herself and remove the mantle from her tearful face. She
complied and disclosed what no one could have ever anticipated, for
she disclosed the countenance of Dona Rodriguez, the duenna of the
house; the other female in mourning being her daughter, who had been
made a fool of by the rich farmer's son. All who knew her were
filled with astonishment, and the duke and duchess more than any;
for though they thought her a simpleton and a weak creature, they
did not think her capable of crazy pranks. Dona Rodriguez, at
length, turning to her master and mistress said to them, "Will your
excellences be pleased to permit me to speak to this gentleman for a
moment, for it is requisite I should do so in order to get
successfully out of the business in which the boldness of an
evil-minded clown has involved me?"
  The duke said that for his part he gave her leave, and that she
might speak with Senor Don Quixote as much as she liked.
  She then, turning to Don Quixote and addressing herself to him said,
"Some days since, valiant knight, I gave you an account of the
injustice and treachery of a wicked farmer to my dearly beloved
daughter, the unhappy damsel here before you, and you promised me to
take her part and right the wrong that has been done her; but now it
has come to my hearing that you are about to depart from this castle
in quest of such fair adventures as God may vouchsafe to you;
therefore, before you take the road, I would that you challenge this
froward rustic, and compel him to marry my daughter in fulfillment
of the promise he gave her to become her husband before he seduced
her; for to expect that my lord the duke will do me justice is to
ask pears from the elm tree, for the reason I stated privately to your
worship; and so may our Lord grant you good health and forsake us
not."
  To these words Don Quixote replied very gravely and solemnly,
"Worthy duenna, check your tears, or rather dry them, and spare your
sighs, for I take it upon myself to obtain redress for your
daughter, for whom it would have been better not to have been so ready
to believe lovers' promises, which are for the most part quickly
made and very slowly performed; and so, with my lord the duke's leave,
I will at once go in quest of this inhuman youth, and will find him
out and challenge him and slay him, if so be he refuses to keep his
promised word; for the chief object of my profession is to spare the
humble and chastise the proud; I mean, to help the distressed and
destroy the oppressors."
  "There is no necessity," said the duke, "for your worship to take
the trouble of seeking out the rustic of whom this worthy duenna
complains, nor is there any necessity, either, for asking my leave
to challenge him; for I admit him duly challenged, and will take
care that he is informed of the challenge, and accepts it, and comes
to answer it in person to this castle of mine, where I shall afford to
both a fair field, observing all the conditions which are usually
and properly observed in such trials, and observing too justice to
both sides, as all princes who offer a free field to combatants within
the limits of their lordships are bound to do."
  "Then with that assurance and your highness's good leave," said
Don Quixote, "I hereby for this once waive my privilege of gentle
blood, and come down and put myself on a level with the lowly birth of
the wrong-doer, making myself equal with him and enabling him to enter
into combat with me; and so, I challenge and defy him, though
absent, on the plea of his malfeasance in breaking faith with this
poor damsel, who was a maiden and now by his misdeed is none; and
say that he shall fulfill the promise he gave her to become her lawful
husband, or else stake his life upon the question."
  And then plucking off a glove he threw it down in the middle of
the hall, and the duke picked it up, saying, as he had said before,
that he accepted the challenge in the name of his vassal, and fixed
six days thence as the time, the courtyard of the castle as the place,
and for arms the customary ones of knights, lance and shield and
full armour, with all the other accessories, without trickery,
guile, or charms of any sort, and examined and passed by the judges of
the field. "But first of all," he said, "it is requisite that this
worthy duenna and unworthy damsel should place their claim for justice
in the hands of Don Quixote; for otherwise nothing can be done, nor
can the said challenge be brought to a lawful issue."
  "I do so place it," replied the duenna.
  "And I too," added her daughter, all in tears and covered with shame
and confusion.
  This declaration having been made, and the duke having settled in
his own mind what he would do in the matter, the ladies in black
withdrew, and the duchess gave orders that for the future they were
not to be treated as servants of hers, but as lady adventurers who
came to her house to demand justice; so they gave them a room to
themselves and waited on them as they would on strangers, to the
consternation of the other women-servants, who did not know where
the folly and imprudence of Dona Rodriguez and her unlucky daughter
would stop.
  And now, to complete the enjoyment of the feast and bring the dinner
to a satisfactory end, lo and behold the page who had carried the
letters and presents to Teresa Panza, the wife of the governor Sancho,
entered the hall; and the duke and duchess were very well pleased to
see him, being anxious to know the result of his journey; but when
they asked him the page said in reply that he could not give it before
so many people or in a few words, and begged their excellences to be
pleased to let it wait for a private opportunity, and in the
meantime amuse themselves with these letters; and taking out the
letters he placed them in the duchess's hand. One bore by way of
address, Letter for my lady the Duchess So-and-so, of I don't know
where; and the other To my husband Sancho Panza, governor of the
island of Barataria, whom God prosper longer than me. The duchess's
bread would not bake, as the saying is, until she had read her letter;
and having looked over it herself and seen that it might be read aloud
for the duke and all present to hear, she read out as follows.

            TERESA PANZA'S LETTER TO THE DUCHESS.

  The letter your highness wrote me, my lady, gave me great
pleasure, for indeed I found it very welcome. The string of coral
beads is very fine, and my husband's hunting suit does not fall
short of it. All this village is very much pleased that your
ladyship has made a governor of my good man Sancho; though nobody will
believe it, particularly the curate, and Master Nicholas the barber,
and the bachelor Samson Carrasco; but I don't care for that, for so
long as it is true, as it is, they may all say what they like; though,
to tell the truth, if the coral beads and the suit had not come I
would not have believed it either; for in this village everybody
thinks my husband a numskull, and except for governing a flock of
goats, they cannot fancy what sort of government he can be fit for.
God grant it, and direct him according as he sees his children stand
in need of it. I am resolved with your worship's leave, lady of my
soul, to make the most of this fair day, and go to Court to stretch
myself at ease in a coach, and make all those I have envying me
already burst their eyes out; so I beg your excellence to order my
husband to send me a small trifle of money, and to let it be something
to speak of, because one's expenses are heavy at the Court; for a loaf
costs a real, and meat thirty maravedis a pound, which is beyond
everything; and if he does not want me to go let him tell me in
time, for my feet are on the fidgets to he off; and my friends and
neighbours tell me that if my daughter and I make a figure and a brave
show at Court, my husband will come to be known far more by me than
I by him, for of course plenty of people will ask, "Who are those
ladies in that coach?" and some servant of mine will answer, "The wife
and daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria;"
and in this way Sancho will become known, and I'll be thought well of,
and "to Rome for everything." I am as vexed as vexed can be that
they have gathered no acorns this year in our village; for all that
I send your highness about half a peck that I went to the wood to
gather and pick out one by one myself, and I could find no bigger
ones; I wish they were as big as ostrich eggs.
  Let not your high mightiness forget to write to me; and I will
take care to answer, and let you know how I am, and whatever news
there may be in this place, where I remain, praying our Lord to have
your highness in his keeping and not to forget me.
  Sancha my daughter, and my son, kiss your worship's hands.
  She who would rather see your ladyship than write to you,
                              Your servant,
                                        TERESA PANZA.

  All were greatly amused by Teresa Panza's letter, but particularly
the duke and duchess; and the duchess asked Don Quixote's opinion
whether they might open the letter that had come for the governor,
which she suspected must be very good. Don Quixote said that to
gratify them he would open it, and did so, and found that it ran as
follows.

       TERESA PANZA'S LETTER TO HER HUSBAND SANCHO PANZA.

  I got thy letter, Sancho of my soul, and I promise thee and swear as
a Catholic Christian that I was within two fingers' breadth of going
mad I was so happy. I can tell thee, brother, when I came to hear that
thou wert a governor I thought I should have dropped dead with pure
joy; and thou knowest they say sudden joy kills as well as great
sorrow; and as for Sanchica thy daughter, she leaked from sheer
happiness. I had before me the suit thou didst send me, and the
coral beads my lady the duchess sent me round my neck, and the letters
in my hands, and there was the bearer of them standing by, and in
spite of all this I verily believed and thought that what I saw and
handled was all a dream; for who could have thought that a goatherd
would come to be a governor of islands? Thou knowest, my friend,
what my mother used to say, that one must live long to see much; I say
it because I expect to see more if I live longer; for I don't expect
to stop until I see thee a farmer of taxes or a collector of
revenue, which are offices where, though the devil carries off those
who make a bad use of them, still they make and handle money. My
lady the duchess will tell thee the desire I have to go to the
Court; consider the matter and let me know thy pleasure; I will try to
do honour to thee by going in a coach.
  Neither the curate, nor the barber, nor the bachelor, nor even the
sacristan, can believe that thou art a governor, and they say the
whole thing is a delusion or an enchantment affair, like everything
belonging to thy master Don Quixote; and Samson says he must go in
search of thee and drive the government out of thy head and the
madness out of Don Quixote's skull; I only laugh, and look at my
string of beads, and plan out the dress I am going to make for our
daughter out of thy suit. I sent some acorns to my lady the duchess; I
wish they had been gold. Send me some strings of pearls if they are in
fashion in that island. Here is the news of the village; La Berrueca
has married her daughter to a good-for-nothing painter, who came
here to paint anything that might turn up. The council gave him an
order to paint his Majesty's arms over the door of the town-hall; he
asked two ducats, which they paid him in advance; he worked for
eight days, and at the end of them had nothing painted, and then
said he had no turn for painting such trifling things; he returned the
money, and for all that has married on the pretence of being a good
workman; to be sure he has now laid aside his paint-brush and taken
a spade in hand, and goes to the field like a gentleman. Pedro
Lobo's son has received the first orders and tonsure, with the
intention of becoming a priest. Minguilla, Mingo Silvato's
granddaughter, found it out, and has gone to law with him on the score
of having given her promise of marriage. Evil tongues say she is
with child by him, but he denies it stoutly. There are no olives
this year, and there is not a drop of vinegar to be had in the whole
village. A company of soldiers passed through here; when they left
they took away with them three of the girls of the village; I will not
tell thee who they are; perhaps they will come back, and they will
be sure to find those who will take them for wives with all their
blemishes, good or bad. Sanchica is making bonelace; she earns eight
maravedis a day clear, which she puts into a moneybox as a help
towards house furnishing; but now that she is a governor's daughter
thou wilt give her a portion without her working for it. The
fountain in the plaza has run dry. A flash of lightning struck the
gibbet, and I wish they all lit there. I look for an answer to this,
and to know thy mind about my going to the Court; and so, God keep
thee longer than me, or as long, for I would not leave thee in this
world without me.
                              Thy wife,
                                    TERESA PANZA.

  The letters were applauded, laughed over, relished, and admired; and
then, as if to put the seal to the business, the courier arrived,
bringing the one Sancho sent to Don Quixote, and this, too, was read
out, and it raised some doubts as to the governor's simplicity. The
duchess withdrew to hear from the page about his adventures in
Sancho's village, which he narrated at full length without leaving a
single circumstance unmentioned. He gave her the acorns, and also a
cheese which Teresa had given him as being particularly good and
superior to those of Tronchon. The duchess received it with greatest
delight, in which we will leave her, to describe the end of the
government of the great Sancho Panza, flower and mirror of all
governors of islands.
  CHAPTER LIII
  OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA'S GOVERNMENT
CAME TO

  TO FANCY that in this life anything belonging to it will remain
for ever in the same state is an idle fancy; on the contrary, in it
everything seems to go in a circle, I mean round and round. The spring
succeeds the summer, the summer the fall, the fall the autumn, the
autumn the winter, and the winter the spring, and so time rolls with
never-ceasing wheel. Man's life alone, swifter than time, speeds
onward to its end without any hope of renewal, save it be in that
other life which is endless and boundless. Thus saith Cide Hamete
the Mahometan philosopher; for there are many that by the light of
nature alone, without the light of faith, have a comprehension of
the fleeting nature and instability of this present life and the
endless duration of that eternal life we hope for; but our author is
here speaking of the rapidity with which Sancho's government came to
an end, melted away, disappeared, vanished as it were in smoke and
shadow. For as he lay in bed on the night of the seventh day of his
government, sated, not with bread and wine, but with delivering
judgments and giving opinions and making laws and proclamations,
just as sleep, in spite of hunger, was beginning to close his eyelids,
he heard such a noise of bell-ringing and shouting that one would have
fancied the whole island was going to the bottom. He sat up in bed and
remained listening intently to try if he could make out what could
be the cause of so great an uproar; not only, however, was he unable
to discover what it was, but as countless drums and trumpets now
helped to swell the din of the bells and shouts, he was more puzzled
than ever, and filled with fear and terror; and getting up he put on a
pair of slippers because of the dampness of the floor, and without
throwing a dressing gown or anything of the kind over him he rushed
out of the door of his room, just in time to see approaching along a
corridor a band of more than twenty persons with lighted torches and
naked swords in their hands, all shouting out, "To arms, to arms,
senor governor, to arms! The enemy is in the island in countless
numbers, and we are lost unless your skill and valour come to our
support."
  Keeping up this noise, tumult, and uproar, they came to where Sancho
stood dazed and bewildered by what he saw and heard, and as they
approached one of them called out to him, "Arm at once, your lordship,
if you would not have yourself destroyed and the whole island lost."
  "What have I to do with arming?" said Sancho. "What do I know
about arms or supports? Better leave all that to my master Don
Quixote, who will settle it and make all safe in a trice; for I,
sinner that I am, God help me, don't understand these scuffles."
  "Ah, senor governor," said another, "what slackness of mettle this
is! Arm yourself; here are arms for you, offensive and defensive; come
out to the plaza and be our leader and captain; it falls upon you by
right, for you are our governor."
  "Arm me then, in God's name," said Sancho, and they at once produced
two large shields they had come provided with, and placed them upon
him over his shirt, without letting him put on anything else, one
shield in front and the other behind, and passing his arms through
openings they had made, they bound him tight with ropes, so that there
he was walled and boarded up as straight as a spindle and unable to
bend his knees or stir a single step. In his hand they placed a lance,
on which he leant to keep himself from falling, and as soon as they
had him thus fixed they bade him march forward and lead them on and
give them all courage; for with him for their guide and lamp and
morning star, they were sure to bring their business to a successful
issue.
  "How am I to march, unlucky being that I am?" said Sancho, "when I
can't stir my knee-caps, for these boards I have bound so tight to
my body won't let me. What you must do is carry me in your arms, and
lay me across or set me upright in some postern, and I'll hold it
either with this lance or with my body."
  "On, senor governor!" cried another, "it is fear more than the
boards that keeps you from moving; make haste, stir yourself, for
there is no time to lose; the enemy is increasing in numbers, the
shouts grow louder, and the danger is pressing."
  Urged by these exhortations and reproaches the poor governor made an
attempt to advance, but fell to the ground with such a crash that he
fancied he had broken himself all to pieces. There he lay like a
tortoise enclosed in its shell, or a side of bacon between two
kneading-troughs, or a boat bottom up on the beach; nor did the gang
of jokers feel any compassion for him when they saw him down; so far
from that, extinguishing their torches they began to shout afresh
and to renew the calls to arms with such energy, trampling on poor
Sancho, and slashing at him over the shield with their swords in
such a way that, if he had not gathered himself together and made
himself small and drawn in his head between the shields, it would have
fared badly with the poor governor, as, squeezed into that narrow
compass, he lay, sweating and sweating again, and commending himself
with all his heart to God to deliver him from his present peril.
Some stumbled over him, others fell upon him, and one there was who
took up a position on top of him for some time, and from thence as
if from a watchtower issued orders to the troops, shouting out, "Here,
our side! Here the enemy is thickest! Hold the breach there! Shut that
gate! Barricade those ladders! Here with your stink-pots of pitch
and resin, and kettles of boiling oil! Block the streets with
feather beds!" In short, in his ardour he mentioned every little
thing, and every implement and engine of war by means of which an
assault upon a city is warded off, while the bruised and battered
Sancho, who heard and suffered all, was saying to himself, "O if it
would only please the Lord to let the island be lost at once, and I
could see myself either dead or out of this torture!" Heaven heard his
prayer, and when he least expected it he heard voices exclaiming,
"Victory, victory! The enemy retreats beaten! Come, senor governor,
get up, and come and enjoy the victory, and divide the spoils that
have been won from the foe by the might of that invincible arm."
  "Lift me up," said the wretched Sancho in a woebegone voice. They
helped him to rise, and as soon as he was on his feet said, "The enemy
I have beaten you may nail to my forehead; I don't want to divide
the spoils of the foe, I only beg and entreat some friend, if I have
one, to give me a sup of wine, for I'm parched with thirst, and wipe
me dry, for I'm turning to water."
  They rubbed him down, fetched him wine and unbound the shields,
and he seated himself upon his bed, and with fear, agitation, and
fatigue he fainted away. Those who had been concerned in the joke were
now sorry they had pushed it so far; however, the anxiety his fainting
away had caused them was relieved by his returning to himself. He
asked what o'clock it was; they told him it was just daybreak. He said
no more, and in silence began to dress himself, while all watched him,
waiting to see what the haste with which he was putting on his clothes
meant.
  He got himself dressed at last, and then, slowly, for he was
sorely bruised and could not go fast, he proceeded to the stable,
followed by all who were present, and going up to Dapple embraced
him and gave him a loving kiss on the forehead, and said to him, not
without tears in his eyes, "Come along, comrade and friend and partner
of my toils and sorrows; when I was with you and had no cares to
trouble me except mending your harness and feeding your little
carcass, happy were my hours, my days, and my years; but since I
left you, and mounted the towers of ambition and pride, a thousand
miseries, a thousand troubles, and four thousand anxieties have
entered into my soul;" and all the while he was speaking in this
strain he was fixing the pack-saddle on the ass, without a word from
anyone. Then having Dapple saddled, he, with great pain and
difficulty, got up on him, and addressing himself to the majordomo,
the secretary, the head-carver, and Pedro Recio the doctor and several
others who stood by, he said, "Make way, gentlemen, and let me go back
to my old freedom; let me go look for my past life, and raise myself
up from this present death. I was not born to be a governor or protect
islands or cities from the enemies that choose to attack them.
Ploughing and digging, vinedressing and pruning, are more in my way
than defending provinces or kingdoms. 'Saint Peter is very well at
Rome; I mean each of us is best following the trade he was born to.
A reaping-hook fits my hand better than a governor's sceptre; I'd
rather have my fill of gazpacho' than be subject to the misery of a
meddling doctor who me with hunger, and I'd rather lie in summer under
the shade of an oak, and in winter wrap myself in a double sheepskin
jacket in freedom, than go to bed between holland sheets and dress
in sables under the restraint of a government. God be with your
worships, and tell my lord the duke that 'naked I was born, naked I
find myself, I neither lose nor gain;' I mean that without a
farthing I came into this government, and without a farthing I go
out of it, very different from the way governors commonly leave
other islands. Stand aside and let me go; I have to plaster myself,
for I believe every one of my ribs is crushed, thanks to the enemies
that have been trampling over me to-night."
  "That is unnecessary, senor governor," said Doctor Recio, "for I
will give your worship a draught against falls and bruises that will
soon make you as sound and strong as ever; and as for your diet I
promise your worship to behave better, and let you eat plentifully
of whatever you like."
  "You spoke late," said Sancho. "I'd as soon turn Turk as stay any
longer. Those jokes won't pass a second time. By God I'd as soon
remain in this government, or take another, even if it was offered
me between two plates, as fly to heaven without wings. I am of the
breed of the Panzas, and they are every one of them obstinate, and
if they once say 'odds,' odds it must be, no matter if it is evens, in
spite of all the world. Here in this stable I leave the ant's wings
that lifted me up into the air for the swifts and other birds to eat
me, and let's take to level ground and our feet once more; and if
they're not shod in pinked shoes of cordovan, they won't want for
rough sandals of hemp; 'every ewe to her like,' 'and let no one
stretch his leg beyond the length of the sheet;' and now let me
pass, for it's growing late with me."
  To this the majordomo said, "Senor governor, we would let your
worship go with all our hearts, though it sorely grieves us to lose
you, for your wit and Christian conduct naturally make us regret
you; but it is well known that every governor, before he leaves the
place where he has been governing, is bound first of all to render
an account. Let your worship do so for the ten days you have held
the government, and then you may go and the peace of God go with you."
  "No one can demand it of me," said Sancho, "but he whom my lord
the duke shall appoint; I am going to meet him, and to him I will
render an exact one; besides, when I go forth naked as I do, there
is no other proof needed to show that I have governed like an angel."
  "By God the great Sancho is right," said Doctor Recio, "and we
should let him go, for the duke will be beyond measure glad to see
him."
  They all agreed to this, and allowed him to go, first offering to
bear him company and furnish him with all he wanted for his own
comfort or for the journey. Sancho said he did not want anything more
than a little barley for Dapple, and half a cheese and half a loaf
for himself; for the distance being so short there was no occasion for
any better or bulkier provant. They all embraced him, and he with
tears embraced all of them, and left them filled with admiration not
only at his remarks but at his firm and sensible resolution.
  CHAPTER XLIV
  WHICH DEALS WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY AND NO OTHER

  THE duke and duchess resolved that the challenge Don Quixote had,
for the reason already mentioned, given their vassal, should be
proceeded with; and as the young man was in Flanders, whither he had
fled to escape having Dona Rodriguez for a mother-in-law, they
arranged to substitute for him a Gascon lacquey, named Tosilos,
first of all carefully instructing him in all he had to do. Two days
later the duke told Don Quixote that in four days from that time his
opponent would present himself on the field of battle armed as a
knight, and would maintain that the damsel lied by half a beard, nay a
whole beard, if she affirmed that he had given her a promise of
marriage. Don Quixote was greatly pleased at the news, and promised
himself to do wonders in the lists, and reckoned it rare good
fortune that an opportunity should have offered for letting his
noble hosts see what the might of his strong arm was capable of; and
so in high spirits and satisfaction he awaited the expiration of the
four days, which measured by his impatience seemed spinning themselves
out into four hundred ages. Let us leave them to pass as we do other
things, and go and bear Sancho company, as mounted on Dapple, half
glad, half sad, he paced along on his road to join his master, in
whose society he was happier than in being governor of all the islands
in the world. Well then, it so happened that before he had gone a
great way from the island of his government (and whether it was
island, city, town, or village that he governed he never troubled
himself to inquire) he saw coming along the road he was travelling six
pilgrims with staves, foreigners of that sort that beg for alms
singing; who as they drew near arranged themselves in a line and
lifting up their voices all together began to sing in their own
language something that Sancho could not with the exception of one
word which sounded plainly "alms," from which he gathered that it
was alms they asked for in their song; and being, as Cide Hamete says,
remarkably charitable, he took out of his alforias the half loaf and
half cheese he had been provided with, and gave them to them,
explaining to them by signs that he had nothing else to give them.
They received them very gladly, but exclaimed, "Geld! Geld!"
  "I don't understand what you want of me, good people," said Sancho.
  On this one of them took a purse out of his bosom and showed it to
Sancho, by which he comprehended they were asking for money, and
putting his thumb to his throat and spreading his hand upwards he gave
them to understand that he had not the sign of a coin about him, and
urging Dapple forward he broke through them. But as he was passing,
one of them who had been examining him very closely rushed towards
him, and flinging his arms round him exclaimed in a loud voice and
good Spanish, "God bless me! What's this I see? Is it possible that
I hold in my arms my dear friend, my good neighbour Sancho Panza?
But there's no doubt about it, for I'm not asleep, nor am I drunk just
now."
  Sancho was surprised to hear himself called by his name and find
himself embraced by a foreign pilgrim, and after regarding him
steadily without speaking he was still unable to recognise him; but
the pilgrim perceiving his perplexity cried, "What! and is it
possible, Sancho Panza, that thou dost not know thy neighbour
Ricote, the Morisco shopkeeper of thy village?"
  Sancho upon this looking at him more carefully began to recall his
features, and at last recognised him perfectly, and without getting
off the ass threw his arms round his neck saying, "Who the devil could
have known thee, Ricote, in this mummer's dress thou art in? Tell
me, who bas frenchified thee, and how dost thou dare to return to
Spain, where if they catch thee and recognise thee it will go hard
enough with thee?"
  "If thou dost not betray me, Sancho," said the pilgrim, "I am
safe; for in this dress no one will recognise me; but let us turn
aside out of the road into that grove there where my comrades are
going to eat and rest, and thou shalt eat with them there, for they
are very good fellows; I'll have time enough to tell thee then all
that has happened me since I left our village in obedience to his
Majesty's edict that threatened such severities against the
unfortunate people of my nation, as thou hast heard."
  Sancho complied, and Ricote having spoken to the other pilgrims they
withdrew to the grove they saw, turning a considerable distance out of
the road. They threw down their staves, took off their pilgrim's
cloaks and remained in their under-clothing; they were all
good-looking young fellows, except Ricote, who was a man somewhat
advanced in years. They carried alforjas all of them, and all
apparently well filled, at least with things provocative of thirst,
such as would summon it from two leagues off. They stretched
themselves on the ground, and making a tablecloth of the grass they
spread upon it bread, salt, knives, walnut, scraps of cheese, and
well-picked ham-bones which if they were past gnawing were not past
sucking. They also put down a black dainty called, they say, caviar,
and made of the eggs of fish, a great thirst-wakener. Nor was there
any lack of olives, dry, it is true, and without any seasoning, but
for all that toothsome and pleasant. But what made the best show in
the field of the banquet was half a dozen botas of wine, for each of
them produced his own from his alforjas; even the good Ricote, who
from a Morisco had transformed himself into a German or Dutchman, took
out his, which in size might have vied with the five others. They then
began to eat with very great relish and very leisurely, making the
most of each morsel- very small ones of everything- they took up on
the point of the knife; and then all at the same moment raised their
arms and botas aloft, the mouths placed in their mouths, and all
eyes fixed on heaven just as if they were taking aim at it; and in
this attitude they remained ever so long, wagging their heads from
side to side as if in acknowledgment of the pleasure they were
enjoying while they decanted the bowels of the bottles into their
own stomachs.
  Sancho beheld all, "and nothing gave him pain;" so far from that,
acting on the proverb he knew so well, "when thou art at Rome do as
thou seest," he asked Ricote for his bota and took aim like the rest
of them, and with not less enjoyment. Four times did the botas bear
being uplifted, but the fifth it was all in vain, for they were
drier and more sapless than a rush by that time, which made the
jollity that had been kept up so far begin to flag.
  Every now and then some one of them would grasp Sancho's right
hand in his own saying, "Espanoli y Tudesqui tuto uno: bon compano;"
and Sancho would answer, "Bon compano, jur a Di!" and then go off into
a fit of laughter that lasted an hour, without a thought for the
moment of anything that had befallen him in his government; for
cares have very little sway over us while we are eating and
drinking. At length, the wine having come to an end with them,
drowsiness began to come over them, and they dropped asleep on their
very table and tablecloth. Ricote and Sancho alone remained awake, for
they had eaten more and drunk less, and Ricote drawing Sancho aside,
they seated themselves at the foot of a beech, leaving the pilgrims
buried in sweet sleep; and without once falling into his own Morisco
tongue Ricote spoke as follows in pure Castilian:
  "Thou knowest well, neighbour and friend Sancho Panza, how the
proclamation or edict his Majesty commanded to be issued against those
of my nation filled us all with terror and dismay; me at least it did,
insomuch that I think before the time granted us for quitting Spain
was out, the full force of the penalty had already fallen upon me
and upon my children. I decided, then, and I think wisely (just like
one who knows that at a certain date the house he lives in will be
taken from him, and looks out beforehand for another to change
into), I decided, I say, to leave the town myself, alone and without
my family, and go to seek out some place to remove them to comfortably
and not in the hurried way in which the others took their departure;
for I saw very plainly, and so did all the older men among us, that
the proclamations were not mere threats, as some said, but positive
enactments which would be enforced at the appointed time; and what
made me believe this was what I knew of the base and extravagant
designs which our people harboured, designs of such a nature that I
think it was a divine inspiration that moved his Majesty to carry
out a resolution so spirited; not that we were all guilty, for some
there were true and steadfast Christians; but they were so few that
they could make no head against those who were not; and it was not
prudent to cherish a viper in the bosom by having enemies in the
house. In short it was with just cause that we were visited with the
penalty of banishment, a mild and lenient one in the eyes of some, but
to us the most terrible that could be inflicted upon us. Wherever we
are we weep for Spain; for after all we were born there and it is
our natural fatherland. Nowhere do we find the reception our unhappy
condition needs; and in Barbary and all the parts of Africa where we
counted upon being received, succoured, and welcomed, it is there they
insult and ill-treat us most. We knew not our good fortune until we
lost it; and such is the longing we almost all of us have to return to
Spain, that most of those who like myself know the language, and there
are many who do, come back to it and leave their wives and children
forsaken yonder, so great is their love for it; and now I know by
experience the meaning of the saying, sweet is the love of one's
country.
  "I left our village, as I said, and went to France, but though
they gave us a kind reception there I was anxious to see all I
could. I crossed into Italy, and reached Germany, and there it
seemed to me we might live with more freedom, as the inhabitants do
not pay any attention to trifling points; everyone lives as he
likes, for in most parts they enjoy liberty of conscience. I took a
house in a town near Augsburg, and then joined these pilgrims, who are
in the habit of coming to Spain in great numbers every year to visit
the shrines there, which they look upon as their Indies and a sure and
certain source of gain. They travel nearly all over it, and there is
no town out of which they do not go full up of meat and drink, as
the saying is, and with a real, at least, in money, and they come
off at the end of their travels with more than a hundred crowns saved,
which, changed into gold, they smuggle out of the kingdom either in
the hollow of their staves or in the patches of their pilgrim's cloaks
or by some device of their own, and carry to their own country in
spite of the guards at the posts and passes where they are searched.
Now my purpose is, Sancho, to carry away the treasure that I left
buried, which, as it is outside the town, I shall be able to do
without risk, and to write, or cross over from Valencia, to my
daughter and wife, who I know are at Algiers, and find some means of
bringing them to some French port and thence to Germany, there to
await what it may be God's will to do with us; for, after all, Sancho,
I know well that Ricota my daughter and Francisca Ricota my wife are
Catholic Christians, and though I am not so much so, still I am more
of a Christian than a Moor, and it is always my prayer to God that
he will open the eyes of my understanding and show me how I am to
serve him; but what amazes me and I cannot understand is why my wife
and daughter should have gone to Barbary rather than to France,
where they could live as Christians."
  To this Sancho replied, "Remember, Ricote, that may not have been
open to them, for Juan Tiopieyo thy wife's brother took them, and
being a true Moor he went where he could go most easily; and another
thing I can tell thee, it is my belief thou art going in vain to
look for what thou hast left buried, for we heard they took from thy
brother-in-law and thy wife a great quantity of pearls and money in
gold which they brought to be passed."
  "That may be," said Ricote; "but I know they did not touch my hoard,
for I did not tell them where it was, for fear of accidents; and so,
if thou wilt come with me, Sancho, and help me to take it away and
conceal it, I will give thee two hundred crowns wherewith thou
mayest relieve thy necessities, and, as thou knowest, I know they
are many."
  "I would do it," said Sancho; "but I am not at all covetous, for I
gave up an office this morning in which, if I was, I might have made
the walls of my house of gold and dined off silver plates before six
months were over; and so for this reason, and because I feel I would
be guilty of treason to my king if I helped his enemies, I would not
go with thee if instead of promising me two hundred crowns thou wert
to give me four hundred here in hand."
  "And what office is this thou hast given up, Sancho?" asked Ricote.
  "I have given up being governor of an island," said Sancho, "and
such a one, faith, as you won't find the like of easily."
  "And where is this island?" said Ricote.
  "Where?" said Sancho; "two leagues from here, and it is called the
island of Barataria."
  "Nonsense! Sancho," said Ricote; "islands are away out in the sea;
there are no islands on the mainland."
  "What? No islands!" said Sancho; "I tell thee, friend Ricote, I left
it this morning, and yesterday I was governing there as I pleased like
a sagittarius; but for all that I gave it up, for it seemed to me a
dangerous office, a governor's."
  "And what hast thou gained by the government?" asked Ricote.
  "I have gained," said Sancho, "the knowledge that I am no good for
governing, unless it is a drove of cattle, and that the riches that
are to be got by these governments are got at the cost of one's rest
and sleep, ay and even one's food; for in islands the governors must
eat little, especially if they have doctors to look after their
health."
  "I don't understand thee, Sancho," said Ricote; "but it seems to
me all nonsense thou art talking. Who would give thee islands to
govern? Is there any scarcity in the world of cleverer men than thou
art for governors? Hold thy peace, Sancho, and come back to thy
senses, and consider whether thou wilt come with me as I said to
help me to take away treasure I left buried (for indeed it may be
called a treasure, it is so large), and I will give thee wherewithal
to keep thee, as I told thee."
  "And I have told thee already, Ricote, that I will not," said
Sancho; "let it content thee that by me thou shalt not be betrayed,
and go thy way in God's name and let me go mine; for I know that
well-gotten gain may be lost, but ill-gotten gain is lost, itself
and its owner likewise."
  "I will not press thee, Sancho," said Ricote; "but tell me, wert
thou in our village when my wife and daughter and brother-in-law
left it?"
  "I was so," said Sancho; "and I can tell thee thy daughter left it
looking so lovely that all the village turned out to see her, and
everybody said she was the fairest creature in the world. She wept
as she went, and embraced all her friends and acquaintances and
those who came out to see her, and she begged them all to commend
her to God and Our Lady his mother, and this in such a touching way
that it made me weep myself, though I'm not much given to tears
commonly; and, faith, many a one would have liked to hide her, or go
out and carry her off on the road; but the fear of going against the
king's command kept them back. The one who showed himself most moved
was Don Pedro Gregorio, the rich young heir thou knowest of, and
they say he was deep in love with her; and since she left he has not
been seen in our village again, and we all suspect he has gone after
her to steal her away, but so far nothing has been heard of it."
  "I always had a suspicion that gentleman had a passion for my
daughter," said Ricote; "but as I felt sure of my Ricota's virtue it
gave me no uneasiness to know that he loved her; for thou must have
heard it said, Sancho, that the Morisco women seldom or never engage
in amours with the old Christians; and my daughter, who I fancy
thought more of being a Christian than of lovemaking, would not
trouble herself about the attentions of this heir."
  "God grant it," said Sancho, "for it would be a bad business for
both of them; but now let me be off, friend Ricote, for I want to
reach where my master Don Quixote is to-night."
  "God be with thee, brother Sancho," said Ricote; "my comrades are
beginning to stir, and it is time, too, for us to continue our
journey;" and then they both embraced, and Sancho mounted Dapple,
and Ricote leant upon his staff, and so they parted.
  CHAPTER LV
  OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER THINGS THAT CANNOT BE
SURPASSED

  THE length of time he delayed with Ricote prevented Sancho from
reaching the duke's castle that day, though he was within half a
league of it when night, somewhat dark and cloudy, overtook him. This,
however, as it was summer time, did not give him much uneasiness,
and he turned aside out of the road intending to wait for morning; but
his ill luck and hard fate so willed it that as he was searching about
for a place to make himself as comfortable as possible, he and
Dapple fell into a deep dark hole that lay among some very old
buildings. As he fell he commended himself with all his heart to
God, fancying he was not going to stop until he reached the depths
of the bottomless pit; but it did not turn out so, for at little
more than thrice a man's height Dapple touched bottom, and he found
himself sitting on him without having received any hurt or damage
whatever. He felt himself all over and held his breath to try
whether he was quite sound or had a hole made in him anywhere, and
finding himself all right and whole and in perfect health he was
profuse in his thanks to God our Lord for the mercy that had been
shown him, for he made sure he had been broken into a thousand pieces.
He also felt along the sides of the pit with his hands to see if it
were possible to get out of it without help, but he found they were
quite smooth and afforded no hold anywhere, at which he was greatly
distressed, especially when he heard how pathetically and dolefully
Dapple was bemoaning himself, and no wonder he complained, nor was
it from ill-temper, for in truth he was not in a very good case.
"Alas," said Sancho, "what unexpected accidents happen at every step
to those who live in this miserable world! Who would have said that
one who saw himself yesterday sitting on a throne, governor of an
island, giving orders to his servants and his vassals, would see
himself to-day buried in a pit without a soul to help him, or
servant or vassal to come to his relief? Here must we perish with
hunger, my ass and myself, if indeed we don't die first, he of his
bruises and injuries, and I of grief and sorrow. At any rate I'll
not be as lucky as my master Don Quixote of La Mancha, when he went
down into the cave of that enchanted Montesinos, where he found people
to make more of him than if he had been in his own house; for it seems
he came in for a table laid out and a bed ready made. There he saw
fair and pleasant visions, but here I'll see, I imagine, toads and
adders. Unlucky wretch that I am, what an end my follies and fancies
have come to! They'll take up my bones out of this, when it is
heaven's will that I'm found, picked clean, white and polished, and my
good Dapple's with them, and by that, perhaps, it will be found out
who we are, at least by such as have heard that Sancho Panza never
separated from his ass, nor his ass from Sancho Panza. Unlucky
wretches, I say again, that our hard fate should not let us die in our
own country and among our own people, where if there was no help for
our misfortune, at any rate there would be some one to grieve for it
and to close our eyes as we passed away! O comrade and friend, how ill
have I repaid thy faithful services! Forgive me, and entreat
Fortune, as well as thou canst, to deliver us out of this miserable
strait we are both in; and I promise to put a crown of laurel on thy
head, and make thee look like a poet laureate, and give thee double
feeds."
  In this strain did Sancho bewail himself, and his ass listened to
him, but answered him never a word, such was the distress and
anguish the poor beast found himself in. At length, after a night
spent in bitter moanings and lamentations, day came, and by its
light Sancho perceived that it was wholly impossible to escape out
of that pit without help, and he fell to bemoaning his fate and
uttering loud shouts to find out if there was anyone within hearing;
but all his shouting was only crying in the wilderness, for there
was not a soul anywhere in the neighbourhood to hear him, and then
at last he gave himself up for dead. Dapple was lying on his back, and
Sancho helped him to his feet, which he was scarcely able to keep; and
then taking a piece of bread out of his alforjas which had shared
their fortunes in the fall, he gave it to the ass, to whom it was
not unwelcome, saying to him as if he understood him, "With bread
all sorrows are less."
  And now he perceived on one side of the pit a hole large enough to
admit a person if he stooped and squeezed himself into a small
compass. Sancho made for it, and entered it by creeping, and found
it wide and spacious on the inside, which he was able to see as a
ray of sunlight that penetrated what might be called the roof showed
it all plainly. He observed too that it opened and widened out into
another spacious cavity; seeing which he made his way back to where
the ass was, and with a stone began to pick away the clay from the
hole until in a short time he had made room for the beast to pass
easily, and this accomplished, taking him by the halter, he
proceeded to traverse the cavern to see if there was any outlet at the
other end. He advanced, sometimes in the dark, sometimes without
light, but never without fear; "God Almighty help me!" said he to
himself; "this that is a misadventure to me would make a good
adventure for my master Don Quixote. He would have been sure to take
these depths and dungeons for flowery gardens or the palaces of
Galiana, and would have counted upon issuing out of this darkness
and imprisonment into some blooming meadow; but I, unlucky that I
am, hopeless and spiritless, expect at every step another pit deeper
than the first to open under my feet and swallow me up for good;
'welcome evil, if thou comest alone.'"
  In this way and with these reflections he seemed to himself to
have travelled rather more than half a league, when at last he
perceived a dim light that looked like daylight and found its way in
on one side, showing that this road, which appeared to him the road to
the other world, led to some opening.
  Here Cide Hamete leaves him, and returns to Don Quixote, who in high
spirits and satisfaction was looking forward to the day fixed for
the battle he was to fight with him who had robbed Dona Rodriguez's
daughter of her honour, for whom he hoped to obtain satisfaction for
the wrong and injury shamefully done to her. It came to pass, then,
that having sallied forth one morning to practise and exercise himself
in what he would have to do in the encounter he expected to find
himself engaged in the next day, as he was putting Rocinante through
his paces or pressing him to the charge, he brought his feet so
close to a pit that but for reining him in tightly it would have
been impossible for him to avoid falling into it. He pulled him up,
however, without a fall, and coming a little closer examined the
hole without dismounting; but as he was looking at it he heard loud
cries proceeding from it, and by listening attentively was able to
make out that he who uttered them was saying, "Ho, above there! is
there any Christian that hears me, or any charitable gentleman that
will take pity on a sinner buried alive, on an unfortunate disgoverned
governor?"
  It struck Don Quixote that it was the voice of Sancho Panza he
heard, whereat he was taken aback and amazed, and raising his own
voice as much as he could, he cried out, "Who is below there? Who is
that complaining?"
  "Who should be here, or who should complain," was the answer, "but
the forlorn Sancho Panza, for his sins and for his ill-luck governor
of the island of Barataria, squire that was to the famous knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha?"
  When Don Quixote heard this his amazement was redoubled and his
perturbation grew greater than ever, for it suggested itself to his
mind that Sancho must be dead, and that his soul was in torment down
there; and carried away by this idea he exclaimed, "I conjure thee
by everything that as a Catholic Christian I can conjure thee by, tell
me who thou art; and if thou art a soul in torment, tell me what
thou wouldst have me do for thee; for as my profession is to give
aid and succour to those that need it in this world, it will also
extend to aiding and succouring the distressed of the other, who
cannot help themselves."
  "In that case," answered the voice, "your worship who speaks to me
must be my master Don Quixote of La Mancha; nay, from the tone of
the voice it is plain it can be nobody else."
  "Don Quixote I am," replied Don Quixote, "he whose profession it
is to aid and succour the living and the dead in their necessities;
wherefore tell me who thou art, for thou art keeping me in suspense;
because, if thou art my squire Sancho Panza, and art dead, since the
devils have not carried thee off, and thou art by God's mercy in
purgatory, our holy mother the Roman Catholic Church has
intercessory means sufficient to release thee from the pains thou
art in; and I for my part will plead with her to that end, so far as
my substance will go; without further delay, therefore, declare
thyself, and tell me who thou art."
  "By all that's good," was the answer, "and by the birth of
whomsoever your worship chooses, I swear, Senor Don Quixote of La
Mancha, that I am your squire Sancho Panza, and that I have never died
all my life; but that, having given up my government for reasons
that would require more time to explain, I fell last night into this
pit where I am now, and Dapple is witness and won't let me lie, for
more by token he is here with me."
  Nor was this all; one would have fancied the ass understood what
Sancho said, because that moment he began to bray so loudly that the
whole cave rang again.
  "Famous testimony!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "I know that bray as well
as if I was its mother, and thy voice too, my Sancho. Wait while I
go to the duke's castle, which is close by, and I will bring some
one to take thee out of this pit into which thy sins no doubt have
brought thee."
  "Go, your worship," said Sancho, "and come back quick for God's
sake; for I cannot bear being buried alive any longer, and I'm dying
of fear."
  Don Quixote left him, and hastened to the castle to tell the duke
and duchess what had happened Sancho, and they were not a little
astonished at it; they could easily understand his having fallen, from
the confirmatory circumstance of the cave which had been in
existence there from time immemorial; but they could not imagine how
he had quitted the government without their receiving any intimation
of his coming. To be brief, they fetched ropes and tackle, as the
saying is, and by dint of many hands and much labour they drew up
Dapple and Sancho Panza out of the darkness into the light of day. A
student who saw him remarked, "That's the way all bad governors should
come out of their governments, as this sinner comes out of the
depths of the pit, dead with hunger, pale, and I suppose without a
farthing."
  Sancho overheard him and said, "It is eight or ten days, brother
growler, since I entered upon the government of the island they gave
me, and all that time I never had a bellyful of victuals, no not for
an hour; doctors persecuted me and enemies crushed my bones; nor had I
any opportunity of taking bribes or levying taxes; and if that be
the case, as it is, I don't deserve, I think, to come out in this
fashion; but 'man proposes and God disposes;' and God knows what is
best, and what suits each one best; and 'as the occasion, so the
behaviour;' and 'let nobody say "I won't drink of this water;"' and
'where one thinks there are flitches, there are no pegs;' God knows my
meaning and that's enough; I say no more, though I could."
  "Be not angry or annoyed at what thou hearest, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, "or there will never be an end of it; keep a safe
conscience and let them say what they like; for trying to stop
slanderers' tongues is like trying to put gates to the open plain.
If a governor comes out of his government rich, they say he has been a
thief; and if he comes out poor, that he has been a noodle and a
blockhead."
  "They'll be pretty sure this time," said Sancho, "to set me down for
a fool rather than a thief."
  Thus talking, and surrounded by boys and a crowd of people, they
reached the castle, where in one of the corridors the duke and duchess
stood waiting for them; but Sancho would not go up to see the duke
until he had first put up Dapple in the stable, for he said he had
passed a very bad night in his last quarters; then he went upstairs to
see his lord and lady, and kneeling before them he said, "Because it
was your highnesses' pleasure, not because of any desert of my own,
I went to govern your island of Barataria, which 'I entered naked, and
naked I find myself; I neither lose nor gain.' Whether I have governed
well or ill, I have had witnesses who will say what they think fit.
I have answered questions, I have decided causes, and always dying
of hunger, for Doctor Pedro Recio of Tirteafuera, the island and
governor doctor, would have it so. Enemies attacked us by night and
put us in a great quandary, but the people of the island say they came
off safe and victorious by the might of my arm; and may God give
them as much health as there's truth in what they say. In short,
during that time I have weighed the cares and responsibilities
governing brings with it, and by my reckoning I find my shoulders
can't bear them, nor are they a load for my loins or arrows for my
quiver; and so, before the government threw me over I preferred to
throw the government over; and yesterday morning I left the island
as I found it, with the same streets, houses, and roofs it had when
I entered it. I asked no loan of anybody, nor did I try to fill my
pocket; and though I meant to make some useful laws, I made hardly
any, as I was afraid they would not be kept; for in that case it comes
to the same thing to make them or not to make them. I quitted the
island, as I said, without any escort except my ass; I fell into a
pit, I pushed on through it, until this morning by the light of the
sun I saw an outlet, but not so easy a one but that, had not heaven
sent me my master Don Quixote, I'd have stayed there till the end of
the world. So now my lord and lady duke and duchess, here is your
governor Sancho Panza, who in the bare ten days he has held the
government has come by the knowledge that he would not give anything
to be governor, not to say of an island, but of the whole world; and
that point being settled, kissing your worships' feet, and imitating
the game of the boys when they say, 'leap thou, and give me one,' I
take a leap out of the government and pass into the service of my
master Don Quixote; for after all, though in it I eat my bread in fear
and trembling, at any rate I take my fill; and for my part, so long as
I'm full, it's all alike to me whether it's with carrots or with
partridges."
  Here Sancho brought his long speech to an end, Don Quixote having
been the whole time in dread of his uttering a host of absurdities;
and when he found him leave off with so few, he thanked heaven in
his heart. The duke embraced Sancho and told him he was heartily sorry
he had given up the government so soon, but that he would see that
he was provided with some other post on his estate less onerous and
more profitable. The duchess also embraced him, and gave orders that
he should be taken good care of, as it was plain to see he had been
badly treated and worse bruised.
  CHAPTER LVI
  OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN
DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS IN DEFENCE OF THE
DAUGHTER OF DONA RODRIGUEZ

  THE duke and duchess had no reason to regret the joke that had
been played upon Sancho Panza in giving him the government; especially
as their majordomo returned the same day, and gave them a minute
account of almost every word and deed that Sancho uttered or did
during the time; and to wind up with, eloquently described to them the
attack upon the island and Sancho's fright and departure, with which
they were not a little amused. After this the history goes on to say
that the day fixed for the battle arrived, and that the duke, after
having repeatedly instructed his lacquey Tosilos how to deal with
Don Quixote so as to vanquish him without killing or wounding him,
gave orders to have the heads removed from the lances, telling Don
Quixote that Christian charity, on which he plumed himself, could
not suffer the battle to be fought with so much risk and danger to
life; and that he must be content with the offer of a battlefield on
his territory (though that was against the decree of the holy Council,
which prohibits all challenges of the sort) and not push such an
arduous venture to its extreme limits. Don Quixote bade his excellence
arrange all matters connected with the affair as he pleased, as on his
part he would obey him in everything. The dread day, then, having
arrived, and the duke having ordered a spacious stand to be erected
facing the court of the castle for the judges of the field and the
appellant duennas, mother and daughter, vast crowds flocked from all
the villages and hamlets of the neighbourhood to see the novel
spectacle of the battle; nobody, dead or alive, in those parts
having ever seen or heard of such a one.
  The first person to enter the-field and the lists was the master
of the ceremonies, who surveyed and paced the whole ground to see that
there was nothing unfair and nothing concealed to make the
combatants stumble or fall; then the duennas entered and seated
themselves, enveloped in mantles covering their eyes, nay even their
bosoms, and displaying no slight emotion as Don Quixote appeared in
the lists. Shortly afterwards, accompanied by several trumpets and
mounted on a powerful steed that threatened to crush the whole
place, the great lacquey Tosilos made his appearance on one side of
the courtyard with his visor down and stiffly cased in a suit of stout
shining armour. The horse was a manifest Frieslander, broad-backed and
flea-bitten, and with half a hundred of wool hanging to each of his
fetlocks. The gallant combatant came well primed by his master the
duke as to how he was to bear himself against the valiant Don
Quixote of La Mancha; being warned that he must on no account slay
him, but strive to shirk the first encounter so as to avoid the risk
of killing him, as he was sure to do if he met him full tilt. He
crossed the courtyard at a walk, and coming to where the duennas
were placed stopped to look at her who demanded him for a husband; the
marshal of the field summoned Don Quixote, who had already presented
himself in the courtyard, and standing by the side of Tosilos he
addressed the duennas, and asked them if they consented that Don
Quixote of La Mancha should do battle for their right. They said
they did, and that whatever he should do in that behalf they
declared rightly done, final and valid. By this time the duke and
duchess had taken their places in a gallery commanding the
enclosure, which was filled to overflowing with a multitude of
people eager to see this perilous and unparalleled encounter. The
conditions of the combat were that if Don Quixote proved the victor
his antagonist was to marry the daughter of Dona Rodriguez; but if
he should be vanquished his opponent was released from the promise
that was claimed against him and from all obligations to give
satisfaction. The master of the ceremonies apportioned the sun to
them, and stationed them, each on the spot where he was to stand.
The drums beat, the sound of the trumpets filled the air, the earth
trembled under foot, the hearts of the gazing crowd were full of
anxiety, some hoping for a happy issue, some apprehensive of an
untoward ending to the affair, and lastly, Don Quixote, commending
himself with all his heart to God our Lord and to the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso, stood waiting for them to give the necessary signal for
the onset. Our lacquey, however, was thinking of something very
different; he only thought of what I am now going to mention.
  It seems that as he stood contemplating his enemy she struck him
as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen all his life; and the
little blind boy whom in our streets they commonly call Love had no
mind to let slip the chance of triumphing over a lacquey heart, and
adding it to the list of his trophies; and so, stealing gently upon
him unseen, he drove a dart two yards long into the poor lacquey's
left side and pierced his heart through and through; which he was able
to do quite at his ease, for Love is invisible, and comes in and
goes out as he likes, without anyone calling him to account for what
he does. Well then, when they gave the signal for the onset our
lacquey was in an ecstasy, musing upon the beauty of her whom he had
already made mistress of his liberty, and so he paid no attention to
the sound of the trumpet, unlike Don Quixote, who was off the
instant he heard it, and, at the highest speed Rocinante was capable
of, set out to meet his enemy, his good squire Sancho shouting lustily
as he saw him start, "God guide thee, cream and flower of
knights-errant! God give thee the victory, for thou hast the right
on thy side!" But though Tosilos saw Don Quixote coming at him he
never stirred a step from the spot where he was posted; and instead of
doing so called loudly to the marshal of the field, to whom when he
came up to see what he wanted he said, "Senor, is not this battle to
decide whether I marry or do not marry that lady?" "Just so," was
the answer. "Well then," said the lacquey, "I feel qualms of
conscience, and I should lay a-heavy burden upon it if I were to
proceed any further with the combat; I therefore declare that I
yield myself vanquished, and that I am willing to marry the lady at
once."
  The marshal of the field was lost in astonishment at the words of
Tosilos; and as he was one of those who were privy to the
arrangement of the affair he knew not what to say in reply. Don
Quixote pulled up in mid career when he saw that his enemy was not
coming on to the attack. The duke could not make out the reason why
the battle did not go on; but the marshal of the field hastened to him
to let him know what Tosilos said, and he was amazed and extremely
angry at it. In the meantime Tosilos advanced to where Dona
Rodriguez sat and said in a loud voice, "Senora, I am willing to marry
your daughter, and I have no wish to obtain by strife and fighting
what I can obtain in peace and without any risk to my life."
  The valiant Don Quixote heard him, and said, "As that is the case
I am released and absolved from my promise; let them marry by all
means, and as 'God our Lord has given her, may Saint Peter add his
blessing.'"
  The duke had now descended to the courtyard of the castle, and going
up to Tosilos he said to him, "Is it true, sir knight, that you
yield yourself vanquished, and that moved by scruples of conscience
you wish to marry this damsel?"
  "It is, senor," replied Tosilos.
  "And he does well," said Sancho, "for what thou hast to give to
the mouse, give to the cat, and it will save thee all trouble."
  Tosilos meanwhile was trying to unlace his helmet, and he begged
them to come to his help at once, as his power of breathing was
failing him, and he could not remain so long shut up in that
confined space. They removed it in all haste, and his lacquey features
were revealed to public gaze. At this sight Dona Rodriguez and her
daughter raised a mighty outcry, exclaiming, "This is a trick! This is
a trick! They have put Tosilos, my lord the duke's lacquey, upon us in
place of the real husband. The justice of God and the king against
such trickery, not to say roguery!"
  "Do not distress yourselves, ladies," said Don Quixote; "for this is
no trickery or roguery; or if it is, it is not the duke who is at
the bottom of it, but those wicked enchanters who persecute me, and
who, jealous of my reaping the glory of this victory, have turned your
husband's features into those of this person, who you say is a lacquey
of the duke's; take my advice, and notwithstanding the malice of my
enemies marry him, for beyond a doubt he is the one you wish for a
husband."
  When the duke heard this all his anger was near vanishing in a fit
of laughter, and he said, "The things that happen to Senor Don Quixote
are so extraordinary that I am ready to believe this lacquey of mine
is not one; but let us adopt this plan and device; let us put off
the marriage for, say, a fortnight, and let us keep this person
about whom we are uncertain in close confinement, and perhaps in the
course of that time he may return to his original shape; for the spite
which the enchanters entertain against Senor Don Quixote cannot last
so long, especially as it is of so little advantage to them to
practise these deceptions and transformations."
  "Oh, senor," said Sancho, "those scoundrels are well used to
changing whatever concerns my master from one thing into another. A
knight that he overcame some time back, called the Knight of the
Mirrors, they turned into the shape of the bachelor Samson Carrasco of
our town and a great friend of ours; and my lady Dulcinea del Toboso
they have turned into a common country wench; so I suspect this
lacquey will have to live and die a lacquey all the days of his life."
  Here the Rodriguez's daughter exclaimed, "Let him be who he may,
this man that claims me for a wife; I am thankful to him for the same,
for I had rather he the lawful wife of a lacquey than the cheated
mistress of a gentleman; though he who played me false is nothing of
the kind."
  To be brief, all the talk and all that had happened ended in Tosilos
being shut up until it was seen how his transformation turned out. All
hailed Don Quixote as victor, but the greater number were vexed and
disappointed at finding that the combatants they had been so anxiously
waiting for had not battered one another to pieces, just as the boys
are disappointed when the man they are waiting to see hanged does
not come out, because the prosecution or the court has pardoned him.
The people dispersed, the duke and Don Quixote returned to the castle,
they locked up Tosilos, Dona Rodriguez and her daughter remained
perfectly contented when they saw that any way the affair must end
in marriage, and Tosilos wanted nothing else.
  CHAPTER LVII
  WHICH TREATS OF HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND OF
WHAT FOLLOWED WITH THE WITTY AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE
DUCHESS'S DAMSELS

  DON QUIXOTE now felt it right to quit a life of such idleness as
he was leading in the castle; for he fancied that he was making
himself sorely missed by suffering himself to remain shut up and
inactive amid the countless luxuries and enjoyments his hosts lavished
upon him as a knight. and he felt too that he would have to render a
strict account to heaven of that indolence and seclusion; and so one
day he asked the duke and duchess to grant him permission to take
his departure. They gave it, showing at the same time that they were
very sorry he was leaving them. The duchess gave his wife's letters to
Sancho Panza, who shed tears over them, saying, "Who would have
thought that such grand hopes as the news of my government bred in
my wife Teresa Panza's breast would end in my going back now to the
vagabond adventures of my master Don Quixote of La Mancha? Still I'm
glad to see my Teresa behaved as she ought in sending the acorns,
for if she had not sent them I'd have been sorry, and she'd have shown
herself ungrateful. It is a comfort to me that they can't call that
present a bribe; for I had got the government already when she sent
them, and it's but reasonable that those who have had a good turn done
them should show their gratitude, if it's only with a trifle. After
all I went into the government naked, and I come out of it naked; so I
can say with a safe conscience -and that's no small matter- 'naked I
was born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor gain.'"
  Thus did Sancho soliloquise on the day of their departure, as Don
Quixote, who had the night before taken leave of the duke and duchess,
coming out made his appearance at an early hour in full armour in
the courtyard of the castle. The whole household of the castle were
watching him from the corridors, and the duke and duchess, too, came
out to see him. Sancho was mounted on his Dapple, with his alforjas,
valise, and proven. supremely happy because the duke's majordomo,
the same that had acted the part of the Trifaldi, had given him a
little purse with two hundred gold crowns to meet the necessary
expenses of the road, but of this Don Quixote knew nothing as yet.
While all were, as has been said, observing him, suddenly from among
the duennas and handmaidens the impudent and witty Altisidora lifted
up her voice and said in pathetic tones:

       Give ear, cruel knight;
         Draw rein; where's the need
       Of spurring the flanks
         Of that ill-broken steed?
       From what art thou flying?
         No dragon I am,
       Not even a sheep,
         But a tender young lamb.
       Thou hast jilted a maiden
         As fair to behold
       As nymph of Diana
         Or Venus of old.
  Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?
  Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

       In thy claws, ruthless robber,
         Thou bearest away
       The heart of a meek
         Loving maid for thy prey,
       Three kerchiefs thou stealest,
         And garters a pair,
       From legs than the whitest
         Of marble more fair;
       And the sighs that pursue thee
         Would burn to the ground
       Two thousand Troy Towns,
         If so many were found.
  Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?
  Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

       May no bowels of mercy
         To Sancho be granted,
       And thy Dulcinea
         Be left still enchanted,
       May thy falsehood to me
         Find its punishment in her,
       For in my land the just
         Often pays for the sinner.
       May thy grandest adventures
         Discomfitures prove,
       May thy joys be all dreams,
         And forgotten thy love.
  Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?
  Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

       May thy name be abhorred
         For thy conduct to ladies,
       From London to England,
         From Seville to Cadiz;
       May thy cards be unlucky,
         Thy hands contain ne'er a
       King, seven, or ace
         When thou playest primera;
       When thy corns are cut
         May it be to the quick;
       When thy grinders are drawn
         May the roots of them stick.
  Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?
  Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

  All the while the unhappy Altisidora was bewailing herself in the
above strain Don Quixote stood staring at her; and without uttering
a word in reply to her he turned round to Sancho and said, "Sancho
my friend, I conjure thee by the life of thy forefathers tell me the
truth; say, hast thou by any chance taken the three kerchiefs and
the garters this love-sick maid speaks of?"
  To this Sancho made answer, "The three kerchiefs I have; but the
garters, as much as 'over the hills of Ubeda.'"
  The duchess was amazed at Altisidora's assurance; she knew that
she was bold, lively, and impudent, but not so much so as to venture
to make free in this fashion; and not being prepared for the joke, her
astonishment was all the greater. The duke had a mind to keep up the
sport, so he said, "It does not seem to me well done in you, sir
knight, that after having received the hospitality that has been
offered you in this very castle, you should have ventured to carry off
even three kerchiefs, not to say my handmaid's garters. It shows a bad
heart and does not tally with your reputation. Restore her garters, or
else I defy you to mortal combat, for I am not afraid of rascally
enchanters changing or altering my features as they changed his who
encountered you into those of my lacquey, Tosilos."
  "God forbid," said Don Quixote, "that I should draw my sword against
your illustrious person from which I have received such great favours.
The kerchiefs I will restore, as Sancho says he has them; as to the
garters that is impossible, for I have not got them, neither has he;
and if your handmaiden here will look in her hiding-places, depend
upon it she will find them. I have never been a thief, my lord duke,
nor do I mean to be so long as I live, if God cease not to have me
in his keeping. This damsel by her own confession speaks as one in
love, for which I am not to blame, and therefore need not ask
pardon, either of her or of your excellence, whom I entreat to have
a better opinion of me, and once more to give me leave to pursue my
journey."
  "And may God so prosper it, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess,
"that we may always hear good news of your exploits; God speed you;
for the longer you stay, the more you inflame the hearts of the
damsels who behold you; and as for this one of mine, I will so
chastise her that she will not transgress again, either with her
eyes or with her words."
  "One word and no more, O valiant Don Quixote, I ask you to hear,"
said Altisidora, "and that is that I beg your pardon about the theft
of the garters; for by God and upon my soul I have got them on, and
I have fallen into the same blunder as he did who went looking for his
ass being all the while mounted on it."
  "Didn't I say so?" said Sancho. "I'm a likely one to hide thefts!
Why if I wanted to deal in them, opportunities came ready enough to me
in my government."
  Don Quixote bowed his head, and saluted the duke and duchess and all
the bystanders, and wheeling Rocinante round, Sancho following him
on Dapple, he rode out of the castle, shaping his course for
Saragossa.
  CHAPTER LVIII
  WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH
NUMBERS THAT THEY GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME

  WHEN Don Quixote saw himself in open country, free, and relieved
from the attentions of Altisidora, he felt at his ease, and in fresh
spirits to take up the pursuit of chivalry once more; and turning to
Sancho he said, "Freedom, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts
that heaven has bestowed upon men; no treasures that the earth holds
buried or the sea conceals can compare with it; for freedom, as for
honour, life may and should be ventured; and on the other hand,
captivity is the greatest evil that can fall to the lot of man. I
say this, Sancho, because thou hast seen the good cheer, the abundance
we have enjoyed in this castle we are leaving; well then, amid those
dainty banquets and snow-cooled beverages I felt as though I were
undergoing the straits of hunger, because I did not enjoy them with
the same freedom as if they had been mine own; for the sense of
being under an obligation to return benefits and favours received is a
restraint that checks the independence of the spirit. 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!"
  "For all your worship says," said Sancho, "it is not becoming that
there should he no thanks on our part for two hundred gold crowns that
the duke's majordomo has given me in a little purse which I carry next
my heart, like a warming plaster or comforter, to meet any chance
calls; for we shan't always find castles where they'll entertain us;
now and then we may light upon roadside inns where they'll cudgel us."
  In conversation of this sort the knight and squire errant were
pursuing their journey, when, after they had gone a little more than
half a league, they perceived some dozen men dressed like labourers
stretched upon their cloaks on the grass of a green meadow eating
their dinner. They had beside them what seemed to be white sheets
concealing some objects under them, standing upright or lying flat,
and arranged at intervals. Don Quixote approached the diners, and,
saluting them courteously first, he asked them what it was those
cloths covered. "Senor," answered one of the party, "under these
cloths are some images carved in relief intended for a retablo we
are putting up in our village; we carry them covered up that they
may not be soiled, and on our shoulders that they may not be broken."
  "With your good leave," said Don Quixote, "I should like to see
them; for images that are carried so carefully no doubt must be fine
ones."
  "I should think they were!" said the other; "let the money they cost
speak for that; for as a matter of fact there is not one of them
that does not stand us in more than fifty ducats; and that your
worship may judge; wait a moment, and you shall see with your own
eyes;" and getting up from his dinner he went and uncovered the
first image, which proved to be one of Saint George on horseback
with a serpent writhing at his feet and the lance thrust down its
throat with all that fierceness that is usually depicted. The whole
group was one blaze of gold, as the saying is. On seeing it Don
Quixote said, "That knight was one of the best knights-errant the army
of heaven ever owned; he was called Don Saint George, and he was
moreover a defender of maidens. Let us see this next one."
  The man uncovered it, and it was seen to be that of Saint Martin
on his horse, dividing his cloak with the beggar. The instant Don
Quixote saw it he said, "This knight too was one of the Christian
adventurers, but I believe he was generous rather than valiant, as
thou mayest perceive, Sancho, by his dividing his cloak with the
beggar and giving him half of it; no doubt it was winter at the
time, for otherwise he would have given him the whole of it, so
charitable was he."
  "It was not that, most likely," said Sancho, "but that he held
with the proverb that says, 'For giving and keeping there's need of
brains.'"
  Don Quixote laughed, and asked them to take off the next cloth,
underneath which was seen the image of the patron saint of the
Spains seated on horseback, his sword stained with blood, trampling on
Moors and treading heads underfoot; and on seeing it Don Quixote
exclaimed, "Ay, this is a knight, and of the squadrons of Christ! This
one is called Don Saint James the Moorslayer, one of the bravest
saints and knights the world ever had or heaven has now."
  They then raised another cloth which it appeared covered Saint
Paul falling from his horse, with all the details that are usually
given in representations of his conversion. When Don Quixote saw it,
rendered in such lifelike style that one would have said Christ was
speaking and Paul answering, "This," he said, "was in his time the
greatest enemy that the Church of God our Lord had, and the greatest
champion it will ever have; a knight-errant in life, a steadfast saint
in death, an untiring labourer in the Lord's vineyard, a teacher of
the Gentiles, whose school was heaven, and whose instructor and master
was Jesus Christ himself."
  There were no more images, so Don Quixote bade them cover them up
again, and said to those who had brought them, "I take it as a happy
omen, brothers, to have seen what I have; for these saints and knights
were of the same profession as myself, which is the calling of arms;
only there is this difference between them and me, that they were
saints, and fought with divine weapons, and I am a sinner and fight
with human ones. They won heaven by force of arms, for heaven
suffereth violence; and I, so far, know not what I have won by dint of
my sufferings; but if my Dulcinea del Toboso were to be released
from hers, perhaps with mended fortunes and a mind restored to
itself I might direct my steps in a better path than I am following at
present."
  "May God hear and sin be deaf," said Sancho to this.
  The men were filled with wonder, as well at the figure as at the
words of Don Quixote, though they did not understand one half of
what he meant by them. They finished their dinner, took their images
on their backs, and bidding farewell to Don Quixote resumed their
journey.
  Sancho was amazed afresh at the extent of his master's knowledge, as
much as if he had never known him, for it seemed to him that there was
no story or event in the world that he had not at his fingers' ends
and fixed in his memory, and he said to him, "In truth, master mine,
if this that has happened to us to-day is to be called an adventure,
it has been one of the sweetest and pleasantest that have befallen
us in the whole course of our travels; we have come out of it
unbelaboured and undismayed, neither have we drawn sword nor have we
smitten the earth with our bodies, nor have we been left famishing;
blessed be God that he has let me see such a thing with my own eyes!"
  "Thou sayest well, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "but remember all
times are not alike nor do they always run the same way; and these
things the vulgar commonly call omens, which are not based upon any
natural reason, will by him who is wise be esteemed and reckoned happy
accidents merely. One of these believers in omens will get up of a
morning, leave his house, and meet a friar of the order of the blessed
Saint Francis, and, as if he had met a griffin, he will turn about and
go home. With another Mendoza the salt is spilt on his table, and
gloom is spilt over his heart, as if nature was obliged to give
warning of coming misfortunes by means of such trivial things as
these. The wise man and the Christian should not trifle with what it
may please heaven to do. Scipio on coming to Africa stumbled as he
leaped on shore; his soldiers took it as a bad omen; but he,
clasping the soil with his arms, exclaimed, 'Thou canst not escape me,
Africa, for I hold thee tight between my arms.' Thus, Sancho,
meeting those images has been to me a most happy occurrence."
  "I can well believe it," said Sancho; "but I wish your worship would
tell me what is the reason that the Spaniards, when they are about
to give battle, in calling on that Saint James the Moorslayer, say
'Santiago and close Spain!' Is Spain, then, open, so that it is
needful to close it; or what is the meaning of this form?"
  "Thou art very simple, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "God, look you,
gave that great knight of the Red Cross to Spain as her patron saint
and protector, especially in those hard struggles the Spaniards had
with the Moors; and therefore they invoke and call upon him as their
defender in all their battles; and in these he has been many a time
seen beating down, trampling under foot, destroying and slaughtering
the Hagarene squadrons in the sight of all; of which fact I could give
thee many examples recorded in truthful Spanish histories."
  Sancho changed the subject, and said to his master, "I marvel,
senor, at the boldness of Altisidora, the duchess's handmaid; he
whom they call Love must have cruelly pierced and wounded her; they
say he is a little blind urchin who, though blear-eyed, or more
properly speaking sightless, if he aims at a heart, be it ever so
small, hits it and pierces it through and through with his arrows. I
have heard it said too that the arrows of Love are blunted and
robbed of their points by maidenly modesty and reserve; but with
this Altisidora it seems they are sharpened rather than blunted."
  "Bear in mind, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that love is influenced
by no consideration, recognises no restraints of reason, and is of the
same nature as death, that assails alike the lofty palaces of kings
and the humble cabins of shepherds; and when it takes entire
possession of a heart, the first thing it does is to banish fear and
shame from it; and so without shame Altisidora declared her passion,
which excited in my mind embarrassment rather than commiseration."
  "Notable cruelty!" exclaimed Sancho; "unheard-of ingratitude! I
can only say for myself that the very smallest loving word of hers
would have subdued me and made a slave of me. The devil! What a
heart of marble, what bowels of brass, what a soul of mortar! But I
can't imagine what it is that this damsel saw in your worship that
could have conquered and captivated her so. What gallant figure was
it, what bold bearing, what sprightly grace, what comeliness of
feature, which of these things by itself, or what all together,
could have made her fall in love with you? For indeed and in truth
many a time I stop to look at your worship from the sole of your
foot to the topmost hair of your head, and I see more to frighten
one than to make one fall in love; moreover I have heard say that
beauty is the first and main thing that excites love, and as your
worship has none at all, I don't know what the poor creature fell in
love with."
  "Recollect, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "there are two sorts of
beauty, one of the mind, the other of the body; that of the mind
displays and exhibits itself in intelligence, in modesty, in
honourable conduct, in generosity, in good breeding; and all these
qualities are possible and may exist in an ugly man; and when it is
this sort of beauty and not that of the body that is the attraction,
love is apt to spring up suddenly and violently. I, Sancho, perceive
clearly enough that I am not beautiful, but at the same time I know
I am not hideous; and it is enough for an honest man not to be a
monster to he an object of love, if only he possesses the endowments
of mind I have mentioned."
  While engaged in this discourse they were making their way through a
wood that lay beyond the road, when suddenly, without expecting
anything of the kind, Don Quixote found himself caught in some nets of
green cord stretched from one tree to another; and unable to
conceive what it could be, he said to Sancho, "Sancho, it strikes me
this affair of these nets will prove one of the strangest adventures
imaginable. May I die if the enchanters that persecute me are not
trying to entangle me in them and delay my journey, by way of
revenge for my obduracy towards Altisidora. Well then let me tell them
that if these nets, instead of being green cord, were made of the
hardest diamonds, or stronger than that wherewith the jealous god of
blacksmiths enmeshed Venus and Mars, I would break them as easily as
if they were made of rushes or cotton threads." But just as he was
about to press forward and break through all, suddenly from among some
trees two shepherdesses of surpassing beauty presented themselves to
his sight- or at least damsels dressed like shepherdesses, save that
their jerkins and sayas were of fine brocade; that is to say, the
sayas were rich farthingales of gold embroidered tabby. Their hair,
that in its golden brightness vied with the beams of the sun itself,
fell loose upon their shoulders and was crowned with garlands twined
with green laurel and red everlasting; and their years to all
appearance were not under fifteen nor above eighteen. Such was the
spectacle that filled Sancho with amazement, fascinated Don Quixote,
made the sun halt in his course to behold them, and held all four in a
strange silence. One of the shepherdesses, at length, was the first to
speak and said to Don Quixote, "Hold, sir knight, and do not break
these nets; for they are not spread here to do you any harm, but
only for our amusement; and as I know you will ask why they have
been put up, and who we are, I will tell you in a few words. In a
village some two leagues from this, where there are many people of
quality and rich gentlefolk, it was agreed upon by a number of friends
and relations to come with their wives, sons and daughters,
neighbours, friends and kinsmen, and make holiday in this spot,
which is one of the pleasantest in the whole neighbourhood, setting up
a new pastoral Arcadia among ourselves, we maidens dressing
ourselves as shepherdesses and the youths as shepherds. We have
prepared two eclogues, one by the famous poet Garcilasso, the other by
the most excellent Camoens, in its own Portuguese tongue, but we
have not as yet acted them. Yesterday was the first day of our
coming here; we have a few of what they say are called field-tents
pitched among the trees on the bank of an ample brook that
fertilises all these meadows; last night we spread these nets in the
trees here to snare the silly little birds that startled by the
noise we make may fly into them. If you please to he our guest, senor,
you will be welcomed heartily and courteously, for here just now
neither care nor sorrow shall enter."
  She held her peace and said no more, and Don Quixote made answer,
"Of a truth, fairest lady, Actaeon when he unexpectedly beheld Diana
bathing in the stream could not have been more fascinated and
wonderstruck than I at the sight of your beauty. I commend your mode
of entertainment, and thank you for the kindness of your invitation;
and if I can serve you, you may command me with full confidence of
being obeyed, for my profession is none other than to show myself
grateful, and ready to serve persons of all conditions, but especially
persons of quality such as your appearance indicates; and if,
instead of taking up, as they probably do, but a small space, these
nets took up the whole surface of the globe, I would seek out new
worlds through which to pass, so as not to break them; and that ye may
give some degree of credence to this exaggerated language of mine,
know that it is no less than Don Quixote of La Mancha that makes
this declaration to you, if indeed it be that such a name has
reached your ears."
  "Ah! friend of my soul," instantly exclaimed the other
shepherdess, "what great good fortune has befallen us! Seest thou this
gentleman we have before us? Well then let me tell thee he is the most
valiant and the most devoted and the most courteous gentleman in all
the world, unless a history of his achievements that has been
printed and I have read is telling lies and deceiving us. I will lay a
wager that this good fellow who is with him is one Sancho Panza his
squire, whose drolleries none can equal."
  "That's true," said Sancho; "I am that same droll and squire you
speak of, and this gentleman is my master Don Quixote of La Mancha,
the same that's in the history and that they talk about."
  "Oh, my friend," said the other, "let us entreat him to stay; for it
will give our fathers and brothers infinite pleasure; I too have heard
just what thou hast told me of the valour of the one and the
drolleries of the other; and what is more, of him they say that he
is the most constant and loyal lover that was ever heard of, and
that his lady is one Dulcinea del Toboso, to whom all over Spain the
palm of beauty is awarded."
  "And justly awarded," said Don Quixote, "unless, indeed, your
unequalled beauty makes it a matter of doubt. But spare yourselves the
trouble, ladies, of pressing me to stay, for the urgent calls of my
profession do not allow me to take rest under any circumstances."
  At this instant there came up to the spot where the four stood a
brother of one of the two shepherdesses, like them in shepherd
costume, and as richly and gaily dressed as they were. They told him
that their companion was the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, and the
other Sancho his squire, of whom he knew already from having read
their history. The gay shepherd offered him his services and begged
that he would accompany him to their tents, and Don Quixote had to
give way and comply. And now the gave was started, and the nets were
filled with a variety of birds that deceived by the colour fell into
the danger they were flying from. Upwards of thirty persons, all gaily
attired as shepherds and shepherdesses, assembled on the spot, and
were at once informed who Don Quixote and his squire were, whereat
they were not a little delighted, as they knew of him already
through his history. They repaired to the tents, where they found
tables laid out, and choicely, plentifully, and neatly furnished. They
treated Don Quixote as a person of distinction, giving him the place
of honour, and all observed him, and were full of astonishment at
the spectacle. At last the cloth being removed, Don Quixote with great
composure lifted up his voice and said:
  "One of the greatest sins that men are guilty of is- some will say
pride- but I say ingratitude, going by the common saying that hell
is full of ingrates. This sin, so far as it has lain in my power, I
have endeavoured to avoid ever since I have enjoyed the faculty of
reason; and if I am unable to requite good deeds that have been done
me by other deeds, I substitute the desire to do so; and if that be
not enough I make them known publicly; for he who declares and makes
known the good deeds done to him would repay them by others if it were
in his power, and for the most part those who receive are the
inferiors of those who give. Thus, God is superior to all because he
is the supreme giver, and the offerings of man fall short by an
infinite distance of being a full return for the gifts of God; but
gratitude in some degree makes up for this deficiency and shortcoming.
I therefore, grateful for the favour that has been extended to me
here, and unable to make a return in the same measure, restricted as I
am by the narrow limits of my power, offer what I can and what I
have to offer in my own way; and so I declare that for two full days I
will maintain in the middle of this highway leading to Saragossa, that
these ladies disguised as shepherdesses, who are here present, are the
fairest and most courteous maidens in the world, excepting only the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole mistress of my thoughts, be it said
without offence to those who hear me, ladies and gentlemen."
  On hearing this Sancho, who had been listening with great attention,
cried out in a loud voice, "Is it possible there is anyone in the
world who will dare to say and swear that this master of mine is a
madman? Say, gentlemen shepherds, is there a village priest, be he
ever so wise or learned, who could say what my master has said; or
is there knight-errant, whatever renown he may have as a man of
valour, that could offer what my master has offered now?"
  Don Quixote turned upon Sancho, and with a countenance glowing
with anger said to him, "Is it possible, Sancho, there is anyone in
the whole world who will say thou art not a fool, with a lining to
match, and I know not what trimmings of impertinence and roguery?
Who asked thee to meddle in my affairs, or to inquire whether I am a
wise man or a blockhead? Hold thy peace; answer me not a word;
saddle Rocinante if he be unsaddled; and let us go to put my offer
into execution; for with the right that I have on my side thou
mayest reckon as vanquished all who shall venture to question it;" and
in a great rage, and showing his anger plainly, he rose from his seat,
leaving the company lost in wonder, and making them feel doubtful
whether they ought to regard him as a madman or a rational being. In
the end, though they sought to dissuade him from involving himself
in such a challenge, assuring him they admitted his gratitude as fully
established, and needed no fresh proofs to be convinced of his valiant
spirit, as those related in the history of his exploits were
sufficient, still Don Quixote persisted in his resolve; and mounted on
Rocinante, bracing his buckler on his arm and grasping his lance, he
posted himself in the middle of a high road that was not far from
the green meadow. Sancho followed on Dapple, together with all the
members of the pastoral gathering, eager to see what would be the
upshot of his vainglorious and extraordinary proposal.
  Don Quixote, then, having, as has been said, planted himself in
the middle of the road, made the welkin ring with words to this
effect: "Ho ye travellers and wayfarers, knights, squires, folk on
foot or on horseback, who pass this way or shall pass in the course of
the next two days! Know that Don Quixote of La Mancha,
knight-errant, is posted here to maintain by arms that the beauty
and courtesy enshrined in the nymphs that dwell in these meadows and
groves surpass all upon earth, putting aside the lady of my heart,
Dulcinea del Toboso. Wherefore, let him who is of the opposite opinion
come on, for here I await him."
  Twice he repeated the same words, and twice they fell unheard by any
adventurer; but fate, that was guiding affairs for him from better
to better, so ordered it that shortly afterwards there appeared on the
road a crowd of men on horseback, many of them with lances in their
hands, all riding in a compact body and in great haste. No sooner
had those who were with Don Quixote seen them than they turned about
and withdrew to some distance from the road, for they knew that if
they stayed some harm might come to them; but Don Quixote with
intrepid heart stood his ground, and Sancho Panza shielded himself
with Rocinante's hind-quarters. The troop of lancers came up, and
one of them who was in advance began shouting to Don Quixote, "Get out
of the way, you son of the devil, or these bulls will knock you to
pieces!"
  "Rabble!" returned Don Quixote, "I care nothing for bulls, be they
the fiercest Jarama breeds on its banks. Confess at once,
scoundrels, that what I have declared is true; else ye have to deal
with me in combat."
  The herdsman had no time to reply, nor Don Quixote to get out of the
way even if he wished; and so the drove of fierce bulls and tame
bullocks, together with the crowd of herdsmen and others who were
taking them to be penned up in a village where they were to be run the
next day, passed over Don Quixote and over Sancho, Rocinante and
Dapple, hurling them all to the earth and rolling them over on the
ground. Sancho was left crushed, Don Quixote scared, Dapple belaboured
and Rocinante in no very sound condition. They all got up, however, at
length, and Don Quixote in great haste, stumbling here and falling
there, started off running after the drove, shouting out, "Hold! stay!
ye rascally rabble, a single knight awaits you, and he is not of the
temper or opinion of those who say, 'For a flying enemy make a
bridge of silver.'" The retreating party in their haste, however,
did not stop for that, or heed his menaces any more than last year's
clouds. Weariness brought Don Quixote to a halt, and more enraged than
avenged he sat down on the road to wait until Sancho, Rocinante and
Dapple came up. When they reached him master and man mounted once
more, and without going back to bid farewell to the mock or
imitation Arcadia, and more in humiliation than contentment, they
continued their journey.
  CHAPTER LIX
  WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN
ADVENTURE, THAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE

  A CLEAR limpid spring which they discovered in a cool grove relieved
Don Quixote and Sancho of the dust and fatigue due to the unpolite
behaviour of the bulls, and by the side of this, having turned
Dapple and Rocinante loose without headstall or bridle, the forlorn
pair, master and man, seated themselves. Sancho had recourse to the
larder of his alforjas and took out of them what he called the prog;
Don Quixote rinsed his mouth and bathed his face, by which cooling
process his flagging energies were revived. Out of pure vexation he
remained without eating, and out of pure politeness Sancho did not
venture to touch a morsel of what was before him, but waited for his
master to act as taster. Seeing, however, that, absorbed in thought,
he was forgetting to carry the bread to his mouth, he said never a
word, and trampling every sort of good breeding under foot, began to
stow away in his paunch the bread and cheese that came to his hand.
  "Eat, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote; "support life, which is
of more consequence to thee than to me, and leave me to die under
the pain of my thoughts and pressure of my misfortunes. I was born,
Sancho, to live dying, and thou to die eating; and to prove the
truth of what I say, look at me, printed in histories, famed in
arms, courteous in behaviour, honoured by princes, courted by maidens;
and after all, when I looked forward to palms, triumphs, and crowns,
won and earned by my valiant deeds, I have this morning seen myself
trampled on, kicked, and crushed by the feet of unclean and filthy
animals. This thought blunts my teeth, paralyses my jaws, cramps my
hands, and robs me of all appetite for food; so much so that I have
a mind to let myself die of hunger, the cruelest death of all deaths."
  "So then," said Sancho, munching hard all the time, "your worship
does not agree with the proverb that says, 'Let Martha die, but let
her die with a full belly.' I, at any rate, have no mind to kill
myself; so far from that, I mean to do as the cobbler does, who
stretches the leather with his teeth until he makes it reach as far as
he wants. I'll stretch out my life by eating until it reaches the
end heaven has fixed for it; and let me tell you, senor, there's no
greater folly than to think of dying of despair as your worship
does; take my advice, and after eating lie down and sleep a bit on
this green grass-mattress, and you will see that when you awake you'll
feel something better."
  Don Quixote did as he recommended, for it struck him that Sancho's
reasoning was more like a philosopher's than a blockhead's, and said
he, "Sancho, if thou wilt do for me what I am going to tell thee my
ease of mind would be more assured and my heaviness of heart not so
great; and it is this; to go aside a little while I am sleeping in
accordance with thy advice, and, making bare thy carcase to the air,
to give thyself three or four hundred lashes with Rocinante's reins,
on account of the three thousand and odd thou art to give thyself
for the disenchantment of Dulcinea; for it is a great pity that the
poor lady should be left enchanted through thy carelessness and
negligence."
  "There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Sancho; "let
us both go to sleep now, and after that, God has decreed what will
happen. Let me tell your worship that for a man to whip himself in
cold blood is a hard thing, especially if the stripes fall upon an
ill-nourished and worse-fed body. Let my lady Dulcinea have
patience, and when she is least expecting it, she will see me made a
riddle of with whipping, and 'until death it's all life;' I mean
that I have still life in me, and the desire to make good what I
have promised."
  Don Quixote thanked him, and ate a little, and Sancho a good deal,
and then they both lay down to sleep, leaving those two inseparable
friends and comrades, Rocinante and Dapple, to their own devices and
to feed unrestrained upon the abundant grass with which the meadow was
furnished. They woke up rather late, mounted once more and resumed
their journey, pushing on to reach an inn which was in sight,
apparently a league off. I say an inn, because Don Quixote called it
so, contrary to his usual practice of calling all inns castles. They
reached it, and asked the landlord if they could put up there. He said
yes, with as much comfort and as good fare as they could find in
Saragossa. They dismounted, and Sancho stowed away his larder in a
room of which the landlord gave him the key. He took the beasts to the
stable, fed them, and came back to see what orders Don Quixote, who
was seated on a bench at the door, had for him, giving special
thanks to heaven that this inn had not been taken for a castle by
his master. Supper-time came, and they repaired to their room, and
Sancho asked the landlord what he had to give them for supper. To this
the landlord replied that his mouth should be the measure; he had only
to ask what he would; for that inn was provided with the birds of
the air and the fowls of the earth and the fish of the sea.
  "There's no need of all that," said Sancho; "if they'll roast us a
couple of chickens we'll be satisfied, for my master is delicate and
eats little, and I'm not over and above gluttonous."
  The landlord replied he had no chickens, for the kites had stolen
them.
  "Well then," said Sancho, "let senor landlord tell them to roast a
pullet, so that it is a tender one."
  "Pullet! My father!" said the landlord; "indeed and in truth it's
only yesterday I sent over fifty to the city to sell; but saving
pullets ask what you will."
  "In that case," said Sancho, "you will not be without veal or kid."
  "Just now," said the landlord, "there's none in the house, for
it's all finished; but next week there will he enough and to spare."
  "Much good that does us," said Sancho; "I'll lay a bet that all
these short-comings are going to wind up in plenty of bacon and eggs."
  "By God," said the landlord, "my guest's wits must he precious dull;
I tell him I have neither pullets nor hens, and he wants me to have
eggs! Talk of other dainties, if you please, and don't ask for hens
again."
  "Body o' me!" said Sancho, "let's settle the matter; say at once
what you have got, and let us have no more words about it."
  "In truth and earnest, senor guest," said the landlord, "all I
have is a couple of cow-heels like calves' feet, or a couple of
calves' feet like cowheels; they are boiled with chick-peas, onions,
and bacon, and at this moment they are crying 'Come eat me, come eat
me."
  "I mark them for mine on the spot," said Sancho; "let nobody touch
them; I'll pay better for them than anyone else, for I could not
wish for anything more to my taste; and I don't care a pin whether
they are feet or heels."
  "Nobody shall touch them," said the landlord; "for the other
guests I have, being persons of high quality, bring their own cook and
caterer and larder with them."
  "If you come to people of quality," said Sancho, "there's nobody
more so than my master; but the calling he follows does not allow of
larders or store-rooms; we lay ourselves down in the middle of a
meadow, and fill ourselves with acorns or medlars."
  Here ended Sancho's conversation with the landlord, Sancho not
caring to carry it any farther by answering him; for he had already
asked him what calling or what profession it was his master was of.
  Supper-time having come, then, Don Quixote betook himself to his
room, the landlord brought in the stew-pan just as it was, and he
sat himself down to sup very resolutely. It seems that in another
room, which was next to Don Quixote's, with nothing but a thin
partition to separate it, he overheard these words, "As you live,
Senor Don Jeronimo, while they are bringing supper, let us read
another chapter of the Second Part of 'Don Quixote of La Mancha.'"
  The instant Don Quixote heard his own name be started to his feet
and listened with open ears to catch what they said about him, and
heard the Don Jeronimo who had been addressed say in reply, "Why would
you have us read that absurd stuff, Don Juan, when it is impossible
for anyone who has read the First Part of the history of 'Don
Quixote of La Mancha' to take any pleasure in reading this Second
Part?"
  "For all that," said he who was addressed as Don Juan, "we shall
do well to read it, for there is no book so bad but it has something
good in it. What displeases me most in it is that it represents Don
Quixote as now cured of his love for Dulcinea del Toboso."
  On hearing this Don Quixote, full of wrath and indignation, lifted
up his voice and said, "Whoever he may be who says that Don Quixote of
La Mancha has forgotten or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will
teach him with equal arms that what he says is very far from the
truth; for neither can the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso be
forgotten, nor can forgetfulness have a place in Don Quixote; his
motto is constancy, and his profession to maintain the same with his
life and never wrong it."
  "Who is this that answers us?" said they in the next room.
  "Who should it be," said Sancho, "but Don Quixote of La Mancha
himself, who will make good all he has said and all he will say; for
pledges don't trouble a good payer."
  Sancho had hardly uttered these words when two gentlemen, for such
they seemed to be, entered the room, and one of them, throwing his
arms round Don Quixote's neck, said to him, "Your appearance cannot
leave any question as to your name, nor can your name fail to identify
your appearance; unquestionably, senor, you are the real Don Quixote
of La Mancha, cynosure and morning star of knight-errantry, despite
and in defiance of him who has sought to usurp your name and bring
to naught your achievements, as the author of this book which I here
present to you has done;" and with this he put a book which his
companion carried into the hands of Don Quixote, who took it, and
without replying began to run his eye over it; but he presently
returned it saying, "In the little I have seen I have discovered three
things in this author that deserve to be censured. The first is some
words that I have read in the preface; the next that the language is
Aragonese, for sometimes he writes without articles; and the third,
which above all stamps him as ignorant, is that he goes wrong and
departs from the truth in the most important part of the history,
for here he says that my squire Sancho Panza's wife is called Mari
Gutierrez, when she is called nothing of the sort, but Teresa Panza;
and when a man errs on such an important point as this there is good
reason to fear that he is in error on every other point in the
history."
  "A nice sort of historian, indeed!" exclaimed Sancho at this; "he
must know a deal about our affairs when he calls my wife Teresa Panza,
Mari Gutierrez; take the book again, senor, and see if I am in it
and if he has changed my name."
  "From your talk, friend," said Don Jeronimo, "no doubt you are
Sancho Panza, Senor Don Quixote's squire."
  "Yes, I am," said Sancho; "and I'm proud of it."
  "Faith, then," said the gentleman, "this new author does not
handle you with the decency that displays itself in your person; he
makes you out a heavy feeder and a fool, and not in the least droll,
and a very different being from the Sancho described in the First Part
of your master's history."
  "God forgive him," said Sancho; "he might have left me in my
corner without troubling his head about me; 'let him who knows how
ring the bells; 'Saint Peter is very well in Rome.'"
  The two gentlemen pressed Don Quixote to come into their room and
have supper with them, as they knew very well there was nothing in
that inn fit for one of his sort. Don Quixote, who was always
polite, yielded to their request and supped with them. Sancho stayed
behind with the stew. and invested with plenary delegated authority
seated himself at the head of the table, and the landlord sat down
with him, for he was no less fond of cow-heel and calves' feet than
Sancho was.
  While at supper Don Juan asked Don Quixote what news he had of the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, was she married, had she been brought to
bed, or was she with child, or did she in maidenhood, still preserving
her modesty and delicacy, cherish the remembrance of the tender
passion of Senor Don Quixote?
  To this he replied, "Dulcinea is a maiden still, and my passion more
firmly rooted than ever, our intercourse unsatisfactory as before, and
her beauty transformed into that of a foul country wench;" and then he
proceeded to give them a full and particular account of the
enchantment of Dulcinea, and of what had happened him in the cave of
Montesinos, together with what the sage Merlin had prescribed for
her disenchantment, namely the scourging of Sancho.
  Exceedingly great was the amusement the two gentlemen derived from
hearing Don Quixote recount the strange incidents of his history;
and if they were amazed by his absurdities they were equally amazed by
the elegant style in which he delivered them. On the one hand they
regarded him as a man of wit and sense, and on the other he seemed
to them a maundering blockhead, and they could not make up their minds
whereabouts between wisdom and folly they ought to place him.
  Sancho having finished his supper, and left the landlord in the X
condition, repaired to the room where his master was, and as he came
in said, "May I die, sirs, if the author of this book your worships
have got has any mind that we should agree; as he calls me glutton
(according to what your worships say) I wish he may not call me
drunkard too."
  "But he does," said Don Jeronimo; "I cannot remember, however, in
what way, though I know his words are offensive, and what is more,
lying, as I can see plainly by the physiognomy of the worthy Sancho
before me."
  "Believe me," said Sancho, "the Sancho and the Don Quixote of this
history must be different persons from those that appear in the one
Cide Hamete Benengeli wrote, who are ourselves; my master valiant,
wise, and true in love, and I simple, droll, and neither glutton nor
drunkard."
  "I believe it," said Don Juan; "and were it possible, an order
should be issued that no one should have the presumption to deal
with anything relating to Don Quixote, save his original author Cide
Hamete; just as Alexander commanded that no one should presume to
paint his portrait save Apelles."
  "Let him who will paint me," said Don Quixote; "but let him not
abuse me; for patience will often break down when they heap insults
upon it."
  "None can be offered to Senor Don Quixote," said Don Juan, "that
he himself will not be able to avenge, if he does not ward it off with
the shield of his patience, which, I take it, is great and strong."
  A considerable portion of the night passed in conversation of this
sort, and though Don Juan wished Don Quixote to read more of the
book to see what it was all about, he was not to be prevailed upon,
saying that he treated it as read and pronounced it utterly silly;
and, if by any chance it should come to its author's ears that he
had it in his hand, he did not want him to flatter himself with the
idea that he had read it; for our thoughts, and still more our eyes,
should keep themselves aloof from what is obscene and filthy.
  They asked him whither he meant to direct his steps. He replied,
to Saragossa, to take part in the harness jousts which were held in
that city every year. Don Juan told him that the new history described
how Don Quixote, let him be who he might, took part there in a tilting
at the ring, utterly devoid of invention, poor in mottoes, very poor
in costume, though rich in sillinesses.
  "For that very reason," said Don Quixote, "I will not set foot in
Saragossa; and by that means I shall expose to the world the lie of
this new history writer, and people will see that I am not the Don
Quixote he speaks of."
  "You will do quite right," said Don Jeronimo; "and there are other
jousts at Barcelona in which Senor Don Quixote may display his
prowess."
  "That is what I mean to do," said Don Quixote; "and as it is now
time, I pray your worships to give me leave to retire to bed, and to
place and retain me among the number of your greatest friends and
servants."
  "And me too," said Sancho; "maybe I'll be good for something."
  With this they exchanged farewells, and Don Quixote and Sancho
retired to their room, leaving Don Juan and Don Jeronimo amazed to see
the medley he made of his good sense and his craziness; and they
felt thoroughly convinced that these, and not those their Aragonese
author described, were the genuine Don Quixote and Sancho. Don Quixote
rose betimes, and bade adieu to his hosts by knocking at the partition
of the other room. Sancho paid the landlord magnificently, and
recommended him either to say less about the providing of his inn or
to keep it better provided.
  CHAPTER LX
  OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA

  IT WAS a fresh morning giving promise of a cool day as Don Quixote
quitted the inn, first of all taking care to ascertain the most direct
road to Barcelona without touching upon Saragossa; so anxious was he
to make out this new historian, who they said abused him so, to be a
liar. Well, as it fell out, nothing worthy of being recorded
happened him for six days, at the end of which, having turned aside
out of the road, he was overtaken by night in a thicket of oak or cork
trees; for on this point Cide Hamete is not as precise as he usually
is on other matters.
  Master and man dismounted from their beasts, and as soon as they had
settled themselves at the foot of the trees, Sancho, who had had a
good noontide meal that day, let himself, without more ado, pass the
gates of sleep. But Don Quixote, whom his thoughts, far more than
hunger, kept awake, could not close an eye, and roamed in fancy to and
fro through all sorts of places. At one moment it seemed to him that
he was in the cave of Montesinos and saw Dulcinea, transformed into
a country wench, skipping and mounting upon her she-ass; again that
the words of the sage Merlin were sounding in his ears, setting
forth the conditions to be observed and the exertions to be made for
the disenchantment of Dulcinea. He lost all patience when he
considered the laziness and want of charity of his squire Sancho;
for to the best of his belief he had only given himself five lashes, a
number paltry and disproportioned to the vast number required. At this
thought he felt such vexation and anger that he reasoned the matter
thus: "If Alexander the Great cut the Gordian knot, saying, 'To cut
comes to the same thing as to untie,' and yet did not fail to become
lord paramount of all Asia, neither more nor less could happen now
in Dulcinea's disenchantment if I scourge Sancho against his will;
for, if it is the condition of the remedy that Sancho shall receive
three thousand and odd lashes, what does it matter to me whether he
inflicts them himself, or some one else inflicts them, when the
essential point is that he receives them, let them come from
whatever quarter they may?"
  With this idea he went over to Sancho, having first taken
Rocinante's reins and arranged them so as to be able to flog him
with them, and began to untie the points (the common belief is he
had but one in front) by which his breeches were held up; but the
instant he approached him Sancho woke up in his full senses and
cried out, "What is this? Who is touching me and untrussing me?"
  "It is I," said Don Quixote, "and I come to make good thy
shortcomings and relieve my own distresses; I come to whip thee,
Sancho, and wipe off some portion of the debt thou hast undertaken.
Dulcinea is perishing, thou art living on regardless, I am dying of
hope deferred; therefore untruss thyself with a good will, for mine it
is, here, in this retired spot, to give thee at least two thousand
lashes."
  "Not a bit of it," said Sancho; "let your worship keep quiet, or
else by the living God the deaf shall hear us; the lashes I pledged
myself to must be voluntary and not forced upon me, and just now I
have no fancy to whip myself; it is enough if I give you my word to
flog and flap myself when I have a mind."
  "It will not do to leave it to thy courtesy, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, "for thou art hard of heart and, though a clown, tender of
flesh;" and at the same time he strove and struggled to untie him.
  Seeing this Sancho got up, and grappling with his master he
gripped him with all his might in his arms, giving him a trip with the
heel stretched him on the ground on his back, and pressing his right
knee on his chest held his hands in his own so that he could neither
move nor breathe.
  "How now, traitor!" exclaimed Don Quixote. "Dost thou revolt against
thy master and natural lord? Dost thou rise against him who gives thee
his bread?"
  "I neither put down king, nor set up king," said Sancho; "I only
stand up for myself who am my own lord; if your worship promises me to
be quiet, and not to offer to whip me now, I'll let you go free and
unhindered; if not-

       Traitor and Dona Sancha's foe,
       Thou diest on the spot."

  Don Quixote gave his promise, and swore by the life of his
thoughts not to touch so much as a hair of his garments, and to
leave him entirely free and to his own discretion to whip himself
whenever he pleased.
  Sancho rose and removed some distance from the spot, but as he was
about to place himself leaning against another tree he felt
something touch his head, and putting up his hands encountered
somebody's two feet with shoes and stockings on them. He trembled with
fear and made for another tree, where the very same thing happened
to him, and he fell a-shouting, calling upon Don Quixote to come and
protect him. Don Quixote did so, and asked him what had happened to
him, and what he was afraid of. Sancho replied that all the trees were
full of men's feet and legs. Don Quixote felt them, and guessed at
once what it was, and said to Sancho, "Thou hast nothing to be
afraid of, for these feet and legs that thou feelest but canst not see
belong no doubt to some outlaws and freebooters that have been
hanged on these trees; for the authorities in these parts are wont
to hang them up by twenties and thirties when they catch them; whereby
I conjecture that I must be near Barcelona;" and it was, in fact, as
he supposed; with the first light they looked up and saw that the
fruit hanging on those trees were freebooters' bodies.
  And now day dawned; and if the dead freebooters had scared them,
their hearts were no less troubled by upwards of forty living ones,
who all of a sudden surrounded them, and in the Catalan tongue bade
them stand and wait until their captain came up. Don Quixote was on
foot with his horse unbridled and his lance leaning against a tree,
and in short completely defenceless; he thought it best therefore to
fold his arms and bow his head and reserve himself for a more
favourable occasion and opportunity. The robbers made haste to
search Dapple, and did not leave him a single thing of all he
carried in the alforjas and in the valise; and lucky it was for Sancho
that the duke's crowns and those he brought from home were in a girdle
that he wore round him; but for all that these good folk would have
stripped him, and even looked to see what he had hidden between the
skin and flesh, but for the arrival at that moment of their captain,
who was about thirty-four years of age apparently, strongly built,
above the middle height, of stern aspect and swarthy complexion. He
was mounted upon a powerful horse, and had on a coat of mail, with
four of the pistols they call petronels in that country at his
waist. He saw that his squires (for so they call those who follow that
trade) were about to rifle Sancho Panza, but he ordered them to desist
and was at once obeyed, so the girdle escaped. He wondered to see
the lance leaning against the tree, the shield on the ground, and
Don Quixote in armour and dejected, with the saddest and most
melancholy face that sadness itself could produce; and going up to him
he said, "Be not so cast down, good man, for you have not fallen
into the hands of any inhuman Busiris, but into Roque Guinart's, which
are more merciful than cruel."
  "The cause of my dejection," returned Don Quixote, "is not that I
have fallen into thy hands, O valiant Roque, whose fame is bounded
by no limits on earth, but that my carelessness should have been so
great that thy soldiers should have caught me unbridled, when it is my
duty, according to the rule of knight-errantry which I profess, to
be always on the alert and at all times my own sentinel; for let me
tell thee, great Roque, had they found me on my horse, with my lance
and shield, it would not have been very easy for them to reduce me
to submission, for I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, he who hath filled
the whole world with his achievements."
  Roque Guinart at once perceived that Don Quixote's weakness was more
akin to madness than to swagger; and though he had sometimes heard him
spoken of, he never regarded the things attributed to him as true, nor
could he persuade himself that such a humour could become dominant
in the heart of man; he was extremely glad, therefore, to meet him and
test at close quarters what he had heard of him at a distance; so he
said to him, "Despair not, valiant knight, nor regard as an untoward
fate the position in which thou findest thyself; it may be that by
these slips thy crooked fortune will make itself straight; for
heaven by strange circuitous ways, mysterious and incomprehensible
to man, raises up the fallen and makes rich the poor."
  Don Quixote was about to thank him, when they heard behind them a
noise as of a troop of horses; there was, however, but one, riding
on which at a furious pace came a youth, apparently about twenty years
of age, clad in green damask edged with gold and breeches and a
loose frock, with a hat looped up in the Walloon fashion,
tight-fitting polished boots, gilt spurs, dagger and sword, and in his
hand a musketoon, and a pair of pistols at his waist.
  Roque turned round at the noise and perceived this comely figure,
which drawing near thus addressed him, "I came in quest of thee,
valiant Roque, to find in thee if not a remedy at least relief in my
misfortune; and not to keep thee in suspense, for I see thou dost
not recognise me, I will tell thee who I am; I am Claudia Jeronima,
the daughter of Simon Forte, thy good friend, and special enemy of
Clauquel Torrellas, who is thine also as being of the faction
opposed to thee. Thou knowest that this Torrellas has a son who is
called, or at least was not two hours since, Don Vicente Torrellas.
Well, to cut short the tale of my misfortune, I will tell thee in a
few words what this youth has brought upon me. He saw me, he paid
court to me, I listened to him, and, unknown to my father, I loved
him; for there is no woman, however secluded she may live or close she
may be kept, who will not have opportunities and to spare for
following her headlong impulses. In a word, he pledged himself to be
mine, and I promised to be his, without carrying matters any
further. Yesterday I learned that, forgetful of his pledge to me, he
was about to marry another, and that he was to go this morning to
plight his troth, intelligence which overwhelmed and exasperated me;
my father not being at home I was able to adopt this costume you
see, and urging my horse to speed I overtook Don Vicente about a
league from this, and without waiting to utter reproaches or hear
excuses I fired this musket at him, and these two pistols besides, and
to the best of my belief I must have lodged more than two bullets in
his body, opening doors to let my honour go free, enveloped in his
blood. I left him there in the hands of his servants, who did not dare
and were not able to interfere in his defence, and I come to seek from
thee a safe-conduct into France, where I have relatives with whom I
can live; and also to implore thee to protect my father, so that Don
Vicente's numerous kinsmen may not venture to wreak their lawless
vengeance upon him."
  Roque, filled with admiration at the gallant bearing, high spirit,
comely figure, and adventure of the fair Claudia, said to her,
"Come, senora, let us go and see if thy enemy is dead; and then we
will consider what will be best for thee." Don Quixote, who had been
listening to what Claudia said and Roque Guinart said in reply to her,
exclaimed, "Nobody need trouble himself with the defence of this lady,
for I take it upon myself. Give me my horse and arms, and wait for
me here; I will go in quest of this knight, and dead or alive I will
make him keep his word plighted to so great beauty."
  "Nobody need have any doubt about that," said Sancho, "for my master
has a very happy knack of matchmaking; it's not many days since he
forced another man to marry, who in the same way backed out of his
promise to another maiden; and if it had not been for his
persecutors the enchanters changing the man's proper shape into a
lacquey's the said maiden would not be one this minute."
  Roque, who was paying more attention to the fair Claudia's adventure
than to the words of master or man, did not hear them; and ordering
his squires to restore to Sancho everything they had stripped Dapple
of, he directed them to return to the place where they had been
quartered during the night, and then set off with Claudia at full
speed in search of the wounded or slain Don Vicente. They reached
the spot where Claudia met him, but found nothing there save freshly
spilt blood; looking all round, however, they descried some people
on the slope of a hill above them, and concluded, as indeed it
proved to be, that it was Don Vicente, whom either dead or alive his
servants were removing to attend to his wounds or to bury him. They
made haste to overtake them, which, as the party moved slowly, they
were able to do with ease. They found Don Vicente in the arms of his
servants, whom he was entreating in a broken feeble voice to leave him
there to die, as the pain of his wounds would not suffer him to go any
farther. Claudia and Roque threw themselves off their horses and
advanced towards him; the servants were overawed by the appearance
of Roque, and Claudia was moved by the sight of Don Vicente, and going
up to him half tenderly half sternly, she seized his hand and said
to him, "Hadst thou given me this according to our compact thou
hadst never come to this pass."
  The wounded gentleman opened his all but closed eyes, and
recognising Claudia said, "I see clearly, fair and mistaken lady, that
it is thou that hast slain me, a punishment not merited or deserved by
my feelings towards thee, for never did I mean to, nor could I,
wrong thee in thought or deed."
  "It is not true, then," said Claudia, "that thou wert going this
morning to marry Leonora the daughter of the rich Balvastro?"
  "Assuredly not," replied Don Vicente; "my cruel fortune must have
carried those tidings to thee to drive thee in thy jealousy to take my
life; and to assure thyself of this, press my hands and take me for
thy husband if thou wilt; I have no better satisfaction to offer
thee for the wrong thou fanciest thou hast received from me."
  Claudia wrung his hands, and her own heart was so wrung that she lay
fainting on the bleeding breast of Don Vicente, whom a death spasm
seized the same instant. Roque was in perplexity and knew not what
to do; the servants ran to fetch water to sprinkle their faces, and
brought some and bathed them with it. Claudia recovered from her
fainting fit, but not so Don Vicente from the paroxysm that had
overtaken him, for his life had come to an end. On perceiving this,
Claudia, when she had convinced herself that her beloved husband was
no more, rent the air with her sighs and made the heavens ring with
her lamentations; she tore her hair and scattered it to the winds, she
beat her face with her hands and showed all the signs of grief and
sorrow that could be conceived to come from an afflicted heart.
"Cruel, reckless woman!" she cried, "how easily wert thou moved to
carry out a thought so wicked! O furious force of jealousy, to what
desperate lengths dost thou lead those that give thee lodging in their
bosoms! O husband, whose unhappy fate in being mine hath borne thee
from the marriage bed to the grave!"
  So vehement and so piteous were the lamentations of Claudia that
they drew tears from Roque's eyes, unused as they were to shed them on
any occasion. The servants wept, Claudia swooned away again and again,
and the whole place seemed a field of sorrow and an abode of
misfortune. In the end Roque Guinart directed Don Vicente's servants
to carry his body to his father's village, which was close by, for
burial. Claudia told him she meant to go to a monastery of which an
aunt of hers was abbess, where she intended to pass her life with a
better and everlasting spouse. He applauded her pious resolution,
and offered to accompany her whithersoever she wished, and to
protect her father against the kinsmen of Don Vicente and all the
world, should they seek to injure him. Claudia would not on any
account allow him to accompany her; and thanking him for his offers as
well as she could, took leave of him in tears. The servants of Don
Vicente carried away his body, and Roque returned to his comrades, and
so ended the love of Claudia Jeronima; but what wonder, when it was
the insuperable and cruel might of jealousy that wove the web of her
sad story?
  Roque Guinart found his squires at the place to which he had ordered
them, and Don Quixote on Rocinante in the midst of them delivering a
harangue to them in which he urged them to give up a mode of life so
full of peril, as well to the soul as to the body; but as most of them
were Gascons, rough lawless fellows, his speech did not make much
impression on them. Roque on coming up asked Sancho if his men had
returned and restored to him the treasures and jewels they had
stripped off Dapple. Sancho said they had, but that three kerchiefs
that were worth three cities were missing.
  "What are you talking about, man?" said one of the bystanders; "I
have got them, and they are not worth three reals."
  "That is true," said Don Quixote; "but my squire values them at
the rate he says, as having been given me by the person who gave
them."
  Roque Guinart ordered them to be restored at once; and making his
men fall in in line he directed all the clothing, jewellery, and money
that they had taken since the last distribution to be produced; and
making a hasty valuation, and reducing what could not be divided
into money, he made shares for the whole band so equitably and
carefully, that in no case did he exceed or fall short of strict
distributive justice.
  When this had been done, and all left satisfied, Roque observed to
Don Quixote, "If this scrupulous exactness were not observed with
these fellows there would be no living with them."
  Upon this Sancho remarked, "From what I have seen here, justice is
such a good thing that there is no doing without it, even among the
thieves themselves."
  One of the squires heard this, and raising the butt-end of his
harquebuss would no doubt have broken Sancho's head with it had not
Roque Guinart called out to him to hold his hand. Sancho was
frightened out of his wits, and vowed not to open his lips so long
as he was in the company of these people.
  At this instant one or two of those squires who were posted as
sentinels on the roads, to watch who came along them and report what
passed to their chief, came up and said, "Senor, there is a great
troop of people not far off coming along the road to Barcelona."
  To which Roque replied, "Hast thou made out whether they are of
the sort that are after us, or of the sort we are after?"
  "The sort we are after," said the squire.
  "Well then, away with you all," said Roque, "and bring them here
to me at once without letting one of them escape."
  They obeyed, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and Roque, left by themselves,
waited to see what the squires brought, and while they were waiting
Roque said to Don Quixote, "It must seem a strange sort of life to
Senor Don Quixote, this of ours, strange adventures, strange
incidents, and all full of danger; and I do not wonder that it
should seem so, for in truth I must own there is no mode of life
more restless or anxious than ours. What led me into it was a
certain thirst for vengeance, which is strong enough to disturb the
quietest hearts. I am by nature tender-hearted and kindly, but, as I
said, the desire to revenge myself for a wrong that was done me so
overturns all my better impulses that I keep on in this way of life in
spite of what conscience tells me; and as one depth calls to
another, and one sin to another sin, revenges have linked themselves
together, and I have taken upon myself not only my own but those of
others: it pleases God, however, that, though I see myself in this
maze of entanglements, I do not lose all hope of escaping from it
and reaching a safe port."
  Don Quixote was amazed to hear Roque utter such excellent and just
sentiments, for he did not think that among those who followed such
trades as robbing, murdering, and waylaying, there could be anyone
capable of a virtuous thought, and he said in reply, "Senor Roque, the
beginning of health lies in knowing the disease and in the sick
man's willingness to take the medicines which the physician
prescribes; you are sick, you know what ails you, and heaven, or
more properly speaking God, who is our physician, will administer
medicines that will cure you, and cure gradually, and not of a
sudden or by a miracle; besides, sinners of discernment are nearer
amendment than those who are fools; and as your worship has shown good
sense in your remarks, all you have to do is to keep up a good heart
and trust that the weakness of your conscience will be strengthened.
And if you have any desire to shorten the journey and put yourself
easily in the way of salvation, come with me, and I will show you
how to become a knight-errant, a calling wherein so many hardships and
mishaps are encountered that if they be taken as penances they will
lodge you in heaven in a trice."
  Roque laughed at Don Quixote's exhortation, and changing the
conversation he related the tragic affair of Claudia Jeronima, at
which Sancho was extremely grieved; for he had not found the young
woman's beauty, boldness, and spirit at all amiss.
  And now the squires despatched to make the prize came up, bringing
with them two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on foot, and a
coach full of women with some six servants on foot and on horseback in
attendance on them, and a couple of muleteers whom the gentlemen had
with them. The squires made a ring round them, both victors and
vanquished maintaining profound silence, waiting for the great Roque
Guinart to speak. He asked the gentlemen who they were, whither they
were going, and what money they carried with them; "Senor," replied
one of them, "we are two captains of Spanish infantry; our companies
are at Naples, and we are on our way to embark in four galleys which
they say are at Barcelona under orders for Sicily; and we have about
two or three hundred crowns, with which we are, according to our
notions, rich and contented, for a soldier's poverty does not allow
a more extensive hoard."
  Roque asked the pilgrims the same questions he had put to the
captains, and was answered that they were going to take ship for Rome,
and that between them they might have about sixty reals. He asked also
who was in the coach, whither they were bound and what money they had,
and one of the men on horseback replied, "The persons in the coach are
my lady Dona Guiomar de Quinones, wife of the regent of the Vicaria at
Naples, her little daughter, a handmaid and a duenna; we six
servants are in attendance upon her, and the money amounts to six
hundred crowns."
  "So then," said Roque Guinart, "we have got here nine hundred crowns
and sixty reals; my soldiers must number some sixty; see how much
there falls to each, for I am a bad arithmetician." As soon as the
robbers heard this they raised a shout of "Long life to Roque Guinart,
in spite of the lladres that seek his ruin!"
  The captains showed plainly the concern they felt, the regent's lady
was downcast, and the pilgrims did not at all enjoy seeing their
property confiscated. Roque kept them in suspense in this way for a
while; but he had no desire to prolong their distress, which might
be seen a bowshot off, and turning to the captains he said, "Sirs,
will your worships be pleased of your courtesy to lend me sixty
crowns, and her ladyship the regent's wife eighty, to satisfy this
band that follows me, for 'it is by his singing the abbot gets his
dinner;' and then you may at once proceed on your journey, free and
unhindered, with a safe-conduct which I shall give you, so that if you
come across any other bands of mine that I have scattered in these
parts, they may do you no harm; for I have no intention of doing
injury to soldiers, or to any woman, especially one of quality."
  Profuse and hearty were the expressions of gratitude with which
the captains thanked Roque for his courtesy and generosity; for such
they regarded his leaving them their own money. Senora Dona Guiomar de
Quinones wanted to throw herself out of the coach to kiss the feet and
hands of the great Roque, but he would not suffer it on any account;
so far from that, he begged her pardon for the wrong he had done her
under pressure of the inexorable necessities of his unfortunate
calling. The regent's lady ordered one of her servants to give the
eighty crowns that had been assessed as her share at once, for the
captains had already paid down their sixty. The pilgrims were about to
give up the whole of their little hoard, but Roque bade them keep
quiet, and turning to his men he said, "Of these crowns two fall to
each man and twenty remain over; let ten be given to these pilgrims,
and the other ten to this worthy squire that he may be able to speak
favourably of this adventure;" and then having writing materials, with
which he always went provided, brought to him, he gave them in writing
a safe-conduct to the leaders of his bands; and bidding them
farewell let them go free and filled with admiration at his
magnanimity, his generous disposition, and his unusual conduct, and
inclined to regard him as an Alexander the Great rather than a
notorious robber.
  One of the squires observed in his mixture of Gascon and Catalan,
"This captain of ours would make a better friar than highwayman; if he
wants to be so generous another time, let it be with his own
property and not ours."
  The unlucky wight did not speak so low but that Roque overheard him,
and drawing his sword almost split his head in two, saying, "That is
the way I punish impudent saucy fellows." They were all taken aback,
and not one of them dared to utter a word, such deference did they pay
him. Roque then withdrew to one side and wrote a letter to a friend of
his at Barcelona, telling him that the famous Don Quixote of La
Mancha, the knight-errant of whom there was so much talk, was with
him, and was, he assured him, the drollest and wisest man in the
world; and that in four days from that date, that is to say, on
Saint John the Baptist's Day, he was going to deposit him in full
armour mounted on his horse Rocinante, together with his squire Sancho
on an ass, in the middle of the strand of the city; and bidding him
give notice of this to his friends the Niarros, that they might divert
themselves with him. He wished, he said, his enemies the Cadells could
be deprived of this pleasure; but that was impossible, because the
crazes and shrewd sayings of Don Quixote and the humours of his squire
Sancho Panza could not help giving general pleasure to all the
world. He despatched the letter by one of his squires, who, exchanging
the costume of a highwayman for that of a peasant, made his way into
Barcelona and gave it to the person to whom it was directed.
  CHAPTER LXI
  OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS

  DON QUIXOTE passed three days and three nights with Roque, and had
he passed three hundred years he would have found enough to observe
and wonder at in his mode of life. At daybreak they were in one
spot, at dinner-time in another; sometimes they fled without knowing
from whom, at other times they lay in wait, not knowing for what. They
slept standing, breaking their slumbers to shift from place to
place. There was nothing but sending out spies and scouts, posting
sentinels and blowing the matches of harquebusses, though they carried
but few, for almost all used flintlocks. Roque passed his nights in
some place or other apart from his men, that they might not know where
he was, for the many proclamations the viceroy of Barcelona had issued
against his life kept him in fear and uneasiness, and he did not
venture to trust anyone, afraid that even his own men would kill him
or deliver him up to the authorities; of a truth, a weary miserable
life! At length, by unfrequented roads, short cuts, and secret
paths, Roque, Don Quixote, and Sancho, together with six squires,
set out for Barcelona. They reached the strand on Saint John's Eve
during the night; and Roque, after embracing Don Quixote and Sancho
(to whom he presented the ten crowns he had promised but had not until
then given), left them with many expressions of good-will on both
sides.
  Roque went back, while Don Quixote remained on horseback, just as he
was, waiting for day, and it was not long before the countenance of
the fair Aurora began to show itself at the balconies of the east,
gladdening the grass and flowers, if not the ear, though to gladden
that too there came at the same moment a sound of clarions and
drums, and a din of bells, and a tramp, tramp, and cries of "Clear the
way there!" of some runners, that seemed to issue from the city. The
dawn made way for the sun that with a face broader than a buckler
began to rise slowly above the low line of the horizon; Don Quixote
and Sancho gazed all round them; they beheld the sea, a sight until
then unseen by them; it struck them as exceedingly spacious and broad,
much more so than the lakes of Ruidera which they had seen in La
Mancha. They saw the galleys along the beach, which, lowering their
awnings, displayed themselves decked with streamers and pennons that
trembled in the breeze and kissed and swept the water, while on
board the bugles, trumpets, and clarions were sounding and filling the
air far and near with melodious warlike notes. Then they began to move
and execute a kind of skirmish upon the calm water, while a vast
number of horsemen on fine horses and in showy liveries, issuing
from the city, engaged on their side in a somewhat similar movement.
The soldiers on board the galleys kept up a ceaseless fire, which they
on the walls and forts of the city returned, and the heavy cannon rent
the air with the tremendous noise they made, to which the gangway guns
of the galleys replied. The bright sea, the smiling earth, the clear
air -though at times darkened by the smoke of the guns- all seemed
to fill the whole multitude with unexpected delight. Sancho could
not make out how it was that those great masses that moved over the
sea had so many feet.
  And now the horsemen in livery came galloping up with shouts and
outlandish cries and cheers to where Don Quixote stood amazed and
wondering; and one of them, he to whom Roque had sent word, addressing
him exclaimed, "Welcome to our city, mirror, beacon, star and cynosure
of all knight-errantry in its widest extent! Welcome, I say, valiant
Don Quixote of La Mancha; not the false, the fictitious, the
apocryphal, that these latter days have offered us in lying histories,
but the true, the legitimate, the real one that Cide Hamete Benengeli,
flower of historians, has described to us!"
  Don Quixote made no answer, nor did the horsemen wait for one, but
wheeling again with all their followers, they began curvetting round
Don Quixote, who, turning to Sancho, said, "These gentlemen have
plainly recognised us; I will wager they have read our history, and
even that newly printed one by the Aragonese."
  The cavalier who had addressed Don Quixote again approached him
and said, "Come with us, Senor Don Quixote, for we are all of us
your servants and great friends of Roque Guinart's;" to which Don
Quixote returned, "If courtesy breeds courtesy, yours, sir knight,
is daughter or very nearly akin to the great Roque's; carry me where
you please; I will have no will but yours, especially if you deign
to employ it in your service."
  The cavalier replied with words no less polite, and then, all
closing in around him, they set out with him for the city, to the
music of the clarions and the drums. As they were entering it, the
wicked one, who is the author of all mischief, and the boys who are
wickeder than the wicked one, contrived that a couple of these
audacious irrepressible urchins should force their way through the
crowd, and lifting up, one of them Dapple's tail and the other
Rocinante's, insert a bunch of furze under each. The poor beasts
felt the strange spurs and added to their anguish by pressing their
tails tight, so much so that, cutting a multitude of capers, they
flung their masters to the ground. Don Quixote, covered with shame and
out of countenance, ran to pluck the plume from his poor jade's
tail, while Sancho did the same for Dapple. His conductors tried to
punish the audacity of the boys, but there was no possibility of doing
so, for they hid themselves among the hundreds of others that were
following them. Don Quixote and Sancho mounted once more, and with the
same music and acclamations reached their conductor's house, which was
large and stately, that of a rich gentleman, in short; and there for
the present we will leave them, for such is Cide Hamete's pleasure.
  CHAPTER LXII
  WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD

  DON QUIXOTE'S host was one Don Antonio Moreno by name, a gentleman
of wealth and intelligence, and very fond of diverting himself in
any fair and good-natured way; and having Don Quixote in his house
he set about devising modes of making him exhibit his mad points in
some harmless fashion; for jests that give pain are no jests, and no
sport is worth anything if it hurts another. The first thing he did
was to make Don Quixote take off his armour, and lead him, in that
tight chamois suit we have already described and depicted more than
once, out on a balcony overhanging one of the chief streets of the
city, in full view of the crowd and of the boys, who gazed at him as
they would at a monkey. The cavaliers in livery careered before him
again as though it were for him alone, and not to enliven the festival
of the day, that they wore it, and Sancho was in high delight, for
it seemed to him that, how he knew not, he had fallen upon another
Camacho's wedding, another house like Don Diego de Miranda's,
another castle like the duke's. Some of Don Antonio's friends dined
with him that day, and all showed honour to Don Quixote and treated
him as a knight-errant, and he becoming puffed up and exalted in
consequence could not contain himself for satisfaction. Such were
the drolleries of Sancho that all the servants of the house, and all
who heard him, were kept hanging upon his lips. While at table Don
Antonio said to him, "We hear, worthy Sancho, that you are so fond
of manjar blanco and forced-meat balls, that if you have any left, you
keep them in your bosom for the next day."
  "No, senor, that's not true," said Sancho, "for I am more cleanly
than greedy, and my master Don Quixote here knows well that we two are
used to live for a week on a handful of acorns or nuts. To be sure, if
it so happens that they offer me a heifer, I run with a halter; I
mean, I eat what I'm given, and make use of opportunities as I find
them; but whoever says that I'm an out-of-the-way eater or not
cleanly, let me tell him that he is wrong; and I'd put it in a
different way if I did not respect the honourable beards that are at
the table."
  "Indeed," said Don Quixote, "Sancho's moderation and cleanliness
in eating might be inscribed and graved on plates of brass, to be kept
in eternal remembrance in ages to come. It is true that when he is
hungry there is a certain appearance of voracity about him, for he
eats at a great pace and chews with both jaws; but cleanliness he is
always mindful of; and when he was governor he learned how to eat
daintily, so much so that he eats grapes, and even pomegranate pips,
with a fork."
  "What!" said Don Antonio, "has Sancho been a governor?"
  "Ay," said Sancho, "and of an island called Barataria. I governed it
to perfection for ten days; and lost my rest all the time; and learned
to look down upon all the governments in the world; I got out of it by
taking to flight, and fell into a pit where I gave myself up for dead,
and out of which I escaped alive by a miracle."
  Don Quixote then gave them a minute account of the whole affair of
Sancho's government, with which he greatly amused his hearers.
  On the cloth being removed Don Antonio, taking Don Quixote by the
hand, passed with him into a distant room in which there was nothing
in the way of furniture except a table, apparently of jasper,
resting on a pedestal of the same, upon which was set up, after the
fashion of the busts of the Roman emperors, a head which seemed to
be of bronze. Don Antonio traversed the whole apartment with Don
Quixote and walked round the table several times, and then said, "Now,
Senor Don Quixote, that I am satisfied that no one is listening to us,
and that the door is shut, I will tell you of one of the rarest
adventures, or more properly speaking strange things, that can be
imagined, on condition that you will keep what I say to you in the
remotest recesses of secrecy."
  "I swear it," said Don Quixote, "and for greater security I will put
a flag-stone over it; for I would have you know, Senor Don Antonio"
(he had by this time learned his name), "that you are addressing one
who, though he has ears to hear, has no tongue to speak; so that you
may safely transfer whatever you have in your bosom into mine, and
rely upon it that you have consigned it to the depths of silence."
  "In reliance upon that promise," said Don Antonio, "I will
astonish you with what you shall see and hear, and relieve myself of
some of the vexation it gives me to have no one to whom I can
confide my secrets, for they are not of a sort to be entrusted to
everybody."
  Don Quixote was puzzled, wondering what could be the object of
such precautions; whereupon Don Antonio taking his hand passed it over
the bronze head and the whole table and the pedestal of jasper on
which it stood, and then said, "This head, Senor Don Quixote, has been
made and fabricated by one of the greatest magicians and wizards the
world ever saw, a Pole, I believe, by birth, and a pupil of the famous
Escotillo of whom such marvellous stories are told. He was here in
my house, and for a consideration of a thousand crowns that I gave him
he constructed this head, which has the property and virtue of
answering whatever questions are put to its ear. He observed the
points of the compass, he traced figures, he studied the stars, he
watched favourable moments, and at length brought it to the perfection
we shall see to-morrow, for on Fridays it is mute, and this being
Friday we must wait till the next day. In the interval your worship
may consider what you would like to ask it; and I know by experience
that in all its answers it tells the truth."
  Don Quixote was amazed at the virtue and property of the head, and
was inclined to disbelieve Don Antonio; but seeing what a short time
he had to wait to test the matter, he did not choose to say anything
except that he thanked him for having revealed to him so mighty a
secret. They then quitted the room, Don Antonio locked the door, and
they repaired to the chamber where the rest of the gentlemen were
assembled. In the meantime Sancho had recounted to them several of the
adventures and accidents that had happened his master.
  That afternoon they took Don Quixote out for a stroll, not in his
armour but in street costume, with a surcoat of tawny cloth upon
him, that at that season would have made ice itself sweat. Orders were
left with the servants to entertain Sancho so as not to let him
leave the house. Don Quixote was mounted, not on Rocinante, but upon a
tall mule of easy pace and handsomely caparisoned. They put the
surcoat on him, and on the back, without his perceiving it, they
stitched a parchment on which they wrote in large letters, "This is
Don Quixote of La Mancha." As they set out upon their excursion the
placard attracted the eyes of all who chanced to see him, and as
they read out, "This is Don Quixote of La Mancha," Don Quixote was
amazed to see how many people gazed at him, called him by his name,
and recognised him, and turning to Don Antonio, who rode at his
side, he observed to him, "Great are the privileges knight-errantry
involves, for it makes him who professes it known and famous in
every region of the earth; see, Don Antonio, even the very boys of
this city know me without ever having seen me."
  "True, Senor Don Quixote," returned Don Antonio; "for as fire cannot
be hidden or kept secret, virtue cannot escape being recognised; and
that which is attained by the profession of arms shines
distinguished above all others."
  It came to pass, however, that as Don Quixote was proceeding amid
the acclamations that have been described, a Castilian, reading the
inscription on his back, cried out in a loud voice, "The devil take
thee for a Don Quixote of La Mancha! What! art thou here, and not dead
of the countless drubbings that have fallen on thy ribs? Thou art mad;
and if thou wert so by thyself, and kept thyself within thy madness,
it would not be so bad; but thou hast the gift of making fools and
blockheads of all who have anything to do with thee or say to thee.
Why, look at these gentlemen bearing thee company! Get thee home,
blockhead, and see after thy affairs, and thy wife and children, and
give over these fooleries that are sapping thy brains and skimming
away thy wits."
  "Go your own way, brother," said Don Antonio, "and don't offer
advice to those who don't ask you for it. Senor Don Quixote is in
his full senses, and we who bear him company are not fools; virtue
is to be honoured wherever it may be found; go, and bad luck to you,
and don't meddle where you are not wanted."
  "By God, your worship is right," replied the Castilian; "for to
advise this good man is to kick against the pricks; still for all that
it fills me with pity that the sound wit they say the blockhead has in
everything should dribble away by the channel of his
knight-errantry; but may the bad luck your worship talks of follow
me and all my descendants, if, from this day forth, though I should
live longer than Methuselah, I ever give advice to anybody even if
he asks me for it."
  The advice-giver took himself off, and they continued their
stroll; but so great was the press of the boys and people to read
the placard, that Don Antonio was forced to remove it as if he were
taking off something else.
  Night came and they went home, and there was a ladies' dancing
party, for Don Antonio's wife, a lady of rank and gaiety, beauty and
wit, had invited some friends of hers to come and do honour to her
guest and amuse themselves with his strange delusions. Several of them
came, they supped sumptuously, the dance began at about ten o'clock.
Among the ladies were two of a mischievous and frolicsome turn, and,
though perfectly modest, somewhat free in playing tricks for
harmless diversion sake. These two were so indefatigable in taking Don
Quixote out to dance that they tired him down, not only in body but in
spirit. It was a sight to see the figure Don Quixote made, long, lank,
lean, and yellow, his garments clinging tight to him, ungainly, and
above all anything but agile. The gay ladies made secret love to
him, and he on his part secretly repelled them, but finding himself
hard pressed by their blandishments he lifted up his voice and
exclaimed, "Fugite, partes adversae! Leave me in peace, unwelcome
overtures; avaunt, with your desires, ladies, for she who is queen
of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, suffers none but hers to
lead me captive and subdue me;" and so saying he sat down on the floor
in the middle of the room, tired out and broken down by all this
exertion in the dance.
  Don Antonio directed him to be taken up bodily and carried to bed,
and the first that laid hold of him was Sancho, saying as he did so,
"In an evil hour you took to dancing, master mine; do you fancy all
mighty men of valour are dancers, and all knights-errant given to
capering? If you do, I can tell you you are mistaken; there's many a
man would rather undertake to kill a giant than cut a caper. If it had
been the shoe-fling you were at I could take your place, for I can
do the shoe-fling like a gerfalcon; but I'm no good at dancing."
  With these and other observations Sancho set the whole ball-room
laughing, and then put his master to bed, covering him up well so that
he might sweat out any chill caught after his dancing.
  The next day Don Antonio thought he might as well make trial of
the enchanted head, and with Don Quixote, Sancho, and two others,
friends of his, besides the two ladies that had tired out Don
Quixote at the ball, who had remained for the night with Don Antonio's
wife, he locked himself up in the chamber where the head was. He
explained to them the property it possessed and entrusted the secret
to them, telling them that now for the first time he was going to
try the virtue of the enchanted head; but except Don Antonio's two
friends no one else was privy to the mystery of the enchantment, and
if Don Antonio had not first revealed it to them they would have
been inevitably reduced to the same state of amazement as the rest, so
artfully and skilfully was it contrived.
  The first to approach the ear of the head was Don Antonio himself,
and in a low voice but not so low as not to be audible to all, he said
to it, "Head, tell me by the virtue that lies in thee what am I at
this moment thinking of?"
  The head, without any movement of the lips, answered in a clear
and distinct voice, so as to be heard by all, "I cannot judge of
thoughts."
  All were thunderstruck at this, and all the more so as they saw that
there was nobody anywhere near the table or in the whole room that
could have answered. "How many of us are here?" asked Don Antonio once
more; and it was answered him in the same way softly, "Thou and thy
wife, with two friends of thine and two of hers, and a famous knight
called Don Quixote of La Mancha, and a squire of his, Sancho Panza
by name."
  Now there was fresh astonishment; now everyone's hair was standing
on end with awe; and Don Antonio retiring from the head exclaimed,
"This suffices to show me that I have not been deceived by him who
sold thee to me, O sage head, talking head, answering head,
wonderful head! Let some one else go and put what question he likes to
it."
  And as women are commonly impulsive and inquisitive, the first to
come forward was one of the two friends of Don Antonio's wife, and her
question was, "Tell me, Head, what shall I do to be very beautiful?"
and the answer she got was, "Be very modest."
  "I question thee no further," said the fair querist.
  Her companion then came up and said, "I should like to know, Head,
whether my husband loves me or not;" the answer given to her was,
"Think how he uses thee, and thou mayest guess;" and the married
lady went off saying, "That answer did not need a question; for of
course the treatment one receives shows the disposition of him from
whom it is received."
  Then one of Don Antonio's two friends advanced and asked it, "Who am
I?" "Thou knowest," was the answer. "That is not what I ask thee,"
said the gentleman, "but to tell me if thou knowest me." "Yes, I
know thee, thou art Don Pedro Noriz," was the reply.
  "I do not seek to know more," said the gentleman, "for this is
enough to convince me, O Head, that thou knowest everything;" and as
he retired the other friend came forward and asked it, "Tell me, Head,
what are the wishes of my eldest son?"
  "I have said already," was the answer, "that I cannot judge of
wishes; however, I can tell thee the wish of thy son is to bury thee."
  "That's 'what I see with my eyes I point out with my finger,'"
said the gentleman, "so I ask no more."
  Don Antonio's wife came up and said, "I know not what to ask thee,
Head; I would only seek to know of thee if I shall have many years
of enjoyment of my good husband;" and the answer she received was,
"Thou shalt, for his vigour and his temperate habits promise many
years of life, which by their intemperance others so often cut short."
  Then Don Quixote came forward and said, "Tell me, thou that
answerest, was that which I describe as having happened to me in the
cave of Montesinos the truth or a dream? Will Sancho's whipping be
accomplished without fail? Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea be
brought about?"
  "As to the question of the cave," was the reply, "there is much to
be said; there is something of both in it. Sancho's whipping will
proceed leisurely. The disenchantment of Dulcinea will attain its
due consummation."
  "I seek to know no more," said Don Quixote; "let me but see Dulcinea
disenchanted, and I will consider that all the good fortune I could
wish for has come upon me all at once."
  The last questioner was Sancho, and his questions were, "Head, shall
I by any chance have another government? Shall I ever escape from
the hard life of a squire? Shall I get back to see my wife and
children?" To which the answer came, "Thou shalt govern in thy
house; and if thou returnest to it thou shalt see thy wife and
children; and on ceasing to serve thou shalt cease to be a squire."
  "Good, by God!" said Sancho Panza; "I could have told myself that;
the prophet Perogrullo could have said no more."
  "What answer wouldst thou have, beast?" said Don Quixote; "is it not
enough that the replies this head has given suit the questions put
to it?"
  "Yes, it is enough," said Sancho; "but I should have liked it to
have made itself plainer and told me more."
  The questions and answers came to an end here, but not the wonder
with which all were filled, except Don Antonio's two friends who
were in the secret. This Cide Hamete Benengeli thought fit to reveal
at once, not to keep the world in suspense, fancying that the head had
some strange magical mystery in it. He says, therefore, that on the
model of another head, the work of an image maker, which he had seen
at Madrid, Don Antonio made this one at home for his own amusement and
to astonish ignorant people; and its mechanism was as follows. The
table was of wood painted and varnished to imitate jasper, and the
pedestal on which it stood was of the same material, with four eagles'
claws projecting from it to support the weight more steadily. The
head, which resembled a bust or figure of a Roman emperor, and was
coloured like bronze, was hollow throughout, as was the table, into
which it was fitted so exactly that no trace of the joining was
visible. The pedestal of the table was also hollow and communicated
with the throat and neck of the head, and the whole was in
communication with another room underneath the chamber in which the
head stood. Through the entire cavity in the pedestal, table, throat
and neck of the bust or figure, there passed a tube of tin carefully
adjusted and concealed from sight. In the room below corresponding
to the one above was placed the person who was to answer, with his
mouth to the tube, and the voice, as in an ear-trumpet, passed from
above downwards, and from below upwards, the words coming clearly
and distinctly; it was impossible, thus, to detect the trick. A nephew
of Don Antonio's, a smart sharp-witted student, was the answerer,
and as he had been told beforehand by his uncle who the persons were
that would come with him that day into the chamber where the head was,
it was an easy matter for him to answer the first question at once and
correctly; the others he answered by guess-work, and, being clever,
cleverly. Cide Hamete adds that this marvellous contrivance stood
for some ten or twelve days; but that, as it became noised abroad
through the city that he had in his house an enchanted head that
answered all who asked questions of it, Don Antonio, fearing it
might come to the ears of the watchful sentinels of our faith,
explained the matter to the inquisitors, who commanded him to break it
up and have done with it, lest the ignorant vulgar should be
scandalised. By Don Quixote, however, and by Sancho the head was still
held to be an enchanted one, and capable of answering questions,
though more to Don Quixote's satisfaction than Sancho's.
  The gentlemen of the city, to gratify Don Antonio and also to do the
honours to Don Quixote, and give him an opportunity of displaying
his folly, made arrangements for a tilting at the ring in six days
from that time, which, however, for reason that will be mentioned
hereafter, did not take place.
  Don Quixote took a fancy to stroll about the city quietly and on
foot, for he feared that if he went on horseback the boys would follow
him; so he and Sancho and two servants that Don Antonio gave him set
out for a walk. Thus it came to pass that going along one of the
streets Don Quixote lifted up his eyes and saw written in very large
letters over a door, "Books printed here," at which he was vastly
pleased, for until then he had never seen a printing office, and he
was curious to know what it was like. He entered with all his
following, and saw them drawing sheets in one place, correcting in
another, setting up type here, revising there; in short all the work
that is to be seen in great printing offices. He went up to one case
and asked what they were about there; the workmen told him, he watched
them with wonder, and passed on. He approached one man, among
others, and asked him what he was doing. The workman replied,
"Senor, this gentleman here" (pointing to a man of prepossessing
appearance and a certain gravity of look) "has translated an Italian
book into our Spanish tongue, and I am setting it up in type for the
press."
  "What is the title of the book?" asked Don Quixote; to which the
author replied, "Senor, in Italian the book is called Le Bagatelle."
  "And what does Le Bagatelle import in our Spanish?" asked Don
Quixote.
  "Le Bagatelle," said the author, "is as though we should say in
Spanish Los Juguetes; but though the book is humble in name it has
good solid matter in it."
  "I," said Don Quixote, "have some little smattering of Italian,
and I plume myself on singing some of Ariosto's stanzas; but tell
me, senor- I do not say this to test your ability, but merely out of
curiosity- have you ever met with the word pignatta in your book?"
  "Yes, often," said the author.
  "And how do you render that in Spanish?"
  "How should I render it," returned the author, "but by olla?"
  "Body o' me," exclaimed Don Quixote, "what a proficient you are in
the Italian language! I would lay a good wager that where they say
in Italian piace you say in Spanish place, and where they say piu
you say mas, and you translate su by arriba and giu by abajo."
  "I translate them so of course," said the author, "for those are
their proper equivalents."
  "I would venture to swear," said Don Quixote, "that your worship
is not known in the world, which always begrudges their reward to rare
wits and praiseworthy labours. What talents lie wasted there! What
genius thrust away into corners! What worth left neglected! Still it
seems to me that translation from one language into another, if it
be not from the queens of languages, the Greek and the Latin, is
like looking at Flemish tapestries on the wrong side; for though the
figures are visible, they are full of threads that make them
indistinct, and they do not show with the smoothness and brightness of
the right side; and translation from easy languages argues neither
ingenuity nor command of words, any more than transcribing or
copying out one document from another. But I do not mean by this to
draw the inference that no credit is to be allowed for the work of
translating, for a man may employ himself in ways worse and less
profitable to himself. This estimate does not include two famous
translators, Doctor Cristobal de Figueroa, in his Pastor Fido, and Don
Juan de Jauregui, in his Aminta, wherein by their felicity they
leave it in doubt which is the translation and which the original. But
tell me, are you printing this book at your own risk, or have you sold
the copyright to some bookseller?"
  "I print at my own risk," said the author, "and I expect to make a
thousand ducats at least by this first edition, which is to be of
two thousand copies that will go off in a twinkling at six reals
apiece."
  "A fine calculation you are making!" said Don Quixote; "it is
plain you don't know the ins and outs of the printers, and how they
play into one another's hands. I promise you when you find yourself
saddled with two thousand copies you will feel so sore that it will
astonish you, particularly if the book is a little out of the common
and not in any way highly spiced."
  "What!" said the author, "would your worship, then, have me give
it to a bookseller who will give three maravedis for the copyright and
think he is doing me a favour? I do not print my books to win fame
in the world, for I am known in it already by my works; I want to make
money, without which reputation is not worth a rap."
  "God send your worship good luck," said Don Quixote; and he moved on
to another case, where he saw them correcting a sheet of a book with
the title of "Light of the Soul;" noticing it he observed, "Books like
this, though there are many of the kind, are the ones that deserve
to be printed, for many are the sinners in these days, and lights
unnumbered are needed for all that are in darkness."
  He passed on, and saw they were also correcting another book, and
when he asked its title they told him it was called, "The Second
Part of the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha," by one of
Tordesillas.
  "I have heard of this book already," said Don Quixote, "and verily
and on my conscience I thought it had been by this time burned to
ashes as a meddlesome intruder; but its Martinmas will come to it as
it does to every pig; for fictions have the more merit and charm about
them the more nearly they approach the truth or what looks like it;
and true stories, the truer they are the better they are;" and so
saying he walked out of the printing office with a certain amount of
displeasure in his looks. That same day Don Antonio arranged to take
him to see the galleys that lay at the beach, whereat Sancho was in
high delight, as he had never seen any all his life. Don Antonio
sent word to the commandant of the galleys that he intended to bring
his guest, the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, of whom the commandant
and all the citizens had already heard, that afternoon to see them;
and what happened on board of them will be told in the next chapter.
  CHAPTER LXIII
  OF THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE
GALLEYS, AND THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO

  PROFOUND were Don Quixote's reflections on the reply of the
enchanted head, not one of them, however, hitting on the secret of the
trick, but all concentrated on the promise, which he regarded as a
certainty, of Dulcinea's disenchantment. This he turned over in his
mind again and again with great satisfaction, fully persuaded that
he would shortly see its fulfillment; and as for Sancho, though, as
has been said, he hated being a governor, still he had a longing to be
giving orders and finding himself obeyed once more; this is the
misfortune that being in authority, even in jest, brings with it.
  To resume; that afternoon their host Don Antonio Moreno and his
two friends, with Don Quixote and Sancho, went to the galleys. The
commandant had been already made aware of his good fortune in seeing
two such famous persons as Don Quixote and Sancho, and the instant
they came to the shore all the galleys struck their awnings and the
clarions rang out. A skiff covered with rich carpets and cushions of
crimson velvet was immediately lowered into the water, and as Don
Quixote stepped on board of it, the leading galley fired her gangway
gun, and the other galleys did the same; and as he mounted the
starboard ladder the whole crew saluted him (as is the custom when a
personage of distinction comes on board a galley) by exclaiming "Hu,
hu, hu," three times. The general, for so we shall call him, a
Valencian gentleman of rank, gave him his hand and embraced him,
saying, "I shall mark this day with a white stone as one of the
happiest I can expect to enjoy in my lifetime, since I have seen Senor
Don Quixote of La Mancha, pattern and image wherein we see contained
and condensed all that is worthy in knight-errantry."
  Don Quixote delighted beyond measure with such a lordly reception,
replied to him in words no less courteous. All then proceeded to the
poop, which was very handsomely decorated, and seated themselves on
the bulwark benches; the boatswain passed along the gangway and
piped all hands to strip, which they did in an instant. Sancho, seeing
such a number of men stripped to the skin, was taken aback, and
still more when he saw them spread the awning so briskly that it
seemed to him as if all the devils were at work at it; but all this
was cakes and fancy bread to what I am going to tell now. Sancho was
seated on the captain's stage, close to the aftermost rower on the
right-hand side. He, previously instructed in what he was to do,
laid hold of Sancho, hoisting him up in his arms, and the whole
crew, who were standing ready, beginning on the right, proceeded to
pass him on, whirling him along from hand to hand and from bench to
bench with such rapidity that it took the sight out of poor Sancho's
eyes, and he made quite sure that the devils themselves were flying
away with him; nor did they leave off with him until they had sent him
back along the left side and deposited him on the poop; and the poor
fellow was left bruised and breathless and all in a sweat, and
unable to comprehend what it was that had happened to him.
  Don Quixote when he saw Sancho's flight without wings asked the
general if this was a usual ceremony with those who came on board
the galleys for the first time; for, if so, as he had no intention
of adopting them as a profession, he had no mind to perform such feats
of agility, and if anyone offered to lay hold of him to whirl him
about, he vowed to God he would kick his soul out; and as he said this
he stood up and clapped his hand upon his sword. At this instant
they struck the awning and lowered the yard with a prodigious
rattle. Sancho thought heaven was coming off its hinges and going to
fall on his head, and full of terror he ducked it and buried it
between his knees; nor were Don Quixote's knees altogether under
control, for he too shook a little, squeezed his shoulders together
and lost colour. The crew then hoisted the yard with the same rapidity
and clatter as when they lowered it, all the while keeping silence
as though they had neither voice nor breath. The boatswain gave the
signal to weigh anchor, and leaping upon the middle of the gangway
began to lay on to the shoulders of the crew with his courbash or
whip, and to haul out gradually to sea.
  When Sancho saw so many red feet (for such he took the oars to be)
moving all together, he said to himself, "It's these that are the real
chanted things, and not the ones my master talks of. What can those
wretches have done to be so whipped; and how does that one man who
goes along there whistling dare to whip so many? I declare this is
hell, or at least purgatory!"
  Don Quixote, observing how attentively Sancho regarded what was
going on, said to him, "Ah, Sancho my friend, how quickly and
cheaply might you finish off the disenchantment of Dulcinea, if you
would strip to the waist and take your place among those gentlemen!
Amid the pain and sufferings of so many you would not feel your own
much; and moreover perhaps the sage Merlin would allow each of these
lashes, being laid on with a good hand, to count for ten of those
which you must give yourself at last."
  The general was about to ask what these lashes were, and what was
Dulcinea's disenchantment, when a sailor exclaimed, "Monjui signals
that there is an oared vessel off the coast to the west."
  On hearing this the general sprang upon the gangway crying, "Now
then, my sons, don't let her give us the slip! It must be some
Algerine corsair brigantine that the watchtower signals to us." The
three others immediately came alongside the chief galley to receive
their orders. The general ordered two to put out to sea while he
with the other kept in shore, so that in this way the vessel could not
escape them. The crews plied the oars driving the galleys so furiously
that they seemed to fly. The two that had put out to sea, after a
couple of miles sighted a vessel which, so far as they could make out,
they judged to be one of fourteen or fifteen banks, and so she proved.
As soon as the vessel discovered the galleys she went about with the
object and in the hope of making her escape by her speed; but the
attempt failed, for the chief galley was one of the fastest vessels
afloat, and overhauled her so rapidly that they on board the
brigantine saw clearly there was no possibility of escaping, and the
rais therefore would have had them drop their oars and give themselves
up so as not to provoke the captain in command of our galleys to
anger. But chance, directing things otherwise, so ordered it that just
as the chief galley came close enough for those on board the vessel to
hear the shouts from her calling on them to surrender, two Toraquis,
that is to say two Turks, both drunken, that with a dozen more were on
board the brigantine, discharged their muskets, killing two of the
soldiers that lined the sides of our vessel. Seeing this the general
swore he would not leave one of those he found on board the vessel
alive, but as he bore down furiously upon her she slipped away from
him underneath the oars. The galley shot a good way ahead; those on
board the vessel saw their case was desperate, and while the galley
was coming about they made sail, and by sailing and rowing once more
tried to sheer off; but their activity did not do them as much good as
their rashness did them harm, for the galley coming up with them in
a little more than half a mile threw her oars over them and took the
whole of them alive. The other two galleys now joined company and
all four returned with the prize to the beach, where a vast
multitude stood waiting for them, eager to see what they brought back.
The general anchored close in, and perceived that the viceroy of the
city was on the shore. He ordered the skiff to push off to fetch
him, and the yard to be lowered for the purpose of hanging forthwith
the rais and the rest of the men taken on board the vessel, about
six-and-thirty in number, all smart fellows and most of them Turkish
musketeers. He asked which was the rais of the brigantine, and was
answered in Spanish by one of the prisoners (who afterwards proved
to he a Spanish renegade), "This young man, senor that you see here is
our rais," and he pointed to one of the handsomest and most
gallant-looking youths that could be imagined. He did not seem to be
twenty years of age.
  "Tell me, dog," said the general, "what led thee to kill my
soldiers, when thou sawest it was impossible for thee to escape? Is
that the way to behave to chief galleys? Knowest thou not that
rashness is not valour? Faint prospects of success should make men
bold, but not rash."
  The rais was about to reply, but the general could not at that
moment listen to him, as he had to hasten to receive the viceroy,
who was now coming on board the galley, and with him certain of his
attendants and some of the people.
  "You have had a good chase, senor general," said the viceroy.
  "Your excellency shall soon see how good, by the game strung up to
this yard," replied the general.
  "How so?" returned the viceroy.
  "Because," said the general, "against all law, reason, and usages of
war they have killed on my hands two of the best soldiers on board
these galleys, and I have sworn to hang every man that I have taken,
but above all this youth who is the rais of the brigantine," and he
pointed to him as he stood with his hands already bound and the rope
round his neck, ready for death.
  The viceroy looked at him, and seeing him so well-favoured, so
graceful, and so submissive, he felt a desire to spare his life, the
comeliness of the youth furnishing him at once with a letter of
recommendation. He therefore questioned him, saying, "Tell me, rais,
art thou Turk, Moor, or renegade?"
  To which the youth replied, also in Spanish, "I am neither Turk, nor
Moor, nor renegade."
  "What art thou, then?" said the viceroy.
  "A Christian woman," replied the youth.
  "A woman and a Christian, in such a dress and in such circumstances!
It is more marvellous than credible," said the viceroy.
  "Suspend the execution of the sentence," said the youth; "your
vengeance will not lose much by waiting while I tell you the story
of my life."
  What heart could be so hard as not to he softened by these words, at
any rate so far as to listen to what the unhappy youth had to say? The
general bade him say what he pleased, but not to expect pardon for his
flagrant offence. With this permission the youth began in these words.
  "Born of Morisco parents, I am of that nation, more unhappy than
wise, upon which of late a sea of woes has poured down. In the
course of our misfortune I was carried to Barbary by two uncles of
mine, for it was in vain that I declared I was a Christian, as in fact
I am, and not a mere pretended one, or outwardly, but a true
Catholic Christian. It availed me nothing with those charged with
our sad expatriation to protest this, nor would my uncles believe
it; on the contrary, they treated it as an untruth and a subterfuge
set up to enable me to remain behind in the land of my birth; and
so, more by force than of my own will, they took me with them. I had a
Christian mother, and a father who was a man of sound sense and a
Christian too; I imbibed the Catholic faith with my mother's milk, I
was well brought up, and neither in word nor in deed did I, I think,
show any sign of being a Morisco. To accompany these virtues, for such
I hold them, my beauty, if I possess any, grew with my growth; and
great as was the seclusion in which I lived it was not so great but
that a young gentleman, Don Gaspar Gregorio by name, eldest son of a
gentleman who is lord of a village near ours, contrived to find
opportunities of seeing me. How he saw me, how we met, how his heart
was lost to me, and mine not kept from him, would take too long to
tell, especially at a moment when I am in dread of the cruel cord that
threatens me interposing between tongue and throat; I will only say,
therefore, that Don Gregorio chose to accompany me in our
banishment. He joined company with the Moriscoes who were going
forth from other villages, for he knew their language very well, and
on the voyage he struck up a friendship with my two uncles who were
carrying me with them; for my father, like a wise and far-sighted man,
as soon as he heard the first edict for our expulsion, quitted the
village and departed in quest of some refuge for us abroad. He left
hidden and buried, at a spot of which I alone have knowledge, a
large quantity of pearls and precious stones of great value,
together with a sum of money in gold cruzadoes and doubloons. He
charged me on no account to touch the treasure, if by any chance
they expelled us before his return. I obeyed him, and with my
uncles, as I have said, and others of our kindred and neighbours,
passed over to Barbary, and the place where we took up our abode was
Algiers, much the same as if we had taken it up in hell itself. The
king heard of my beauty, and report told him of my wealth, which was
in some degree fortunate for me. He summoned me before him, and
asked me what part of Spain I came from, and what money and jewels I
had. I mentioned the place, and told him the jewels and money were
buried there; but that they might easily be recovered if I myself went
back for them. All this I told him, in dread lest my beauty and not
his own covetousness should influence him. While he was engaged in
conversation with me, they brought him word that in company with me
was one of the handsomest and most graceful youths that could be
imagined. I knew at once that they were speaking of Don Gaspar
Gregorio, whose comeliness surpasses the most highly vaunted beauty. I
was troubled when I thought of the danger he was in, for among those
barbarous Turks a fair youth is more esteemed than a woman, be she
ever so beautiful. The king immediately ordered him to be brought
before him that he might see him, and asked me if what they said about
the youth was true. I then, almost as if inspired by heaven, told
him it was, but that I would have him to know it was not a man, but
a woman like myself, and I entreated him to allow me to go and dress
her in the attire proper to her, so that her beauty might be seen to
perfection, and that she might present herself before him with less
embarrassment. He bade me go by all means, and said that the next
day we should discuss the plan to be adopted for my return to Spain to
carry away the hidden treasure. I saw Don Gaspar, I told him the
danger he was in if he let it be seen he was a man, I dressed him as a
Moorish woman, and that same afternoon I brought him before the
king, who was charmed when he saw him, and resolved to keep the damsel
and make a present of her to the Grand Signor; and to avoid the risk
she might run among the women of his seraglio, and distrustful of
himself, he commanded her to be placed in the house of some Moorish
ladies of rank who would protect and attend to her; and thither he was
taken at once. What we both suffered (for I cannot deny that I love
him) may be left to the imagination of those who are separated if they
love one an. other dearly. The king then arranged that I should return
to Spain in this brigantine, and that two Turks, those who killed your
soldiers, should accompany me. There also came with me this Spanish
renegade"- and here she pointed to him who had first spoken- "whom I
know to be secretly a Christian, and to be more desirous of being left
in Spain than of returning to Barbary. The rest of the crew of the
brigantine are Moors and Turks, who merely serve as rowers. The two
Turks, greedy and insolent, instead of obeying the orders we had to
land me and this renegade in Christian dress (with which we came
provided) on the first Spanish ground we came to, chose to run along
the coast and make some prize if they could, fearing that if they
put us ashore first, we might, in case of some accident befalling
us, make it known that the brigantine was at sea, and thus, if there
happened to be any galleys on the coast, they might be taken. We
sighted this shore last night, and knowing nothing of these galleys,
we were discovered, and the result was what you have seen. To sum
up, there is Don Gregorio in woman's dress, among women, in imminent
danger of his life; and here am I, with hands bound, in expectation,
or rather in dread, of losing my life, of which I am already weary.
Here, sirs, ends my sad story, as true as it is unhappy; all I ask
of you is to allow me to die like a Christian, for, as I have
already said, I am not to be charged with the offence of which those
of my nation are guilty;" and she stood silent, her eyes filled with
moving tears, accompanied by plenty from the bystanders. The
viceroy, touched with compassion, went up to her without speaking
and untied the cord that bound the hands of the Moorish girl.
  But all the while the Morisco Christian was telling her strange
story, an elderly pilgrim, who had come on board of the galley at
the same time as the viceroy, kept his eyes fixed upon her; and the
instant she ceased speaking he threw himself at her feet, and
embracing them said in a voice broken by sobs and sighs, "O Ana Felix,
my unhappy daughter, I am thy father Ricote, come back to look for
thee, unable to live without thee, my soul that thou art!"
  At these words of his, Sancho opened his eyes and raised his head,
which he had been holding down, brooding over his unlucky excursion;
and looking at the pilgrim he recognised in him that same Ricote he
met the day he quitted his government, and felt satisfied that this
was his daughter. She being now unbound embraced her father,
mingling her tears with his, while he addressing the general and the
viceroy said, "This, sirs, is my daughter, more unhappy in her
adventures than in her name. She is Ana Felix, surnamed Ricote,
celebrated as much for her own beauty as for my wealth. I quitted my
native land in search of some shelter or refuge for us abroad, and
having found one in Germany I returned in this pilgrim's dress, in the
company of some other German pilgrims, to seek my daughter and take up
a large quantity of treasure I had left buried. My daughter I did
not find, the treasure I found and have with me; and now, in this
strange roundabout way you have seen, I find the treasure that more
than all makes me rich, my beloved daughter. If our innocence and
her tears and mine can with strict justice open the door to
clemency, extend it to us, for we never had any intention of
injuring you, nor do we sympathise with the aims of our people, who
have been justly banished."
  "I know Ricote well," said Sancho at this, "and I know too that what
he says about Ana Felix being his daughter is true; but as to those
other particulars about going and coming, and having good or bad
intentions, I say nothing."
  While all present stood amazed at this strange occurrence the
general said, "At any rate your tears will not allow me to keep my
oath; live, fair Ana Felix, all the years that heaven has allotted
you; but these rash insolent fellows must pay the penalty of the crime
they have committed;" and with that he gave orders to have the two
Turks who had killed his two soldiers hanged at once at the
yard-arm. The viceroy, however, begged him earnestly not to hang them,
as their behaviour savoured rather of madness than of bravado. The
general yielded to the viceroy's request, for revenge is not easily
taken in cold blood. They then tried to devise some scheme for
rescuing Don Gaspar Gregorio from the danger in which he had been
left. Ricote offered for that object more than two thousand ducats
that he had in pearls and gems; they proposed several plans, but
none so good as that suggested by the renegade already mentioned,
who offered to return to Algiers in a small vessel of about six banks,
manned by Christian rowers, as he knew where, how, and when he could
and should land, nor was he ignorant of the house in which Don
Gaspar was staying. The general and the viceroy had some hesitation
about placing confidence in the renegade and entrusting him with the
Christians who were to row, but Ana Felix said she could answer for
him, and her father offered to go and pay the ransom of the Christians
if by any chance they should not be forthcoming. This, then, being
agreed upon, the viceroy landed, and Don Antonio Moreno took the
fair Morisco and her father home with him, the viceroy charging him to
give them the best reception and welcome in his power, while on his
own part he offered all that house contained for their
entertainment; so great was the good-will and kindliness the beauty of
Ana Felix had infused into his heart.
  CHAPTER LXIV
  TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS
THAN ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM

  THE wife of Don Antonio Moreno, so the history says, was extremely
happy to see Ana Felix in her house. She welcomed her with great
kindness, charmed as well by her beauty as by her intelligence; for in
both respects the fair Morisco was richly endowed, and all the
people of the city flocked to see her as though they had been summoned
by the ringing of the bells.
  Don Quixote told Don Antonio that the plan adopted for releasing Don
Gregorio was not a good one, for its risks were greater than its
advantages, and that it would be better to land himself with his
arms and horse in Barbary; for he would carry him off in spite of
the whole Moorish host, as Don Gaiferos carried off his wife
Melisendra.
  "Remember, your worship," observed Sancho on hearing him say so,
"Senor Don Gaiferos carried off his wife from the mainland, and took
her to France by land; but in this case, if by chance we carry off Don
Gregorio, we have no way of bringing him to Spain, for there's the sea
between."
  "There's a remedy for everything except death," said Don Quixote;
"if they bring the vessel close to the shore we shall be able to get
on board though all the world strive to prevent us."
  "Your worship hits it off mighty well and mighty easy," said Sancho;
"but 'it's a long step from saying to doing;' and I hold to the
renegade, for he seems to me an honest good-hearted fellow."
  Don Antonio then said that if the renegade did not prove successful,
the expedient of the great Don Quixote's expedition to Barbary
should be adopted. Two days afterwards the renegade put to sea in a
light vessel of six oars a-side manned by a stout crew, and two days
later the galleys made sail eastward, the general having begged the
viceroy to let him know all about the release of Don Gregorio and
about Ana Felix, and the viceroy promised to do as he requested.
  One morning as Don Quixote went out for a stroll along the beach,
arrayed in full armour (for, as he often said, that was "his only
gear, his only rest the fray," and he never was without it for a
moment), he saw coming towards him a knight, also in full armour, with
a shining moon painted on his shield, who, on approaching sufficiently
near to be heard, said in a loud voice, addressing himself to Don
Quixote, "Illustrious knight, and never sufficiently extolled Don
Quixote of La Mancha, I am the Knight of the White Moon, whose
unheard-of achievements will perhaps have recalled him to thy
memory. I come to do battle with thee and prove the might of thy
arm, to the end that I make thee acknowledge and confess that my lady,
let her be who she may, is incomparably fairer than thy Dulcinea del
Toboso. If thou dost acknowledge this fairly and openly, thou shalt
escape death and save me the trouble of inflicting it upon thee; if
thou fightest and I vanquish thee, I demand no other satisfaction than
that, laying aside arms and abstaining from going in quest of
adventures, thou withdraw and betake thyself to thine own village
for the space of a year, and live there without putting hand to sword,
in peace and quiet and beneficial repose, the same being needful for
the increase of thy substance and the salvation of thy soul; and if
thou dost vanquish me, my head shall be at thy disposal, my arms and
horse thy spoils, and the renown of my deeds transferred and added
to thine. Consider which will be thy best course, and give me thy
answer speedily, for this day is all the time I have for the
despatch of this business."
  Don Quixote was amazed and astonished, as well at the Knight of
the White Moon's arrogance, as at his reason for delivering the
defiance, and with calm dignity he answered him, "Knight of the
White Moon, of whose achievements I have never heard until now, I will
venture to swear you have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for had
you seen her I know you would have taken care not to venture
yourself upon this issue, because the sight would have removed all
doubt from your mind that there ever has been or can be a beauty to be
compared with hers; and so, not saying you lie, but merely that you
are not correct in what you state, I accept your challenge, with the
conditions you have proposed, and at once, that the day you have fixed
may not expire; and from your conditions I except only that of the
renown of your achievements being transferred to me, for I know not of
what sort they are nor what they may amount to; I am satisfied with my
own, such as they be. Take, therefore, the side of the field you
choose, and I will do the same; and to whom God shall give it may
Saint Peter add his blessing."
  The Knight of the White Moon had been seen from the city, and it was
told the viceroy how he was in conversation with Don Quixote. The
viceroy, fancying it must be some fresh adventure got up by Don
Antonio Moreno or some other gentleman of the city, hurried out at
once to the beach accompanied by Don Antonio and several other
gentlemen, just as Don Quixote was wheeling Rocinante round in order
to take up the necessary distance. The viceroy upon this, seeing
that the pair of them were evidently preparing to come to the
charge, put himself between them, asking them what it was that led
them to engage in combat all of a sudden in this way. The Knight of
the White Moon replied that it was a question of precedence of beauty;
and briefly told him what he had said to Don Quixote, and how the
conditions of the defiance agreed upon on both sides had been
accepted. The viceroy went over to Don Antonio, and asked in a low
voice did he know who the Knight of the White Moon was, or was it some
joke they were playing on Don Quixote. Don Antonio replied that he
neither knew who he was nor whether the defiance was in joke or in
earnest. This answer left the viceroy in a state of perplexity, not
knowing whether he ought to let the combat go on or not; but unable to
persuade himself that it was anything but a joke he fell back, saying,
"If there be no other way out of it, gallant knights, except to
confess or die, and Don Quixote is inflexible, and your worship of the
White Moon still more so, in God's hand be it, and fall on."
  He of the White Moon thanked the viceroy in courteous and
well-chosen words for the permission he gave them, and so did Don
Quixote, who then, commending himself with all his heart to heaven and
to his Dulcinea, as was his custom on the eve of any combat that
awaited him, proceeded to take a little more distance, as he saw his
antagonist was doing the same; then, without blast of trumpet or other
warlike instrument to give them the signal to charge, both at the same
instant wheeled their horses; and he of the White Moon, being the
swifter, met Don Quixote after having traversed two-thirds of the
course, and there encountered him with such violence that, without
touching him with his lance (for he held it high, to all appearance
purposely), he hurled Don Quixote and Rocinante to the earth, a
perilous fall. He sprang upon him at once, and placing the lance
over his visor said to him, "You are vanquished, sir knight, nay
dead unless you admit the conditions of our defiance."
  Don Quixote, bruised and stupefied, without raising his visor said
in a weak feeble voice as if he were speaking out of a tomb, "Dulcinea
del Toboso is the fairest woman in the world, and I the most
unfortunate knight on earth; it is not fitting that this truth
should suffer by my feebleness; drive your lance home, sir knight, and
take my life, since you have taken away my honour."
  "That will I not, in sooth," said he of the White Moon; "live the
fame of the lady Dulcinea's beauty undimmed as ever; all I require
is that the great Don Quixote retire to his own home for a year, or
for so long a time as shall by me be enjoined upon him, as we agreed
before engaging in this combat."
  The viceroy, Don Antonio, and several others who were present
heard all this, and heard too how Don Quixote replied that so long
as nothing in prejudice of Dulcinea was demanded of him, he would
observe all the rest like a true and loyal knight. The engagement
given, he of the White Moon wheeled about, and making obeisance to the
viceroy with a movement of the head, rode away into the city at a half
gallop. The viceroy bade Don Antonio hasten after him, and by some
means or other find out who he was. They raised Don Quixote up and
uncovered his face, and found him pale and bathed with sweat.
Rocinante from the mere hard measure he had received lay unable to
stir for the present. Sancho, wholly dejected and woebegone, knew
not what to say or do. He fancied that all was a dream, that the whole
business was a piece of enchantment. Here was his master defeated, and
bound not to take up arms for a year. He saw the light of the glory of
his achievements obscured; the hopes of the promises lately made him
swept away like smoke before the wind; Rocinante, he feared, was
crippled for life, and his master's bones out of joint; for if he were
only shaken out of his madness it would be no small luck. In the end
they carried him into the city in a hand-chair which the viceroy
sent for, and thither the viceroy himself returned, cager to ascertain
who this Knight of the White Moon was who had left Don Quixote in such
a sad plight.
  CHAPTER LXV
  WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE
DON GREGORIO'S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS

  DON ANTONIO MORENO followed the Knight of the White Moon, and a
number of boys followed him too, nay pursued him, until they had him
fairly housed in a hostel in the heart of the city. Don Antonio, eager
to make his acquaintance, entered also; a squire came out to meet
him and remove his armour, and he shut himself into a lower room,
still attended by Don Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had
found out who he was. He of the White Moon, seeing then that the
gentleman would not leave him, said, "I know very well, senor, what
you have come for; it is to find out who I am; and as there is no
reason why I should conceal it from you, while my servant here is
taking off my armour I will tell you the true state of the case,
without leaving out anything. You must know, senor, that I am called
the bachelor Samson Carrasco. I am of the same village as Don
Quixote of La Mancha, whose craze and folly make all of us who know
him feel pity for him, and I am one of those who have felt it most;
and persuaded that his chance of recovery lay in quiet and keeping
at home and in his own house, I hit upon a device for keeping him
there. Three months ago, therefore, I went out to meet him as a
knight-errant, under the assumed name of the Knight of the Mirrors,
intending to engage him in combat and overcome him without hurting
him, making it the condition of our combat that the vanquished
should be at the disposal of the victor. What I meant to demand of him
(for I regarded him as vanquished already) was that he should return
to his own village, and not leave it for a whole year, by which time
he might he cured. But fate ordered it otherwise, for he vanquished me
and unhorsed me, and so my plan failed. He went his way, and I came
back conquered, covered with shame, and sorely bruised by my fall,
which was a particularly dangerous one. But this did not quench my
desire to meet him again and overcome him, as you have seen to-day.
And as he is so scrupulous in his observance of the laws of
knight-errantry, he will, no doubt, in order to keep his word, obey
the injunction I have laid upon him. This, senor, is how the matter
stands, and I have nothing more to tell you. I implore of you not to
betray me, or tell Don Quixote who I am; so that my honest
endeavours may be successful, and that a man of excellent wits- were
he only rid of the fooleries of chivalry- may get them back again."
  "O senor," said Don Antonio, "may God forgive you the wrong you have
done the whole world in trying to bring the most amusing madman in
it back to his senses. Do you not see, senor, that the gain by Don
Quixote's sanity can never equal the enjoyment his crazes give? But my
belief is that all the senor bachelor's pains will be of no avail to
bring a man so hopelessly cracked to his senses again; and if it
were not uncharitable, I would say may Don Quixote never be cured, for
by his recovery we lose not only his own drolleries, but his squire
Sancho Panza's too, any one of which is enough to turn melancholy
itself into merriment. However, I'll hold my peace and say nothing
to him, and we'll see whether I am right in my suspicion that Senor
Carrasco's efforts will be fruitless."
  The bachelor replied that at all events the affair promised well,
and he hoped for a happy result from it; and putting his services at
Don Antonio's commands he took his leave of him; and having had his
armour packed at once upon a mule, he rode away from the city the same
day on the horse he rode to battle, and returned to his own country
without meeting any adventure calling for record in this veracious
history.
  Don Antonio reported to the viceroy what Carrasco told him, and
the viceroy was not very well pleased to hear it, for with Don
Quixote's retirement there was an end to the amusement of all who knew
anything of his mad doings.
  Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, dejected, melancholy, moody
and out of sorts, brooding over the unhappy event of his defeat.
Sancho strove to comfort him, and among other things he said to him,
"Hold up your head, senor, and be of good cheer if you can, and give
thanks to heaven that if you have had a tumble to the ground you
have not come off with a broken rib; and, as you know that 'where they
give they take,' and that 'there are not always fletches where there
are pegs,' a fig for the doctor, for there's no need of him to cure
this ailment. Let us go home, and give over going about in search of
adventures in strange lands and places; rightly looked at, it is I
that am the greater loser, though it is your worship that has had
the worse usage. With the government I gave up all wish to be a
governor again, but I did not give up all longing to be a count; and
that will never come to pass if your worship gives up becoming a
king by renouncing the calling of chivalry; and so my hopes are
going to turn into smoke."
  "Peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "thou seest my suspension and
retirement is not to exceed a year; I shall soon return to my honoured
calling, and I shall not be at a loss for a kingdom to win and a
county to bestow on thee."
  "May God hear it and sin be deaf," said Sancho; "I have always heard
say that 'a good hope is better than a bad holding."
  As they were talking Don Antonio came in looking extremely pleased
and exclaiming, "Reward me for my good news, Senor Don Quixote! Don
Gregorio and the renegade who went for him have come ashore- ashore do
I say? They are by this time in the viceroy's house, and will be
here immediately."
  Don Quixote cheered up a little and said, "Of a truth I am almost
ready to say I should have been glad had it turned out just the
other way, for it would have obliged me to cross over to Barbary,
where by the might of my arm I should have restored to liberty, not
only Don Gregorio, but all the Christian captives there are in
Barbary. But what am I saying, miserable being that I am? Am I not
he that has been conquered? Am I not he that has been overthrown? Am I
not he who must not take up arms for a year? Then what am I making
professions for; what am I bragging about; when it is fitter for me to
handle the distaff than the sword?"
  "No more of that, senor," said Sancho; "'let the hen live, even
though it be with her pip; 'today for thee and to-morrow for me;' in
these affairs of encounters and whacks one must not mind them, for
he that falls to-day may get up to-morrow; unless indeed he chooses to
lie in bed, I mean gives way to weakness and does not pluck up fresh
spirit for fresh battles; let your worship get up now to receive Don
Gregorio; for the household seems to be in a bustle, and no doubt he
has come by this time;" and so it proved, for as soon as Don
Gregorio and the renegade had given the viceroy an account of the
voyage out and home, Don Gregorio, eager to see Ana Felix, came with
the renegade to Don Antonio's house. When they carried him away from
Algiers he was in woman's dress; on board the vessel, however, he
exchanged it for that of a captive who escaped with him; but in
whatever dress he might be he looked like one to be loved and served
and esteemed, for he was surpassingly well-favoured, and to judge by
appearances some seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his
daughter came out to welcome him, the father with tears, the
daughter with bashfulness. They did not embrace each other, for
where there is deep love there will never be overmuch boldness. Seen
side by side, the comeliness of Don Gregorio and the beauty of Ana
Felix were the admiration of all who were present. It was silence that
spoke for the lovers at that moment, and their eyes were the tongues
that declared their pure and happy feelings. The renegade explained
the measures and means he had adopted to rescue Don Gregorio, and
Don Gregorio at no great length, but in a few words, in which he
showed that his intelligence was in advance of his years, described
the peril and embarrassment he found himself in among the women with
whom he had sojourned. To conclude, Ricote liberally recompensed and
rewarded as well the renegade as the men who had rowed; and the
renegade effected his readmission into the body of the Church and
was reconciled with it, and from a rotten limb became by penance and
repentance a clean and sound one.
  Two days later the viceroy discussed with Don Antonio the steps they
should take to enable Ana Felix and her father to stay in Spain, for
it seemed to them there could be no objection to a daughter who was so
good a Christian and a father to all appearance so well disposed
remaining there. Don Antonio offered to arrange the matter at the
capital, whither he was compelled to go on some other business,
hinting that many a difficult affair was settled there with the help
of favour and bribes.
  "Nay," said Ricote, who was present during the conversation, "it
will not do to rely upon favour or bribes, because with the great
Don Bernardino de Velasco, Conde de Salazar, to whom his Majesty has
entrusted our expulsion, neither entreaties nor promises, bribes nor
appeals to compassion, are of any use; for though it is true he
mingles mercy with justice, still, seeing that the whole body of our
nation is tainted and corrupt, he applies to it the cautery that burns
rather than the salve that soothes; and thus, by prudence, sagacity,
care and the fear he inspires, he has borne on his mighty shoulders
the weight of this great policy and carried it into effect, all our
schemes and plots, importunities and wiles, being ineffectual to blind
his Argus eyes, ever on the watch lest one of us should remain
behind in concealment, and like a hidden root come in course of time
to sprout and bear poisonous fruit in Spain, now cleansed, and
relieved of the fear in which our vast numbers kept it. Heroic resolve
of the great Philip the Third, and unparalleled wisdom to have
entrusted it to the said Don Bernardino de Velasco!"
  "At any rate," said Don Antonio, "when I am there I will make all
possible efforts, and let heaven do as pleases it best; Don Gregorio
will come with me to relieve the anxiety which his parents must be
suffering on account of his absence; Ana Felix will remain in my house
with my wife, or in a monastery; and I know the viceroy will be glad
that the worthy Ricote should stay with him until we see what terms
I can make."
  The viceroy agreed to all that was proposed; but Don Gregorio on
learning what had passed declared he could not and would not on any
account leave Ana Felix; however, as it was his purpose to go and
see his parents and devise some way of returning for her, he fell in
with the proposed arrangement. Ana Felix remained with Don Antonio's
wife, and Ricote in the viceroy's house.
  The day for Don Antonio's departure came; and two days later that
for Don Quixote's and Sancho's, for Don Quixote's fall did not
suffer him to take the road sooner. There were tears and sighs,
swoonings and sobs, at the parting between Don Gregorio and Ana Felix.
Ricote offered Don Gregorio a thousand crowns if he would have them,
but he would not take any save five which Don Antonio lent him and
he promised to repay at the capital. So the two of them took their
departure, and Don Quixote and Sancho afterwards, as has been
already said, Don Quixote without his armour and in travelling gear,
and Sancho on foot, Dapple being loaded with the armour.
  CHAPTER LXVI
  WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT
READ TO HIM WILL HEAR

  AS HE left Barcelona, Don Quixote turned gaze upon the spot where he
had fallen. "Here Troy was," said he; "here my ill-luck, not my
cowardice, robbed me of all the glory I had won; here Fortune made
me the victim of her caprices; here the lustre of my achievements
was dimmed; here, in a word, fell my happiness never to rise again."
  "Senor," said Sancho on hearing this, "it is the part of brave
hearts to be patient in adversity just as much as to be glad in
prosperity; I judge by myself, for, if when I was a governor I was
glad, now that I am a squire and on foot I am not sad; and I have
heard say that she whom commonly they call Fortune is a drunken
whimsical jade, and, what is more, blind, and therefore neither sees
what she does, nor knows whom she casts down or whom she sets up."
  "Thou art a great philosopher, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "thou
speakest very sensibly; I know not who taught thee. But I can tell
thee there is no such thing as Fortune in the world, nor does anything
which takes place there, be it good or bad, come about by chance,
but by the special preordination of heaven; and hence the common
saying that 'each of us is the maker of his own Fortune.' I have
been that of mine; but not with the proper amount of prudence, and
my self-confidence has therefore made me pay dearly; for I ought to
have reflected that Rocinante's feeble strength could not resist the
mighty bulk of the Knight of the White Moon's horse. In a word, I
ventured it, I did my best, I was overthrown, but though I lost my
honour I did not lose nor can I lose the virtue of keeping my word.
When I was a knight-errant, daring and valiant, I supported my
achievements by hand and deed, and now that I am a humble squire I
will support my words by keeping the promise I have given. Forward
then, Sancho my friend, let us go to keep the year of the novitiate in
our own country, and in that seclusion we shall pick up fresh strength
to return to the by me never-forgotten calling of arms."
  "Senor," returned Sancho, "travelling on foot is not such a pleasant
thing that it makes me feel disposed or tempted to make long
marches. Let us leave this armour hung up on some tree, instead of
some one that has been hanged; and then with me on Dapple's back and
my feet off the ground we will arrange the stages as your worship
pleases to measure them out; but to suppose that I am going to
travel on foot, and make long ones, is to suppose nonsense."
  "Thou sayest well, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "let my armour be hung
up for a trophy, and under it or round it we will carve on the trees
what was inscribed on the trophy of Roland's armour-

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

  "That's the very thing," said Sancho; "and if it was not that we
should feel the want of Rocinante on the road, it would be as well
to leave him hung up too."
  "And yet, I had rather not have either him or the armour hung up,"
said Don Quixote, "that it may not be said, 'for good service a bad
return.'"
  "Your worship is right," said Sancho; "for, as sensible people hold,
'the fault of the ass must not be laid on the pack-saddle;' and, as in
this affair the fault is your worship's, punish yourself and don't let
your anger break out against the already battered and bloody armour,
or the meekness of Rocinante, or the tenderness of my feet, trying
to make them travel more than is reasonable."
  In converse of this sort the whole of that day went by, as did the
four succeeding ones, without anything occurring to interrupt their
journey, but on the fifth as they entered a village they found a great
number of people at the door of an inn enjoying themselves, as it
was a holiday. Upon Don Quixote's approach a peasant called out,
"One of these two gentlemen who come here, and who don't know the
parties, will tell us what we ought to do about our wager."
  "That I will, certainly," said Don Quixote, "and according to the
rights of the case, if I can manage to understand it."
  "Well, here it is, worthy sir," said the peasant; "a man of this
village who is so fat that he weighs twenty stone challenged
another, a neighbour of his, who does not weigh more than nine, to run
a race. The agreement was that they were to run a distance of a
hundred paces with equal weights; and when the challenger was asked
how the weights were to be equalised he said that the other, as he
weighed nine stone, should put eleven in iron on his back, and that in
this way the twenty stone of the thin man would equal the twenty stone
of the fat one."
  "Not at all," exclaimed Sancho at once, before Don Quixote could
answer; "it's for me, that only a few days ago left off being a
governor and a judge, as all the world knows, to settle these doubtful
questions and give an opinion in disputes of all sorts."
  "Answer in God's name, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "for I
am not fit to give crumbs to a cat, my wits are so confused and
upset."
  With this permission Sancho said to the peasants who stood clustered
round him, waiting with open mouths for the decision to come from his,
"Brothers, what the fat man requires is not in reason, nor has it a
shadow of justice in it; because, if it be true, as they say, that the
challenged may choose the weapons, the other has no right to choose
such as will prevent and keep him from winning. My decision,
therefore, is that the fat challenger prune, peel, thin, trim and
correct himself, and take eleven stone of his flesh off his body, here
or there, as he pleases, and as suits him best; and being in this
way reduced to nine stone weight, he will make himself equal and
even with nine stone of his opponent, and they will be able to run
on equal terms."
  "By all that's good," said one of the peasants as he heard
Sancho's decision, "but the gentleman has spoken like a saint, and
given judgment like a canon! But I'll be bound the fat man won't
part with an ounce of his flesh, not to say eleven stone."
  "The best plan will be for them not to run," said another, "so
that neither the thin man break down under the weight, nor the fat one
strip himself of his flesh; let half the wager be spent in wine, and
let's take these gentlemen to the tavern where there's the best, and
'over me be the cloak when it rains."
  "I thank you, sirs," said Don Quixote; "but I cannot stop for an
instant, for sad thoughts and unhappy circumstances force me to seem
discourteous and to travel apace;" and spurring Rocinante he pushed
on, leaving them wondering at what they had seen and heard, at his own
strange figure and at the shrewdness of his servant, for such they
took Sancho to be; and another of them observed, "If the servant is so
clever, what must the master be? I'll bet, if they are going to
Salamanca to study, they'll come to be alcaldes of the Court in a
trice; for it's a mere joke- only to read and read, and have
interest and good luck; and before a man knows where he is he finds
himself with a staff in his hand or a mitre on his head."
  That night master and man passed out in the fields in the open
air, and the next day as they were pursuing their journey they saw
coming towards them a man on foot with alforjas at the neck and a
javelin or spiked staff in his hand, the very cut of a foot courier;
who, as soon as he came close to Don Quixote, increased his pace and
half running came up to him, and embracing his right thigh, for he
could reach no higher, exclaimed with evident pleasure, "O Senor Don
Quixote of La Mancha, what happiness it will be to the heart of my
lord the duke when he knows your worship is coming back to his castle,
for he is still there with my lady the duchess!"
  "I do not recognise you, friend," said Don Quixote, "nor do I know
who you are, unless you tell me."
  "I am Tosilos, my lord the duke's lacquey, Senor Don Quixote,"
replied the courier; "he who refused to fight your worship about
marrying the daughter of Dona Rodriguez."
  "God bless me!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "is it possible that you
are the one whom mine enemies the enchanters changed into the
lacquey you speak of in order to rob me of the honour of that battle?"
  "Nonsense, good sir!" said the messenger; "there was no
enchantment or transformation at all; I entered the lists just as much
lacquey Tosilos as I came out of them lacquey Tosilos. I thought to
marry without fighting, for the girl had taken my fancy; but my scheme
had a very different result, for as soon as your worship had left
the castle my lord the duke had a hundred strokes of the stick given
me for having acted contrary to the orders he gave me before
engaging in the combat; and the end of the whole affair is that the
girl has become a nun, and Dona Rodriguez has gone back to Castile,
and I am now on my way to Barcelona with a packet of letters for the
viceroy which my master is sending him. If your worship would like a
drop, sound though warm, I have a gourd here full of the best, and
some scraps of Tronchon cheese that will serve as a provocative and
wakener of your thirst if so be it is asleep."
  "I take the offer," said Sancho; "no more compliments about it; pour
out, good Tosilos, in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies."
  "Thou art indeed the greatest glutton in the world, Sancho," said
Don Quixote, "and the greatest booby on earth, not to be able to see
that this courier is enchanted and this Tosilos a sham one; stop
with him and take thy fill; I will go on slowly and wait for thee to
come up with me."
  The lacquey laughed, unsheathed his gourd, unwalletted his scraps,
and taking out a small loaf of bread he and Sancho seated themselves
on the green grass, and in peace and good fellowship finished off
the contents of the alforjas down to the bottom, so resolutely that
they licked the wrapper of the letters, merely because it smelt of
cheese.
  Said Tosilos to Sancho, "Beyond a doubt, Sancho my friend, this
master of thine ought to be a madman."
  "Ought!" said Sancho; "he owes no man anything; he pays for
everything, particularly when the coin is madness. I see it plain
enough, and I tell him so plain enough; but what's the use? especially
now that it is all over with him, for here he is beaten by the
Knight of the White Moon."
  Tosilos begged him to explain what had happened him, but Sancho
replied that it would not be good manners to leave his master
waiting for him; and that some other day if they met there would be
time enough for that; and then getting up, after shaking his doublet
and brushing the crumbs out of his beard, he drove Dapple on before
him, and bidding adieu to Tosilos left him and rejoined his master,
who was waiting for him under the shade of a tree.
  CHAPTER LXVII
  OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO
A LIFE IN THE FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD
WAS RUNNING ITS COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY

  IF A multitude of reflections used to harass Don Quixote before he
had been overthrown, a great many more harassed him since his fall. He
was under the shade of a tree, as has been said, and there, like flies
on honey, thoughts came crowding upon him and stinging him. Some of
them turned upon the disenchantment of Dulcinea, others upon the
life he was about to lead in his enforced retirement. Sancho came up
and spoke in high praise of the generous disposition of the lacquey
Tosilos.
  "Is it possible, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou dost still
think that he yonder is a real lacquey? Apparently it has escaped
thy memory that thou hast seen Dulcinea turned and transformed into
a peasant wench, and the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor
Carrasco; all the work of the enchanters that persecute me. But tell
me now, didst thou ask this Tosilos, as thou callest him, what has
become of Altisidora, did she weep over my absence, or has she already
consigned to oblivion the love thoughts that used to afflict her
when I was present?"
  "The thoughts that I had," said Sancho, "were not such as to leave
time for asking fool's questions. Body o' me, senor! is your worship
in a condition now to inquire into other people's thoughts, above
all love thoughts?"
  "Look ye, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there is a great difference
between what is done out of love and what is done out of gratitude.
A knight may very possibly he proof against love; but it is
impossible, strictly speaking, for him to be ungrateful. Altisidora,
to all appearance, loved me truly; she gave me the three kerchiefs
thou knowest of; she wept at my departure, she cursed me, she abused
me, casting shame to the winds she bewailed herself in public; all
signs that she adored me; for the wrath of lovers always ends in
curses. I had no hopes to give her, nor treasures to offer her, for
mine are given to Dulcinea, and the treasures of knights-errant are
like those of the fairies,' illusory and deceptive; all I can give her
is the place in my memory I keep for her, without prejudice,
however, to that which I hold devoted to Dulcinea, whom thou art
wronging by thy remissness in whipping thyself and scourging that
flesh- would that I saw it eaten by wolves- which would rather keep
itself for the worms than for the relief of that poor lady."
  "Senor," replied Sancho, "if the truth is to be told, I cannot
persuade myself that the whipping of my backside has anything to do
with the disenchantment of the enchanted; it is like saying, 'If
your head aches rub ointment on your knees;' at any rate I'll make
bold to swear that in all the histories dealing with knight-errantry
that your worship has read you have never come across anybody
disenchanted by whipping; but whether or no I'll whip myself when I
have a fancy for it, and the opportunity serves for scourging myself
comfortably."
  "God grant it," said Don Quixote; "and heaven give thee grace to
take it to heart and own the obligation thou art under to help my
lady, who is thine also, inasmuch as thou art mine."
  As they pursued their journey talking in this way they came to the
very same spot where they had been trampled on by the bulls. Don
Quixote recognised it, and said he to Sancho, "This is the meadow
where we came upon those gay shepherdesses and gallant shepherds who
were trying to revive and imitate the pastoral Arcadia there, an
idea as novel as it was happy, in emulation whereof, if so he thou
dost approve of it, Sancho, I would have ourselves turn shepherds,
at any rate for the time I have to live in retirement. I will buy some
ewes and everything else requisite for the pastoral calling; and, I
under the name of the shepherd Quixotize and thou as the shepherd
Panzino, we will roam the woods and groves and meadows singing songs
here, lamenting in elegies there, drinking of the crystal waters of
the springs or limpid brooks or flowing rivers. The oaks will yield us
their sweet fruit with bountiful hand, the trunks of the hard cork
trees a seat, the willows shade, the roses perfume, the widespread
meadows carpets tinted with a thousand dyes; the clear pure air will
give us breath, the moon and stars lighten the darkness of the night
for us, song shall be our delight, lamenting our joy, Apollo will
supply us with verses, and love with conceits whereby we shall make
ourselves famed for ever, not only in this but in ages to come."
  "Egad," said Sancho, "but that sort of life squares, nay corners,
with my notions; and what is more the bachelor Samson Carrasco and
Master Nicholas the barber won't have well seen it before they'll want
to follow it and turn shepherds along with us; and God grant it may
not come into the curate's head to join the sheepfold too, he's so
jovial and fond of enjoying himself."
  "Thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, if he enters the pastoral fraternity, as
no doubt he will, may call himself the shepherd Samsonino, or
perhaps the shepherd Carrascon; Nicholas the barber may call himself
Niculoso, as old Boscan formerly was called Nemoroso; as for the
curate I don't know what name we can fit to him unless it be something
derived from his title, and we call him the shepherd Curiambro. For
the shepherdesses whose lovers we shall be, we can pick names as we
would pears; and as my lady's name does just as well for a
shepherdess's as for a princess's, I need not trouble myself to look
for one that will suit her better; to thine, Sancho, thou canst give
what name thou wilt."
  "I don't mean to give her any but Teresona," said Sancho, "which
will go well with her stoutness and with her own right name, as she is
called Teresa; and then when I sing her praises in my verses I'll show
how chaste my passion is, for I'm not going to look 'for better
bread than ever came from wheat' in other men's houses. It won't do
for the curate to have a shepherdess, for the sake of good example;
and if the bachelor chooses to have one, that is his look-out."
  "God bless me, Sancho my friend!" said Don Quixote, "what a life
we shall lead! What hautboys and Zamora bagpipes we shall hear, what
tabors, timbrels, and rebecks! And then if among all these different
sorts of music that of the albogues is heard, almost all the
pastoral instruments will be there."
  "What are albogues?" asked Sancho, "for I never in my life heard
tell of them or saw them."
  "Albogues," said Don Quixote, "are brass plates like candlesticks
that struck against one another on the hollow side make a noise which,
if not very pleasing or harmonious, is not disagreeable and accords
very well with the rude notes of the bagpipe and tabor. The word
albogue is Morisco, as are all those in our Spanish tongue that
begin with al; for example, almohaza, almorzar, alhombra, alguacil,
alhucema, almacen, alcancia, and others of the same sort, of which
there are not many more; our language has only three that are
Morisco and end in i, which are borcegui, zaquizami, and maravedi.
Alheli and alfaqui are seen to be Arabic, as well by the al at the
beginning as by the they end with. I mention this incidentally, the
chance allusion to albogues having reminded me of it; and it will be
of great assistance to us in the perfect practice of this calling that
I am something of a poet, as thou knowest, and that besides the
bachelor Samson Carrasco is an accomplished one. Of the curate I say
nothing; but I will wager he has some spice of the poet in him, and no
doubt Master Nicholas too, for all barbers, or most of them, are
guitar players and stringers of verses. I will bewail my separation;
thou shalt glorify thyself as a constant lover; the shepherd Carrascon
will figure as a rejected one, and the curate Curiambro as whatever
may please him best; and so all will go as gaily as heart could wish."
  To this Sancho made answer, "I am so unlucky, senor, that I'm afraid
the day will never come when I'll see myself at such a calling. O what
neat spoons I'll make when I'm a shepherd! What messes, creams,
garlands, pastoral odds and ends! And if they don't get me a name
for wisdom, they'll not fail to get me one for ingenuity. My
daughter Sanchica will bring us our dinner to the pasture. But stay-
she's good-looking, and shepherds there are with more mischief than
simplicity in them; I would not have her 'come for wool and go back
shorn;' love-making and lawless desires are just as common in the
fields as in the cities, and in shepherds' shanties as in royal
palaces; 'do away with the cause, you do away with the sin;' 'if
eyes don't see hearts don't break' and 'better a clear escape than
good men's prayers.'"
  "A truce to thy proverbs, Sancho," exclaimed Don Quixote; "any one
of those thou hast uttered would suffice to explain thy meaning;
many a time have I recommended thee not to be so lavish with
proverbs and to exercise some moderation in delivering them; but it
seems to me it is only 'preaching in the desert;' 'my mother beats
me and I go on with my tricks."
  "It seems to me," said Sancho, "that your worship is like the common
saying, 'Said the frying-pan to the kettle, Get away, blackbreech.'
You chide me for uttering proverbs, and you string them in couples
yourself."
  "Observe, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I bring in proverbs to
the purpose, and when I quote them they fit like a ring to the finger;
thou bringest them in by the head and shoulders, in such a way that
thou dost drag them in, rather than introduce them; if I am not
mistaken, I have told thee already that proverbs are short maxims
drawn from the experience and observation of our wise men of old;
but the proverb that is not to the purpose is a piece of nonsense
and not a maxim. But enough of this; as nightfall is drawing on let us
retire some little distance from the high road to pass the night; what
is in store for us to-morrow God knoweth."
  They turned aside, and supped late and poorly, very much against
Sancho's will, who turned over in his mind the hardships attendant
upon knight-errantry in woods and forests, even though at times plenty
presented itself in castles and houses, as at Don Diego de
Miranda's, at the wedding of Camacho the Rich, and at Don Antonio
Moreno's; he reflected, however, that it could not be always day,
nor always night; and so that night he passed in sleeping, and his
master in waking.
  CHAPTER LXVIII
  OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE

  THE night was somewhat dark, for though there was a moon in the
sky it was not in a quarter where she could be seen; for sometimes the
lady Diana goes on a stroll to the antipodes, and leaves the mountains
all black and the valleys in darkness. Don Quixote obeyed nature so
far as to sleep his first sleep, but did not give way to the second,
very different from Sancho, who never had any second, because with him
sleep lasted from night till morning, wherein he showed what a sound
constitution and few cares he had. Don Quixote's cares kept him
restless, so much so that he awoke Sancho and said to him, "I am
amazed, Sancho, at the unconcern of thy temperament. I believe thou
art made of marble or hard brass, incapable of any emotion or
feeling whatever. I lie awake while thou sleepest, I weep while thou
singest, I am faint with fasting while thou art sluggish and torpid
from pure repletion. It is the duty of good servants to share the
sufferings and feel the sorrows of their masters, if it be only for
the sake of appearances. See the calmness of the night, the solitude
of the spot, inviting us to break our slumbers by a vigil of some
sort. Rise as thou livest, and retire a little distance, and with a
good heart and cheerful courage give thyself three or four hundred
lashes on account of Dulcinea's disenchantment score; and this I
entreat of thee, making it a request, for I have no desire to come
to grips with thee a second time, as I know thou hast a heavy hand. As
soon as thou hast laid them on we will pass the rest of the night, I
singing my separation, thou thy constancy, making a beginning at
once with the pastoral life we are to follow at our village."
  "Senor," replied Sancho, "I'm no monk to get up out of the middle of
my sleep and scourge myself, nor does it seem to me that one can
pass from one extreme of the pain of whipping to the other of music.
Will your worship let me sleep, and not worry me about whipping
myself? or you'll make me swear never to touch a hair of my doublet,
not to say my flesh."
  "O hard heart!" said Don Quixote, "O pitiless squire! O bread
ill-bestowed and favours ill-acknowledged, both those I have done thee
and those I mean to do thee! Through me hast thou seen thyself a
governor, and through me thou seest thyself in immediate expectation
of being a count, or obtaining some other equivalent title, for I-
post tenebras spero lucem."
  "I don't know what that is," said Sancho; "all I know is that so
long as I am asleep I have neither fear nor hope, trouble nor glory;
and good luck betide him that invented sleep, the cloak that covers
over all a man's thoughts, the food that removes hunger, the drink
that drives away thirst, the fire that warms the cold, the cold that
tempers the heat, and, to wind up with, the universal coin wherewith
everything is bought, the weight and balance that makes the shepherd
equal with the king and the fool with the wise man. Sleep, I have
heard say, has only one fault, that it is like death; for between a
sleeping man and a dead man there is very little difference."
  "Never have I heard thee speak so elegantly as now, Sancho," said
Don Quixote; "and here I begin to see the truth of the proverb thou
dost sometimes quote, 'Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou
art fed.'"
  "Ha, by my life, master mine," said Sancho, "it's not I that am
stringing proverbs now, for they drop in pairs from your worship's
mouth faster than from mine; only there is this difference between
mine and yours, that yours are well-timed and mine are untimely; but
anyhow, they are all proverbs."
  At this point they became aware of a harsh indistinct noise that
seemed to spread through all the valleys around. Don Quixote stood
up and laid his hand upon his sword, and Sancho ensconced himself
under Dapple and put the bundle of armour on one side of him and the
ass's pack-saddle on the other, in fear and trembling as great as
Don Quixote's perturbation. Each instant the noise increased and
came nearer to the two terrified men, or at least to one, for as to
the other, his courage is known to all. The fact of the matter was
that some men were taking above six hundred pigs to sell at a fair,
and were on their way with them at that hour, and so great was the
noise they made and their grunting and blowing, that they deafened the
ears of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, and they could not make out what
it was. The wide-spread grunting drove came on in a surging mass,
and without showing any respect for Don Quixote's dignity or Sancho's,
passed right over the pair of them, demolishing Sancho's
entrenchments, and not only upsetting Don Quixote but sweeping
Rocinante off his feet into the bargain; and what with the trampling
and the grunting, and the pace at which the unclean beasts went,
pack-saddle, armour, Dapple and Rocinante were left scattered on the
ground and Sancho and Don Quixote at their wits' end.
  Sancho got up as well as he could and begged his master to give
him his sword, saying he wanted to kill half a dozen of those dirty
unmannerly pigs, for he had by this time found out that that was
what they were.
  "Let them be, my friend," said Don Quixote; "this insult is the
penalty of my sin; and it is the righteous chastisement of heaven that
jackals should devour a vanquished knight, and wasps sting him and
pigs trample him under foot."
  "I suppose it is the chastisement of heaven, too," said Sancho,
"that flies should prick the squires of vanquished knights, and lice
eat them, and hunger assail them. If we squires were the sons of the
knights we serve, or their very near relations, it would be no
wonder if the penalty of their misdeeds overtook us, even to the
fourth generation. But what have the Panzas to do with the Quixotes?
Well, well, let's lie down again and sleep out what little of the
night there's left, and God will send us dawn and we shall be all
right."
  "Sleep thou, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for thou wast born to
sleep as I was born to watch; and during the time it now wants of dawn
I will give a loose rein to my thoughts, and seek a vent for them in a
little madrigal which, unknown to thee, I composed in my head last
night."
  "I should think," said Sancho, "that the thoughts that allow one
to make verses cannot be of great consequence; let your worship string
verses as much as you like and I'll sleep as much as I can;" and
forthwith, taking the space of ground he required, he muffled
himself up and fell into a sound sleep, undisturbed by bond, debt,
or trouble of any sort. Don Quixote, propped up against the trunk of a
beech or a cork tree- for Cide Hamete does not specify what kind of
tree it was- sang in this strain to the accompaniment of his own
sighs:

         When in my mind
       I muse, O Love, upon thy cruelty,
         To death I flee,
       In hope therein the end of all to find.

         But drawing near
       That welcome haven in my sea of woe,
         Such joy I know,
       That life revives, and still I linger here.

         Thus life doth slay,
       And death again to life restoreth me;
         Strange destiny,
       That deals with life and death as with a play!

  He accompanied each verse with many sighs and not a few tears,
just like one whose heart was pierced with grief at his defeat and his
separation from Dulcinea.
  And now daylight came, and the sun smote Sancho on the eyes with his
beams. He awoke, roused himself up, shook himself and stretched his
lazy limbs, and seeing the havoc the pigs had made with his stores
he cursed the drove, and more besides. Then the pair resumed their
journey, and as evening closed in they saw coming towards them some
ten men on horseback and four or five on foot. Don Quixote's heart
beat quick and Sancho's quailed with fear, for the persons approaching
them carried lances and bucklers, and were in very warlike guise.
Don Quixote turned to Sancho and said, "If I could make use of my
weapons, and my promise had not tied my hands, I would count this host
that comes against us but cakes and fancy bread; but perhaps it may
prove something different from what we apprehend." The men on
horseback now came up, and raising their lances surrounded Don Quixote
in silence, and pointed them at his back and breast, menacing him with
death. One of those on foot, putting his finger to his lips as a
sign to him to be silent, seized Rocinante's bridle and drew him out
of the road, and the others driving Sancho and Dapple before them, and
all maintaining a strange silence, followed in the steps of the one
who led Don Quixote. The latter two or three times attempted to ask
where they were taking him to and what they wanted, but the instant he
began to open his lips they threatened to close them with the points
of their lances; and Sancho fared the same way, for the moment he
seemed about to speak one of those on foot punched him with a goad,
and Dapple likewise, as if he too wanted to talk. Night set in, they
quickened their pace, and the fears of the two prisoners grew greater,
especially as they heard themselves assailed with- "Get on, ye
Troglodytes;" "Silence, ye barbarians;" "March, ye cannibals;" "No
murmuring, ye Scythians;" "Don't open your eyes, ye murderous
Polyphemes, ye blood-thirsty lions," and suchlike names with which
their captors harassed the ears of the wretched master and man. Sancho
went along saying to himself, "We, tortolites, barbers, animals! I
don't like those names at all; 'it's in a bad wind our corn is being
winnowed;' 'misfortune comes upon us all at once like sticks on a
dog,' and God grant it may be no worse than them that this unlucky
adventure has in store for us."
  Don Quixote rode completely dazed, unable with the aid of all his
wits to make out what could be the meaning of these abusive names they
called them, and the only conclusion he could arrive at was that there
was no good to be hoped for and much evil to be feared. And now, about
an hour after midnight, they reached a castle which Don Quixote saw at
once was the duke's, where they had been but a short time before. "God
bless me!" said he, as he recognised the mansion, "what does this
mean? It is all courtesy and politeness in this house; but with the
vanquished good turns into evil, and evil into worse."
  They entered the chief court of the castle and found it prepared and
fitted up in a style that added to their amazement and doubled their
fears, as will be seen in the following chapter.
  CHAPTER LXIX
  OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON
QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

  THE horsemen dismounted, and, together with the men on foot, without
a moment's delay taking up Sancho and Don Quixote bodily, they carried
them into the court, all round which near a hundred torches fixed in
sockets were burning, besides above five hundred lamps in the
corridors, so that in spite of the night, which was somewhat dark, the
want of daylight could not be perceived. In the middle of the court
was a catafalque, raised about two yards above the ground and
covered completely by an immense canopy of black velvet, and on the
steps all round it white wax tapers burned in more than a hundred
silver candlesticks. Upon the catafalque was seen the dead body of a
damsel so lovely that by her beauty she made death itself look
beautiful. She lay with her head resting upon a cushion of brocade and
crowned with a garland of sweet-smelling flowers of divers sorts,
her hands crossed upon her bosom, and between them a branch of
yellow palm of victory. On one side of the court was erected a
stage, where upon two chairs were seated two persons who from having
crowns on their heads and sceptres in their hands appeared to be kings
of some sort, whether real or mock ones. By the side of this stage,
which was reached by steps, were two other chairs on which the men
carrying the prisoners seated Don Quixote and Sancho, all in
silence, and by signs giving them to understand that they too were
to he silent; which, however, they would have been without any
signs, for their amazement at all they saw held them tongue-tied.
And now two persons of distinction, who were at once recognised by Don
Quixote as his hosts the duke and duchess, ascended the stage attended
by a numerous suite, and seated themselves on two gorgeous chairs
close to the two kings, as they seemed to be. Who would not have
been amazed at this? Nor was this all, for Don Quixote had perceived
that the dead body on the catafalque was that of the fair
Altisidora. As the duke and duchess mounted the stage Don Quixote
and Sancho rose and made them a profound obeisance, which they
returned by bowing their heads slightly. At this moment an official
crossed over, and approaching Sancho threw over him a robe of black
buckram painted all over with flames of fire, and taking off his cap
put upon his head a mitre such as those undergoing the sentence of the
Holy Office wear; and whispered in his ear that he must not open his
lips, or they would put a gag upon him, or take his life. Sancho
surveyed himself from head to foot and saw himself all ablaze with
flames; but as they did not burn him, he did not care two farthings
for them. He took off the mitre and seeing painted with devils he
put it on again, saying to himself, "Well, so far those don't burn
me nor do these carry me off." Don Quixote surveyed him too, and
though fear had got the better of his faculties, he could not help
smiling to see the figure Sancho presented. And now from underneath
the catafalque, so it seemed, there rose a low sweet sound of
flutes, which, coming unbroken by human voice (for there silence
itself kept silence), had a soft and languishing effect. Then,
beside the pillow of what seemed to be the dead body, suddenly
appeared a fair youth in a Roman habit, who, to the accompaniment of a
harp which he himself played, sang in a sweet and clear voice these
two stanzas:

     While fair Altisidora, who the sport
       Of cold Don Quixote's cruelty hath been,
     Returns to life, and in this magic court
       The dames in sables come to grace the scene,
     And while her matrons all in seemly sort
       My lady robes in baize and bombazine,
     Her beauty and her sorrows will I sing
     With defter quill than touched the Thracian string.

     But not in life alone, methinks, to me
       Belongs the office; Lady, when my tongue
     Is cold in death, believe me, unto thee
       My voice shall raise its tributary song.
     My soul, from this strait prison-house set free,
       As o'er the Stygian lake it floats along,
     Thy praises singing still shall hold its way,
     And make the waters of oblivion stay.

  At this point one of the two that looked like kings exclaimed,
"Enough, enough, divine singer! It would be an endless task to put
before us now the death and the charms of the peerless Altisidora, not
dead as the ignorant world imagines, but living in the voice of fame
and in the penance which Sancho Panza, here present, has to undergo to
restore her to the long-lost light. Do thou, therefore, O
Rhadamanthus, who sittest in judgment with me in the murky caverns
of Dis, as thou knowest all that the inscrutable fates have decreed
touching the resuscitation of this damsel, announce and declare it
at once, that the happiness we look forward to from her restoration be
no longer deferred."
  No sooner had Minos the fellow judge of Rhadamanthus said this, than
Rhadamanthus rising up said:
  "Ho, officials of this house, high and low, great and small, make
haste hither one and all, and print on Sancho's face four-and-twenty
smacks, and give him twelve pinches and six pin thrusts in the back
and arms; for upon this ceremony depends the restoration of
Altisidora."
  On hearing this Sancho broke silence and cried out, "By all that's
good, I'll as soon let my face be smacked or handled as turn Moor.
Body o' me! What has handling my face got to do with the
resurrection of this damsel? 'The old woman took kindly to the
blits; they enchant Dulcinea, and whip me in order to disenchant
her; Altisidora dies of ailments God was pleased to send her, and to
bring her to life again they must give me four-and-twenty smacks,
and prick holes in my body with pins, and raise weals on my arms
with pinches! Try those jokes on a brother-in-law; 'I'm an old dog,
and "tus, tus" is no use with me.'"
  "Thou shalt die," said Rhadamanthus in a loud voice; "relent, thou
tiger; humble thyself, proud Nimrod; suffer and he silent, for no
impossibilities are asked of thee; it is not for thee to inquire
into the difficulties in this matter; smacked thou must be, pricked
thou shalt see thyself, and with pinches thou must be made to howl.
Ho, I say, officials, obey my orders; or by the word of an honest man,
ye shall see what ye were born for."
  At this some six duennas, advancing across the court, made their
appearance in procession, one after the other, four of them with
spectacles, and all with their right hands uplifted, showing four
fingers of wrist to make their hands look longer, as is the fashion
now-a-days. No sooner had Sancho caught sight of them than,
bellowing like a bull, he exclaimed, "I might let myself be handled by
all the world; but allow duennas to touch me- not a bit of it! Scratch
my face, as my master was served in this very castle; run me through
the body with burnished daggers; pinch my arms with red-hot pincers;
I'll bear all in patience to serve these gentlefolk; but I won't let
duennas touch me, though the devil should carry me off!"
  Here Don Quixote, too, broke silence, saying to Sancho, "Have
patience, my son, and gratify these noble persons, and give all thanks
to heaven that it has infused such virtue into thy person, that by its
sufferings thou canst disenchant the enchanted and restore to life the
dead."
  The duennas were now close to Sancho, and he, having become more
tractable and reasonable, settling himself well in his chair presented
his face and beard to the first, who delivered him a smack very
stoutly laid on, and then made him a low curtsey.
  "Less politeness and less paint, senora duenna," said Sancho; "by
God your hands smell of vinegar-wash."
  In fine, all the duennas smacked him and several others of the
household pinched him; but what he could not stand was being pricked
by the pins; and so, apparently out of patience, he started up out
of his chair, and seizing a lighted torch that stood near him fell
upon the duennas and the whole set of his tormentors, exclaiming,
"Begone, ye ministers of hell; I'm not made of brass not to feel
such out-of-the-way tortures."
  At this instant Altisidora, who probably was tired of having been so
long lying on her back, turned on her side; seeing which the
bystanders cried out almost with one voice, "Altisidora is alive!
Altisidora lives!"
  Rhadamanthus bade Sancho put away his wrath, as the object they
had in view was now attained. When Don Quixote saw Altisidora move, he
went on his knees to Sancho saying to him, "Now is the time, son of my
bowels, not to call thee my squire, for thee to give thyself some of
those lashes thou art bound to lay on for the disenchantment of
Dulcinea. Now, I say, is the time when the virtue that is in thee is
ripe, and endowed with efficacy to work the good that is looked for
from thee."
  To which Sancho made answer, "That's trick upon trick, I think,
and not honey upon pancakes; a nice thing it would be for a whipping
to come now, on the top of pinches, smacks, and pin-proddings! You had
better take a big stone and tie it round my neck, and pitch me into
a well; I should not mind it much, if I'm to be always made the cow of
the wedding for the cure of other people's ailments. Leave me alone;
or else by God I'll fling the whole thing to the dogs, let come what
may."
  Altisidora had by this time sat up on the catafalque, and as she did
so the clarions sounded, accompanied by the flutes, and the voices
of all present exclaiming, "Long life to Altisidora! long life to
Altisidora!" The duke and duchess and the kings Minos and Rhadamanthus
stood up, and all, together with Don Quixote and Sancho, advanced to
receive her and take her down from the catafalque; and she, making
as though she were recovering from a swoon, bowed her head to the duke
and duchess and to the kings, and looking sideways at Don Quixote,
said to him, "God forgive thee, insensible knight, for through thy
cruelty I have been, to me it seems, more than a thousand years in the
other world; and to thee, the most compassionate upon earth, I
render thanks for the life I am now in possession of. From this day
forth, friend Sancho, count as thine six smocks of mine which I bestow
upon thee, to make as many shirts for thyself, and if they are not all
quite whole, at any rate they are all clean."
  Sancho kissed her hands in gratitude, kneeling, and with the mitre
in his hand. The duke bade them take it from him, and give him back
his cap and doublet and remove the flaming robe. Sancho begged the
duke to let them leave him the robe and mitre; as he wanted to take
them home for a token and memento of that unexampled adventure. The
duchess said they must leave them with him; for he knew already what a
great friend of his she was. The duke then gave orders that the
court should be cleared, and that all should retire to their chambers,
and that Don Quixote and Sancho should be conducted to their old
quarters.
  CHAPTER LXX
  WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR
THE CLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY

  SANCHO slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with Don
Quixote, a thing he would have gladly excused if he could for he
knew very well that with questions and answers his master would not
let him sleep, and he was in no humour for talking much, as he still
felt the pain of his late martyrdom, which interfered with his freedom
of speech; and it would have been more to his taste to sleep in a
hovel alone, than in that luxurious chamber in company. And so well
founded did his apprehension prove, and so correct was his
anticipation, that scarcely had his master got into bed when he
said, "What dost thou think of tonight's adventure, Sancho? Great
and mighty is the power of cold-hearted scorn, for thou with thine own
eyes hast seen Altisidora slain, not by arrows, nor by the sword,
nor by any warlike weapon, nor by deadly poisons, but by the thought
of the sternness and scorn with which I have always treated her."
  "She might have died and welcome," said Sancho, "when she pleased
and how she pleased; and she might have left me alone, for I never
made her fall in love or scorned her. I don't know nor can I imagine
how the recovery of Altisidora, a damsel more fanciful than wise,
can have, as I have said before, anything to do with the sufferings of
Sancho Panza. Now I begin to see plainly and clearly that there are
enchanters and enchanted people in the world; and may God deliver me
from them, since I can't deliver myself; and so I beg of your
worship to let me sleep and not ask me any more questions, unless
you want me to throw myself out of the window."
  "Sleep, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "if the pinprodding and
pinches thou hast received and the smacks administered to thee will
let thee."
  "No pain came up to the insult of the smacks," said Sancho, "for the
simple reason that it was duennas, confound them, that gave them to
me; but once more I entreat your worship to let me sleep, for sleep is
relief from misery to those who are miserable when awake."
  "Be it so, and God be with thee," said Don Quixote.
  They fell asleep, both of them, and Cide Hamete, the author of
this great history, took this opportunity to record and relate what it
was that induced the duke and duchess to get up the elaborate plot
that has been described. The bachelor Samson Carrasco, he says, not
forgetting how he as the Knight of the Mirrors had been vanquished and
overthrown by Don Quixote, which defeat and overthrow upset all his
plans, resolved to try his hand again, hoping for better luck than
he had before; and so, having learned where Don Quixote was from the
page who brought the letter and present to Sancho's wife, Teresa
Panza, he got himself new armour and another horse, and put a white
moon upon his shield, and to carry his arms he had a mule led by a
peasant, not by Tom Cecial his former squire for fear he should be
recognised by Sancho or Don Quixote. He came to the duke's castle, and
the duke informed him of the road and route Don Quixote had taken with
the intention of being present at the jousts at Saragossa. He told
him, too, of the jokes he had practised upon him, and of the device
for the disenchantment of Dulcinea at the expense of Sancho's
backside; and finally he gave him an account of the trick Sancho had
played upon his master, making him believe that Dulcinea was enchanted
and turned into a country wench; and of how the duchess, his wife, had
persuaded Sancho that it was he himself who was deceived, inasmuch
as Dulcinea was really enchanted; at which the bachelor laughed not
a little, and marvelled as well at the sharpness and simplicity of
Sancho as at the length to which Don Quixote's madness went. The
duke begged of him if he found him (whether he overcame him or not) to
return that way and let him know the result. This the bachelor did; he
set out in quest of Don Quixote, and not finding him at Saragossa,
he went on, and how he fared has been already told. He returned to the
duke's castle and told him all, what the conditions of the combat
were, and how Don Quixote was now, like a loyal knight-errant,
returning to keep his promise of retiring to his village for a year,
by which time, said the bachelor, he might perhaps be cured of his
madness; for that was the object that had led him to adopt these
disguises, as it was a sad thing for a gentleman of such good parts as
Don Quixote to be a madman. And so he took his leave of the duke,
and went home to his village to wait there for Don Quixote, who was
coming after him. Thereupon the duke seized the opportunity of
practising this mystification upon him; so much did he enjoy
everything connected with Sancho and Don Quixote. He had the roads
about the castle far and near, everywhere he thought Don Quixote was
likely to pass on his return, occupied by large numbers of his
servants on foot and on horseback, who were to bring him to the
castle, by fair means or foul, if they met him. They did meet him, and
sent word to the duke, who, having already settled what was to be
done, as soon as he heard of his arrival, ordered the torches and
lamps in the court to be lit and Altisidora to be placed on the
catafalque with all the pomp and ceremony that has been described, the
whole affair being so well arranged and acted that it differed but
little from reality. And Cide Hamete says, moreover, that for his part
he considers the concocters of the joke as crazy as the victims of it,
and that the duke and duchess were not two fingers' breadth removed
from being something like fools themselves when they took such pains
to make game of a pair of fools.
  As for the latter, one was sleeping soundly and the other lying
awake occupied with his desultory thoughts, when daylight came to them
bringing with it the desire to rise; for the lazy down was never a
delight to Don Quixote, victor or vanquished. Altisidora, come back
from death to life as Don Quixote fancied, following up the freak of
her lord and lady, entered the chamber, crowned with the garland she
had worn on the catafalque and in a robe of white taffeta
embroidered with gold flowers, her hair flowing loose over her
shoulders, and leaning upon a staff of fine black ebony. Don
Quixote, disconcerted and in confusion at her appearance, huddled
himself up and well-nigh covered himself altogether with the sheets
and counterpane of the bed, tongue-tied, and unable to offer her any
civility. Altisidora seated herself on a chair at the head of the bed,
and, after a deep sigh, said to him in a feeble, soft voice, "When
women of rank and modest maidens trample honour under foot, and give a
loose to the tongue that breaks through every impediment, publishing
abroad the inmost secrets of their hearts, they are reduced to sore
extremities. Such a one am I, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, crushed,
conquered, love-smitten, but yet patient under suffering and virtuous,
and so much so that my heart broke with grief and I lost my life.
For the last two days I have been dead, slain by the thought of the
cruelty with which thou hast treated me, obdurate knight,

       O harder thou than marble to my plaint;

or at least believed to be dead by all who saw me; and had it not been
that Love, taking pity on me, let my recovery rest upon the sufferings
of this good squire, there I should have remained in the other world."
  "Love might very well have let it rest upon the sufferings of my
ass, and I should have been obliged to him," said Sancho. "But tell
me, senora- and may heaven send you a tenderer lover than my master-
what did you see in the other world? What goes on in hell? For of
course that's where one who dies in despair is bound for."
  "To tell you the truth," said Altisidora, "I cannot have died
outright, for I did not go into hell; had I gone in, it is very
certain I should never have come out again, do what I might. The truth
is, I came to the gate, where some dozen or so of devils were
playing tennis, all in breeches and doublets, with falling collars
trimmed with Flemish bonelace, and ruffles of the same that served
them for wristbands, with four fingers' breadth of the arms exposed to
make their hands look longer; in their hands they held rackets of
fire; but what amazed me still more was that books, apparently full of
wind and rubbish, served them for tennis balls, a strange and
marvellous thing; this, however, did not astonish me so much as to
observe that, although with players it is usual for the winners to
be glad and the losers sorry, there in that game all were growling,
all were snarling, and all were cursing one another." "That's no
wonder," said Sancho; "for devils, whether playing or not, can never
be content, win or lose."
  "Very likely," said Altisidora; "but there is another thing that
surprises me too, I mean surprised me then, and that was that no
ball outlasted the first throw or was of any use a second time; and it
was wonderful the constant succession there was of books, new and old.
To one of them, a brand-new, well-bound one, they gave such a stroke
that they knocked the guts out of it and scattered the leaves about.
'Look what book that is,' said one devil to another, and the other
replied, 'It is the "Second Part of the History of Don Quixote of La
Mancha," not by Cide Hamete, the original author, but by an
Aragonese who by his own account is of Tordesillas.' 'Out of this with
it,' said the first, 'and into the depths of hell with it out of my
sight.' 'Is it so bad?' said the other. 'So bad is it,' said the
first, 'that if I had set myself deliberately to make a worse, I could
not have done it.' They then went on with their game, knocking other
books about; and I, having heard them mention the name of Don
Quixote whom I love and adore so, took care to retain this vision in
my memory."
  "A vision it must have been, no doubt," said Don Quixote, "for there
is no other I in the world; this history has been going about here for
some time from hand to hand, but it does not stay long in any, for
everybody gives it a taste of his foot. I am not disturbed by
hearing that I am wandering in a fantastic shape in the darkness of
the pit or in the daylight above, for I am not the one that history
treats of. If it should be good, faithful, and true, it will have ages
of life; but if it should be bad, from its birth to its burial will
not be a very long journey."
  Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against Don
Quixote, when he said to her, "I have several times told you, senora
that it grieves me you should have set your affections upon me, as
from mine they can only receive gratitude, but no return. I was born
to belong to Dulcinea del Toboso, and the fates, if there are any,
dedicated me to her; and to suppose that any other beauty can take the
place she occupies in my heart is to suppose an impossibility. This
frank declaration should suffice to make you retire within the
bounds of your modesty, for no one can bind himself to do
impossibilities."
  Hearing this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agitation,
exclaimed, "God's life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of a
date, more obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favour when
he has his mind made up, if I fall upon you I'll tear your eyes out!
Do you fancy, Don Vanquished, Don Cudgelled, that I died for your
sake? All that you have seen to-night has been make-believe; I'm not
the woman to let the black of my nail suffer for such a camel, much
less die!"
  "That I can well believe," said Sancho; "for all that about lovers
pining to death is absurd; they may talk of it, but as for doing it-
Judas may believe that!"
  While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, who had
sung the two stanzas given above came in, and making a profound
obeisance to Don Quixote said, "Will your worship, sir knight,
reckon and retain me in the number of your most faithful servants, for
I have long been a great admirer of yours, as well because of your
fame as because of your achievements?" "Will your worship tell me
who you are," replied Don Quixote, "so that my courtesy may be
answerable to your deserts?" The young man replied that he was the
musician and songster of the night before. "Of a truth," said Don
Quixote, "your worship has a most excellent voice; but what you sang
did not seem to me very much to the purpose; for what have
Garcilasso's stanzas to do with the death of this lady?"
  "Don't be surprised at that," returned the musician; "for with the
callow poets of our day the way is for every one to write as he
pleases and pilfer where he chooses, whether it be germane to the
matter or not, and now-a-days there is no piece of silliness they
can sing or write that is not set down to poetic licence."
  Don Quixote was about to reply, but was prevented by the duke and
duchess, who came in to see him, and with them there followed a long
and delightful conversation, in the course of which Sancho said so
many droll and saucy things that he left the duke and duchess
wondering not only at his simplicity but at his sharpness. Don Quixote
begged their permission to take his departure that same day,
inasmuch as for a vanquished knight like himself it was fitter he
should live in a pig-sty than in a royal palace. They gave it very
readily, and the duchess asked him if Altisidora was in his good
graces.
  He replied, "Senora, let me tell your ladyship that this damsel's
ailment comes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it is honest
and constant employment. She herself has told me that lace is worn
in hell; and as she must know how to make it, let it never be out of
her hands; for when she is occupied in shifting the bobbins to and
fro, the image or images of what she loves will not shift to and fro
in her thoughts; this is the truth, this is my opinion, and this is my
advice."
  "And mine," added Sancho; "for I never in all my life saw a
lace-maker that died for love; when damsels are at work their minds
are more set on finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves.
I speak from my own experience; for when I'm digging I never think
of my old woman; I mean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my
own eyelids." "You say well, Sancho," said the duchess, "and I will
take care that my Altisidora employs herself henceforward in
needlework of some sort; for she is extremely expert at it." "There is
no occasion to have recourse to that remedy, senora," said Altisidora;
"for the mere thought of the cruelty with which this vagabond
villain has treated me will suffice to blot him out of my memory
without any other device; with your highness's leave I will retire,
not to have before my eyes, I won't say his rueful countenance, but
his abominable, ugly looks." "That reminds me of the common saying,
that 'he that rails is ready to forgive,'" said the duke.
  Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a
handkerchief, made an obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted
the room.
  "Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel," said Sancho, "ill luck betide
thee! Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heart
as hard as oak; had it been me, i'faith 'another cock would have
crowed to thee.'"
  So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed
himself and dined with the duke and duchess, and set out the same
evening.
  CHAPTER LXXI
  OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE
WAY TO THEIR VILLAGE

  THE vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast in
one respect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from his
defeat, and his satisfaction from the thought of the virtue that lay
in Sancho, as had been proved by the resurrection of Altisidora;
though it was with difficulty he could persuade himself that the
love-smitten damsel had been really dead. Sancho went along anything
but cheerful, for it grieved him that Altisidora had not kept her
promise of giving him the smocks; and turning this over in his mind he
said to his master, "Surely, senor, I'm the most unlucky doctor in the
world; there's many a physician that, after killing the sick man he
had to cure, requires to be paid for his work, though it is only
signing a bit of a list of medicines, that the apothecary and not he
makes up, and, there, his labour is over; but with me though to cure
somebody else costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches,
pinproddings, and whippings, nobody gives me a farthing. Well, I swear
by all that's good if they put another patient into my hands,
they'll have to grease them for me before I cure him; for, as they
say, 'it's by his singing the abbot gets his dinner,' and I'm not
going to believe that heaven has bestowed upon me the virtue I have,
that I should be dealing it out to others all for nothing."
  "Thou art right, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "and
Altisidora has behaved very badly in not giving thee the smocks she
promised; and although that virtue of thine is gratis data- as it
has cost thee no study whatever, any more than such study as thy
personal sufferings may be- I can say for myself that if thou
wouldst have payment for the lashes on account of the disenchant of
Dulcinea, I would have given it to thee freely ere this. I am not
sure, however, whether payment will comport with the cure, and I would
not have the reward interfere with the medicine. I think there will be
nothing lost by trying it; consider how much thou wouldst have,
Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay thyself down with thine
own hand, as thou hast money of mine."
  At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a palm's
breadth wide, and in his heart very readily acquiesced in whipping
himself, and said he to his master, "Very well then, senor, I'll
hold myself in readiness to gratify your worship's wishes if I'm to
profit by it; for the love of my wife and children forces me to seem
grasping. Let your worship say how much you will pay me for each
lash I give myself."
  "If Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I were to requite thee as the
importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice,
the mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee. See what
thou hast of mine, and put a price on each lash."
  "Of them," said Sancho, "there are three thousand three hundred
and odd; of these I have given myself five, the rest remain; let the
five go for the odd ones, and let us take the three thousand three
hundred, which at a quarter real apiece (for I will not take less
though the whole world should bid me) make three thousand three
hundred quarter reals; the three thousand are one thousand five
hundred half reals, which make seven hundred and fifty reals; and
the three hundred make a hundred and fifty half reals, which come to
seventy-five reals, which added to the seven hundred and fifty make
eight hundred and twenty-five reals in all. These I will stop out of
what I have belonging to your worship, and I'll return home rich and
content, though well whipped, for 'there's no taking trout'- but I say
no more."
  "O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "how we shall
be bound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the days of our lives that
heaven may grant us! If she returns to her lost shape (and it cannot
be but that she will) her misfortune will have been good fortune,
and my defeat a most happy triumph. But look here, Sancho; when wilt
thou begin the scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of it, I
will give thee a hundred reals over and above."
  "When?" said Sancho; "this night without fail. Let your worship
order it so that we pass it out of doors and in the open air, and I'll
scarify myself."
  Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the
world, came at last, though it seemed to him that the wheels of
Apollo's car had broken down, and that the day was drawing itself
out longer than usual, just as is the case with lovers, who never make
the reckoning of their desires agree with time. They made their way at
length in among some pleasant trees that stood a little distance
from the road, and there vacating Rocinante's saddle and Dapple's
pack-saddle, they stretched themselves on the green grass and made
their supper off Sancho's stores, and he making a powerful and
flexible whip out of Dapple's halter and headstall retreated about
twenty paces from his master among some beech trees. Don Quixote
seeing him march off with such resolution and spirit, said to him,
"Take care, my friend, not to cut thyself to pieces; allow the
lashes to wait for one another, and do not be in so great a hurry as
to run thyself out of breath midway; I mean, do not lay on so
strenuously as to make thy life fail thee before thou hast reached the
desired number; and that thou mayest not lose by a card too much or
too little, I will station myself apart and count on my rosary here
the lashes thou givest thyself. May heaven help thee as thy good
intention deserves."
  "'Pledges don't distress a good payer,'" said Sancho; "I mean to lay
on in such a way as without killing myself to hurt myself, for in
that, no doubt, lies the essence of this miracle."
  He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and snatching up
the rope he began to lay on and Don Quixote to count the lashes. He
might have given himself six or eight when he began to think the
joke no trifle, and its price very low; and holding his hand for a
moment, he told his master that he cried off on the score of a blind
bargain, for each of those lashes ought to be paid for at the rate
of half a real instead of a quarter.
  "Go on, Sancho my friend, and be not disheartened," said Don
Quixote; "for I double the stakes as to price."
  "In that case," said Sancho, "in God's hand be it, and let it rain
lashes." But the rogue no longer laid them on his shoulders, but
laid on to the trees, with such groans every now and then, that one
would have thought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by
the roots. Don Quixote, touched to the heart, and fearing he might
make an end of himself, and that through Sancho's imprudence he
might miss his own object, said to him, "As thou livest, my friend,
let the matter rest where it is, for the remedy seems to me a very
rough one, and it will he well to have patience; 'Zamora was not won
in an hour.' If I have not reckoned wrong thou hast given thyself over
a thousand lashes; that is enough for the present; 'for the ass,' to
put it in homely phrase, 'bears the load, but not the overload.'"
  "No, no, senor," replied Sancho; "it shall never be said of me, 'The
money paid, the arms broken;' go back a little further, your
worship, and let me give myself at any rate a thousand lashes more;
for in a couple of bouts like this we shall have finished off the lot,
and there will be even cloth to spare."
  "As thou art in such a willing mood," said Don Quixote, "may
heaven aid thee; lay on and I'll retire."
  Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that he soon had
the bark stripped off several trees, such was the severity with
which he whipped himself; and one time, raising his voice, and
giving a beech a tremendous lash, he cried out, "Here dies Samson, and
all with him!"
  At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel lash,
Don Quixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted halter that
served him for a courbash, said to him, "Heaven forbid, Sancho my
friend, that to please me thou shouldst lose thy life, which is needed
for the support of thy wife and children; let Dulcinea wait for a
better opportunity, and I will content myself with a hope soon to be
realised, and have patience until thou hast gained fresh strength so
as to finish off this business to the satisfaction of everybody."
  "As your worship will have it so, senor," said Sancho, "so be it;
but throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I'm sweating and I don't
want to take cold; it's a risk that novice disciplinants run."
  Don Quixote obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, who
slept until the sun woke him; they then resumed their journey, which
for the time being they brought to an end at a village that lay
three leagues farther on. They dismounted at a hostelry which Don
Quixote recognised as such and did not take to be a castle with
moat, turrets, portcullis, and drawbridge; for ever since he had
been vanquished he talked more rationally about everything, as will be
shown presently. They quartered him in a room on the ground floor,
where in place of leather hangings there were pieces of painted
serge such as they commonly use in villages. On one of them was
painted by some very poor hand the Rape of Helen, when the bold
guest carried her off from Menelaus, and on the other was the story of
Dido and AEneas, she on a high tower, as though she were making
signals with a half sheet to her fugitive guest who was out at sea
flying in a frigate or brigantine. He noticed in the two stories
that Helen did not go very reluctantly, for she was laughing slyly and
roguishly; but the fair Dido was shown dropping tears the size of
walnuts from her eyes. Don Quixote as he looked at them observed,
"Those two ladies were very unfortunate not to have been born in
this age, and I unfortunate above all men not to have been born in
theirs. Had I fallen in with those gentlemen, Troy would not have been
burned or Carthage destroyed, for it would have been only for me to
slay Paris, and all these misfortunes would have been avoided."
  "I'll lay a bet," said Sancho, "that before long there won't be a
tavern, roadside inn, hostelry, or barber's shop where the story of
our doings won't be painted up; but I'd like it painted by the hand of
a better painter than painted these."
  "Thou art right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for this painter is
like Orbaneja, a painter there was at Ubeda, who when they asked him
what he was painting, used to say, 'Whatever it may turn out; and if
he chanced to paint a cock he would write under it, 'This is a
cock,' for fear they might think it was a fox. The painter or
writer, for it's all the same, who published the history of this new
Don Quixote that has come out, must have been one of this sort I
think, Sancho, for he painted or wrote 'whatever it might turn out;'
or perhaps he is like a poet called Mauleon that was about the Court
some years ago, who used to answer at haphazard whatever he was asked,
and on one asking him what Deum de Deo meant, he replied De donde
diere. But, putting this aside, tell me, Sancho, hast thou a mind to
have another turn at thyself to-night, and wouldst thou rather have it
indoors or in the open air?"
  "Egad, senor," said Sancho, "for what I'm going to give myself, it
comes all the same to me whether it is in a house or in the fields;
still I'd like it to be among trees; for I think they are company
for me and help me to bear my pain wonderfully."
  "And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote;
"but, to enable thee to recover strength, we must keep it for our
own village; for at the latest we shall get there the day after
tomorrow."
  Sancho said he might do as he pleased; but that for his own part
he would like to finish off the business quickly before his blood
cooled and while he had an appetite, because "in delay there is apt to
be danger" very often, and "praying to God and plying the hammer," and
"one take was better than two I'll give thee's," and "a sparrow in the
hand than a vulture on the wing."
  "For God's sake, Sancho, no more proverbs!" exclaimed Don Quixote;
"it seems to me thou art becoming sicut erat again; speak in a
plain, simple, straight-forward way, as I have often told thee, and
thou wilt find the good of it."
  "I don't know what bad luck it is of mine," argument to my mind;
however, I mean to mend said Sancho, "but I can't utter a word without
a proverb that is not as good as an argument to my mind; however, I
mean to mend if I can;" and so for the present the conversation ended.
  CHAPTER LXXII
  OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE

  ALL that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and
inn waiting for night, the one to finish off his task of scourging
in the open country, the other to see it accomplished, for therein lay
the accomplishment of his wishes. Meanwhile there arrived at the
hostelry a traveller on horseback with three or four servants, one
of whom said to him who appeared to be the master, "Here, Senor Don
Alvaro Tarfe, your worship may take your siesta to-day; the quarters
seem clean and cool."
  When he heard this Don Quixote said to Sancho, "Look here, Sancho;
on turning over the leaves of that book of the Second Part of my
history I think I came casually upon this name of Don Alvaro Tarfe."
  "Very likely," said Sancho; "we had better let him dismount, and
by-and-by we can ask about it."
  The gentleman dismounted, and the landlady gave him a room on the
ground floor opposite Don Quixote's and adorned with painted serge
hangings of the same sort. The newly arrived gentleman put on a summer
coat, and coming out to the gateway of the hostelry, which was wide
and cool, addressing Don Quixote, who was pacing up and down there, he
asked, "In what direction your worship bound, gentle sir?"
  "To a village near this which is my own village," replied Don
Quixote; "and your worship, where are you bound for?"
  "I am going to Granada, senor," said the gentleman, "to my own
country."
  "And a goodly country," said Don Quixote; "but will your worship
do me the favour of telling me your name, for it strikes me it is of
more importance to me to know it than I can tell you."
  "My name is Don Alvaro Tarfe," replied the traveller.
  To which Don Quixote returned, "I have no doubt whatever that your
worship is that Don Alvaro Tarfe who appears in print in the Second
Part of the history of Don Quixote of La Mancha, lately printed and
published by a new author."
  "I am the same," replied the gentleman; "and that same Don
Quixote, the principal personage in the said history, was a very great
friend of mine, and it was I who took him away from home, or at
least induced him to come to some jousts that were to be held at
Saragossa, whither I was going myself; indeed, I showed him many
kindnesses, and saved him from having his shoulders touched up by
the executioner because of his extreme rashness."
  Tell me, Senor Don Alvaro," said Don Quixote, "am I at all like that
Don Quixote you talk of?"
  "No indeed," replied the traveller, "not a bit."
  "And that Don Quixote-" said our one, "had he with him a squire
called Sancho Panza?"
  "He had," said Don Alvaro; "but though he had the name of being very
droll, I never heard him say anything that had any drollery in it."
  "That I can well believe," said Sancho at this, "for to come out
with drolleries is not in everybody's line; and that Sancho your
worship speaks of, gentle sir, must be some great scoundrel,
dunderhead, and thief, all in one; for I am the real Sancho Panza, and
I have more drolleries than if it rained them; let your worship only
try; come along with me for a year or so, and you will find they
fall from me at every turn, and so rich and so plentiful that though
mostly I don't know what I am saying I make everybody that hears me
laugh. And the real Don Quixote of La Mancha, the famous, the valiant,
the wise, the lover, the righter of wrongs, the guardian of minors and
orphans, the protector of widows, the killer of damsels, he who has
for his sole mistress the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, is this
gentleman before you, my master; all other Don Quixotes and all
other Sancho Panzas are dreams and mockeries."
  "By God I believe it," said Don Alvaro; "for you have uttered more
drolleries, my friend, in the few words you have spoken than the other
Sancho Panza in all I ever heard from him, and they were not a few. He
was more greedy than well-spoken, and more dull than droll; and I am
convinced that the enchanters who persecute Don Quixote the Good
have been trying to persecute me with Don Quixote the Bad. But I don't
know what to say, for I am ready to swear I left him shut up in the
Casa del Nuncio at Toledo, and here another Don Quixote turns up,
though a very different one from mine."
  "I don't know whether I am good," said Don Quixote, "but I can
safely say I am not 'the Bad;' and to prove it, let me tell you, Senor
Don Alvaro Tarfe, I have never in my life been in Saragossa; so far
from that, when it was told me that this imaginary Don Quixote had
been present at the jousts in that city, I declined to enter it, in
order to drag his falsehood before the face of the world; and so I
went on straight to Barcelona, the treasure-house of courtesy, haven
of strangers, asylum of the poor, home of the valiant, champion of the
wronged, pleasant exchange of firm friendships, and city unrivalled in
site and beauty. And though the adventures that befell me there are
not by any means matters of enjoyment, but rather of regret, I do
not regret them, simply because I have seen it. In a word, Senor Don
Alvaro Tarfe, I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, the one that fame
speaks of, and not the unlucky one that has attempted to usurp my name
and deck himself out in my ideas. I entreat your worship by your
devoir as a gentleman to be so good as to make a declaration before
the alcalde of this village that you never in all your life saw me
until now, and that neither am I the Don Quixote in print in the
Second Part, nor this Sancho Panza, my squire, the one your worship
knew."
  "That I will do most willingly," replied Don Alvaro; "though it
amazes me to find two Don Quixotes and two Sancho Panzas at once, as
much alike in name as they differ in demeanour; and again I say and
declare that what I saw I cannot have seen, and that what happened
me cannot have happened."
  "No doubt your worship is enchanted, like my lady Dulcinea del
Toboso," said Sancho; "and would to heaven your disenchantment
rested on my giving myself another three thousand and odd lashes
like what I'm giving myself for her, for I'd lay them on without
looking for anything."
  "I don't understand that about the lashes," said Don Alvaro.
Sancho replied that it was a long story to tell, but he would tell him
if they happened to he going the same road.
  By this dinner-time arrived, and Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined
together. The alcalde of the village came by chance into the inn
together with a notary, and Don Quixote laid a petition before him,
showing that it was requisite for his rights that Don Alvaro Tarfe,
the gentleman there present, should make a declaration before him that
he did not know Don Quixote of La Mancha, also there present, and that
he was not the one that was in print in a history entitled "Second
Part of Don Quixote of La Mancha, by one Avellaneda of Tordesillas."
The alcalde finally put it in legal form, and the declaration was made
with all the formalities required in such cases, at which Don
Quixote and Sancho were in high delight, as if a declaration of the
sort was of any great importance to them, and as if their words and
deeds did not plainly show the difference between the two Don Quixotes
and the two Sanchos. Many civilities and offers of service were
exchanged by Don Alvaro and Don Quixote, in the course of which the
great Manchegan displayed such good taste that he disabused Don Alvaro
of the error he was under; and he, on his part, felt convinced he must
have been enchanted, now that he had been brought in contact with
two such opposite Don Quixotes.
  Evening came, they set out from the village, and after about half
a league two roads branched off, one leading to Don Quixote's village,
the other the road Don Alvaro was to follow. In this short interval
Don Quixote told him of his unfortunate defeat, and of Dulcinea's
enchantment and the remedy, all which threw Don Alvaro into fresh
amazement, and embracing Don Quixote and Sancho he went his way, and
Don Quixote went his. That night he passed among trees again in
order to give Sancho an opportunity of working out his penance,
which he did in the same fashion as the night before, at the expense
of the bark of the beech trees much more than of his back, of which he
took such good care that the lashes would not have knocked off a fly
had there been one there. The duped Don Quixote did not miss a
single stroke of the count, and he found that together with those of
the night before they made up three thousand and twenty-nine. The
sun apparently had got up early to witness the sacrifice, and with his
light they resumed their journey, discussing the deception practised
on Don Alvaro, and saying how well done it was to have taken his
declaration before a magistrate in such an unimpeachable form. That
day and night they travelled on, nor did anything worth mention happen
them, unless it was that in the course of the night Sancho finished
off his task, whereat Don Quixote was beyond measure joyful. He
watched for daylight, to see if along the road he should fall in
with his already disenchanted lady Dulcinea; and as he pursued his
journey there was no woman he met that he did not go up to, to see
if she was Dulcinea del Toboso, as he held it absolutely certain
that Merlin's promises could not lie. Full of these thoughts and
anxieties, they ascended a rising ground wherefrom they descried their
own village, at the sight of which Sancho fell on his knees
exclaiming, "Open thine eyes, longed-for home, and see how thy son
Sancho Panza comes back to thee, if not very rich, very well
whipped! Open thine arms and receive, too, thy son Don Quixote, who,
if he comes vanquishe by the arm of another, comes victor over
himself, which, as he himself has told me, is the greatest victory
anyone can desire. I'm bringing back money, for if I was well whipped,
I went mounted like a gentleman."
  "Have done with these fooleries," said Don Quixote; "let us push
on straight and get to our own place, where we will give free range to
our fancies, and settle our plans for our future pastoral life."
  With this they descended the slope and directed their steps to their
village.
  CHAPTER LXXIII
  OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND
OTHER INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY

  AT THE entrance of the village, so says Cide Hamete, Don Quixote saw
two boys quarrelling on the village threshing-floor one of whom said
to the other, "Take it easy, Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again
as long as thou livest."
  Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, "Dost thou not
mark, friend, what that boy said, 'Thou shalt never see it again as
long as thou livest'?"
  "Well," said Sancho, "what does it matter if the boy said so?"
  "What!" said Don Quixote, "dost thou not see that, applied to the
object of my desires, the words mean that I am never to see Dulcinea
more?"
  Sancho was about to answer, when his attention was diverted by
seeing a hare come flying across the plain pursued by several
greyhounds and sportsmen. In its terror it ran to take shelter and
hide itself under Dapple. Sancho caught it alive and presented it to
Don Quixote, who was saying, "Malum signum, malum signum! a hare
flies, greyhounds chase it, Dulcinea appears not."
  "Your worship's a strange man," said Sancho; "let's take it for
granted that this hare is Dulcinea, and these greyhounds chasing it
the malignant enchanters who turned her into a country wench; she
flies, and I catch her and put her into your worship's hands, and
you hold her in your arms and cherish her; what bad sign is that, or
what ill omen is there to be found here?"
  The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look at the hare,
and Sancho asked one of them what their quarrel was about. He was
answered by the one who had said, "Thou shalt never see it again as
long as thou livest," that he had taken a cage full of crickets from
the other boy, and did not mean to give it back to him as long as he
lived. Sancho took out four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to
the boy for the cage, which he placed in Don Quixote's hands,
saying, "There, senor! there are the omens broken and destroyed, and
they have no more to do with our affairs, to my thinking, fool as I
am, than with last year's clouds; and if I remember rightly I have
heard the curate of our village say that it does not become Christians
or sensible people to give any heed to these silly things; and even
you yourself said the same to me some time ago, telling me that all
Christians who minded omens were fools; but there's no need of
making words about it; let us push on and go into our village."
  The sportsmen came up and asked for their hare, which Don Quixote
gave them. They then went on, and upon the green at the entrance of
the town they came upon the curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco
busy with their breviaries. It should be mentioned that Sancho had
thrown, by way of a sumpter-cloth, over Dapple and over the bundle
of armour, the buckram robe painted with flames which they had put
upon him at the duke's castle the night Altisidora came back to
life. He had also fixed the mitre on Dapple's head, the oddest
transformation and decoration that ever ass in the world underwent.
They were at once recognised by both the curate and the bachelor,
who came towards them with open arms. Don Quixote dismounted and
received them with a close embrace; and the boys, who are lynxes
that nothing escapes, spied out the ass's mitre and came running to
see it, calling out to one another, "Come here, boys, and see Sancho
Panza's ass figged out finer than Mingo, and Don Quixote's beast
leaner than ever."
  So at length, with the boys capering round them, and accompanied
by the curate and the bachelor, they made their entrance into the
town, and proceeded to Don Quixote's house, at the door of which
they found his housekeeper and niece, whom the news of his arrival had
already reached. It had been brought to Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife,
as well, and she with her hair all loose and half naked, dragging
Sanchica her daughter by the hand, ran out to meet her husband; but
seeing him coming in by no means as good case as she thought a
governor ought to be, she said to him, "How is it you come this way,
husband? It seems to me you come tramping and footsore, and looking
more like a disorderly vagabond than a governor."
  "Hold your tongue, Teresa," said Sancho; "often 'where there are
pegs there are no flitches;' let's go into the house and there
you'll hear strange things. I bring money, and that's the main
thing, got by my own industry without wronging anybody."
  "You bring the money, my good husband," said Teresa, "and no
matter whether it was got this way or that; for, however you may
have got it, you'll not have brought any new practice into the world."
  Sanchica embraced her father and asked him if he brought her
anything, for she had been looking out for him as for the showers of
May; and she taking hold of him by the girdle on one side, and his
wife by the hand, while the daughter led Dapple, they made for their
house, leaving Don Quixote in his, in the hands of his niece and
housekeeper, and in the company of the curate and the bachelor.
  Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season,
withdrew in private with the bachelor and the curate, and in a few
words told them of his defeat, and of the engagement he was under
not to quit his village for a year, which he meant to keep to the
letter without departing a hair's breadth from it, as became a
knight-errant bound by scrupulous good faith and the laws of
knight-errantry; and of how he thought of turning shepherd for that
year, and taking his diversion in the solitude of the fields, where he
could with perfect freedom give range to his thoughts of love while he
followed the virtuous pastoral calling; and he besought them, if
they had not a great deal to do and were not prevented by more
important business, to consent to be his companions, for he would
buy sheep enough to qualify them for shepherds; and the most important
point of the whole affair, he could tell them, was settled, for he had
given them names that would fit them to a T. The curate asked what
they were. Don Quixote replied that he himself was to be called the
shepherd Quixotize and the bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the
curate the shepherd Curambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.
  Both were astounded at Don Quixote's new craze; however, lest he
should once more make off out of the village from them in pursuit of
his chivalry, they trusting that in the course of the year he might be
cured, fell in with his new project, applauded his crazy idea as a
bright one, and offered to share the life with him. "And what's more,"
said Samson Carrasco, "I am, as all the world knows, a very famous
poet, and I'll be always making verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it
may come into my head, to pass away our time in those secluded regions
where we shall be roaming. But what is most needful, sirs, is that
each of us should choose the name of the shepherdess he means to
glorify in his verses, and that we should not leave a tree, be it ever
so hard, without writing up and carving her name on it, as is the
habit and custom of love-smitten shepherds."
  "That's the very thing," said Don Quixote; "though I am relieved
from looking for the name of an imaginary shepherdess, for there's the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these brooksides, the
ornament of these meadows, the mainstay of beauty, the cream of all
the graces, and, in a word, the being to whom all praise is
appropriate, be it ever so hyperbolical."
  "Very true," said the curate; "but we the others must look about for
accommodating shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way or
another."
  "And," added Samson Carrasco, "if they fail us, we can call them
by the names of the ones in print that the world is filled with,
Filidas, Amarilises, Dianas, Fleridas, Galateas, Belisardas; for as
they sell them in the market-places we may fairly buy them and make
them our own. If my lady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens to
be called Ana, I'll sing her praises under the name of Anarda, and
if Francisca, I'll call her Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it
all comes to the same thing; and Sancho Panza, if he joins this
fraternity, may glorify his wife Teresa Panza as Teresaina."
  Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the name, and the curate
bestowed vast praise upon the worthy and honourable resolution he
had made, and again offered to bear him company all the time that he
could spare from his imperative duties. And so they took their leave
of him, recommending and beseeching him to take care of his health and
treat himself to a suitable diet.
  It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard all the three
of them said; and as soon as they were gone they both of them came
in to Don Quixote, and said the niece, "What's this, uncle? Now that
we were thinking you had come back to stay at home and lead a quiet
respectable life there, are you going to get into fresh entanglements,
and turn 'young shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd
going there?' Nay! indeed 'the straw is too hard now to make pipes
of.'"
  "And," added the housekeeper, "will your worship be able to bear,
out in the fields, the heats of summer, and the chills of winter,
and the howling of the wolves? Not you; for that's a life and a
business for hardy men, bred and seasoned to such work almost from the
time they were in swaddling-clothes. Why, to make choice of evils,
it's better to be a knight-errant than a shepherd! Look here, senor;
take my advice- and I'm not giving it to you full of bread and wine,
but fasting, and with fifty years upon my head- stay at home, look
after your affairs, go often to confession, be good to the poor, and
upon my soul be it if any evil comes to you."
  "Hold your peace, my daughters," said Don Quixote; "I know very well
what my duty is; help me to bed, for I don't feel very well; and
rest assured that, knight-errant now or wandering shepherd to be, I
shall never fail to have a care for your interests, as you will see in
the end." And the good wenches (for that they undoubtedly were), the
housekeeper and niece, helped him to bed, where they gave him
something to eat and made him as comfortable as possible.
  CHAPTER LXXIV
  OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE
DIED

  AS NOTHING that is man's can last for ever, but all tends ever
downwards from its beginning to its end, and above all man's life, and
as Don Quixote's enjoyed no special dispensation from heaven to stay
its course, its end and close came when he least looked for it. For-
whether it was of the dejection the thought of his defeat produced, or
of heaven's will that so ordered it- a fever settled upon him and kept
him in his bed for six days, during which he was often visited by
his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, while his good
squire Sancho Panza never quitted his bedside. They, persuaded that it
was grief at finding himself vanquished, and the object of his
heart, the liberation and disenchantment of Dulcinea, unattained, that
kept him in this state, strove by all the means in their power to
cheer him up; the bachelor bidding him take heart and get up to
begin his pastoral life, for which he himself, he said, had already
composed an eclogue that would take the shine out of all Sannazaro had
ever written, and had bought with his own money two famous dogs to
guard the flock, one called Barcino and the other Butron, which a
herdsman of Quintanar had sold him.
  But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His
friends called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well
satisfied with it, and said that in any case it would be well for
him to attend to the health of his soul, as that of his body was in
a bad way. Don Quixote heard this calmly; but not so his
housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, who fell weeping bitterly,
as if they had him lying dead before them. The doctor's opinion was
that melancholy and depression were bringing him to his end. Don
Quixote begged them to leave him to himself, as he had a wish to sleep
a little. They obeyed, and he slept at one stretch, as the saying
is, more than six hours, so that the housekeeper and niece thought
he was going to sleep for ever. But at the end of that time he woke
up, and in a loud voice exclaimed, "Blessed be Almighty God, who has
shown me such goodness. In truth his mercies are boundless, and the
sins of men can neither limit them nor keep them back!"
  The niece listened with attention to her uncle's words, and they
struck her as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at
least during his illness, so she asked, "What are you saying, senor?
Has anything strange occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are
you talking of?"
  "The mercies, niece," said Don Quixote, "are those that God has this
moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to
them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of
ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books
of chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities and
deceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my
illusions has come so late that it leaves me no time to make some
amends by reading other books that might be a light to my soul. Niece,
I feel myself at the point of death, and I would fain meet it in
such a way as to show that my life has not been so ill that I should
leave behind me the name of a madman; for though I have been one, I
would not that the fact should be made plainer at my death. Call in to
me, my dear, my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco,
and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my
will." But his niece was saved the trouble by the entrance of the
three. The instant Don Quixote saw them he exclaimed, "Good news for
you, good sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote of La Mancha, but
Alonso Quixano, whose way of life won for him the name of Good. Now am
I the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless troop of
his descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories of
knight-errantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into which
reading them brought me; now, by God's mercy schooled into my right
senses, I loathe them."
  When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt
whatever that some new craze had taken possession of him; and said
Samson, "What? Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the
lady Dulcinea being disenchanted, are you taking this line; now,
just as we are on the point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives
singing, like princes, are you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for
heaven's sake, be rational and let's have no more nonsense."
  "All that nonsense," said Don Quixote, "that until now has been a
reality to my hurt, my death will, with heaven's help, turn to my
good. I feel, sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to
jesting; let me have a confessor to confess me, and a notary to make
my will; for in extremities like this, man must not trifle with his
soul; and while the curate is confessing me let some one, I beg, go
for the notary."
  They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote's words; but,
though uncertain, they were inclined to believe him, and one of the
signs by which they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so
sudden and complete return to his senses after having been mad; for to
the words already quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so
devout, and so rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that
he was sound of mind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone
with him confessed him. The bachelor went for the notary and
returned shortly afterwards with him and with Sancho, who, having
already learned from the bachelor the condition his master was in, and
finding the housekeeper and niece weeping, began to blubber and shed
tears.
  The confession over, the curate came out saying, "Alonso Quixano the
Good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go
in to him while he makes his will."
  This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the
housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears
burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of
a truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso
Quixano the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was
always of a gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence
he was beloved, not only by those of his own house, but by all who
knew him.
  The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the
had been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God with
all the devout formalities that are usual, coming to the bequests,
he said, "Item, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the
hands of Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire),
inasmuch as between him and me there have been certain accounts and
debits and credits, no claim be made against him, nor any account
demanded of him in respect of them; but that if anything remain over
and above, after he has paid himself what I owe him, the balance,
which will be but little, shall be his, and much good may it do him;
and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving him the government
of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could give him that of
a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his character and
the fidelity of his conduct deserve it." And then, turning to
Sancho, he said, "Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to seem as
mad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself fell
into, that there were and still are knights-errant in the world."
  "Ah!" said Sancho weeping, "don't die, master, but take my advice
and live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this
life is to let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody
killing him, or any hands but melancholy's making an end of him. Come,
don't be lazy, but get up from your bed and let us take to the
fields in shepherd's trim as we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we
shall find the lady Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine as fine can be.
If it be that you are dying of vexation at having been vanquished, lay
the blame on me, and say you were overthrown because I had girthed
Rocinante badly; besides you must have seen in your books of
chivalry that it is a common thing for knights to upset one another,
and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror tomorrow."
  "Very true," said Samson, "and good Sancho Panza's view of these
cases is quite right."
  "Sirs, not so fast," said Don Quixote, "'in last year's nests
there are no birds this year.' I was mad, now I am in my senses; I was
Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the
Good; and may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you
used to have for me; and now let Master Notary proceed.
  "Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my
niece, here present, after all has been deducted from the most
available portion of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I
have made. And the first disbursement I desire to be made is the
payment of the wages I owe for the time my housekeeper has served
me, with twenty ducats, over and above, for a gown. The curate and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, now present, I appoint my executors.
  "Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to
marry, she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all
ascertained by information taken that he does not know what books of
chivalry are; and if it should be proved that he does, and if, in
spite of this, my niece insists upon marrying him, and does marry him,
then that she shall forfeit the whole of what I have left her, which
my executors shall devote to works of charity as they please.
  "Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that, if
any happy chance should lead them to discover the author who is said
to have written a history now going about under the title of 'Second
Part of the Achievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha,' they beg of him
on my behalf as earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been,
without intending it, the cause of his writing so many and such
monstrous absurdities as he has written in it; for I am leaving the
world with a feeling of compunction at having provoked him to write
them."
  With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over him he
stretched himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutter
and made haste to relieve him, and during the three days he lived
after that on which he made his will he fainted away very often. The
house was all in confusion; but still the niece ate and the
housekeeper drank and Sancho Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting
property wipes out or softens down in the heir the feeling of grief
the dead man might be expected to leave behind him.
  At last Don Quixote's end came, after he had received all the
sacraments, and had in full and forcible terms expressed his
detestation of books of chivalry. The notary was there at the time,
and he said that in no book of chivalry had he ever read of any
knight-errant dying in his bed so calmly and so like a Christian as
Don Quixote, who amid the tears and lamentations of all present
yielded up his spirit, that is to say died. On perceiving it the
curate begged the notary to bear witness that Alonso Quixano the Good,
commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed away from this
present life, and died naturally; and said he desired this testimony
in order to remove the possibility of any other author save Cide
Hamete Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and making
interminable stories out of his achievements.
  Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose
village Cide Hamete would not indicate precisely, in order to leave
all the towns and villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves
for the right to adopt him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities
of Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the
niece and housekeeper are omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs
upon his tomb; Samson Carrasco, however, put the following lines:

       A doughty gentleman lies here;
       A stranger all his life to fear;
       Nor in his death could Death prevail,
       In that last hour, to make him quail.
       He for the world but little cared;
       And at his feats the world was scared;
       A crazy man his life he passed,
       But in his senses died at last.

  And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, "Rest here, hung up by
this brass wire, upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful make or
clumsy cut I know not; here shalt thou remain long ages hence,
unless presumptuous or malignant story-tellers take thee down to
profane thee. But ere they touch thee warn them, and, as best thou
canst, say to them:

       Hold off! ye weaklings; hold your hands!
         Adventure it let none,
       For this emprise, my lord the king,
         Was meant for me alone.

For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act,
mine to write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in
spite of that pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or
would venture with his great, coarse, ill-trimmed ostrich quill to
write the achievements of my valiant knight;- no burden for his
shoulders, nor subject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou
shouldst come to know him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they
lie the weary mouldering bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to
carry him off, in opposition to all the privileges of death, to Old
Castile, making him rise from the grave where in reality and truth
he lies stretched at full length, powerless to make any third
expedition or new sally; for the two that he has already made, so much
to the enjoyment and approval of everybody to whom they have become
known, in this as well as in foreign countries, are quite sufficient
for the purpose of turning into ridicule the whole of those made by
the whole set of the knights-errant; and so doing shalt thou discharge
thy Christian calling, giving good counsel to one that bears
ill-will to thee. And I shall remain satisfied, and proud to have been
the first who has ever enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully as
he could desire; for my desire has been no other than to deliver
over to the detestation of mankind the false and foolish tales of
the books of chivalry, which, thanks to that of my true Don Quixote,
are even now tottering, and doubtless doomed to fall for ever.
Farewell."


                            -THE END-