Don Quixote (tr John Ormsby)
by Cervantes
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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From these words all the hearers concluded that he must be a madman,
and began to laugh heartily, and their laughter acted like gunpowder
on Don Quixote's fury, for drawing his sword without another word he
made a rush at the stand. One of those who supported it, leaving the
burden to his comrades, advanced to meet him, flourishing a forked
stick that he had for propping up the stand when resting, and with
this he caught a mighty cut Don Quixote made at him that severed it in
two; but with the portion that remained in his hand he dealt such a
thwack on the shoulder of Don Quixote's sword arm (which the buckler
could not protect against the clownish assault) that poor Don
Quixote came to the ground in a sad plight.

Sancho Panza, who was coming on close behind puffing and blowing,
seeing him fall, cried out to his assailant not to strike him again,
for he was poor enchanted knight, who had never harmed anyone all
the days of his life; but what checked the clown was, not Sancho's
shouting, but seeing that Don Quixote did not stir hand or foot; and
so, fancying he had killed him, he hastily hitched up his tunic
under his girdle and took to his heels across the country like a deer.

By this time all Don Quixote's companions had come up to where he
lay; but the processionists seeing them come running, and with them
the officers of the Brotherhood with their crossbows, apprehended
mischief, and clustering round the image, raised their hoods, and
grasped their scourges, as the priests did their tapers, and awaited
the attack, resolved to defend themselves and even to take the
offensive against their assailants if they could. Fortune, however,
arranged the matter better than they expected, for all Sancho did
was to fling himself on his master's body, raising over him the most
doleful and laughable lamentation that ever was heard, for he believed
he was dead. The curate was known to another curate who walked in
the procession, and their recognition of one another set at rest the
apprehensions of both parties; the first then told the other in two
words who Don Quixote was, and he and the whole troop of penitents
went to see if the poor gentleman was dead, and heard Sancho Panza
saying, with tears in his eyes, "Oh flower of chivalry, that with
one blow of a stick hast ended the course of thy well-spent life! Oh
pride of thy race, honour and glory of all La Mancha, nay, of all
the world, that for want of thee will be full of evil-doers, no longer
in fear of punishment for their misdeeds! Oh thou, generous above
all the Alexanders, since for only eight months of service thou hast
given me the best island the sea girds or surrounds! Humble with the
proud, haughty with the humble, encounterer of dangers, endurer of
outrages, enamoured without reason, imitator of the good, scourge of
the wicked, enemy of the mean, in short, knight-errant, which is all
that can be said!"

At the cries and moans of Sancho, Don Quixote came to himself, and
the first word he said was, "He who lives separated from you, sweetest
Dulcinea, has greater miseries to endure than these. Aid me, friend
Sancho, to mount the enchanted cart, for I am not in a condition to
press the saddle of Rocinante, as this shoulder is all knocked to
pieces."

"That I will do with all my heart, senor," said Sancho; "and let
us return to our village with these gentlemen, who seek your good, and
there we will prepare for making another sally, which may turn out
more profitable and creditable to us."

"Thou art right, Sancho," returned Don Quixote; "It will be wise
to let the malign influence of the stars which now prevails pass off."

The canon, the curate, and the barber told him he would act very
wisely in doing as he said; and so, highly amused at Sancho Panza's
simplicities, they placed Don Quixote in the cart as before. The
procession once more formed itself in order and proceeded on its road;
the goatherd took his leave of the party; the officers of the
Brotherhood declined to go any farther, and the curate paid them
what was due to them; the canon begged the curate to let him know
how Don Quixote did, whether he was cured of his madness or still
suffered from it, and then begged leave to continue his journey; in
short, they all separated and went their ways, leaving to themselves
the curate and the barber, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the good
Rocinante, who regarded everything with as great resignation as his
master. The carter yoked his oxen and made Don Quixote comfortable
on a truss of hay, and at his usual deliberate pace took the road
the curate directed, and at the end of six days they reached Don
Quixote's village, and entered it about the middle of the day, which
it so happened was a Sunday, and the people were all in the plaza,
through which Don Quixote's cart passed. They all flocked to see
what was in the cart, and when they recognised their townsman they
were filled with amazement, and a boy ran off to bring the news to his
housekeeper and his niece that their master and uncle had come back
all lean and yellow and stretched on a truss of hay on an ox-cart.
It was piteous to hear the cries the two good ladies raised, how
they beat their breasts and poured out fresh maledictions on those
accursed books of chivalry; all which was renewed when they saw Don
Quixote coming in at the gate.

At the news of Don Quixote's arrival Sancho Panza's wife came
running, for she by this time knew that her husband had gone away with
him as his squire, and on seeing Sancho, the first thing she asked him
was if the ass was well. Sancho replied that he was, better than his
master was.

"Thanks be to God," said she, "for being so good to me; but now tell
me, my friend, what have you made by your squirings? What gown have
you brought me back? What shoes for your children?"

"I bring nothing of that sort, wife," said Sancho; "though I bring
other things of more consequence and value."

"I am very glad of that," returned his wife; "show me these things
of more value and consequence, my friend; for I want to see them to
cheer my heart that has been so sad and heavy all these ages that
you have been away."

"I will show them to you at home, wife," said Sancho; "be content
for the present; for if it please God that we should again go on our
travels in search of adventures, you will soon see me a count, or
governor of an island, and that not one of those everyday ones, but
the best that is to be had."

"Heaven grant it, husband," said she, "for indeed we have need of
it. But tell me, what's this about islands, for I don't understand
it?"

"Honey is not for the mouth of the ass," returned Sancho; "all in
good time thou shalt see, wife- nay, thou wilt be surprised to hear
thyself called 'your ladyship' by all thy vassals."

"What are you talking about, Sancho, with your ladyships, islands,
and vassals?" returned Teresa Panza- for so Sancho's wife was
called, though they were not relations, for in La Mancha it is
customary for wives to take their husbands' surnames.

"Don't be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa," said Sancho;
"it is enough that I am telling you the truth, so shut your mouth. But
I may tell you this much by the way, that there is nothing in the
world more delightful than to be a person of consideration, squire
to a knight-errant, and a seeker of adventures. To be sure most of
those one finds do not end as pleasantly as one could wish, for out of
a hundred, ninety-nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it
by experience, for out of some I came blanketed, and out of others
belaboured. Still, for all that, it is a fine thing to be on the
look-out for what may happen, crossing mountains, searching woods,
climbing rocks, visiting castles, putting up at inns, all at free
quarters, and devil take the maravedi to pay."

While this conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife,
Don Quixote's housekeeper and niece took him in and undressed him
and laid him in his old bed. He eyed them askance, and could not
make out where he was. The curate charged his niece to be very careful
to make her uncle comfortable and to keep a watch over him lest he
should make his escape from them again, telling her what they had been
obliged to do to bring him home. On this the pair once more lifted
up their voices and renewed their maledictions upon the books of
chivalry, and implored heaven to plunge the authors of such lies and
nonsense into the midst of the bottomless pit. They were, in short,
kept in anxiety and dread lest their uncle and master should give them
the slip the moment he found himself somewhat better, and as they
feared so it fell out.

But the author of this history, though he has devoted research and
industry to the discovery of the deeds achieved by Don Quixote in
his third sally, has been unable to obtain any information
respecting them, at any rate derived from authentic documents;
tradition has merely preserved in the memory of La Mancha the fact
that Don Quixote, the third time he sallied forth from his home,
betook himself to Saragossa, where he was present at some famous
jousts which came off in that city, and that he had adventures there
worthy of his valour and high intelligence. Of his end and death he
could learn no particulars, nor would he have ascertained it or
known of it, if good fortune had not produced an old physician for him
who had in his possession a leaden box, which, according to his
account, had been discovered among the crumbling foundations of an
ancient hermitage that was being rebuilt; in which box were found
certain parchment manuscripts in Gothic character, but in Castilian
verse, containing many of his achievements, and setting forth the
beauty of Dulcinea, the form of Rocinante, the fidelity of Sancho
Panza, and the burial of Don Quixote himself, together with sundry
epitaphs and eulogies on his life and character; but all that could be
read and deciphered were those which the trustworthy author of this
new and unparalleled history here presents. And the said author asks
of those that shall read it nothing in return for the vast toil
which it has cost him in examining and searching the Manchegan
archives in order to bring it to light, save that they give him the
same credit that people of sense give to the books of chivalry that
pervade the world and are so popular; for with this he will consider
himself amply paid and fully satisfied, and will be encouraged to seek
out and produce other histories, if not as truthful, at least equal in
invention and not less entertaining. The first words written on the
parchment found in the leaden box were these:

      THE ACADEMICIANS OF
   ARGAMASILLA, A VILLAGE OF
           LA MANCHA,
     ON THE LIFE AND DEATH
   OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA,
        HOC SCRIPSERUNT
MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,

ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE

EPITAPH

The scatterbrain that gave La Mancha more
  Rich spoils than Jason's; who a point so keen
  Had to his wit, and happier far had been
If his wit's weathercock a blunter bore;
The arm renowned far as Gaeta's shore,
  Cathay, and all the lands that lie between;
  The muse discreet and terrible in mien
As ever wrote on brass in days of yore;
He who surpassed the Amadises all,
  And who as naught the Galaors accounted,
    Supported by his love and gallantry:
Who made the Belianises sing small,
  And sought renown on Rocinante mounted;
    Here, underneath this cold stone, doth he lie.

PANIAGUADO,
ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
IN LAUDEM DULCINEAE DEL TOBOSO

SONNET

She, whose full features may be here descried,
  High-bosomed, with a bearing of disdain,
  Is Dulcinea, she for whom in vain
The great Don Quixote of La Mancha sighed.
For her, Toboso's queen, from side to side
  He traversed the grim sierra, the champaign
  Of Aranjuez, and Montiel's famous plain:
On Rocinante oft a weary ride.
Malignant planets, cruel destiny,
  Pursued them both, the fair Manchegan dame,
And the unconquered star of chivalry.
  Nor youth nor beauty saved her from the claim
Of death; he paid love's bitter penalty,
  And left the marble to preserve his name.

CAPRICHOSO, A MOST ACUTE ACADEMICIAN
OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF ROCINANTE,
STEED OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA

SONNET

On that proud throne of diamantine sheen,
  Which the blood-reeking feet of Mars degrade,
The mad Manchegan's banner now hath been
  By him in all its bravery displayed.
  There hath he hung his arms and trenchant blade
Wherewith, achieving deeds till now unseen,
  He slays, lays low, cleaves, hews; but art hath made
A novel style for our new paladin.
If Amadis be the proud boast of Gaul,
  If by his progeny the fame of Greece
    Through all the regions of the earth be spread,
Great Quixote crowned in grim Bellona's hall
  To-day exalts La Mancha over these,
    And above Greece or Gaul she holds her head.
Nor ends his glory here, for his good steed
Doth Brillador and Bayard far exceed;
As mettled steeds compared with Rocinante,
The reputation they have won is scanty.

BURLADOR, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON SANCHO PANZA

SONNET

  The worthy Sancho Panza here you see;
    A great soul once was in that body small,
    Nor was there squire upon this earthly ball
So plain and simple, or of guile so free.
Within an ace of being Count was he,
    And would have been but for the spite and gall
    Of this vile age, mean and illiberal,
That cannot even let a donkey be.
For mounted on an ass (excuse the word),
    By Rocinante's side this gentle squire
      Was wont his wandering master to attend.
Delusive hopes that lure the common herd
    With promises of ease, the heart's desire,
      In shadows, dreams, and smoke ye always end.

CACHIDIABLO,
ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE
EPITAPH

The knight lies here below,
  Ill-errant and bruised sore,
  Whom Rocinante bore
In his wanderings to and fro.
By the side of the knight is laid
  Stolid man Sancho too,
  Than whom a squire more true
Was not in the esquire trade.

            TIQUITOC,
   ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON THE TOMB OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

            EPITAPH
Here Dulcinea lies.
  Plump was she and robust:
  Now she is ashes and dust:
The end of all flesh that dies.
A lady of high degree,
  With the port of a lofty dame,
  And the great Don Quixote's flame,
And the pride of her village was she.

These were all the verses that could be deciphered; the rest, the
writing being worm-eaten, were handed over to one of the
Academicians to make out their meaning conjecturally. We have been
informed that at the cost of many sleepless nights and much toil he
has succeeded, and that he means to publish them in hopes of Don
Quixote's third sally.

"Forse altro cantera con miglior plectro."

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

Gof 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 t