THE HISTORY
OF
DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.

The history

of

Don Quixote de la Mancha.

From the Spanish of Cervantes.

REVISED FOR GENERAL READING.

TO WHICH IS PREFIXED

A Sketch of the Life and Writings of the Author.

Second Edition,

WITH ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS.

London:

James Burns

mdcccxlviii.

CONTENTS.

Preface.

When we reflect upon the great celebrity of the
“Life, Exploits, and Adventures of that ingenious
Gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha,” and how
his name has become quite proverbial amongst us,
it seems strange that so little should be known concerning
the great man to whose imagination we are
indebted for so amusing and instructive a tale. We
cannot better introduce our present edition than by a
short sketch of his life, adding a few remarks on the
work itself and the present adapted reprint of it.

The obscurity we have alluded to is one which
Cervantes shares with many others, some of them the
most illustrious authors which the world ever produced.
Homer, Hesiod,—names with which the mouths
of men have been familiar for centuries,—how little is
now known of them! And not only so, but how little
was known of them even by those who lived comparatively
close upon their own time! How scattered and
unsatisfactory are the few particulars which we have of
the life of our own poet William Shakspere!

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra was born at Alcala de Henares,
a town of New Castile, famous for its University, founded by
Cardinal Ximenes. He was of gentle birth, both on his father’s
and mother’s side. Rodrigo de Cervantes, his father, was descended
from an ancient family of Galicia, of which several
branches were settled in some of the principal cities of Spain.
His mother’s name was Leonora de Cortēnas. We find by the
parish register of Santa Maria la Mayor, at Alcala de Henares,
that Miguel was baptised in that church on Sunday, the 9th of
October, 1547; in which year we may conclude, therefore, that
he was born. The discovery of this baptismal register set at rest a dispute
which had for some time been going on between seven different cities, each
[Pg xiv]
of which claimed the honour of being the native place of our author: these
were, besides the one already mentioned, Seville, Madrid, Esquivias,
Toledo, Lucena, and Alcazar de San Juan. In this respect we cannot
avoid drawing a comparison between the fame of Cervantes and the prince
of poets, Homer.

From a child he discovered a great liking for books, which no doubt
determined his parents, whose fortune, notwithstanding their good family,
was any thing but affluent, to educate him for one of the learned professions,
by which alone at that time there was any chance of getting
wealth. Miguel, however, did not take to the strict studies proposed to
him: not that he was idle; his days were spent in reading books of
amusement, such as novels, romances, and poems. It was of the materials
afforded by such a pursuit that his fame was afterwards built.

Cervantes continued at Madrid till he was in his twenty-first year,
during which time he remained with his learned tutor Juan Lopez de
Hoyos. He seems to have been a great favourite with him; for, in a
collection of “Luctus,” published by Juan on the death of the Queen,
we find an elegy and a ballad contributed by the editor’s “dear and beloved
disciple Miguel de Cervantes.” Under the same editorial care
Cervantes himself tells us, in his Viage de Parnasso, that he published
a pastoral poem of some length, called ‘Filena,’ besides several ballads,
sonnets, canzonets, and other small poems.

Notwithstanding the comparative insignificance of these productions,
they probably excited some little attention; for it appears not unlikely
that it was to them that Cervantes owed his appointment to an office,
which we find him holding, in 1569, at Rome,—that of chamberlain to his
eminence the Cardinal Julio Aquaviva, an ecclesiastic of considerable
learning. Such an appointment, however, did not suit the active disposition
and romantic turn of one so deeply read in the adventures of the
old knights, the glory of which he longed to share; from which hope,
however, the inactivity and monotony of a court-life could not but exclude
him.

In 1571 there was concluded a famous league between Pope Pius
V., Philip II. of Spain, and the Venetian Republic, against Selim, the
Grand Turk, who was attacking Cyprus, then belonging to Venice.
John of Austria, natural son of the celebrated Emperor Charles V., and
brother of the king of Spain, was made commander-in-chief of the allied
forces, both naval and military; and under him, as general of the Papal
forces, was appointed Mario Antonio Colonna, Duke of Paliano. It
became fashionable for the young men of the time to enlist in this expedition;
and Cervantes, then about twenty-four years of age, soon enrolled
himself under the standard of the Roman general. After various success
on both sides, in which the operations of the Christians were not a little
hindered by the dissensions of their commanders, to which the taking of
Nicosia by the Turks may be imputed, the first year’s cruise ended with
the famous battle of Lepanto; after which the allied forces retired, and
wintered at Messina.

Cervantes was present at this famous victory, where he was wounded
in the left hand by a blow from a scymitar, or, as some assert, by a gunshot,
so severely, that he was obliged to have it amputated at the wrist
whilst in the hospital at Messina; but the operation was so unskilfully
performed, that he lost the use of the entire arm ever afterwards. He
was not discouraged by this wound, nor induced to give up his profession
[Pg xv]
as a soldier. Indeed, he seems, from his own words, to be very proud of
the honour which his loss conferred upon him. “My wound,” he says,
“was received on the most glorious occasion that any age, past or present,
ever saw, or that the future can ever hope to see. To those who
barely behold them, indeed, my wounds may not seem honourable; it is
by those who know how I came by them that they will be rightly esteemed.
Better is it for a soldier to die in battle than to save his life by running
away. For my part I had rather be again present, were it possible, in
that famous battle, than whole and sound without sharing ill the glory of
it. The scars which a soldier exhibits in his breast and face are stars to
guide others to the haven of honour and the love of just praise.”

The year following the victory of Lepanto, Cervantes still continued
with the same fleet, and took part in several attacks on the coast of the
Morea. At the end of 1572, when the allied forces were disbanded,
Colonna returned to Rome, whither our author probably accompanied
him, since he tells us that he followed his “conquering banners.” He
afterwards enlisted in the Neapolitan army of the king of Spain, in which
he remained for three years, though without rising above the rank of a
private soldier; but it must be remembered that, at the time of which we
are now speaking, such was the condition of some of the noblest men of
their country; it was accounted no disgrace for even a scion of the nobility
to fight as a simple halberdier, or musqueteer, in the service of his
prince.

On the 26th of September, 1575, Cervantes embarked on board a
galley, called the ‘Sun,’ and was sailing from Naples to Spain, when
his ship was attacked by some Moorish corsairs, and both he and all the
rest of the crew were taken prisoners, and carried off to Algiers. When
the Christians were divided amongst their captors, he fell to the lot of
the captain, the famous Arnauté Mami, an Albanian renegade, whose
atrocious cruelties are too disgusting to be mentioned. He seems to have
treated his captive with peculiar harshness, perhaps hoping that by so
doing he might render him the more impatient of his servitude, and so
induce him to pay a higher ransom, which the rank and condition of his
friends in Europe appeared to promise. In this state Cervantes continued
five years. Some have thought that in “the captive’s” tale,
related in Don Quixote, we may collect the particulars of his own fortunes
whilst in Africa; but even granting that some of the incidents may
be the same, it is now generally supposed that we shall be deceived if we
regard them as any detailed account of his captivity. A man of Cervantes’
enterprise and abilities was not likely to endure tamely the hardships
of slavery; and we accordingly find that he was constantly forming
schemes for escape. The last of these, which was the most bold and best
contrived of all, failed, because he had admitted a traitor to a share in
his project.

There was at Algiers a Venetian renegade, named Hassan Aga, a
friend of Arnauté Mami; he had risen high in the king’s favour, and
occupied an important post in the government of Algiers. We have a
description of this man’s ferocious character in Don Quixote, given us
by the Captain de Viedma. Cervantes was often sent by his master as
messenger to this man’s house, situated on the sea-shore, at a short distance
from Algiers. One of Hassan’s slaves, a native of Navarre, and a
Christian, had the management of the gardens of the villa; and with him
Cervantes soon formed an acquaintance, and succeeded in persuading
[Pg xvi]
him to allow the making of a secret cave under the garden, which would
form a place of concealment for himself and fifteen of his fellow captives,
on whom he could rely. When the cavern was finished, the adventurers
made their escape by night from Algiers, and took up their quarters in it.
Of course an alarm was raised when they were missing; but, although a
most strict search after the fugitives was made, both by their masters and
by Ochali, then despot of Algiers, here they lay hid for several months,
being supplied with food by the gardener and another Christian slave,
named El Dorador.

One of their companions, named Viana, a gentleman of Minorca, had
been left behind them, so that he might bear a more active part in the
escape of the whole party. A sum of money was to be raised for his
ransom, and then he was to go to Europe and return with a ship in which
Cervantes and his friends, including the gardener and El Dorador, were
to embark on an appointed night, and so get back to their country.
Viana obtained his liberty in September 1577, and having reached Minorca
in safety, he easily procured a ship and came off the coast of Barbary,
according to the pre-concerted plan; but before he could land, he
was seen by the Moorish sentry, who raised an alarm and obliged him to
put out to sea again, lest he should by coming too close attract attention
to the cavern. This was a sore disappointment to Cervantes and his
companions, who witnessed it all from their retreat. Still knowing Viana’s
courage and constancy, they had yet hopes of his returning and again endeavouring
to get them off. And this he most probably would have done
had it not been for the treachery at which we hinted above. El Dorador
just at this time thought fit to turn renegade; and of course he could not
begin his infidel career better than by infamously betraying his former
friends. In consequence of his information Hassan Aga surrounded the
entrance to the cave with a sufficient force to make any attempt at resistance
utterly unavailing, and the sixteen poor prisoners were dragged out
and conveyed in chains to Algiers. The former attempts which he made
to escape caused Cervantes to be instantly fixed on as the contriver and
ringleader of this plot; and therefore, whilst the other fifteen were sent
back to their masters to be punished as they thought fit, he was detained
by the king himself, who hoped through him to obtain further information,
and so implicate the other Christians, and perhaps also some of the renegades.
Even had he possessed any such information, which most likely
he did not, Cervantes was certainly the very last man to give it: notwithstanding
various examinations and threats, he still persisted in asserting
that he was the sole contriver of the plot, till at length, by his firmness,
he fairly exhausted the patience of Ochali. Had Hassan had his way,
Cervantes would have been strangled as an example to all Christians who
should hereafter try to run away from their captivity, and the king himself
was not unwilling to please him in this matter; but then he was not
their property, and Mami, to whom he belonged, would not consent to
lose a slave whom he considered to be worth at least two hundred crowns.
Thus did the avarice of a renegade save the future author of Don Quixote
from being strangled with the bowstring. Some of the particulars of this
affair are given us by Cervantes himself; but others are collected from
Father Haedo, the contemporary author of a history of Barbary. “Most
wonderful thing,” says the worthy priest, “that some of these gentlemen
remained shut up in the cavern for five, six, even for seven months, without
even so much as seeing the light of day; and all the time they were
[Pg xvii]
sustained only by Miguel de Cervantes, and that too at the great and continual
risk of his own life; no less than four times did he incur the nearest
danger of being burnt alive, impaled, or strangled, on account of the bold
things which he dared in hopes of bestowing liberty upon many. Had
his fortune corresponded to his spirit, skill, and industry, Algiers might at
this day have been in the possession of the Christians, for his designs aspired
to no less lofty a consummation. In the end, the whole affair was
treacherously discovered; and the gardener, after being tortured and
picketed, perished miserably. But, in truth, of the things which happened
in that cave during the seven months that it was inhabited by
these Christians, and altogether of the captivity and various enterprises
of Miguel de Cervantes, a particular history might easily be formed.
Hassan Aga was wont to say that, ‘could he but be sure of that handless
Spaniard, he should consider captives, barks, and the whole city of Algiers
in perfect safety.'”

And Ochali seems to have been of the same opinion; for he did not
consider it safe to leave so dangerous a character as Cervantes in private
hands, and so we accordingly find that he himself bought him of Mami,
and then kept him closely confined in a dungeon in his own palace, with
the utmost cruelty. It is probable, however, that the extreme hardship
of Cervantes’ case did really contribute to his liberation. He found
means of applying to Spain for his redemption; and in consequence
his mother and sister (the former of whom had now become a widow,
and the latter, Donna Andrea de Cervantes, was married to a Florentine
gentleman named Ambrosio) raised the sum of two hundred and fifty
crowns, to which a friend of the family, one Francisco Caramambel, contributed
fifty more. This sum was paid into the hands of Father Juan
Gil and Father Antonio de la Vella Trinitarios, brethren of the ‘Society
for the Redemption of Slaves,’[1]
who immediately set to work to ransom
Cervantes. His case was, however, a hard one; for the king asked a
thousand crowns for his freedom; and the negotiation on this head caused
a long delay, but was at last brought to an issue by the abatement of the
ransom to the sum of five hundred crowns; the two hundred still wanting
were made up by the good fathers, the king threatening that if the bargain
were not concluded, Cervantes should be carried off to Constantinople;
and he was actually on board the galley for that purpose. So by
borrowing some part of the required amount, and by taking the remainder
from what was originally intrusted for the ransoming of other slaves, these
worthy men procured our author his liberty, and restored him to Spain in
the spring of 1581.

On his return to his native land the prospects of Cervantes were not
very flattering. He was now thirty-four years of age, and had spent the
best portion of his life without making any approach towards eminence or
even towards acquiring the means of subsistence; his adventures, enterprises,
and sufferings had, indeed, furnished him with a stock from which
in after years his powerful mind drew largely in his writings; but since he
[Pg xviii]
did not at first devote himself to literary pursuits, at least not to those of
an author, they could not afford him much consolation; and as to a military
career, his wound and long captivity seemed to exclude him from all
hope in that quarter. His family was poor, their scanty means having
suffered from the sum raised for his ransom; and his connexions and
friends were powerless to procure him any appointment at the court.
He went to live at Madrid, where his mother and sister then resided, and
there once more betook himself to the pursuit of his younger days. He
shut himself up, and eagerly employed his time in reading every kind of
books; Latin, Spanish, and Italian authors—all served to contribute to
his various erudition.

Three whole years were thus spent; till at length he turned his reading
to some account, by publishing, in 1584, a pastoral novel entitled
Galatæa. Some authors, amongst whom is Pellicer, are inclined to
think that dramatic composition was the first in which he appeared before
the public; but such an opinion has, by competent judges, been now
abandoned. Galatæa, which is interspersed with songs and verses, is a
work of considerable merit, quite sufficient, indeed, though of course inferior
to Don Quixote, to have gained for its author a high standing
amongst Spanish writers; though in it we discern nothing of that peculiar
style which has made Cervantes one of the most remarkable writers that
ever lived,—that insight into human character, and that vein of humour
with which he exposes and satirises its failings. It being so full of short
metrical effusions would almost incline us to believe that it was written
for the purpose of embodying the varied contents of a sort of poetical
commonplace-book; some of which had, perhaps, been written when he
was a youth under the tuition of his learned preceptor Juan Lopez de
Hoyos; others may have been the pencillings of the weary hours of his
long captivity in Africa. As a specimen of his power in the Spanish
language it is quite worthy of him who in after years immortalised that
tongue by the romance of Don Quixote. It had been better for Cervantes
had he gone on in this sort of fictitious composition, instead of betaking
himself to the drama, in which he had very formidable rivals, and
for which, as was afterwards proved, his talents were less adapted.

On the 12th of December in the same year that his Galatæa was
published, Cervantes married, at Esquivias, a young lady who was of one
of the first families of that place, and whose charms had furnished the
chief subject of his amatory poems; she was named Donna Catalina de
Salazar y Palacios y Vozmediano. Her fortune was but small, and only
served to keep Cervantes for some few months in idleness; when his difficulties
began to harass him again, and found him as a married man less
able to meet them. He then betook himself to the drama, at which he
laboured for several years, though with very indifferent success. He
wrote, in all, it is said thirty comedies; but of these only eight remain,
judging from the merits of which, we do not seem to have sustained any
great loss in the others not having reached us.

It may appear strange at first that one who possessed such a wonderful
power of description and delineation of character as did Cervantes,
should not have been more successful in dramatic writing; but, whatever
may be the cause, certain it is that his case does not stand alone. Men
who have manifested the very highest abilities as romance-writers, have, if
not entirely failed, at least not been remarkably successful, as composers
of the drama; and of our own time, who so great a delineator of character,
[Pg xix]
or so happy in his incidents, or so stirring in his plots, as the immortal
Author of Waverley? Yet the few specimens of dramatic composition
which he has left us, only serve to shew that, when Waverley, Guy
Mannering, Ivanhoe, and the rest of his romances are the delight of succeeding
generations, Halidon Hill and the House of Aspen will, with the
Numancia Vengada of the author of Don Quixote, be buried in comparative
oblivion.

In 1588 Cervantes left Madrid, and settled at Seville, where, as he
himself tells us, “he found something better to do than writing comedies.”
This “something better” was probably an appointment in some mercantile
business; for we know that one of the principal branches of his family
were very opulent merchants at Seville at that time, and through them
he might obtain some means of subsistence less precarious than that which
depended upon selling his comedies for a few “reals.” Besides, two of
the Cervantes-Saavedra of Seville were themselves amateur poets, and
likely therefore to regard the more favourably their poor relation, Miguel
of Alcala de Henares, to whom they would gladly intrust the management
of some part of their mercantile affairs. The change, however, of
life did not prevent Cervantes from still cultivating his old passion for
literature; and we accordingly find his name as one of the prize-bearers
for a series of poems which the Dominicans of Saragoza, in 1595, proposed
to be written in praise of St. Hyacinthus; one of the prizes was
adjudged to “Miguel Cervantes Saavedra of Seville.”

In 1596 we find two short poetical pieces of Cervantes written upon
the occasion of the gentlemen of Seville having taken arms, and prepared
to deliver themselves and the city of Cadiz from the power of the English,
who, under the famous Earl of Essex, had made a descent upon the
Spanish coast, and destroyed the shipping intended for a second armada
for the invasion of England. In 1598 Philip II. died; and Cervantes
wrote a sonnet, which he then considered the best of his literary productions,
upon a majestic tomb, of enormous height, to celebrate the funeral
of that monarch. On the day that Philip was buried, a serious quarrel
happened between the civil and ecclesiastical authorities of Seville; and
Cervantes was mixed up in it, and was in some trouble for having dared
to manifest his disapprobation by hissing at some part of their proceedings,
but we are not told what.

In 1599 Cervantes went to Toledo, which is remarkable as being the
place where he pretended to discover the original manuscript of Don
Quixote, by the Arabian Cid Hamet Benengeli. It was about this time,
too, that he resided in La Mancha, where he projected and executed part,
at least, of his immortal romance of Don Quixote, and where he also laid
the scene of that “ingenious gentleman’s” adventures. It seems likely
that, whatever may have been Cervantes’ employment at Seville, it
involved frequent travelling; and this may account for the very accurate
knowledge which he displays of the different districts which he describes
in his tale; for it is certain that the earlier part of his life could have
afforded him no means of acquiring such information. Some have thought
also that he was occasionally employed on government business, and that
it was whilst on some commission of this sort that he was ill-treated by
the people of La Mancha, and thrown into prison by them at Argasamilla.
Whatever may have been the cause of his imprisonment, he
himself tells us in the prologue to Don Quixote, that the first part of that
work was composed in a jail.

[Pg xx]
But for fifteen years of Cervantes’ life, from 1588 to 1603, we know
but very little of his pursuits; the notices we have of him during that
time are very few and unsatisfactory; and this is the more to be regretted
because it certainly was then that his great work was conceived, and in
part executed. Soon after the accession of Philip the Third, he removed
from Seville to Valladolid, probably for the sake of being near the court
of that monarch, who, though remarkable for his indolence, yet professed
himself the patron of letters. It was whilst living here that the first part
of Don Quixote was published, but not at Valladolid; it appeared at
Madrid, either at the end of 1604, or, at the latest, in 1605.

The records of the magistracy of Valladolid afford us some curious
particulars of our author’s mode of life about the time of the publication
of Don Quixote. He was brought before the court of justice, on suspicion
of having been concerned in a nightly brawl and murder, though
he really had no share in it. A Spanish gentleman, named Don Gaspar
Garibay, was stabbed about midnight near the house of Cervantes. When
the alarm was raised, he was amongst the first to run out and proffer
every assistance in his power to the wounded man. The neighbourhood
was not very respectable, and this gave rise to our author’s subsequent
trouble in the matter; for it was suspected that the ladies of his household
were, from the place where they lived, persons of bad reputation,
and that he himself had, in some shameful affray, dealt the murderous blow
with his own hand. He and all his family were, in consequence, directly
arrested, and only got at liberty after undergoing a very minute and rigid
examination. The records of the court tell us that Cervantes asserted
that he was residing at Valladolid for purposes of business; that, by reason
of his literary pursuits and reputation, he was frequently honoured by
visits from gentlemen of the royal household and learned men of the university;
and, moreover, that he was living in great poverty; for we are
told that he, his wife, and his two sisters, one of whom was a nun, and his
niece, were living in a scanty and mean lodging on the fourth floor of a
poor-looking house, and amongst them all had only one maid-servant.
He stated his age to be upwards of fifty, though we know that, if born in
1547, he must in fact have nearly, or quite completed his fifty-seventh
year at this time. In such obscurity, then, was the immortal author of
Don Quixote living at the time of its publication.

The First Part of this famous romance was dedicated to Don Alonzo
Lopez de Zuniga, Duke of Bexar or Bejar, who at this time affected the
character of a Mecænas; whose conduct, however, towards Cervantes was
not marked by a generosity suited to his rank, nor according to his profession,
nor at all corresponding to the merits and wants of the author.
But the book needed no patron; it must make its own way, and it did
so. It was read immediately in court and city, by old and young, learned
and unlearned, and by all with equal delight; “it went forth with the
universal applause of all nations.” Four editions (and in the seventeenth
century, when so few persons comparatively could read, that was equivalent
to more than double the number at the present time)—four editions
were published and sold in one year.

The profits from the sale of Don Quixote must have been very considerable;
and they, together with the remains of his paternal estates, and
the pensions from the count and the cardinal, enabled Cervantes to live
in ease and comfort. Ten years elapsed before he sent any new work to
the press; which time was passed in study, and in attending to his pecuniary
[Pg xxi]
affairs. Though Madrid was now his fixed abode, we often find
him at Esquivias, where he probably went to enjoy the quiet and repose
of the village, and to look after the property which he there possessed as
his wife’s dowry.

In 1613 he published his twelve Novelas Exemplares, or ‘Exemplary
Novels,’ with a dedication to his patron the Count de Lemos. He called
them “exemplary,” because, as he tells us, his other novels had been censured
as more satirical than exemplary; which fault he determined to
amend in these; and therefore each of them contains interwoven in it
some error to be avoided, or some virtue to be practised. He asserts that
they were entirely his own invention, not borrowed or copied from any
other works of the same sort, nor translated from any other language, as
was the case with most of the novels which his countrymen had published
hitherto. But, notwithstanding this, we cannot fail to remark a strong
resemblance in them to the tales of Boccaccio; still they are most excellent
in their way, and have always been favourites with the Spanish youth
for their interest and pure morality, and their ease and manliness of
style. The titles of these novels are, The Little Gipsey, The Generous
Lover, Rinconete and Cortadillo, The Spanish-English Lady, The Glass
Doctor, The Force of Blood, The Jealous Estremaduran, The Illustrious
Servant-Maid, The Two Damsels, The Lady Cornelia Bentivoglio, The
Deceitful Marriage, and The Dialogue of the Dogs. They have all been
translated into English, and are probably not unknown to some of our
readers.

The next year Cervantes published another small work, entitled the
Viage de Parnasso, or ‘A Journey to Parnassus,’ which is a playful
satire upon the Spanish poets, after the manner of Cæsar Caporali’s upon
the Italian poets under a similar title. It is a good picture of the Spanish
literature of his day, and one of the most powerful of his poetical works.
It is full of satire, though not ill-natured, and there was no man of genius
of the time who would complain of being too harshly treated in it. Cervantes
introduces himself as the oldest and poorest of all the poetical fraternity,
“the naked Adam of Spanish poets.” The plot of the poem is
as follows:—Apollo wishes to rid Parnassus of the bad poets, and to that
end he calls together all the others by a message through Mercury. When
all assembled, he leads them into a rich garden of Parnassus, and assigns
to each the place which corresponds to his merits. Poor Cervantes alone
does not obtain this distinction, and remains without being noticed in the
presence of the rest, before whom all the works he has ever published
are displayed. In vain does he urge his love for literature, and the
troubles which he had endured for its sake; no seat can he get. At last
Apollo, in compassion upon him, advises him to fold up his cloak, and to
make that his seat; but, alas, so poor is he that he does not possess such
a thing, and so he is obliged to remain standing in spite of his age, his
talents, and the opinion of many who know and confess the honour and
position which is his due. The vessel in which this ‘Journey to Parnassus’
is performed is described in a way quite worthy of Cervantes:
“From topmast to keel it was all of verse; not one foot of prose was there
in it. The airy railings which fenced the deck were all of double-rhymes.
Ballads, an impudent but necessary race, occupied the rowing-benches;
and rightly, for there is nothing to which they may not be turned. The
poop was grand and gay, but somewhat strange in its style, being stuck all
over with sonnets of the richest workmanship. The stroke-oars on either
[Pg xxii]
side were pulled by two vigorous triplets, which regulated the motion of
the vessel in a way both easy and powerful. The gangway was one long
and most melancholy elegy, from which tears were continually dropping.”

The publication of a shameful imitation, pretending to be a Second
Part of the Adventures of Don Quixote accelerated the production of
Cervantes’ own Second Part; which accordingly made its appearance at
the beginning of 1615. Contrary to common experience, this Second
Part was received, and deservedly, with as great applause as was the First
Part ten years before.

Cervantes had now but a few more months to live; and it must, in his
declining years, have been a great consolation to find that the efforts of
his genius were still appreciated by his countrymen; not to mention the
relief from pecuniary embarrassments which the profits of the sale must
have afforded him. Cervantes was now at the height to which his ambition
had all along aimed; he had no rival; for Lope de Vega was dead,
and the literary kingdom of Spain was all his own. He was courted by
the great; no strangers came to Madrid without making the writer of
Don Quixote the first object of their inquiry; he reposed in honour, free
from all calumny, in the bosom of his family.

This same year he published eight comedies, and the same number of
interludes; two only in verse, the rest in prose. It does not seem likely
that these were written at this time; they must have been the works of his
earlier years; but, like his novels, corrected and given to the public when
his judgment was more mature. Several of them had, no doubt, been
performed on the stage many years before, and remained with Cervantes
in manuscript. The dissertation which he prefixed to them is full of
interest, and is very curious and valuable, since it contains the only
account we have of the early history of the Spanish drama.

In 1616, he completed and prepared for the press a romance entitled
Persiles and Sigismunda, of a grave character, written in imitation of the
Ethiopics of Heliodorus; it was the work of many years, and is accounted
by the Spaniards one of the purest specimens of Castilian writing. He
finished it just before his death, but never lived to see it published. The
dedication and prologue of Persiles and Sigismunda are very affecting;
they are the voice of a dying man speaking to us of his approaching dissolution.

From the nature of his complaint, Cervantes retained his mental faculties
to the very last, and so was able to be the historian of his latter days.
At the end of the preface to Persiles, he tells us that he had gone for a
few days to Esquivias, in hopes that country air might be beneficial to
him. On his return to Madrid, he was accompanied by his friends, when
a young student on horseback overtook them, riding very hard to do so,
and complaining in consequence of the rapid pace at which they were
going. One of the three made answer that it was no fault of theirs, but
that the horse of Miguel de Cervantes was to be blamed, whose trot was
none of the slowest. Scarcely had the name been pronounced, when the
young man dismounted; and touching the border of Cervantes’ left sleeve,
exclaimed, “Yes, yes, it is indeed the maimed perfection, the all-famous,
the delightful writer, the joy and darling of the Muses.” This salutation
was returned with Cervantes’ natural modesty; and the worthy student
performed the rest of the journey with him and his friends. “We drew
up a little,” says Cervantes, “and rode on at a measured pace; and whilst
we rode, we happened to talk of my illness. The good student soon
[Pg xxiii]
knocked away all my hopes, and let me know my doom, by telling me
that it was a dropsy that I had got: the thirst attending which, not all
the waters of the ocean, though it were not salt, could suffice to quench.
‘Therefore, Senor Cervantes,’ said he, ‘you must drink nothing at all,
but forget not to eat, and to eat plentifully; that alone will recover you
without any physic.’ ‘Others have told me the same,’ answered I; ‘but
I can no more forbear drinking, than if I had been born to nothing else.
My life is fast drawing to a close; and from the state of my pulse, I think
I can scarcely outlive Sunday next at the utmost; so that I hardly think
I shall profit by the acquaintance so fortunately made. But adieu, my
merry friends all; for I am going to die; and I hope to see you again ere
long in the next world as happy as hearts can desire.’ With that, we found
ourselves at the bridge of Toledo, by which we entered the city; and the
student took leave of us, having to go round by the bridge of Segovia.”

This is all that we know of the last sickness of Cervantes: it was
dropsy, and this dropsy, according to his own prediction to the student,
increased so rapidly, that a few days after, on the 18th of April, 1616, he
was considered to be past recovery, and it was thought advisable for him
to receive the last sacrament of extreme unction, which he accordingly
did with all the devotion of a pious Catholic.

He died on the 23d day of April, 1616, in the sixty-ninth year of his
age; and was buried in the habit of the Franciscans, whose order he had
entered some time previous to his decease. It is a coincidence worth remembering,
that Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra terminated his mortal
course in Spain on the very same day that William Shakspere died in
England.

As regards style of composition, Cervantes is without a rival in the
Spanish language. For the purity of his writing, he is even to this day
acknowledged, not only to be first, but to have no one who can come near
enough to be called second to him. But this is not his greatest praise.
He must ever be remembered as the originator of a kind of writing, which
the greatest of men since his time have thought it an honour, of whatever
country they may have been, to imitate. All modern romance-writers,
and novel-writers (and what a mighty host are they!) must be content
to be accounted the followers of Miguel de Cervantes.

With regard to Don Quixote, it need hardly be said that its object is
satire upon the books of knight-errantry, which were so much used in the
time of Cervantes, and especially by the Spanish. He conceived that
these books were likely to give his countrymen false ideas of the world; to
fill them all, but especially the young, with fanciful notions of life, and so
make them unfit to meet its real difficulties and hardships. In order to
exhibit the absurdity of such works (it must be remembered too, that the
more famous books of knighthood had given rise to a host of spurious imitations,
with all their faults and none of their beauties), the author of Don
Quixote represents a worthy gentleman with his head turned by such
reading, and then sallying forth and endeavouring to act in this plain
matter-of-fact world (where there are windmills, and not giants—inns, and
[Pg xxiv]
not castles—good honest hosts and hostesses, and not lords and ladies—chambermaids,
and not peerless beauties—estates to be got by hard labour,
and not islands to be given away to one’s dependants as if by enchantment),
endeavouring to act, we say, as if all that was said in Amadis de
Gaul, and Palmerin of England, and Olivante de Laura, were really true.
The absurdities into which the poor gentleman’s madness constantly
hurries him, the stern and bitter satire which is conveyed in these against
the books which caused them all, did more towards putting down the
extravagances of knight-errantry than many volumes of the bitterest invective.
We of this present day cannot be really alive to all the great
genius displayed in Don Quixote. The books which it satirises are now
almost unknown; many who have heard of Amadis de Gaul have never
read it, and still less have they read all the lineage of the Amadis. Besides,
in some of the first of the chivalrous romances, such as Palmerin of
England, the Morte d’Arthur, and others, there was undoubtedly very
much talent and beauty of sentiment: and it was as such that Southey
thought it right to translate them and present them to the English public
some years ago; and deeply indebted are we all to him for his labours,
which revived among us somewhat of the taste for the old and stately prose
of the ancient romances—a taste which in our day has given rise to those
beautiful editions in English of the tales of De la Motte Fouqué. But we
must ever remember that it was not for the purpose of ridiculing those and
similar books that Cervantes wrote his “history”—one so keenly alive to
the beauty of the poetry of the mediæval writing as he was, never could
have intended such a thing: it was to exterminate the race of miserable
imitators, who, at his time, deluged Europe with sickening caricatures of
the old romance. It has even been thought that he had intended another
course in order to cure the disease, namely, that of himself composing a
model romance in the style of Amadis, which, from its excellence, would
make manifest the follies of men who had endeavoured to imitate that
almost inimitable work. But the disease was past cure; the limb was
obliged to be amputated; books of knight-errantry could not be reformed,
he thought; and so rather than let them continue their mischief in their
present shape, they must be quite destroyed; and this the satire of Don
Quixote was by its author considered the most proper means of effecting.

This was indeed a daring remedy; and, as may be supposed, by some
it has been thought that Cervantes, in lopping off an excrescence, did also
destroy a healthy limb,—that, in destroying knight-errantry, he destroyed
also the holy spirit of self-devotion and heroism. The Count Ségur, we
are told by an ingenious writer of the present time,[2]
who joins the Count[Pg xxv]
in his opinion, laments that the fine spirit of chivalry should have lost its
empire, and that the romance of Don Quixote, by its success and its
philosophy, concealed under an attractive fiction, should have completed
the ruin by fixing ridicule even upon its memory—a sentence indeed
full of error; for real philosophy needs not to be concealed to be attractive.
And Sir William Temple quotes the saying of a worthy Spaniard,
who told him “that the History of Don Quixote had ruined the Spanish
monarchy; for since that time men had grown ashamed of honour and
love, and only thought of pursuing their fortune and satisfying their
lust.”

But surely such censure is misdirected—surely the downfall of Spain
may be traced to other causes. It is not the spirit of heroism, or of Christian
self-devotion, which Cervantes would put down. His manly writing
can never be accused of that: misfortune had taught him too well in his
own earlier days how to appreciate such a virtue. In nothing is his consummate
skill perceived more than in the way in which he prevents us from
confounding the follies of the knights-errant, and of the debased books of
romance, with the generous heart and actions of the true Christian gentleman.
In spite of all his hallucination, who can help respecting Don
Quixote himself? We laugh, indeed, at the ludicrous situations into
which his madness is for ever getting him; but we must reverence the
good Christian cavalier who, amidst all, never thinks less of any thing
than of himself and of his own interest. What is his character? It is
that of one possessing virtue, imagination, genius, kind feeling,—all that
can distinguish an elevated soul, and an affectionate heart. He is brave,
faithful, loyal, always keeping his word; he contends only for virtue and
glory. Does he wish for kingdoms? it is only that he may give them to
his good squire Sancho Panza. He is a constant lover, a humane warrior,
an affectionate master, an accomplished gentleman. It is not, then, by
describing such a man that Cervantes desired to ridicule real heroism;
surely not: he would only shew that, even with all these good qualities,
if they were misdirected or spoiled by vain imaginations, the most noble
could only become ridiculous. He would teach us, that this is a world of
action, and not of fancy; that it will not do for us to go out of ourselves
and out of the world, and lead an ideal life: our duties are around us
and within us; and we need not leave our own homes in order to seek
adventures wherein those duties may be acceptably performed. He perceived
that by knight-errantry and romances some of the holiest aspirations
of the human heart were, according to the adage, which affirms
that “there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous,” by over-description
and fulsome language, in danger of being exposed to ridicule,
and so of being crushed; and he resolved, by excess of satire, to put a
[Pg xxvi]
stop at once to such a danger,—to crush those books which were daily
destroying that which he held most dear—the true spirit of chivalry, the
true devotion of the Christian gentleman. “When the light of chivalry
was expiring, Cervantes put his extinguisher upon it, and drove away the
moths that alone still fluttered around it. He loved chivalry too well to
be patient when he saw it parodied and burlesqued; and he perceived that
the best way of preserving it from shame was, to throw over it the sanctity
of death.”[3]

With respect to the present edition, little need be said beyond what
the title-page itself implies. With what degree of judgment the “cumbrous
matter” has been removed, must be left to the public to determine.
The Editor may, however, say, that the task which he at first
undertook with some trepidation, gradually assumed an easier and more
pleasant aspect; and he may add, that the result has been such as to
satisfy himself of the success of the experiment. He trusts that he has
placed in the hands of the mass of our reading population, and especially
of the youth of England, an edition of Cervantes’ immortal work,
in a convenient, but yet not too condensed form—retaining all the point,
humour, and pathos of the original, without any of the prolixity, or the
improprieties of expression, which have heretofore disfigured it. The
judgment passed upon one of the books in our hero’s library by his inquisitorial
friends may well be applied to his own work: “Had there been
less of it, it would have been more esteemed. ‘Tis fit the book should be
pruned and cleared of some inferior things that encumber and deform
it: keep it, however,” &c.—(Page 23.)

It only remains to add, that the excellent translation of Motteux
has been principally adhered to in the present edition.

London, December 1st, 1846.

NOTES.

The holy brotherhood.—Most readers would suppose at first sight that the Inquisition
is meant by this term, which occurs so often in the work; it is not so, however.
The “holy brotherhood” alluded to was simply an association for the prevention of
robberies and murders in the less frequented parts of Spain.

Mambrino’s helmet.—Orlando Furioso must be referred to for the history of this
enchanted and invulnerable headpiece, which is several times alluded to in Don
Quixote.

The Life and Achievements

OF

DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.

CHAPTER I.

The quality and way of living of Don Quixote.

N
a certain village in La Mancha, in the
kingdom of Arragon, of which I cannot remember
the name, there lived not long
ago one of those old-fashioned gentlemen,
who are never without a lance upon a rack, an old
target, a lean horse, and a greyhound. His diet consisted
more of beef than mutton; and, with minced
meat on most nights, lentiles on Fridays, and a
pigeon extraordinary on Sundays, he consumed three
quarters of his revenue; the rest was laid out in a
plush coat, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same,
for holydays; and a suit of the very best homespun
cloth, which he bestowed on himself for working-days.
His whole family was a housekeeper something
turned of forty, a niece not twenty, and a man
that served him in the house and in the field, and could
saddle a horse, and handle the pruning-hook. The master
himself was nigh fifty years of age, of a hale and
strong complexion, lean-bodied and thin-faced, an early
riser, and a lover of hunting. Some say his sirname was
Quixada, or Quesada (for authors differ in this particular);
however, we may reasonably conjecture, he was called
Quixada (i.e. lantern-jaws), though this concerns us but
little, provided we keep strictly to the truth in every point
of this history.

Be it known, then, that when our gentleman had nothing to
do (which was almost all the year round), he passed his time in
reading books of knight-errantry, which he did with that application
and delight, that at last he in a manner wholly left off his
[Pg 2]
country sports, and even the care of his estate; nay, he grew so
strangely enamoured of these amusements, that he sold many
acres of land to purchase books of that kind, by which means he
collected as many of them as he could; but none pleased him like
the works of the famous Feliciano de Sylva; for the brilliancy of
his prose, and those intricate expressions with which it is interlaced
seemed to him so many pearls of eloquence, especially when
he came to read the love-addresses and challenges; many of them
in this extraordinary style. “The reason of your unreasonable
usage of my reason, does so enfeeble my reason, that I have reason
to expostulate with your beauty.” And this, “The sublime
heavens, which with your divinity divinely fortify you with the
stars, and fix you the deserver of the desert that is deserved
by your grandeur.” These, and such-like rhapsodies, strangely
puzzled the poor gentleman’s understanding, while he was racking
his brain to unravel their meaning, which Aristotle himself
could never have found, though he should have been raised from
the dead for that very purpose.

He did not so well like those dreadful wounds which Don
Belianis gave and received; for he considered that all the art of
surgery could never secure his face and body from being strangely
disfigured with scars. However, he highly commended the author
for concluding his book with a promise to finish that unfinishable
adventure; and many times he had a desire to put pen to paper,
and faithfully and literally finish it himself; which he had certainly
done, and doubtless with good success, had not his thoughts
been wholly engrossed in much more important designs.

He would often dispute with the curate of the parish, a man
of learning, that had taken his degrees at Giguenza, as to which
was the better knight, Palmerin of England, or Amadis de Gaul;
but Master Nicholas, the barber of the same town, would say, that
none of them could compare with the Knight of the Sun; and
that if any one came near him, it was certainly Don Galaor, the
brother of Amadis de Gaul; for he was a man of a most commodious
temper, neither was he so finical, nor such a whining lover,
as his brother; and as for courage, he was not a jot behind him.

In fine, he gave himself up so wholly to the reading of romances,
that at night he would pore on until it was day, and
would read on all day until it was night; and thus a world
of extraordinary notions, picked out of his books, crowded into
his imagination; now his head was full of nothing but enchantments,
quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, complaints, love-passages,
torments, and abundance of absurd impossibilities; insomuch
that all the fables and fantastical tales which he read
seemed to him now as true as the most authentic histories. He
would say, that the Cid Ruydiaz was a very brave knight, but not
worthy to stand in competition with the Knight of the Burning Sword,
who, with a single back-stroke had cut in sunder two
[Pg 3]
fierce and mighty giants. He liked yet better Bernardo del Carpio,
who, at Roncesvalles, deprived of life the enchanted Orlando,
having lifted him from the ground, and choked him in the air, as
Hercules did Antæus, the son of the Earth.

As for the giant Morgante, he always spoke very civil things
of him; for among that monstrous brood, who were ever intolerably
proud and insolent, he alone behaved himself like a civil
and well-bred person.

But of all men in the world he admired Rinaldo of Montalban,
and particularly his carrying away the idol of Mahomet,
which was all massy gold, as the history says; while he so hated
that traitor Galalon, that for the pleasure of kicking him handsomely,
he would have given up his housekeeper, nay and his
niece into the bargain.

Having thus confused his understanding, he unluckily stumbled
upon the oddest fancy that ever entered into a madman’s brain;
for now he thought it convenient and necessary, as well for the
increase of his own honour, as the service of the public, to turn
knight-errant, and roam through the whole world, armed cap-a-pie,
and mounted on his steed, in quest of adventures; that thus
imitating those knight-errants of whom he had read, and following
their course of life, redressing all manner of grievances, and
exposing himself to danger on all occasions, at last, after a happy
conclusion of his enterprises, he might purchase everlasting honour
and renown.

The first thing he did was to scour a suit of armour that had
belonged to his great grandfather, and had lain time out of mind
carelessly rusting in a corner; but when he had cleaned and repaired
it as well as he could, he perceived there was a material
piece wanting; for, instead of a complete helmet, there was only
a single head-piece. However, his industry supplied that defect;
for with some pasteboard he made a kind of half-beaver, or vizor,
which, being fitted to the head-piece, made it look like an entire
helmet. Then, to know whether it were cutlass-proof, he drew
his sword, and tried its edge upon the pasteboard vizor; but with
the very first stroke he unluckily undid in a moment what he had
been a whole week in doing. He did not like its being broke
with so much ease, and therefore, to secure it from the like accident,
he made it a-new, and fenced it with thin plates of iron,
which he fixed on the inside of it so artificially, that at last he had
reason to be satisfied with the solidity of the work; and so, without
any farther experiment, he resolved it should pass to all intents
and purposes for a full and sufficient helmet.

The next moment he went to view his horse, whose bones
stuck out like the corners of a Spanish real, being a worse jade
than Gonela’s, qui tantum pellis etossa fuit; however, his master
thought that neither Alexander’s Bucephalus nor the Cid’s
Babieca could be compared with him. He was four days considering
[Pg 4]
what name to give him; for, as he argued with himself,
there was no reason that a horse bestrid by so famous a knight,
and withal so excellent in himself, should not be distinguished by
a particular name; so, after many names which he devised, rejected,
changed, liked, disliked, and pitched upon again, he concluded
to call him Rozinante.

Having thus given his horse a name, he thought of choosing
one for himself; and having seriously pondered on the matter
eight whole days more, at last he determined to call himself Don
Quixote. Whence the author of this history draws this inference,
that his right name was Quixada, and not Quesada, as others obstinately
pretend. And observing, that the valiant Amadis, not
satisfied with the bare appellation of Amadis, added to it the
name of his country, that it might grow more famous by his exploits,
and so styled himself Amadis de Gaul; so he, like a true
lover of his native soil, resolved to call himself Don Quixote de
la Mancha; which addition, to his thinking, denoted very plainly
his parentage and country, and consequently would fix a lasting
honour on that part of the world.

And now, his armour being scoured, his head-piece improved
to a helmet, his horse and himself new-named, he perceived he
wanted nothing but a lady, on whom he might bestow the empire
of his heart; for he was sensible that a knight-errant without a
mistress was a tree without either fruit or leaves, and a body
without a soul. “Should I,” said he to himself, “by good or ill fortune,
chance to encounter some giant, as it is common in knight-errantry,
and happen to lay him prostrate on the ground, transfixed
with my lance, or cleft in two, or, in short, overcome him,
and have him at my mercy, would it not be proper to have some
lady to whom I may send him as a trophy of my valour? Then
when he comes into her presence, throwing himself at her feet,
he may thus make his humble submission: ‘Lady, I am the
giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished
in single combat by that never-deservedly-enough-extolled
knight-errant Don Quixote de la Mancha, who has commanded
me to cast myself most humbly at your feet, that it may
please your honour to dispose of me according to your will.'”
Near the place where he lived dwelt a good-looking country girl,
for whom he had formerly had a sort of an inclination, though, it
is believed, she never heard of it, nor regarded it in the least. Her
name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and this was she whom he thought
he might entitle to the sovereignty of his heart; upon which he
studied to find her out a new name, that might have some affinity
with her old one, and yet at the same time sound somewhat like
that of a princess, or lady of quality; so at last he resolved to call
her Dulcinea, with the addition of del Toboso, from the place
where she was born; a name, in his opinion, sweet, harmonious,
and dignified, like the others which he had devised.

CHAPTER II.

Which treats of Don Quixote’s first sally.

[Pg 5]
These preparations being made, he found his designs ripe for
action, and thought it now a crime to deny himself any longer to
the injured world that wanted such a deliverer; the more when
he considered what grievances he was to redress, what wrongs
and injuries to remove, what abuses to correct, and what duties to
discharge. So one morning before day, in the greatest heat of
July, without acquainting any one with his design, with all the
secrecy imaginable, he armed himself cap-a-pie, laced on his ill-contrived
helmet, braced on his target, grasped his lance, mounted
Rozinante, and at the private door of his back-yard sallied out
into the fields, wonderfully pleased to see with how much ease he
had succeeded in the beginning of his enterprise. But he had
not gone far ere a terrible thought alarmed him; a thought that
had like to have made him renounce his great undertaking; for
now it came into his mind, that the honour of knighthood had
not yet been conferred upon him, and therefore, according to the
laws of chivalry, he neither could nor ought to appear in arms
against any professed knight; nay, he also considered, that
though he were already knighted, it would become him to wear
white armour, and not to adorn his shield with any device, until
he had deserved one by some extraordinary demonstration of
his valour.

These thoughts staggered his resolution; but his frenzy prevailing
more than reason, he resolved to be dubbed a knight by
the first he should meet, after the example of several others, who,
as the romances informed him, had formerly done the like. As
for the other difficulty about wearing white armour, he proposed
to overcome it, by scouring his own at leisure until it should look
whiter than ermine. And having thus dismissed these scruples,
he rode calmly on, leaving it to his horse to go which way he
pleased; firmly believing, that in this consisted the very essence
of adventures. And as he thus went on, “no doubt,” said he
to himself, “that when the history of my famous achievements
shall be given to the world, the learned author will begin it in
this very manner, when he comes to give an account of this my
setting out: ‘Scarce had the ruddy Phœbus begun to spread
the golden tresses of his lovely hair over the vast surface of the
earthly globe, and scarce had those feathered poets of the grove,
the pretty painted birds, tuned their little pipes, to sing their early
welcomes in soft melodious strains to the beautiful Aurora, displaying
her rosy graces to mortal eyes from the gates and balconies
of the Manchegan horizon,—when the renowned knight
Don Quixote de la Mancha, disdaining soft repose, forsook the
[Pg 6]
voluptuous down, and mounting his famous steed Rozinante,
entered the ancient and celebrated plains of Montiel.'” This was
indeed the very road he took; and then proceeding, “O happy
age! O fortunate times!” cried he, “decreed to usher into the
world my famous achievements; achievements worthy to be engraven
on brass, carved on marble, and delineated in some masterpiece
of painting, as monuments of my glory, and examples
for posterity! And thou, venerable sage, wise enchanter, whatever
be thy name; thou whom fate has ordained to be the compiler
of this rare history, forget not, I beseech thee, my trusty
Rozinante, the eternal companion of all my adventures.” After
this, as if he had been really in love; “O Princess Dulcinea,”
cried he, “lady of this captive heart, much sorrow and woe you
have doomed me to in banishing me thus, and imposing on me
your rigorous commands, never to appear before your beauteous
face! Remember, lady, that loyal heart your slave, who for your
love submits to so many miseries.” To these extravagant conceits,
he added a world of others, all in imitation, and in the very
style of those which the reading of romances had furnished him
with; and all this while he rode so softly, and the sun’s heat increased
so fast, and was so violent, that it would have been sufficient
to have melted his brains, had he had any left.

He travelled almost all that day without meeting any adventure
worth the trouble of relating, which put him into a kind of
despair; for he desired nothing more than to encounter immediately
some person on whom he might try the vigour of his
arm.

Towards the evening, he and his horse being heartily tired and
almost famished, Don Quixote looked about him, in hopes to discover
some castle, or at least some shepherd’s cottage, there to
repose and refresh himself; and at last near the road which he
kept, he espied an inn, a most welcome sight to his longing eyes.
Hastening towards it with all the speed he could, he got thither
just at the close of the evening. There stood by chance at the
inn-door two young female adventurers, who were going to
Seville with some carriers that happened to take up their lodging
there that very evening; and as whatever our knight-errant saw,
thought, or imagined, was all of a romantic cast, and appeared to
him altogether after the manner of his favourite books, he no
sooner saw the inn but he fancied it to be a castle fenced with
four towers, and lofty pinnacles glittering with silver, together
with a deep moat, drawbridge, and all those other appurtenances
peculiar to such kind of places.

When he came near it, he stopped a while at a distance from
the gate, expecting that some dwarf would appear on the battlements,
and sound his trumpet to give notice of the arrival of a
knight; but finding that nobody came, and that Rozinante was for
making the best of his way to the stable, he advanced to the door,
[Pg 7]
at which the innkeeper immediately appeared. He was a man
whose burden of fat inclined him to peace and quietness, yet
when he observed such a strange disguise of human shape in his
old armour and equipage, he could hardly forbear laughter; but
having the fear of such a warlike appearance before his eyes, he
resolved to give him good words, and therefore accosted him
civilly: “Sir Knight,” said he, “if your worship be disposed to
alight, you will fail of nothing here but of a bed; as for all other
accommodations, you may be supplied to your mind.” Don
Quixote observing the humility of the governor of the castle (for
such the innkeeper and inn seemed to him), “Senior Castellano,”
said he, “the least thing in the world suffices me; for arms
are the only things I value, and combat is my bed of repose.”
“At this rate, Sir Knight, you may safely alight, and I dare
assure you, you can hardly miss being kept awake all the year
long in this house, much less one single night.” With that he
went and held Don Quixote’s stirrup, who having ate nothing
all that day, dismounted with no small trouble and difficulty.
He immediately desired the governor (that is, the innkeeper) to
have special care of his steed, assuring him that there was not a
better in the universe; upon which the innkeeper viewed him
narrowly, but could not think him to be half so good as Don
Quixote said. However, having set him up in the stable, he
came back to the knight to see what he wanted, and whether he
would eat anything. “That I will, with all my heart,” cried
Don Quixote, “whatever it be; for I am of opinion nothing can
come to me more seasonably.” Now, it happened to be Friday,
and there was nothing to be had at the inn but some pieces of
fish, which they call truchuela; so they asked him whether he
could eat any of that truchuela, because they had no other fish
to give him. Don Quixote imagining they meant small trout,
told them, that provided there were more than one, it was the
same thing to him, they would serve him as well as a great one;
“for,” continued he, “it is all one to me whether I am paid a piece
of eight in one single piece, or in eight small reals, which are
worth as much. Besides, it is probable these small trouts may
be like veal, which is finer meat than beef; or like the kid, which
is better than the goat. In short, let it be what it will, so it
comes quickly; for the weight of armour and the fatigue of travel
are not to be supported without recruiting food.” Thereupon
they laid the cloth at the inn-door for the benefit of the fresh air,
and the landlord brought him a piece of the salt fish, but ill-watered
and as ill-dressed; and as for the bread, it was as mouldy
and brown as the knight’s armour.

While he was at supper, a pig-driver happened to sound his
cane-trumpet, or whistle of reeds, four or five times as he came
near the inn, which made Don Quixote the more positive that he
was in a famous castle, where he was entertained with music at
[Pg 8]
supper, that the country girls were great ladies, and the innkeeper
the governor of the castle, which made him applaud himself
for his resolution, and his setting out on such an account.
The only thing that vexed him was, that he was not yet dubbed
a knight; for he fancied he could not lawfully undertake any
adventure till he had received the order of knighthood.

CHAPTER III.

An account of the pleasant method taken by Don Quixote to be dubbed
a knight.

Don Quixote’s mind being disturbed with that thought, he
abridged even his short supper; and as soon as he had done, he
called his host, then shut him and himself up in the stable, and
falling at his feet, “I will never rise from this place,” cried he,
“most valorous knight, till you have graciously vouchsafed to
grant me a boon, which I will now beg of you, and which will
redound to your honour and the good of mankind.” The innkeeper,
strangely at a loss to find his guest at his feet, and talking
at this rate, endeavoured to make him rise; but all in vain, till he
had promised to grant him what he asked. “I expected no less
from your great magnificence, noble sir,” replied Don Quixote;
“and therefore I make bold to tell you, that the boon which I
beg, and you generously condescend to grant me, is, that to-morrow
you will be pleased to bestow the honour of knighthood upon
me. This night I will watch my armour in the chapel of your
castle, and then in the morning you shall gratify me, that I may
be duly qualified to seek out adventures in every corner of the
universe, to relieve the distressed, according to the laws of chivalry
and the inclinations of knights-errant like myself.” The innkeeper,
who, as I said, was a sharp fellow, and had already a
shrewd suspicion of his guest’s disorder, was fully convinced
of it when he heard him talk in this manner; and, to make sport
he resolved to humour him, telling him he was much to be commended
for his choice of such an employment, which was altogether
worthy a knight of the first order, such as his gallant deportment
discovered him to be: that he himself had in his youth
followed that profession, ranging through many parts of the world
in search of adventures, till at length he retired to this castle,
where he lived on his own estate and those of others, entertaining
all knights-errant of what quality or condition soever, purely for
the great affection he bore them, and to partake of what they
might share with him in return. He added, that his castle at
present had no chapel where the knight might keep the vigil of his
arms, it being pulled down in order to be new built; but that he
[Pg 9]
knew they might lawfully be watched in any other place in a case
of necessity, and therefore he might do it that night in the court-yard
of the castle; and in the morning all the necessary ceremonies
should be performed, so that he might assure himself he
should be dubbed a knight, nay as much a knight as any one in
the world could be. He then asked Don Quixote whether he had
any money? “Not a cross,” replied the knight, “for I never
read in any history of chivalry that any knight-errant ever carried
money about him.” “You are mistaken,” cried the innkeeper;
“for admit the histories are silent in this matter, the authors
thinking it needless to mention things so evidently necessary as
money and clean shirts, yet there is no reason to believe the
knights went without either; and you may rest assured, that all
the knights-errant, of whom so many histories are full, had their
purses well lined to supply themselves with necessaries, and carried
also with them some shirts, and a small box of salves to heal
their wounds; for they had not the conveniency of surgeons to
cure them every time they fought in fields and deserts, unless they
were so happy as to have some sage or magician for their friend
to give them present assistance, sending them some damsel or
dwarf through the air in a cloud, with a small bottle of water of
so great a virtue, that they no sooner tasted a drop of it, but their
wounds were as perfectly cured as if they had never received any.
But when they wanted such a friend in former ages, the knights
thought themselves obliged to take care that their squires should
be provided with money and other necessaries; and if those knights
ever happened to have no squires, which was but very seldom,
then they carried those things behind them in a little bag. I
must therefore advise you,” continued he, “never from this time
forwards to ride without money, nor without the other necessaries
of which I spoke to you, which you will find very beneficial
when you least expect it.” Don Quixote promised to perform all
his injunctions; and so they disposed every thing in order to his
watching his arms in the great yard. To which purpose the
knight, having got them all together, laid them in a horse-trough
close by a well; then bracing his target, and grasping his lance,
just as it grew dark, he began to walk about by the horse-trough
with a graceful deportment. In the mean while, the innkeeper
acquainted all those that were in the house with the extravagancies
of his guest, his watching his arms, and his hopes of being
made a knight. They all marvelled very much at so strange a
kind of folly, and went on to observe him at a distance; where,
they saw him sometimes walk about with a great deal of gravity,
and sometimes lean on his lance, with his eyes all the while fixed
upon his arms. It was now undoubted night, but yet the moon
did shine with such a brightness, as might almost have vied with
that of the luminary which lent it her; so that the knight was
wholly exposed to the spectators’ view. While he was thus employed,
[Pg 10]
one of the carriers who lodged in the inn came out to
water his mules, which he could not do without removing the
arms out of the trough. With that, Don Quixote, who saw him
make towards them, cried out to him aloud, “O thou, whoever
thou art, rash knight, that prepares to lay thy hands on the arms
of the most valorous knight-errant that ever wore a sword, take
heed; do not audaciously attempt to profane them with a touch,
lest instant death be the too sure reward of thy temerity.” But
the carrier regarded not these threats; and laying hold of the
armour without any more ado, threw it a good way from him;
though it had been better for him to have let it alone; for Don
Quixote no sooner saw this, but lifting up his eyes to heaven, and
thus addressing his thoughts, as it seemed, to his lady Dulcinea;
“Assist me, lady,” cried he, “in the first opportunity that offers
itself to your faithful slave; nor let your favour and protection be
denied me in this first trial of my valour!” Repeating such-like
ejaculations, he let slip his target, and lifting up his lance with
both his hands, he gave the carrier such a terrible knock on his
inconsiderate head with his lance, that he laid him at his feet in
a woful condition; and had he backed that blow with another, the
fellow would certainly have had no need of a surgeon. This
done, Don Quixote took up his armour, laid it again in the horse-trough,
and then walked on backwards and forwards with as great
unconcern as he did at first.

Soon after another carrier, not knowing what had happened,
came also to water his mules, while the first yet lay on the ground
in a trance; but as he offered to clear the trough of the armour,
Don Quixote, without speaking a word, or imploring any one’s
assistance, once more dropped his target, lifted up his lance, and
then let it fall so heavily on the fellow’s pate, that without damaging
his lance, he broke the carrier’s head in three or four
places. His outcry soon alarmed and brought thither all the
people in the inn, and the landlord among the rest; which Don
Quixote perceiving, “Thou Queen of Beauty,” cried he, bracing
on his shield, and drawing his sword, “thou courage and vigour
of my weakened heart, now is the time when thou must enliven
thy adventurous slave with the beams of thy greatness, while this
moment he is engaging in so terrible an adventure!” With this,
in his opinion, he found himself supplied with such an addition of
courage, that had all the carriers in the world at once attacked
him, he would undoubtedly have faced them all. On the other
side, the carriers, enraged to see their comrades thus used, though
they were afraid to come near, gave the knight such a volley of
stones, that he was forced to shelter himself as well as he could
under the covert of his target, without daring to go far from the
horse-trough, lest he should seem to abandon his arms. The innkeeper
called to the carriers as loud as he could to let him alone;
that he had told them already he was mad, and consequently the
[Pg 11]
law would acquit him, though he should kill them. Don Quixote
also made yet more noise, calling them false and treacherous
villains, and the lord of the castle base and unhospitable, and a
discourteous knight, for suffering a knight-errant to be so abused.
“I would make thee know,” cried he, “what a perfidious wretch
thou art, had I but received the order of knighthood; but for you,
base, ignominious rabble, fling on, do your worst; come on, draw
nearer if you dare, and receive the reward of your indiscretion
and insolence.” This he spoke with so much spirit and undauntedness,
that he struck a terror into all his assailants; so that, partly
through fear, and partly through the innkeeper’s persuasions,
they gave over flinging stones at him; and he, on his side, permitted
the enemy to carry off their wounded, and then returned
to the guard of his arms as calm and composed as before.

The innkeeper, who began somewhat to disrelish these mad
tricks of his guest, resolved to despatch him forthwith, and bestow
on him that unlucky knighthood, to prevent farther mischief: so
coming to him, he excused himself for the insolence of those base
scoundrels, as being done without his privity or consent; but their
audaciousness, he said, was sufficiently punished. He added, that
he had already told him there was no chapel in his castle; and
that indeed there was no need of one to finish the rest of the ceremony
of knighthood, which consisted only in the application of
the sword to the neck and shoulders, as he had read in the register
of the ceremonies of the order; and that this might be performed
as well in a field as anywhere else: that he had already fulfilled
the obligation of watching his arms, which required no more than
two hours watch, whereas he had been four hours upon the guard.
Don Quixote, who easily believed him, told him he was ready to
obey him, and desired him to make an end of the business as soon
as possible; for if he were but knighted, and should see himself
once attacked, he believed he should not leave a man alive in the
castle, except those whom he should desire him to spare for his
sake.

Upon this, the innkeeper, lest the knight should proceed to
such extremities, fetched the book in which he used to set down
the carriers’ accounts for straw and barley; and having brought
with him the two kind females already mentioned, and a boy
that held a piece of lighted candle in his hand, he ordered Don
Quixote to kneel: then reading in his manual, as if he had been
repeating some pious oration, in the midst of his devotion he lifted
up his hand, and gave him a good blow on the neck, and then a
gentle slap on the back with the flat of his sword, still mumbling
some words between his teeth in the tone of a prayer. After this
he ordered one of the ladies to gird the sword about the knight’s
waist: which she did with much solemnity, and, I may add, discretion,
considering how hard a thing it was to forbear laughing
at every circumstance of the ceremony: it is true, the thoughts of
[Pg 12]
the knight’s late prowess did not a little contribute to the suppression
of her mirth. As she girded on his sword, “Heaven,”
cried the kind lady, “make your worship a lucky knight, and
prosper you wherever you go.” Don Quixote desired to know
her name, that he might understand to whom he was indebted for
the favour she had bestowed upon him, and also make her partaker
of the honour he was to acquire by the strength of his arm.
To which the lady answered with all humility, that her name was
Tolosa, a cobbler’s daughter, that kept a stall among the little
shops of Sanchobinaya at Toledo; and that whenever he pleased
to command her, she would be his humble servant. Don Quixote
begged of her to do him the favour to add hereafter the title of
lady to her name, and for his sake to be called from that time the
Lady Toloso; which she promised to do. Her companion having
buckled on his spurs, occasioned a like conference between them;
and when he had asked her name, she told him she went by the
name of Molivera, being the daughter of an honest miller of
Antequera. Our new knight entreated her also to style herself
the Lady Molivera, making her new offers of service. These
extraordinary ceremonies (the like never seen before) being thus
hurried over in a kind of post-haste, Don Quixote could not rest
till he had taken the field in quest of adventures; therefore having
immediately saddled his Rozinante, and being mounted, he embraced
the innkeeper, and returned him so many thanks at so
extravagant a rate, for the obligation he had laid upon him in
dubbing him a knight, that it is impossible to give a true relation
of them all; to which the innkeeper, in haste to get rid of him,
returned as rhetorical though shorter answers; and without stopping
his horse for the reckoning, was glad with all his heart to
see him go.

CHAPTER IV.

What befel the Knight after he had left the inn.

Aurora began to usher in the morn, when Don Quixote sallied
out of the inn, so overjoyed to find himself knighted, that he infused
the same satisfaction into his horse, who seemed ready to
burst his girths for joy. But calling to mind the admonitions
which the innkeeper had given him, concerning the provision of
necessary accommodation in his travels, particularly money and
clean shirts, he resolved to return home to furnish himself with
them, and likewise get him a squire, designing to entertain as
such a labouring man, his neighbour, who was poor and had a
number of children, but yet very fit for the office. With this resolution
he took the road which led to his own village. The knight
had not travelled far, when he fancied he heard an effeminate
voice complaining in a thicket on his right hand. “I thank
[Pg 13]
Heaven,” said he, when he heard the cries, “for favouring me so
soon with an opportunity to perform the duty of my profession,
and reap the fruits of my desire; for these complaints are certainly
the moans of some distressed creature who wants my present
help.” Then turning to that side with all the speed which
Rozinante could make, he no sooner came into the wood but he
found a mare tied to an oak, and to another a young lad about
fifteen years of age, naked from the waist upwards. This was he
who made such a lamentable outcry; and not without cause, for
a lusty country-fellow was strapping him soundly with a girdle,
at every stripe putting him in mind of a proverb, Keep your
mouth shut, and your eyes open. “Good master,” cried the boy,
“I’ll do so no more: indeed, master, hereafter I’ll take more
care of your goods.” Don Quixote seeing this, cried in an angry
tone, “Discourteous knight, ’tis an unworthy act to strike a
person who is not able to defend himself: come, bestride thy
steed, and take thy lance, then I’ll make thee know thou hast
acted the part of a coward.” The country-fellow, who gave himself
for lost at the sight of an apparition in armour brandishing
his lance at his face, answered him in mild and submissive words:
“Sir knight,” cried he, “this boy, whom I am chastising, is my
servant; and because I correct him for his carelessness or his
knavery, he says I do it out of covetousness, to defraud him of
his wages; but, upon my life and soul, he belies me.” “Sayest
thou this in my presence, vile rustic,” cried Don Quixote; “for
thy insolent speech, I have a good mind to run thee through the
body with my lance. Pay the boy this instant, without any more
words, or I will immediately despatch and annihilate thee: unbind
him, I say, this moment.” The countryman hung down his head,
and without any further reply unbound the boy; who being asked
by Don Quixote what his master owed him, told him it was nine
months’ wages, at seven reals a month. The knight having cast it
up, found it came to sixty-three reals in all; which he ordered the
farmer to pay the fellow immediately, unless he intended to lose
his life that very moment. “The worst is, sir knight,” cried the
farmer, “that I have no money about me; but let Andres go
home with me, and I’ll pay him every piece out of hand.”
“What, I go home with him!” cried the youngster; “I know
better things: for he’d no sooner have me by himself, but he’d
flay me alive, like another St. Bartholomew.” “He will not
dare,” replied Don Quixote; “I command him, and that’s sufficient:
therefore, provided he will swear by the order of knighthood
which has been conferred upon him, that he will duly
observe this regulation, I will freely let him go, and then thou
art secure of thy money.” “Good sir, take heed what you say,”
cried the boy; “for my master is no knight, nor ever was of any
order in his life: he’s John Haldudo, the rich farmer of Quintinar.”
“This signifies little,” answered Don Quixote, “for
[Pg 14]
there may be knights among the Haldudos; besides, the brave
man carves out his fortune, and every man is the son of his own
works.” “That’s true, sir,” quoth Andres; “but of what works
can this master of mine be the son, who denies me my wages, which
I have earned with the sweat of my brows?” “I do not deny to
pay thee thy wages, honest Andres,” cried the master; “do but
go along with me, and by all the orders of knighthood in the
world, I promise to pay thee every piece, as I said.” “Be sure,”
said Don Quixote, “you perform your promise; for if you fail, I
will assuredly return and find you out, and punish you moreover,
though you should hide yourself as close as a lizard. And if
you will be informed who it is that lays these injunctions on
you, that you may understand how highly it concerns you to
observe them, know, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, the righter
of wrongs, the revenger and redresser of grievances; and so farewell:
but remember what you have promised and sworn, as you
will answer for it at your peril.” This said, he clapped spurs to
Rozinante, and quickly left them behind.

The countryman, who followed him with both his eyes, no
sooner perceived that he was passed the woods, and quite out of
sight, than he went back to his boy Andres. “Come, child,”
said he, “I will pay thee what I owe thee, as that righter of
wrongs and redresser of grievances has ordered me.” “Ay,”
quoth Andres, “on my word, you will do well to fulfil the commands
of that good knight, whom Heaven grant long to live; for
he is so brave a man, and so just a judge, that if you don’t pay
me, he will come back and make his words good.” “I dare
swear as much,” answered the master; “and to shew thee how
much I love thee, I am willing to increase the debt, that I may
enlarge the payment.” With that he caught the youngster by
the arm, and tied him again to the tree; where he handled him
so unmercifully, that scarce any signs of life were left in him.
“Now call your righter of wrongs, Mr. Andres,” cried the
farmer, “and you shall see he will never be able to undo what I
have done; though I think it is but a part of what I ought to do,
for I have a good mind to flay you alive, as you said I would,
you rascal.” However, he untied him at last, and gave him leave
to go and seek out his judge, in order to have his decree put in
execution. Andres went his ways, not very well pleased, you
may be sure, yet fully resolved to find out the valorous Don
Quixote, and give him an exact account of the whole transaction,
that he might pay the abuse with sevenfold usury: in short, he
crept off sobbing and weeping, while his master stayed behind
laughing. And in this manner was this wrong redressed by the
valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha.

In the mean time the knight, being highly pleased with himself
and what had happened, imagining he had given a most fortunate
and noble beginning to his feats of arms, went on towards
[Pg 15]
his village, and soon found himself at a place where four roads
met; and this made him presently bethink of those cross-ways
which often used to put knights-errant to a stand, to consult
with themselves which way they should take. That he might
follow their example, he stopped a while, and after he had seriously
reflected on the matter, gave Rozinante the reins, subjecting
his own will to that of his horse, who, pursuing his first intent,
took the way that led to his own stable.

Don Quixote had not gone above two miles, when he discovered
a company of people riding towards him, who proved to be merchants
of Toledo, going to buy silks in Murcia. They were six in
all, every one screened with an umbrella, besides four servants on
horseback, and three muleteers on foot. The knight no sooner
perceived them but he imagined this to be some new adventure;
so, fixing himself in his stirrups, couching his lance, and covering
his breast with his target, he posted himself in the middle of the
road, expecting the coming up of the supposed knights-errant.
As soon as they came within hearing, with a loud voice and
haughty tone, “Hold,” cried he; “let no man hope to pass further,
unless he acknowledge and confess that there is not in the
universe a more beautiful damsel than the empress of La Mancha,
the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso.” At those words the merchants
made a halt, to view the unaccountable figure of their
opponent; and conjecturing, both by his expression and disguise,
that the poor gentleman had lost his senses, they were willing
to understand the meaning of that strange confession which he
would force from them; and therefore one of the company, who
loved raillery, and had discretion to manage it, undertook to talk
to him. “Sigñor cavalier,” cried he, “we do not know this
worthy lady you talk of; but be pleased to let us see her, and
then if we find her possessed of those matchless charms, of which
you assert her to be the mistress, we will freely, and without the
least compulsion, own the truth which you would extort from
us.” “Had I once shewn you that beauty,” replied Don Quixote,
“what wonder would it be to acknowledge so notorious a truth?
the importance of the thing lies in obliging you to believe it, confess
it, affirm it, swear it, and maintain it, without seeing her; and
therefore make this acknowledgment this very moment, or know
that with me you must join in battle, ye proud and unreasonable
mortals! Come one by one, as the laws of chivalry require, or all
at once, according to the dishonourable practice of men of your
stamp; here I expect you all my single self, and will stand the
encounter, confiding in the justice of my cause.” “Sir knight,”
replied the merchant, “I beseech you, that for the discharge of
our consciences, which will not permit us to affirm a thing we
never heard or saw, and which, besides, tends so much to the dishonour
of the empresses and queens of Alcaria and Estremadura,
your worship will vouchsafe to let us see some portraiture of that
[Pg 16]
lady, though it were no bigger than a grain of wheat; for by a
small sample we may judge of the whole piece, and by that means
rest secure and satisfied, and you contented and appeased. Nay,
I verily believe, that we all find ourselves already so inclinable
to comply with you, that though her picture should represent her
to be blind of one eye, and distilling vermilion and brimstone
at the other, yet to oblige you, we shall be ready to say in her
favour whatever your worship desires.” “Distil, ye infamous
scoundrels,” replied Don Quixote in a burning rage, “distil, say
you? know, that nothing distils from her but amber and civet;
neither is she defective in her make or shape, but more straight
than a Guadaramian spindle. But you shall all severely pay for
the blasphemy which thou hast uttered against the transcendent
beauty of my incomparable lady.” Saying this, with his lance
couched, he ran so furiously at the merchant who thus provoked
him, that had not good fortune so ordered it that Rozinante
should stumble and fall in the midst of his career, the audacious
trifler had paid dear for his raillery: but as Rozinante fell, he
threw down his master, who rolled and tumbled a good way on
the ground without being able to get upon his legs, though he
used all his skill and strength to effect it, so encumbered he was
with his lance, target, spurs, helmet, and the weight of his rusty
armour. However, in this helpless condition he played the hero
with his tongue; “Stay,” cried he; “cowards, rascals, do not
fly! it is not through my fault that I lie here, but through that
of my horse, ye poltroons!”

One of the muleteers, who was none of the best-natured creatures,
hearing the overthrown knight thus insolently treat his
master, could not bear it without returning him an answer on his
ribs; and therefore coming up to him as he lay wallowing, he
snatched his lance, and having broke it to pieces, so belaboured
Don Quixote’s sides with one of them, that, in spite of his arms,
he thrashed him like a wheatsheaf. His master indeed called to
him not to lay on him so vigorously, and to let him alone; but
the fellow, whose hand was in, would not give over till he had
tired out his passion and himself; and therefore running to the
other pieces of the broken lance, he fell to it again without ceasing,
till he had splintered them all on the knight’s iron enclosure.
At last the mule-driver was tired, and the merchants pursued
their journey, sufficiently furnished with matter of discourse at
the poor knight’s expense. When he found himself alone, he tried
once more to get on his feet; but if he could not do it when he
had the use of his limbs, how should he do it now, bruised and
battered as he was? But yet for all this, he esteemed himself a
happy man, being still persuaded that his misfortune was one of
those accidents common in knight-errantry, and such a one as he
could wholly attribute to the falling of his horse.

CHAPTER V.

A further account of our Knight’s misfortunes.

[Pg 17]
Don Quixote perceiving that he was not able to stir, resolved
to have recourse to his usual remedy, which was to bethink himself
what passage in his books might afford him some comfort:
and presently his frenzy brought to his remembrance the story
of Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when Charlot left the
former wounded on the mountain; a story learned and known by
little children, not unknown to young men and women, celebrated,
and even believed, by the old, and yet not a jot more
authentic than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to him as
if made on purpose for his present circumstances, and therefore
he fell a rolling and tumbling up and down, expressing the greatest
pain and resentment, and breathing out, with a languishing
voice, the same complaints which the wounded Knight of the
Wood is said to have made!

Thus he went on with the lamentations in that romance, till
he came to these verses:—

When kind fortune so ordered it that a ploughman, who lived in
the same village, and near his house, happened to pass by, as he
came from the mill with a sack of wheat. The fellow seeing a
man lie at his full length on the ground, asked him who he was,
and why he made such a sad complaint. Don Quixote, whose
distempered brain presently represented to him the countryman
as the Marquis of Mantua, his imaginary uncle, made him no answer,
but went on with the romance. The fellow stared, much
amazed to hear a man talk such unaccountable stuff; and taking
off the vizor of his helmet, broken all to pieces with blows bestowed
upon it by the mule-driver, he wiped off the dust that
covered his face, and presently knew the gentleman. “Master
Quixada!” cried he (for so he was properly called when he had
the right use of his senses, and had not yet from a sober gentleman
transformed himself into a wandering knight); “how came
you in this condition?” But the other continued his romance,
and made no answers to all the questions the countryman put to
[Pg 18]
him, but what followed in course in the book: which the good
man perceiving, he took off the battered adventurer’s armour as
well as he could, and fell a searching for his wounds; but finding
no sign of blood, or any other hurt, he endeavoured to set him
upon his legs; and at last with a great deal of trouble, he heaved
him upon his own ass, as being the more easy and gentle carriage:
he also got all the knight’s arms together, not leaving behind so
much as the splinters of his lance; and having tied them up, and
laid them on Rozinante, which he took by the bridle, and his ass
by the halter, he led them all towards the village, and trudged on
foot himself, while he reflected on the extravagances which he
heard Don Quixote utter. Nor was the Don himself less melancholy;
for he felt himself so bruised and battered that he could
hardly sit on the ass; and now and then he breathed such grievous
sighs, as seemed to pierce the very skies, which moved his
compassionate neighbour once more to entreat him to declare to
him the cause of his grief: so he bethought himself of the Moor
Abindaraez, whom Rodrigo de Narvaez, Alcade of Antequera,
took and carried prisoner to his castle; so that when the husbandman
asked him how he did and what ailed him, he answered
word for word as the prisoner Abindaraez replied to Rodrigo
de Narvaez, in the Diana of George di Montemayor, where that
adventure is related; applying it so properly to his purpose,
that the countryman wished himself any where than within the
hearing of such strange nonsense; and being now fully convinced
that his neighbour’s brains were turned, he made all the
haste he could to the village, to be rid of him. Don Quixote
in the mean time thus went on: “You must know, Don Rodrigo
de Narvaez, that this beautiful Xerifa, of whom I gave you
an account, is at present the most lovely Dulcinea del Toboso,
for whose sake I have done, still do, and will achieve the most
famous deeds of chivalry that ever were, are, or ever shall be
seen in the universe.” “Good sir,” replied the husbandman,
“I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua,
but Pedro Alonzo by name, your worship’s neighbour; nor are
you Baldwin, nor Abindaraez, but only that worthy gentleman
Senior Quixada.” “I know very well who I am,” answered
Don Quixote; “and what’s more, I know, that I may not only
be the persons I have named, but also the twelve peers of France,
nay and the nine worthies all in one; since my achievements will
out-rival not only the famous exploits which made any of them
singly illustrious, but all their mighty deeds accumulated together.”

Thus discoursing, they at last got near their village about sunset;
but the countryman stayed at some distance till it was dark,
that the distressed gentleman might not be seen so scurvily
mounted, and then he led him home to his own house, which
he found in great confusion. The curate and the barber of the
[Pg 19]
village, both of them Don Quixote’s intimate acquaintances, happened
to be there at that juncture, as also the housekeeper, who
was arguing with them: “What do you think, pray, good Doctor
Perez,” said she, (for this was the curate’s name) “what do you
think of my master’s mischance? neither he, nor his horse, nor
his target, lance, nor armour, have been seen these six days.
What shall I do, wretch that I am? I dare lay my life, and it is
as sure as I am a living creature, that those cursed books of
errantry, which he used to be always poring upon, have set him
beside his senses; for now I remember I have heard him often
mutter to himself that he had a mind to turn knight-errant, and
ramble up and down the world to find out adventures.” His
niece added, addressing herself to the barber; “You must know,
Mr. Nicholas, that many times my uncle would read you those
unconscionable books of disventures for eight-and-forty hours together;
then away he would throw his book, and drawing his
sword, he would fall a fencing against the walls; and when he
had tired himself with cutting and slashing, he would cry he had
killed four giants as big as any steeples; and the sweat which he
put himself into, he would say was the blood of the wounds he
had received in the fight: then would he swallow a huge jug of
cold water, and presently he would be as quiet and as well as ever
he was in his life; and he said that this same water was a sort of
precious drink brought him by the sage Esquife, a great magician
and his special friend. Now, it is I who am the cause of
all this mischief, for not giving you timely notice of my uncle’s
raving, that you might have put a stop to it, ere it was too late,
and have burnt all these excommunicated books; for there are I
do not know how many of them that deserve as much to be burnt
as those of the rankest heretics.” “I am of your mind,” said
the curate; “and verily to-morrow shall not pass over before I
have fairly brought them to a trial, and condemned them to the
flames, that they may not minister occasion to such as would read
them, to be perverted after the example of my good friend.”

The countryman, who, with Don Quixote, stood without, listening
to all this discourse, now perfectly understood the cause
of his neighbour’s disorder; and, without any more ado, he called
out, “Open the gates there, for the Lord Baldwin, and the Lord
Marquis of Mantua, who is coming sadly wounded; and for
the Moorish Lord Abindaraez, whom the valorous Don Rodrigo
de Narvaez, Alcade of Antequera, brings prisoner.” At which
words they all got out of doors; and the one finding it to be her
uncle, and the other to be her master, and the rest their friend,
who had not yet alighted from the ass, because indeed he was not
able, they all ran to embrace him; to whom Don Quixote: “Forbear,”
said he, “for I am sorely hurt, by reason that my horse
failed me; carry me to bed, and, if it be possible, let the enchantress
Urganda be sent for to cure my wounds.” “Now,” quoth
[Pg 20]
the housekeeper, “see whether I did not guess right, on which
foot my master halted!—Come, get to bed, I beseech you; and,
my life for yours, we will take care to cure you without sending
for that same Urganda. A hearty curse, I say, light upon those
books of chivalry that have put you in this pickle!” Whereupon
they carried him to his bed, and searched for his wounds, but
could find none; and then he told them he was only bruised, having
had a dreadful fall from his horse Rozinante while he was
fighting ten giants, the most outrageous and audacious upon the
face of the earth. “Ho, ho!” cried the curate, “are there giants
too in the dance? nay, then, we will have them all burnt by to-morrow
night.” Then they asked the Don a thousand questions,
but to every one he made no other answer, but that they should
give him something to eat, and then leave him to his repose.
They complied with his desires; and then the curate informed
himself at large in what condition the countryman had found
him; and having had a full account of every particular, as also
of the knight’s extravagant talk, both when the fellow found him,
and as he brought him home, this increased the curate’s desire of
effecting what he had resolved to do next morning: at which time
he called upon his friend, Mr. Nicholas the barber, and went
with him to Don Quixote’s house.

CHAPTER VI.

Of the pleasant and curious scrutiny which the Curate and the Barber
made of the library of our ingenious gentleman.

The knight was yet asleep, when the curate came, attended by
the barber, and desired his niece to let him have the key of the
room where her uncle kept his books, the author of his woes:
she readily consented; and so in they went, and the housekeeper
with them. There they found above an hundred large volumes
neatly bound, and a good number of small ones. As soon as the
housekeeper had spied them out, she ran out of the study, and
returned immediately with a holy-water pot and a sprinkler:
“Here, doctor,” cried she, “pray sprinkle every cranny and
corner in the room, lest there should lurk in it some one of the
many sorcerers these books swarm with, who might chance to
bewitch us, for the ill-will we bear them, in going about to send
them out of the world.” The curate could not forbear smiling at
the good woman’s simplicity; and desired the barber to reach
him the books one by one, that he might peruse the title-pages,
for perhaps he might find some among them that might not deserve
this fate. “Oh, by no means,” cried the niece; “spare
none of them; they all help, somehow or other, to crack my uncle’s
brain. I fancy we had best throw them all out at the window
[Pg 21]
in the yard, and lay them together in a heap, and then set them
on fire, or else carry them into the back-yard, and there make a
pile of them, and burn them, and so the smoke will offend nobody.”
The housekeeper joined with her, so eagerly bent were
both upon the destruction of those poor innocents; but the curate
would not condescend to those irregular proceedings, and resolved
first to read at least the title-page of every book.

The first that Mr. Nicholas put into his hands was Amadis de
Gaul, in four volumes. “There seems to be some mystery in this
book’s being the first taken down,” cried the curate, as soon as
he had looked upon it; “for I have heard it is the first book of
knight-errantry that ever was printed in Spain, and the model
of all the rest; and therefore I am of opinion, that, as the first
teacher and author of so pernicious a sect, it ought to be condemned
to the fire without mercy.” “I beg a reprieve for him,”
cried the barber; “for I have been told ’tis the best book that has
been written in that kind; and therefore, as the only good thing of
that sort, it may deserve a pardon.” “Well then,” replied the
curate, “for this time let him have it. Let’s see that other,
which lies next to him.” “These,” said the barber, “are the
exploits of Esplandian, the son of Amadis de Gaul.” “Verily,”
said the curate, “the father’s goodness shall not excuse the want
of it in the son. Here, good mistress housekeeper, open that window,
and throw it into the yard, and let it serve as a foundation to
that pile we are to set a blazing presently.” She was not slack in
her obedience; and thus poor Don Esplandian was sent headlong
into the yard, there patiently to wait the time of punishment.

“To the next,” cried the curate. “This,” said the barber,
“is Amadis of Greece; and I’m of opinion that all those that
stand on this side are of the same family.” “Then let them all
be sent packing into the yard,” replied the curate. They were
delivered to the housekeeper accordingly, and many they were;
and to save herself the labour of carrying them down stairs, she
fairly sent them flying out at the window.

“What overgrown piece of lumber have we here?” cried the
curate. “Olivante de Laura,” returned the barber. “The same
author wrote the Garden of Flowers; and, to deal ingeniously
with you, I cannot tell which of the two books has most truth in
it, or, to speak more properly, less lies: but this I know for certain,
that he shall march into the back-yard, like a nonsensical
arrogant blockhead as he is.”

“The next,” cried the barber, “is Florismart of Hyrcania.”
“How! my Lord Florismart, is he here?” replied the curate:
“nay, then truly, he shall e’en follow the rest to the yard, in spite
of his wonderful birth and incredible adventures; for his rough,
dull, and insipid style deserves no better usage. Come, toss him
into the yard, and this other too, good mistress.”

“Here’s the noble Don Platir,” cried the barber. “‘Tis an
[Pg 22]
old book,” replied the curate, “and I can think of nothing in
him that deserves a grain of pity: away with him, without any
more words;” and down he went accordingly.

Another book was opened, and it proved to be the Knight of
the Cross. “The holy title,” cried the curate, “might in some
measure atone for the badness of the book; but then, as the saying
is, The devil lurks behind the cross! To the flames with him.”

Then opening another volume, he found it to be Palmerin de
Oliva, and the next to that Palmerin of England. “Ha, have
I found you!” cried the curate. “Here, take that Oliva, let him
be torn to pieces, then burnt, and his ashes scattered in the air;
but let Palmerin of England be preserved as a singular relic of
antiquity; and let such a costly box be made for him as Alexander
found among the spoils of Darius, which he devoted to
enclose Homer’s works: for I must tell you, neighbour, that
book deserves particular respect for two things; first, for its own
excellencies; and, secondly, for the sake of its author, who is
said to have been a learned king of Portugal: then all the
adventures of the Castle of Miraguarda are well and artfully
managed, the dialogue very courtly and clear, and the decorum
strictly observed in equal character, with equal propriety and
judgment. Therefore, Master Nicholas,” continued he, “with
submission to your better advice, this and Amadis de Gaul shall
be exempted from the fire; and let all the rest be condemned,
without any further inquiry or examination.” “By no means,
I beseech you,” returned the barber, “for this which I have
in my hands is the famous Don Bellianis.” “Truly,” cried
the curate, “he, with his second, third, and fourth parts, had
need of a dose of rhubarb to purge his excessive choler: besides,
his Castle of Fame should be demolished, and a heap of other
rubbish removed; in order to which I give my vote to grant
them the benefit of a reprieve; and as they shew signs of amendment,
so shall mercy or justice be used towards them: in the
mean time, neighbour, take them into custody, and keep them
safe at home; but let none be permitted to converse with them.”
“Content,” cried the barber; and to save himself the labour of
looking on any more books of that kind, he bid the housekeeper
take all the great volumes, and throw them into the yard. This
was not spoken to one stupid or deaf, but to one who had a greater
mind to be burning them, than weaving the finest and largest
web: so that laying hold of no less than eight volumes at once,
she presently made them leap towards the place of execution.
“But what shall we do with all these smaller books that are
left?” said the barber. “Certainly,” replied the curate, “these
cannot be books of knight-errantry, they are too small; you will
find they are only poets.” And so opening one, it happened to
be the Diana of Montemayor; which made him say, (believing
all the rest to be of that stamp) “These do not deserve to be
[Pg 23]
punished like the others, for they neither have done, nor can do,
that mischief which those stories of chivalry have done, being
generally ingenious books, that can do nobody any prejudice.”
“Oh! good sir,” cried the niece, “burn them with the rest, I
beseech you; for should my uncle get cured of his knight-errant
frenzy, and betake himself to the reading of these books, we
should have him turn shepherd, and so wander through the woods
and fields; nay, and what would be worse yet, turn poet, which
they say is a catching and incurable disease.” “The gentlewoman
is in the right,” said the curate; “and it will not be amiss
to remove that stumbling-block out of our friend’s way; and
since we began with the Diana of Montemayor, I am of opinion
we ought not to burn it, but only take out that part of it which
treats of the magician Felicia and the enchanted water, as also
all the longer poems; and let the work escape with its prose, and
the honour of being the first of that kind.” “Here,” quoth the
barber, “I’ve a book called the Ten Books of the Fortunes of
Love, by Anthony de Lofraco, a Sardinian poet.” “Now we
have got a prize,” cried the curate, “I do not think since Apollo
was Apollo, the muses muses, and the poets poets, there ever was
a more humorous, more whimsical book! Of all the works of the
kind commend me to this, for in its way ’tis certainly the best
and most singular that ever was published; and he that never
read it may safely think he never in his life read any thing that
was pleasant.” With that he laid it aside with extraordinary
satisfaction; and the barber went on: “The next,” said he, “is
the Shepherd of Filida.” “He’s no shepherd,” returned the curate,
“but a very discreet courtier; keep him as a precious jewel.”
“Here’s a bigger,” cried the barber, “called the Treasure of
divers Poems.” “Had there been less of it,” said the curate,
“it would have been more esteemed. ‘Tis fit the book should
be pruned and cleared of some inferior things that encumber and
deform it: keep it, however, because the author is my friend,
and for the sake of his other more heroic and lofty productions.
What’s the next book?” “The Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes,”
replied the barber. “That Cervantes has been my intimate acquaintance
these many years,” cried the curate; “and I know he
has been more conversant with misfortunes than with poetry.
His book, indeed, has I don’t know what, that looks like a good
design; he aims at something, but concludes nothing: therefore
we must stay for the second part, which he has promised
us; perhaps he may make us amends, and obtain a full pardon,
which is denied him for the present; till that time keep him
close prisoner at your house.” “I will,” quoth the barber:
“but see, I have here three more for you, the Araucana of Don
Alonso de Ercilla; the Austirada of Juan Ruffo, a magistrate of
Cordova; and the Monserrato of Christopher de Virves, a Valentian
poet.” “These,” cried the curate, “are the best heroic
[Pg 24]
poems we have in Spanish, and may vie with the most celebrated
of Italy: reserve them as the most valuable performances which
Spain has to boast of in poetry.”

At last the curate grew so tired with prying into so many
volumes, that he ordered all the rest to be burnt at a venture.
But the barber shewed him one which he had opened by chance
ere the dreadful sentence was past. “Truly,” said the curate,
who saw by the title it was the Tears of Angelica, “I should have
wept myself, had I caused such a book to share the condemnation
of the rest; for the author was not only one of the best poets in
Spain, but in the whole world, and translated some of Ovid’s
fables with extraordinary success.”

CHAPTER VII.

Don Quixote’s second sally in quest of adventures.

Full fifteen days did our knight remain quietly at home, without
betraying the least sign of his desire to renew his rambling;
during which time there passed a great deal of pleasant discourse
between him and his two friends, the curate and the barber;
while he maintained, that there was nothing the world stood so
much in need of as knights-errant; wherefore he was resolved to
revive the order: in which disputes Mr. Curate sometimes contradicted
him, and sometimes submitted; for had he not now and
then given way to his fancies, there would have been no conversing
with him.

In the mean time Don Quixote solicited one of his neighbours,
a country labourer and honest fellow, though poor in purse as
well as in brains, to become his squire; in short, the knight talked
long to him, plied him with so many arguments, and made him
so many fair promises, that at last the poor silly clown consented
to go along with him, and be his squire. Among other inducements
to entice him to do it willingly, Don Quixote forgot
not to tell him, that it was likely such an adventure would present
itself, as might secure him the conquest of some island in the
time that he might be picking up a straw or two, and then the
squire might promise himself to be made governor of the place.
Allured with these large promises, and many others, Sancho
Panza (for that was the name of the fellow) forsook his wife and
children to be his neighbour’s squire.

This done, Don Quixote made it his business to furnish himself
with money; to which purpose, selling one house, mortgaging
another, and losing by all, he at last got a pretty good sum
together. He also borrowed a target of a friend; and having
patched up his head-piece and beaver as well as he could, he gave
his squire notice of the day and hour when he intended to set out,
[Pg 25]
that he also might furnish himself with what he thought necessary;
but, above all, he charged him to provide himself with a
wallet; which Sancho promised to do, telling him he would also
take his ass along with him, which being a very good one, might
be a great ease to him, for he was not used to travel much a-foot.
The mentioning of the ass made the noble knight pause a while;
he mused and pondered whether he had ever read of any knight-errant,
whose squire used to ride upon an ass; but he could not
remember any precedent for it: however, he gave him leave at
last to bring his ass, hoping to mount him more honourably with
the first opportunity, by unhorsing the next discourteous knight
he should meet. He also furnished himself with linen, and as
many other necessaries as he could conveniently carry, according
to the innkeeper’s advice. Which being done, Sancho Panza,
without bidding either his wife or children good-bye; and Don
Quixote, without taking any more notice of his housekeeper or
of his niece, stole out of the village one night, not so much as
suspected by anybody, and made such haste, that by break of
day they thought themselves out of reach, should they happen to
be pursued. As for Sancho Panza, he rode like a patriarch, with
his canvass knapsack, or wallet, and his leathern bottle; having a
huge desire to see himself governor of the island, which his master
had promised him.

As they jogged on, “I beseech your worship, sir knight-errant,”
quoth Sancho to his master, “be sure you don’t forget
what you promised me about the island; for I dare say I shall
make shift to govern it, let it be never so big.” “You must
know, friend Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that it has been
the constant practice of knights-errant in former ages to make
their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered:
now I am resolved to outdo my predecessors; for whereas sometimes
other knights delayed rewarding their squires till they
were grown old, and worn out with services, and then put them
off with some title, either of count, or at least marquis of some
valley or province, of great or small extent; now, if thou and I
do but live, it may happen, that before we have passed six days
together, I may conquer some kingdom, having many other
kingdoms annexed to its imperial crown; and this would fall out
most luckily for thee; for then would I presently crown thee
king of one of them. Nor do thou imagine this to be a mighty
matter; for so strange accidents and revolutions, so sudden and
so unforeseen, attend the profession of chivalry, that I might easily
give thee a great deal more than I have promised.” “Why,
should this come to pass,” quoth Sancho Panza, “and I be made
a king by some such miracle as your worship says, then Mary
Gutierez would be at least a queen, and my children infantas and
princes, an’t like your worship.” “Who doubts of that?” cried
Don Quixote. “I doubt of it,” replied Sancho Panza; “for I
[Pg 26]
cannot help believing, that though it should rain kingdoms down
upon the face of the earth, not one of them would sit well upon
Mary Gutierez’s head; for I must needs tell you, she’s not worth
two brass jacks to make a queen of: no, countess would be better
for her; and that, too, will be as much as she can handsomely
manage.” “Recommend the matter to providence,” returned
Don Quixote; “’twill be sure to give what is most expedient for
thee.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Of the good success which the valorous Don Quixote had in the most
terrifying and incredible adventure of the Windmills, with other
transactions worthy to be transmitted to posterity.

As they were thus discoursing, they discovered some thirty or
forty windmills, in the plain; and as soon as the knight had
spied them, “Fortune,” cried he, “directs our affairs better than
we could have wished: look yonder, Sancho, there are at least
thirty outrageous giants, whom I intend to encounter; and having
deprived them of life, we will begin to enrich ourselves with
their spoils: for they are lawful prize; and the extirpation of
that cursed brood will be an acceptable service to heaven.”
“What giants?” quoth Sancho Panza. “Those whom thou
see’st yonder,” answered Don Quixote, “with their long extended
arms; some of that detested race have arms of so immense
a size that sometimes they reach two leagues in length.” “Pray
look better, sir,” quoth Sancho: “those things yonder are no
giants, but windmills, and the arms are their sails, which being
whirled about by the wind, make the mill go.” “‘Tis a sign,”
cried Don Quixote, “thou art but little acquainted with adventures!
I tell thee, they are giants; and therefore if thou art
afraid, go aside and say thy prayers, for I am resolved to engage
in combat with them all.” This said, he clapped spurs to his horse,
without giving ear to his squire, who bawled out to him, and assured
him that they were windmills, and no giants. But he was
so fully possessed with a strong conceit of the contrary, that he
did not so much as hear his squire, nor was he sensible of what
they were, although he was already very near them. “Stand,
cowards!” cried he as loud as he could; “stand your ground,
ignoble creatures, and fly not basely from a single knight, who
dares encounter you all.” At the same time the wind rising, the
mill-sails began to move, which, when Don Quixote spied,
“Base miscreants,” cried he, “though you move more arms
than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for your arrogance.” He
most devoutly recommended himself to his Lady Dulcinea, imploring
her assistance in this perilous adventure; and so covering
himself with his shield, and couching his lance, he rushed with
[Pg 27]
Rozinante’s utmost speed upon the first windmill he could come
at, and running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about
with such swiftness, that the rapidity of the motion presently
broke the lance into shivers, and hurled away both knight and
horse along with it, till down he fell, rolling a good way off in
the field. Sancho Panza ran as fast as his ass could drive to help
his master, whom he found lying, and not able to stir. “Did
not I give your worship fair warning?” cried he; “did not I tell
you they were windmills, and that nobody could think otherwise,
unless he had also windmills in his head?” “Peace, friend
Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “there is nothing so subject to
the inconstancy of fortune as war. I am verily persuaded, that
cursed necromancer Freston, who carried away my study and
my books, has transformed these giants into windmills, to deprive
me of the honour of the victory; such is his inveterate
malice against me: but in the end, all his pernicious wiles and
stratagems shall prove ineffectual against the prevailing edge of
my sword.” “So let it be,” replied Sancho. And heaving him
up again upon his legs, once more the knight mounted poor
Rozinante, who was half disjointed with his fall.

This adventure was the subject of their discourse, as they
made the best of their way towards the pass of Lapice; for Don
Quixote took that road, believing he could not miss of adventures
in one so mightily frequented.

Sancho desired him now to consider that it was high time to
go to dinner; but his master answered him, that he might eat
whenever he pleased; as for himself, he was not yet disposed to
do so. Sancho having obtained leave, fixed himself as orderly as
he could upon his ass; and taking some victuals out of his wallet,
fell to munching lustily; and ever and anon he lifted his bottle
to his nose, and fetched such hearty pulls, that it would have
made the best-pampered vintner in Malaga dry to have seen him.

In fine, they passed that night under some trees; from one of
which Don Quixote tore a withered branch, which in some sort
was able to serve him for a lance, and to this he fixed the head or
spear of his broken lance. But he did not sleep all that night,
keeping his thoughts intent on his dear Dulcinea, in imitation of
what he had read in books of chivalry, where the knights pass
their time, without sleep, in forests and deserts, wholly taken
up with entertaining thoughts of their absent ladies. The next
day they went on directly towards the pass of Lapice, which
they discovered about three o’clock. When they came near it,
“Here it is, brother Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that we may,
as it were, thrust our arms up to the very elbows in that which
we call adventures. But let me give thee one necessary caution;
know, that though thou shouldst see me in the greatest extremity
of danger, thou must not offer to draw thy sword in my defence,
unless thou findest me assaulted by base plebeians and vile scoundrels;
[Pg 28]
for in such a case thou mayest assist thy master; but if
those with whom I am fighting are knights, thou must not do it;
for the laws of chivalry do not allow thee to encounter a knight
till thou art one thyself.” “Never fear,” quoth Sancho; “I’ll
be sure to obey your worship in that, I’ll warrant you; for I
have ever loved peace and quietness, and never cared to thrust
myself into frays and quarrels.”

As they were talking, they spied coming towards them two
monks of the order of St. Benedict mounted on two dromedaries,
for the mules on which they rode were so high and stately, that
they seemed little less. After them came a coach, with four or
five men on horseback, and two muleteers on foot. There proved
to be in the coach a Biscayan lady, who was going to Seville to
meet her husband, that was there in order to embark for the
Indies, to take possession of a considerable post. Scarce had the
Don perceived the monks, who were not of the same company,
though they went the same way, but he cried to his squire,
“Either I am deceived, or this will prove the most famous adventure
that ever was known; for without all question those two
black things that move towards us must be necromancers, that
are carrying away by force some princess in that coach; and ’tis
my duty to prevent so great an injury.” “I fear me this will
prove a worse job than the windmills,” quoth Sancho; “take
warning, sir, and do not be led away a second time.” “I have
already told thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “thou art
miserably ignorant in matters of adventures: what I say is true,
and thou shalt find it so presently.” This said, he spurred on
his horse, and posted himself just in the midst of the road where
the monks were to pass. And when they came within hearing,
he immediately cried out in a loud and haughty tone, “Release
those high-born princesses whom you are violently conveying
away in the coach, or else prepare to meet with instant death, as
the just punishment of your deeds.” The monks stopped, no less
astonished at the figure than at the expressions of the speaker.
“Sir knight,” cried they, “we are no such persons as you are
pleased to term us, but religious men of the order of St. Benedict,
that travel about our affairs, and are wholly ignorant
whether or no there are any princesses carried away by force in
that coach.” “I am not to be deceived,” replied Don Quixote;
“I know you well enough, perfidious caitiffs:” and immediately,
without waiting their reply, he set spurs to Rozinante, and ran
so furiously, with his lance couched, against the first monk, that
if he had not prudently flung himself to the ground, the knight
would certainly have laid him either dead, or grievously wounded.
The other observing this, clapped his heels to his mule’s flanks,
and scoured over the plain as if he had been running a race with
the wind. Sancho no sooner saw the monk fall, but he leapt off
his ass, and running to him, began to strip him immediately; but
[Pg 29]
the two muleteers, who waited on the monks, came up to him,
and asked why he offered to strip him? Sancho told them that
this belonged to him as lawful plunder, being the spoils won in
battle by his lord and master Don Quixote. The fellows, with
whom there was no jesting, not knowing what he meant by his
spoils and battle, and seeing Don Quixote at a good distance in
deep discourse by the side of the coach, fell both upon poor
Sancho, threw him down, tore his beard from his chin, trampled
on him, and there left him lying without breath or motion. In
the mean while the monk, scared out of his wits and as pale
as a ghost, got upon his mule again as fast as he could, and
spurred after his friend, who stayed for him at a distance, expecting
the issue of this strange adventure; but being unwilling to
stay to see the end of it, they made the best of their way, making
more signs of the cross than if the devil had been posting after
them.

Don Quixote was all this while engaged with the lady in the
coach. “Lady,” cried he, “your discretion is now at liberty to
dispose of your beautiful self as you please; for the presumptuous
arrogance of those who attempted to enslave your person lies
prostrate in the dust, overthrown by this arm: and that you may
not be at a loss for the name of your deliverer, know I am called
Don Quixote de la Mancha, by profession a knight-errant and
adventurer, captive to that peerless beauty Donna Dulcinea del
Toboso: nor do I desire any other recompense for the service I
have done you, but that you return to Toboso to present yourself
to that lady, and let her know what I have done to purchase
your deliverance.” So saying he bade her courteously
farewell, and pursued his way.

CHAPTER IX.

What passed between Don Quixote and the Goatherds.

After travelling the remainder of the day without further adventure,
they came to a place where some goatherds had set up
some small huts; and there they concluded to take up their lodging
that night. This was as great a mortification to Sancho, who
was altogether for a good town, as it was a pleasure to his master,
who was for sleeping in the open fields; and who believed that,
as often as he did it, he confirmed his title to knighthood by a
new act of possession.

The knight was very courteously received by the goatherds;
and as for Sancho, after he had set up Rozinante and his ass as
well as he could, he presently repaired to the attractive smell of
some pieces of kid’s flesh which stood boiling in a kettle over the
[Pg 30]
fire. The hungry squire would immediately have tried whether
they were fit to be removed out of the kettle into the stomach,
but was not put to that trouble; for the goatherds took them
off the fire, and spread some sheep-skins on the ground, and soon
got their rural feast ready; and cheerfully invited his master and
him to partake of what they had. Next, with some coarse compliment,
after the country way, they desired Don Quixote to sit
down on a trough with the bottom upwards; and then six of
them, who were all that belonged to that fold, squatted them
down round the skins, while Sancho stood to wait upon his master,
and gave him drink in a horn cup, which the goatherds used.
But he seeing his man stand behind, said to him, “Sancho, it is
my pleasure that thou sit thee down by me, in the company of
these good people, that there be no difference now observed between
thee and me, thy natural lord and master; for it may be
said of knight-errantry as of love, that it makes all things equal.”
“I thank your worship,” cried Sancho; “but yet I must needs
own, had I but a good deal of meat before me, I’d eat it as well,
or rather better, standing, and by myself, than if I sat by an
emperor; and, to deal plainly and truly with you, I had rather
munch a crust of brown bread and an onion in a corner, without
any more ado or ceremony, than feed upon turkey at another
man’s table, where one is fain to sit mincing and chewing his
meat an hour together, drink little, be always wiping his fingers
and his mouth, and never dare to cough or sneeze, though he has
never so much a mind to it, nor do a many things which a body
may do freely by one’s self: therefore, good sir, change those
tokens of your kindness, which I have a right to by being your
worship’s squire, into something that may do me more good.
As for these same honours, I heartily thank you as much as if I
had accepted them; but yet I give up my right to them from this
time to the world’s end.” “Talk no more,” replied Don Quixote,
“but sit thee down, for the humble shall be exalted;” and so
pulling him by the arms, he forced him to sit by him.

All this while the goatherds said nothing, but stared upon
their guests; who swallowed whole luncheons as big as their fists
with a mighty appetite.

A young fellow, who used to bring them provisions from the
next village, happened to come while they were eating, and addressing
himself to the goatherds, “Hark ye, friends,” said he,
“d’ye hear the news?” “What news?” cried one of the company.
“That fine shepherd and scholar Chrysostome died this
morning,” answered the other; “and they say it was for love
of Marcella, daughter of William the rich, that goes up and down
the country in the habit of a shepherdess.” “For Marcella!”
cried one of the goatherds. “I say for her,” replied the fellow;
“and what is more, it is reported he has ordered by his will they
should bury him in the fields like any heathen Moor, hard by the
[Pg 31]
cork-tree fountain, where they say he first saw her. Nay, he has
likewise ordered many other strange things to be done, which the
clergy cannot allow of; while Ambrose, the other scholar, who
likewise apparelled himself like a shepherd, is resolved to have
his friend Chrysostome’s will fulfilled in every thing, just as he
has ordered it. It is thought that Ambrose and his friends will
carry the day; and to-morrow morning he is to be buried in
great state where I told you: I fancy it will be worth seeing;
and I intend to go and see it, even though I should not get back
again to-morrow.” “We will all go,” cried the goatherds, “and
cast lots who shall tarry to look after the goats.” “Well said,
Pedro,” cried one of the goatherds; “but as for casting of lots,
I will save you that labour, for I will stay myself, not so much
out of kindness to you neither, or want of curiosity, as because of
the thorn in my toe, that will not let me go.” Don Quixote,
who heard all this, entreated Pedro to tell him who the deceased
was, and also to give him a short account of the shepherdess.

Peter answered, that all he knew of the matter was, that the
deceased was a wealthy gentleman, who had been several years
at the university of Salamanca, and came home mightily improved
in his learning. Within some few months after he had left the
university, on a certain morning we saw him come dressed for all
the world like a shepherd, and driving his flock, having laid
down the long gown, which he used to wear as a scholar. At
the same time one Ambrose, who had been his fellow-scholar,
also took upon him to go like a shepherd, and keep him company,
which we all did not a little marvel at. Somewhat before that
time Chrysostome’s father died, and left him a large estate; and
in truth he deserved it all, for he was bountiful to the poor, a
friend to all honest people, and had a face like any blessing. At
last it came to be known, that the reason of his altering his garb
in that fashion was only that he might go up and down after that
shepherdess Marcella, whom our comrade told you of before, for
he was fallen mightily in love with her. And now I will tell you
who this lady is. You must know that there lived near us one
William, a yeoman, who was richer yet than Chrysostome’s father;
now he had no child but a daughter; whose mother was as good
a woman as ever went upon two legs: methinks I see her yet
standing afore me, with that blessed face of hers. She was an
excellent housewife, and did a deal of good among the poor; for
which, I believe, she is at this very time in paradise. Alas, her
death broke old William’s heart; he soon followed her, poor
man, and left all to his little daughter, that Marcella by name,
giving charge of her to her uncle, the parson of our parish.
When she came to be fourteen or fifteen years of age, no man
set his eyes on her that did not bless heaven for having made her
so handsome; so that most men fell in love with her, and were
ready to run mad for her. All this while her uncle kept her very
[Pg 32]
close: yet the report of her great beauty and wealth spread far
and near, insomuch that almost all the young men in our town
asked her of her uncle; nay, there flocked whole droves of
suitors, and the very best in the country too, who all begged,
and sued, and teazed her uncle to let them have her. But though
he’d have been glad to have got fairly rid of her, yet would not
he advise or marry her against her will; for he’s a good man,
I’ll say that for him, and a true Christian every inch of him, and
scorns to keep her from marrying to make a benefit of her estate;
and, to his praise be it spoken, he has been mainly commended
for it more than once, when the people of our parish meet together.
“For I would have you know, Sir Errant, that here in
the country, and in our little towns, there is not the least thing
can be said or done but people will talk and find fault: indeed,
the parson must be essentially good who could bring his whole
parish to give him a good word.” “Thou art in the right,” cried
Don Quixote, “and therefore go on; for the story is pleasant, and
thou tellest it with a grace.” “May I never want God’s grace,”
quoth Pedro, “for that is most to the purpose. But for our
parson, as I told you before, though he took care to let her know
of all those proposals, yet would she never answer otherwise, but
that she had no mind to wed as yet, as finding herself too young
for the burden of wedlock. But behold, when we least dreamed
of it, the coy lass must needs turn shepherdess; and neither her
uncle, nor all those of the village who advised her against it,
could persuade her, but away she went to the fields to keep her
own sheep with the other young lasses of the town. But then
it was ten times worse; for no sooner was she seen abroad,
when I cannot tell how many spruce gallants, both gentlemen
and rich farmers, changed their garb for love of her, and followed
her up and down in shepherd’s guise. One of them, as
I have told you, was this same Chrysostome, who now lies dead,
of whom it is said he not only loved, but worshipped her. In
this way Marcella does more harm in this country than the
plague would do; for her courteousness and fair looks draw on
every body to love her; but then her reserve and disdain break
their hearts; and all they can do, poor wretches, is to make a
heavy complaint, and call her cruel, unkind, ungrateful, and a
world of such names, whereby they plainly shew what a sad condition
they are in: were you but to stay here some time, you
would hear these hills and valleys ring again with the doleful
moans of those she has denied, who yet have not courage to give
over following her. Here sighs one shepherd, there another
moans; here is one singing doleful ditties, there another is wringing
his hands and making woful complaints. And all this while
the hard-hearted Marcella never minds any one of them, and
does not seem to be the least concerned for them. We are all
at a loss to know what will be the end of all this pride and coyness,
[Pg 33]
and who shall be the happy man that shall at last succeed
in taming her. Now, because there is nothing more certain than
all this, I am the more apt to give credit to what our comrade
has told us, as to the occasion of Chrysostome’s death; and therefore
I would needs have you go and see him laid in his grave
to-morrow; which I believe will be worth your while, for he had
many friends, and it is not half a league to the place where it
was his will to be buried.” “I intend to be there,” answered
Don Quixote; “and in the mean time I return thee many thanks
for the extraordinary satisfaction this story has afforded me.”

CHAPTER X.

A continuation of the story of Marcella.

Scarce had day begun to appear from the balconies of the east,
when five of the goatherds got up, and having waked Don
Quixote, asked him if he held to his resolution of going to the
funeral, whither they were ready to bear him company. Thereupon
the knight presently arose, and ordered Sancho to get ready
immediately; which he did with all expedition, and then they
set forwards. They had not gone a quarter of a league before
they saw advancing out of a cross path six shepherds clad in black
skins, their heads crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter
rose-bay-tree, with long holly-staves in their hands. Two gentlemen
on horseback, attended by three young lads on foot, followed
them: as they drew near, they saluted one another civilly, and
after the usual question,—”Which way do you travel?” they
found they were all going the same way, to see the funeral; and
so they all joined company. “I fancy, Senior Vivaldo,” said
one of the gentlemen, addressing himself to the other, “we shall
not think our time misspent in going to see this famous funeral,
for it must of necessity be very extraordinary, according to the
account which these men have given us of the dead shepherd and
his murdering shepherdess.” “I am so far of your opinion,”
answered Vivaldo, “that I would not stay one day, but a whole
week, rather than miss the sight.” After this Vivaldo asked
the knight why he travelled so completely armed in so peaceable
a country? “My profession,” answered the champion, “does
not permit me to ride otherwise. Luxurious feasts, sumptuous
dresses, and downy ease, were invented for effeminate courtiers;
but labour, vigilance, and arms are the portion of those whom
the world calls knights-errant, of which number I have the
honour to be one, though the most unworthy.” He needed to
say no more to satisfy them that his brains were out of order;
however, that they might the better understand the nature of his
folly, Vivaldo asked him what he meant by a knight-errant?
[Pg 34]
“Have you not read, then,” cried Don Quixote, “the Annals
and History of Britain, where are recorded the famous deeds of
King Arthur, who, according to an ancient tradition in that kingdom,
never died, but was turned into a raven by enchantment,
and shall one day resume his former shape, and recover his kingdom
again? For which reason, since that time, the people of
Great Britain dare not offer to kill a raven.”

After a great deal of conversation of this kind, the travellers
were sufficiently convinced of Don Quixote’s frenzy. Nor were
they less surprised than were all those who had hitherto discovered
so unaccountable a distraction in one who seemed a
rational creature. However, Vivaldo, who was of a gay disposition,
had no sooner made the discovery than he resolved to make
the best advantage of it that the shortness of the way would allow
him.

“Methinks, Sir Knight-errant,” said he, “you have taken
up one of the strictest and most mortifying professions in the
world. I do not think but that even a Carthusian friar has a
better time of it than you have.” “The profession of the Carthusian,”
answered Don Quixote, “may be as austere, but ours
is perhaps hardly less beneficial to the world. We knights, like
soldiers, execute what they pray for, and procure those benefits
to mankind, by the strength of our arms, and at the hazard of
our lives, for which they only intercede. Nor do we do this
sheltered from the injuries of the air, but under no other roof
than that of the wide heavens, exposed to summer’s scorching
heat, and winter’s pinching cold. However, gentlemen, do not
imagine I would insinuate as if the profession of a knight-errant
was a state of perfection equal to that of a holy recluse: I would
only infer from what I have said, and what I myself endure, that
ours without question is more laborious, more subject to the discipline
of heavy blows, to maceration, to the penance of hunger
and thirst, and, in a word, to rags, to want, and misery. For if
you find that some knights-errant have at last by their valour
been raised to thrones and empires, you may be sure it has been
still at the expense of much sweat and blood. And had even
those happier knights been deprived of those assisting sages and
enchanters, who helped them in all emergencies, they would
have been strangely disappointed of their mighty expectations.”
“I am of the same opinion,” replied Vivaldo. “But one thing
I would ask, sir, since I understand it is so much the being of
knight-errantry to be in love, I presume you, who are of that
profession, cannot be without a mistress. And therefore, if you
do not set up for secrecy, give me leave to beg of you, in the
name of all the company, that you will be pleased so far to oblige
us as to let us know the name and quality of your lady, the
place of her birth, and the charms of her person. For, without
doubt, she cannot but esteem herself fortunate in being known
[Pg 35]
to all the world to be the object of the wishes of a knight so accomplished
as yourself.” With that Don Quixote, breathing out
a deep sigh, “I cannot tell,” said he, “whether this lovely
enemy of my repose is the least affected with the world’s being
informed of her power over my heart; all I dare say, in compliance
with your request is, that her name is Dulcinea, her
country La Mancha, and Toboso the happy place which she
honours with her residence. As for her quality, it cannot be
less than princess, seeing she is my lady and my queen. Her
beauty transcends all the united charms of her whole sex; even
those chimerical perfections, which the hyperbolical imaginations
of poets in love have assigned to their mistresses, cease to be
incredible descriptions when applied to her, in whom all those
miraculous endowments are most divinely centred. The curling
locks of her bright flowing hair are purest gold; her smooth forehead
the Elysian plain; her brows are two celestial bows; her
eyes two glorious suns; her cheeks two beds of roses; her lips
are coral; her teeth are pearl; her neck is alabaster; her breasts
marble; her hands ivory; and snow would lose its whiteness
near her bosom.”

As they went on in this and like discourse, they saw, upon the
hollow road between the neighbouring mountains, about twenty
shepherds more, all accoutred in black skins, with garlands on
their heads, which, as they afterwards perceived, were all of yew
or cyprus; six of them carried a bier covered with several sorts
of boughs and flowers: which one of the goatherds espying,
“Those are they,” cried he, “that are carrying poor Chrysostome
to his grave; and it was in yonder hollow that he gave
charge they should bury his corpse.” This made them all double
their pace, that they might get thither in time; and so they arrived
just as the bearers had set down the bier upon the ground,
and four of them had begun to open the ground with their spades
at the foot of a rock. They all saluted each other courteously,
and condoled their mutual loss; and then Don Quixote, with
those who came with him, went to view the bier; where they
saw the dead body of a young man in shepherd’s weeds all strewed
over with flowers. The deceased seemed to be about thirty years
old; and, dead as he was, it was easily perceived that both his
face and shape were extraordinarily handsome. This doleful
object so strangely filled all the company with sadness, that not
only the beholders, but also the grave-makers and the mourning
shepherds, remained a long time silent; till at last one of the
bearers, addressing himself to one of the rest, “Look, Ambrose,”
cried he, “whether this be the place which Chrysostome meant,
since you must needs have his will so punctually performed?”
“This is the very place,” answered the other; “there it was that
my unhappy friend many times told me the sad story of his cruel
fortune; and there it was that he first saw that mortal enemy of
[Pg 36]
mankind; there it was that he made the first discovery of his
passion, no less innocent than violent; there it was that the relentless
Marcella last denied, shunned him, and drove him to
that extremity of sorrow and despair that hastened the sad catastrophe
of his miserable life; and there it was that, in token of so
many misfortunes, he desired to be committed to the bosom of
the earth.”

Then addressing himself to Don Quixote and the rest of the
travellers, “This body, gentlemen,” said he, “which here you
now behold, was once enlivened by a soul which heaven had enriched
with the greatest part of its most valuable graces. This is
the body of that Chrysostome who was unrivalled in wit, matchless
in courteousness, incomparable in gracefulness, a phœnix in
friendship, generous and magnificent without ostentation, prudent
and grave without pride, modest without affectation, pleasant
and complaisant without meanness; in a word, the first in
every thing good, though second to none in misfortune: he loved
well, and was hated; he adored, and was disdained; he begged
pity of cruelty itself; he strove to move obdurate marble; pursued
the wind; made his moans to solitary deserts; was constant
to ingratitude; and, for the recompense of his fidelity, became a
prey to death in the flower of his age, through the barbarity of a
shepherdess, whom he strove to immortalise by his verse; as
these papers which are here deposited might testify, had he not
commanded me to sacrifice them to the flames, at the same time
that his body was committed to the earth.”

“Should you do so,” cried Vivaldo, “you would appear more
cruel to them than their unhappy author. Consider, sir, ’tis not
consistent with discretion, nor even with justice, so nicely to perform
the request of the dead, when it is repugnant to reason.
Augustus Cæsar himself would have forfeited his title to wisdom,
had he permitted that to have been effected which the divine
Virgil had ordered by his will. Therefore, sir, now that you resign
your friend’s body to the grave, do not hurry thus the noble
and only remains of that dear unhappy man to a worse fate, the
death of oblivion. What though he has doomed them to perish
in the height of his resentment, you ought not indiscreetly to be
their executioner; but rather reprieve and redeem them from
eternal silence, that they may live, and, flying through the world,
transmit to all ages the dismal story of your friend’s virtue and
Marcella’s ingratitude, as a warning to others, that they may
avoid such tempting snares and enchanting destructions; for not
only to me, but to all here present, is well known the history of
your enamoured and desperate friend: we are no strangers to the
friendship that was between you, as also to Marcella’s cruelty
which occasioned his death. Last night being informed that he
was to be buried here to-day, moved not so much by curiosity as
pity, we are come to behold with our eyes that which gave us so
[Pg 37]
much trouble to hear. Therefore, in the name of all the company,—deeply
affected like me, with a sense of Chrysostome’s
extraordinary merit, and his unhappy fate, and desirous to prevent
such deplorable disasters for the future,—I beg that you will
permit me to save some of these papers, whatever you resolve to
do with the rest.” And so, without waiting for an answer, he
stretched out his arm, and took out those papers which lay next
to his hand. “Well, sir,” said Ambrose, “you have found a way
to make me submit, and you may keep those papers; but for the
rest, nothing shall make me alter my resolution of burning them.”
Vivaldo said no more; but being impatient to see what those
papers were which he had rescued from the flames, he opened
one of them immediately, and read the title of it, which was, ‘The
despairing Lover.’ “That,” said Ambrose, “was the last piece
my dear friend ever wrote; and therefore, that you may all hear
to what a sad condition his unhappy passion had reduced him,
read it aloud, I beseech you, sir, while the grave is making.”
“With all my heart,” replied Vivaldo; and so the company,
having the same desire, presently gathered round about him while
he read the lines.

The verses were well approved by all the company; and Vivaldo
was about to read another paper, when they were unexpectedly
prevented by a kind of apparition that offered itself to
their view. It was Marcella herself, who appeared at the top of
the rock, at the foot of which they were digging the grave; but
so beautiful, that fame seemed rather to have lessened than to
have magnified her charms: those who had never seen her before
gazed on her with silent wonder and delight; nay, those who
used to see her every day seemed no less lost in admiration than
the rest. But scarce had Ambrose spied her, when, with anger
and indignation in his heart, he cried out, “What dost thou
there, thou cruel basilisk of these mountains? comest thou to see
whether the wounds of thy unhappy victim will bleed afresh at
thy presence? or comest thou to glory in the fatal effects of thy
inhumanity, like another Nero at the sight of flaming Rome?”
“I come not here to any of those ungrateful ends, Ambrose,” replied
Marcella; “but only to clear my innocence, and shew the
injustice of all those who lay their misfortunes and Chrysostome’s
death to my charge: therefore, I entreat you all who are here at
this time to hear me a little, for I shall not need to use many
words to convince people of sense of an evident truth. Heaven,
you are pleased to say, has made me beautiful, and that to such
a degree that you are forced, nay, as it were, compelled to love
me, in spite of your endeavours to the contrary; and for the sake
of that love, you say I ought to love you again. Now, though I
am sensible that whatever is beautiful is lovely, I cannot conceive
that what is loved for being handsome should be bound to love
that by which it is loved merely because it is loved. He that
[Pg 38]
loves a beautiful object may happen to be ugly; and as what is
ugly deserves not to be loved, it would be ridiculous to say, I
love you because you are handsome, and therefore you must love
me again though I am ugly. But suppose two persons of different
sexes are equally handsome, it does not follow that their
desires should be alike and reciprocal; for all beauties do not
kindle love; some only recreate the sight, and never reach nor
captivate the heart. Alas, should whatever is beautiful produce
love, and enslave the mind, mankind’s desires would ever run
confused and wandering, without being able to fix their determinate
choice; for as there is an infinite number of beautiful
objects, the desires would consequently be also infinite; whereas,
on the contrary, I have heard that true love is still confined to one,
and is voluntary and unforced. This being granted, why would
you have me force my inclinations for no other reason but that
you say you love me? Tell me, I beseech you, had Heaven
formed me as ugly as it has made me beautiful, could I justly
complain of you for not loving me? Pray consider also, that I
do not possess those charms by choice; such as they are, they
were freely bestowed on me by Heaven: and as the viper is not
to be blamed for the poison with which she kills, seeing it was
assigned her by nature, so I ought not to be censured for that
beauty which I derive from the same cause; for beauty in a virtuous
woman is but like a distant flame, or a sharp-edged sword,
and only burns and wounds those who approach too near it.
Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the soul, and that body
that is destitute of them cannot be esteemed beautiful, though it
be naturally so. If, then, honour be one of those endowments
which most adorn the body, why should she that is beloved for
her beauty expose herself to the loss of it, merely to gratify
the inclinations of one who, for his own selfish ends, uses all the
means imaginable to make her lose it? I was born free, and, that
I might continue so, I retired to these solitary hills and plains,
where trees are my companions, and clear fountains my looking-glasses.
With the trees and with the waters I communicate my
thoughts and my beauty. I am a distant flame, and a sword far
off: those whom I have attracted with my sight I have undeceived
with my words; and if hope be the food of desire, as I
never gave any encouragement to Chrysostome, nor to any other, it
may well be said, it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty
that shortened his life. If you tell me that his intentions were
honest, and therefore ought to have been complied with, I answer,
that when, at the very place where his grave is making, he discovered
his passion, I told him I was resolved to live and die
single, and that the earth alone should reap the fruit of my reservedness
and enjoy the spoils of my beauty; and if, after all
the admonitions I gave him, he would persist in his obstinate pursuit,
and sail against the wind, what wonder is it he should perish
[Pg 39]
in the waves of his indiscretion? Had I ever encouraged him, or
amused him with ambiguous words, then I had been false; and
had I gratified his wishes, I had acted contrary to my better resolves:
he persisted, though I had given him a due caution, and
he despaired without being hated. Now I leave you to judge
whether I ought to be blamed for his sufferings. If I have deceived
any one, let him complain; if I have broke my promise to
any one, let him despair; if I encourage any one, let him presume;
if I entertain any one, let him boast: but let no man call
me cruel nor murderer until I either deceive, break my promise,
encourage, or entertain him. Let him that calls me a tigress and
a basilisk avoid me as a dangerous thing; and let him that calls
me ungrateful give over serving me: I assure them I will never
seek nor pursue them. Therefore let none hereafter make it their
business to disturb my ease, nor strive to make me hazard among
men the peace I now enjoy, which I am persuaded is not to be
found with them. I have wealth enough; I neither love nor hate
any one; the innocent conversation of the neighbouring shepherdesses,
with the care of my flocks, help me to pass away my
time, without either coquetting with this man, or practising arts
to ensnare that other. My thoughts are limited by these mountains;
and if they wander further, it is only to admire the beauty
of heaven, and thus by steps to raise my soul towards her original
dwelling.”

As soon as she had said this, without waiting for any answer,
she left the place, and ran into the thickest of the adjoining wood,
leaving all that heard her charmed with her discretion, as well as
her beauty.

However, so prevalent were the charms of the latter that
some of the company, who were desperately struck, could not
forbear offering to follow her, without being in the least deterred
by the solemn protestations which they had heard her make that
very moment. But Don Quixote perceiving their design, and
believing he had now a fit opportunity to exert his knight-errantry;
“Let no man,” cried he, “of what quality or condition
soever, presume to follow the fair Marcella, under the penalty of
incurring my displeasure. She has made it appear, by undeniable
reasons, that she was not guilty of Chrysostome’s death; and has
positively declared her firm resolution never to condescend to the
desires of any of her admirers: for which reason, instead of being
importuned and persecuted, she ought to be esteemed and honoured
by all good men, as being one of the few women in the
world who have lived with such a virtuous reservedness.”

Now, whether it were that Don Quixote’s threats terrified them,
or that Ambrose’s persuasion prevailed with them to stay and see
their friend interred, none of the shepherds left the place, till the
grave being made, and the papers burnt, the body was deposited
in the bosom of the earth, not without many tears from all the
[Pg 40]
assistants. They covered the grave with a great stone, and
strewed upon it many flowers and boughs; and every one having
condoled a while with his friend Ambrose, they took their leave
of him, and departed. Vivaldo and his companion did the like;
as did also Don Quixote, who was not a person to forget himself
on such occasions; he likewise bid adieu to the kind goatherds
that had entertained him, and to the two travellers, who desired
him to go with them to Seville, assuring him there was no place
in the world more fertile in adventures, every street and every
corner there producing some. Don Quixote returned them thanks
for their kind information, but told them, “he neither would nor
ought to go to Seville till he had cleared all those mountains of
the thieves and robbers which he heard very much infested all
those parts.” Thereupon the travellers, being unwilling to divert
him from so good a design, took their leaves of him once more,
and pursued their journey, sufficiently supplied with matter to
discourse on from the story of Marcella and Chrysostome, and
the follies of Don Quixote.

The knight and his squire continued their journey, and on
quitting an inn, which, notwithstanding the remonstrances of
Sancho, the Don, as usual, insisted was a castle, all the people
in the yard, above twenty in number, stood gazing at him; and,
among the rest, the host’s daughter, while he on his part removed
not his eyes from her, and ever and anon sent forth a sigh, which
seemed to proceed from the bottom of his heart.

Being now both mounted, and at the door of the inn, he
called to the host, and, in a grave and solemn tone of voice, said
to him: “Many and great are the favours, sigñor governor,
which in this your castle I have received, and I am bound to be
grateful to you all the days of my life. If I can make you some
compensation by taking vengeance on any proud miscreant who
hath insulted you, know that the duty of my profession is no
other than to strengthen the weak, to revenge the injured, and to
chastise the perfidious. Consider, and if your memory recall
anything of this nature to recommend to me, you need only declare
it; for I promise you, by the order of knighthood I have
received, to procure you satisfaction and amends to your heart’s
desire!” The host answered with the same gravity: “Sir knight,
I have no need of your worship’s avenging any wrong for me; I
know how to take the proper revenge when any injury is done
me: all I desire of your worship is, to pay me for what you have
had in the inn, as well for the straw and barley for your two
beasts as for your supper and lodging.” “What! is this an
inn?” exclaimed Don Quixote. “Ay, and a very creditable one,”
answered the host. “Hitherto, then, I have been in an error,”
answered Don Quixote; “for in truth I took it for a castle; but
since it is indeed no castle, but an inn, all that you have now to do
is to excuse the payment; for I cannot act contrary to the law of
[Pg 41]
knights-errant, of whom I certainly know (having hitherto read
nothing to the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or anything
else in the inns where they reposed; because every accommodation
is legally and justly due to them, in return for the
insufferable hardships they endure while in quest of adventures,
by night and by day, in winter and in summer, on foot and on
horseback, with thirst and with hunger, with heat and with cold;
subject to all the inclemencies of heaven, and to all the inconveniences
of earth.” “I see little to my purpose in all this,”
answered the host; “pay me what is my due, and let us have
none of your stories and knight-errantries; all I want is to get
my own.” “Thou art a blockhead, and a pitiful innkeeper,”
answered Don Quixote: so clapping spurs to Rozinante, and
brandishing his lance, he sallied out of the inn without opposition,
and, never turning to see whether his squire followed him, was
soon a good way off.

The host, seeing him go without paying, ran to seize on Sancho
Panza, who said that, since his master would not pay, neither
would he pay; for being squire to a knight-errant, the same rule
and reason held as good for him as for his master. The innkeeper,
irritated on hearing this, threatened, that if he did not
pay him, he should repent his obstinacy.

Poor Sancho’s ill-luck would have it that, among the people
in the inn, there were four clothworkers of Segovia, three needle-makers
from the fountain of Cordova, and two neighbours from
the market-place of Seville,—frolicksome fellows, who, instigated
and moved by the self-same spirit, came up to Sancho, and, having
dismounted him, one of them produced a blanket from the
landlord’s bed, into which he was immediately thrown; but, perceiving
that the ceiling was too low, they determined to execute
their purpose in the yard, which was bounded above only by
the sky. Thither Sancho was carried; and, being placed in the
middle of the blanket, they began to toss him aloft, and divert
themselves with him as with a dog at Shrovetide. The cries
which the poor blanketed squire sent forth were so many and so
loud that they reached his master’s ears; who, stopping to listen
attentively, believed that some new adventure was at hand, until
he plainly recognised the voice of his squire; then turning the
reins, he perceived the wicked sport they were making with his
squire. He saw him ascend and descend through the air with so
much grace and agility, that, if his indignation would have suffered
him, he certainly would have laughed outright. But they
suspended neither their laughter nor their labour; nor did the flying
Sancho cease to pour forth lamentations, mingled now with
threats, now with entreaties; yet all were of no avail, and they
desisted at last only from pure fatigue. They then brought him
his ass, and, wrapping him in his cloak, mounted him thereon.
The compassionate maid of the inn, seeing him so exhausted, bethought
[Pg 42]
of helping him to a jug of water, and that it might be
the cooler, she fetched it from the well. Sancho took it, and
instantly began to drink; but at the first sip, finding it was water,
he would proceed no further, and besought Maritornes to bring
him some wine, which she did willingly, and paid for it with her
own money; for it is indeed said of her that, although in that
station, she had some faint traces of a Christian. When Sancho
had ceased drinking, he clapped heels to his ass; and, the inn-gate
being thrown wide open, out he went, satisfied that he had
paid nothing, and had carried his point, though at the expense
of his usual pledge, namely, his back. The landlord, it is true,
retained his wallets in payment of what was due to him; but
Sancho never missed them in the hurry of his departure. The
innkeeper would have fastened the door well after him, as soon
as he saw him out; but the blanketeers would not let him, being
persons of that sort that, though Don Quixote had really been one
of the knights of the round table, they would not have cared two
farthings for him.

Sancho came up to his master so faint and dispirited that he
was not able to urge his ass forward. Don Quixote, perceiving
him in that condition, said: “Honest Sancho, that castle, or inn,
I am now convinced, is enchanted; for they who so cruelly sported
with thee, what could they be but phantoms and inhabitants of
another world? And I am confirmed in this from having found
that, when I stood at the pales of the yard, beholding the acts of
your sad tragedy, I could not possibly get over them, nor even
alight from Rozinante; so that they must certainly have held me
enchanted. If I could have got over, or alighted, I would have
avenged thee in such a manner as would have made those poltroons
and assassins remember the jest as long as they lived, even
though I should have thereby transgressed the laws of chivalry;
for, as I have often told thee, they do not allow a knight to lay
hand on his sword against any one who is not so, unless it be in
defence of his own life and person, and in cases of urgent and
extreme necessity.” “And I too,” quoth Sancho, “would have
revenged myself if I had been able, knight or no knight, but I
could not; though, in my opinion, they who diverted themselves
at my expense were no hobgoblins, but men of flesh and bones,
as we are; and each of them, as I heard while they were tossing
me, had his proper name; so that, sir, as to your not being able
to leap over the pales, nor to alight from your horse, the fault lay
not in enchantment, but in something else. And what I gather
clearly from all this is, that these adventures we are in quest of
will in the long-run bring us into so many misadventures that we
shall not know which is our right foot. So that, in my poor
opinion, the better and surer way would be to return to our village,
now that it is reaping-time, and look after our business, nor
go rambling thus out of the frying-pan into the fire.”

[Pg 43]
“How little dost thou know, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote,
“of what appertains to chivalry! Peace, and have patience; for
the day will come when thine eyes shall witness how honourable
a thing it is to follow this profession. For tell me what greater
satisfaction can the world afford, or what pleasure can be compared
with that of winning a battle, and triumphing over an
adversary? Undoubtedly none.” “It may be so,” answered
Sancho, “though I do not know it. I only know that since we
have been knights-errant, or since you have been one, sir (for I
have no right to reckon myself of that honourable number), we
have never won any battle; we have had nothing but drubbings
upon drubbings, cuffs upon cuffs, with my blanket-tossing into
the bargain, and that by persons enchanted, on whom I cannot
revenge myself, and thereby know what that pleasure of overcoming
an enemy is which your worship talks of.” “That is
what troubles me, and ought to trouble thee also, Sancho,” answered
Don Quixote; “but henceforward I will endeavour to
have ready at hand a sword made with such art that no kind of
enchantment can touch him that wears it; and perhaps fortune
may put me in possession of that of Amadis, when he called himself
‘Knight of the Burning Sword,’ which was one of the best
weapons that ever was worn by knight; for, beside the virtue
aforesaid, it cut like a razor; and no armour, however strong or
enchanted, could withstand it.” “Such is my luck,” quoth
Sancho, “that though this were so, and your worship should find
such a sword, it would be of service only to those who are dubbed
knights; as for the poor squires, they may sing sorrow.” “Fear
not, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “Heaven will deal more kindly
by thee.”

The knight and his squire went on conferring thus together,
when Don Quixote perceived, in the road on which they were
travelling, a great and thick cloud of dust coming towards them;
upon which he turned to Sancho, and said, “This is the day, O
Sancho, that shall manifest the good that fortune hath in store for
me. This is the day, I say, on which shall be proved, as at all
times, the valour of my arm; and on which I shall perform exploits
that will be recorded and written in the book of fame, there
to remain to all succeeding ages. Seest thou that cloud of dust,
Sancho? It is raised by a prodigious army of divers nations, who
are on the march this way.” “If so, there must be two armies,”
said Sancho; “for here, on this side, arises just another cloud of
dust.” Don Quixote turned, and seeing that it really was so, he
rejoiced exceedingly, taking it for granted they were two armies
coming to engage in the midst of that spacious plain; for at all
hours and moments his imagination was full of the battles, enchantments,
adventures, extravagances, combats, and challenges
detailed in his favourite books; and in every thought, word, and
action he reverted to them. Now the cloud of dust he saw was
[Pg 44]
raised by two great flocks of sheep going the same road from different
parts, and as the dust concealed them until they came
near, and Don Quixote affirmed so positively that they were
armies, Sancho began to believe it, and said, “Sir, what then
must we do?” “What,” replied Don Quixote, “but favour and
assist the weaker side? Thou must know, Sancho, that the army
which marches towards us in front is led and commanded by the
great Emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the great island of Taprobana:
this other, which marches behind us, is that of his enemy, the king
of the Garamantes, Pentapolin of the Naked Arm—for he always
enters into battle with his right arm bare.” “But why do these
two princes bear one another so much ill-will?” demanded
Sancho. “They hate one another,” answered Don Quixote,
“because this Alifanfaron is a furious pagan, in love with the
daughter of Pentapolin, who is most beautiful, and also a Christian;
but her father will not give her in marriage to the pagan
king unless he will first renounce the religion of his false prophet
Mahomet, and turn Christian.” “By my beard,” said Sancho,
“Pentapolin is in the right; and I am resolved to assist him to
the utmost of my power.” “Therein wilt thou do thy duty,
Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “but listen with attention whilst I
give thee an account of the principal knights in the two approaching
armies; and, that thou mayest observe them the better, let
us retire to that rising ground, whence both armies may be distinctly
seen.” Seeing, however, in his imagination, what did not
exist, he began, with a loud voice, to say: “The knight thou
seest yonder with the gilded armour, who bears on his shield a
lion crowned, couchant at a damsel’s feet, is the valorous Laurcalco,
Lord of the Silver Bridge. The other, with the armour
flowered with gold, who bears three crowns argent, in a field
azure, is the formidable Micocolembo, Grand Duke of Quiracia.
The third, with gigantic limbs, who marches on his right, is the
undaunted Brandabarbaran of Boliche, Lord of the three Arabias.
He is armed with a serpent’s skin, and bears, instead of a shield,
a gate, which fame says is one of those belonging to the temple
which Samson pulled down when with his death he avenged himself
upon his enemies.”

In this manner he went on naming sundry knights of each
squadron, as his fancy dictated, and giving to each their arms,
colours, devices, and mottos, extempore; and, without pausing,
he continued thus: “That squadron in the front is formed and
composed of people of different nations. Here stand those who
drink the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus; the mountaineers
who tread the Massilian fields; those who sift the pure and fine
gold-dust of Arabia Felix; those who dwell along the famous and
refreshing banks of the clear Thermodon; those who drain, by
divers and sundry ways, the golden veins of Pactolus; the Numidians,
unfaithful in their promises; the Persians, famous for bows
[Pg 45]
and arrows; the Parthians and Medes, who fight flying; the
Arabians, perpetually changing their habitations; the Scythians,
as cruel as fair; the broad-lipped Ethiopians; and an infinity of
other nations, whose countenances I see and know, although I
cannot recollect their names.”

How many provinces did he name! how many nations did he
enumerate, giving to each, with wonderful readiness, its peculiar
attributes! Sancho Panza stood confounded at his discourse,
without speaking a word; and now and then he turned his head
about, to see whether he could discover the knights and giants
his master named. But seeing none, he said, “Sir, not a man,
or giant, or knight, of all you have named, can I see any where.”
“How sayest thou, Sancho?” answered Don Quixote; “hearest
thou not the neighing of the steeds, the sound of the trumpets,
and the rattling of the drums?” “I hear nothing,” answered
Sancho, “but the bleating of sheep and lambs:” and so it was;
for now the two flocks were come very near them. “Thy fears,
Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “prevent thee from hearing or seeing
aright; for one effect of fear is to disturb the senses and make
things not to appear what they really are: and if thou art so
much afraid, retire and leave me alone; for with my single arm
I shall ensure victory to that side which I favour with my assistance:”
then, clapping spurs to Rozinante, and setting his lance
in his rest, he darted down the hillock like lightning. Sancho
cried out to him: “Hold, Sigñor Don Quixote, come back! they
are only lambs and sheep you are going to encounter; pray come
back; what madness is this! there is neither giant, nor knight,
nor horses, nor arms, nor shields quartered or entire, nor true
azures, nor devices: what are you doing, sir?” Notwithstanding
all this, Don Quixote turned not again, but still went on,
crying aloud, “Ho, knights, you that follow and fight under the
banner of the valiant Emperor Pentapolin of the Naked Arm, follow
me all, and you shall see with how much ease I revenge him
on his enemy Alifanfaron of Taprobana.” With these words he
rushed into the midst of the squadron of sheep, as courageously
and intrepidly as if in good earnest he was engaging his mortal
enemies. The shepherds and herdsmen who came with the
flocks called out to him to desist; but seeing it was to no purpose,
they unbuckled their slings, and began to salute his ears
with a shower of stones. Don Quixote cared not for the stones,
but, galloping about on all sides, cried out: “Where art thou,
proud Alifanfaron? Present thyself before me; I am a single
knight, desirous to prove thy valour hand to hand, and to punish
thee with the loss of life for the wrong thou dost to the valiant
Pentapolin Garamanta.” At that instant a large stone struck
him with such violence that he believed himself either slain or
sorely wounded; and remembering some balsam which he had, he
pulled out the cruse, and applying it to his mouth, began to swallow
[Pg 46]
some of the liquor; but before he could take what he thought
sufficient, another hit him full on the hand, and dashed the cruse
to pieces: carrying off three or four of his teeth by the way, and
grievously bruising two of his fingers. Such was the first blow,
and such the second, that the poor knight fell from his horse to
the ground. The shepherds ran to him, and verily believed they
had killed him; whereupon in all haste they collected their flock,
took up their dead, which were about seven, and marched off
without farther inquiry.

All this while Sancho stood upon the hillock, beholding his
master’s actions—tearing his beard, and cursing the unfortunate
hour and moment that ever he knew him. But seeing him fallen
to the ground and the shepherds gone off, he descended from the
hillock, and, running to him, found him in a very ill plight,
though not quite bereaved of sense; and said to him, “Did I
not beg you, Sigñor Don Quixote, to come back; for those you
went to attack were a flock of sheep, and not an army of men?”
“How easily,” replied Don Quixote, “can that thief of an enchanter,
my enemy, transform things or make them invisible!
However, do one thing, Sancho, for my sake, to undeceive thyself,
and see the truth of what I tell thee; mount thy ass, and
follow them fair and softly, and thou wilt find that, when they
are got a little farther off, they will return to their first form, and,
ceasing to be sheep, will become men, proper and tall, as I
described them at first. But do not go now; for I want thy
assistance; come hither to me, and see how many of my teeth are
deficient; for it seems to me that I have not one left in my head.”

He now raised himself up, and placing his left hand on his
mouth, to prevent the remainder of his teeth from falling out,
with the other he laid hold on Rozinante’s bridle, who had not
stirred from his master’s side, such was his fidelity, and went
towards his squire, who stood leaning with his breast upon the
ass, and his cheek reclining upon his hand, in the posture of a
man overwhelmed with thought. Don Quixote, seeing him
thus, and to all appearance so melancholy, said to him, “Know,
Sancho, that one man is no more than another, only inasmuch
as he does more than another. So do not afflict thyself for the
mischances that befall me, since thou hast no share in them.”
“How? no share in them!” answered Sancho; “peradventure
he they tossed in a blanket yesterday was not my father’s son,
and the wallets I have lost to-day, with all my movables, belong
to somebody else?” “What! are the wallets lost?” quoth Don
Quixote. “Yes, they are,” answered Sancho. “Then we have
nothing to eat to-day?” replied Don Quixote. “It would be
so,” answered Sancho, “if these fields did not produce those
herbs which your worship says you know, and with which unlucky
knights-errant like your worship are used to supply such
wants.” “Nevertheless,” said Don Quixote, “at this time I
[Pg 47]
would rather have a slice of bread and a couple of heads of salt
pilchards than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, though
commented upon by Doctor Laguna himself. But, good Sancho,
get upon thy ass, and follow me; for God, who provides for all,
will not desert us, since he neglects neither the birds of the air,
the beasts of the earth, nor the fish of the waters; more especially
being engaged, as we are, in his service.” “Your worship,”
said Sancho, “would make a better preacher than a
knight-errant.” “Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “the knowledge
of knights-errant must be universal; there have been knights-errant,
in times past, who would make sermons or harangues on
the king’s highway as successfully as if they had taken their
degrees in the university of Paris; whence it may be inferred
that the lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.”
“Well, be it as your worship says,” answered Sancho; “but
let us begone hence, and endeavour to get a lodging to-night;
and pray God it be where there are neither blankets or blanket-heavers,
hobgoblins or enchanted Moors.”

CHAPTER XI.

The sage discourse continued, with the adventures of a dead body.

Thus discoursing, night overtook them, and they were still in the
high road; and the worst of it was, they were famished with
hunger: for with their wallets they had lost their whole larder
of provisions, and, to complete their misfortunes, an adventure
now befell them which appeared indeed to be truly an adventure.
The night came on rather dark; notwithstanding which they saw
advancing towards them a great number of lights, resembling so
many moving stars. Sancho stood aghast at the sight of them,
nor was Don Quixote unmoved. The one checked his ass, and
the other his horse, and both stood looking before them with
eager attention. They perceived that the lights were advancing
towards them, and that as they approached nearer they appeared
larger. “I beseech thee, Sancho, to be of good courage; for
experience shall give thee sufficient proof of mine.” “I will, if
it please God,” answered Sancho; and, retiring a little on one
side of the road, and again endeavouring to discover what those
walking lights might be, they soon after perceived a great many
persons clothed in white; this dreadful spectacle completely annihilated
the courage of Sancho, whose teeth began to chatter, as
if seized with a quartan ague. But it was otherwise with his
master, whose lively imagination instantly suggested to him that
this must be truly a chivalrous adventure. He conceived that
the litter was a bier, whereon was carried some knight sorely
[Pg 48]
wounded or slain, whose revenge was reserved for him alone.
He therefore, without delay, couched his spear, seated himself
firm in his saddle, and, with grace and spirit, advanced into the
middle of the road by which the procession must pass; and
when they were near he raised his voice, and said: “Ho!
knights, whoever ye are, halt, and give me an account to whom
ye belong, whence ye come, whither ye are going, and what it
is ye carry upon that bier; for, in all appearance, either ye have
done some injury to others, or others to you; and it is expedient
and necessary that I be informed of it, either to chastise ye for the
evil ye have done, or to revenge ye of wrongs sustained.” “We
are in haste,” answered one in the procession; “the inn is a great
way off; and we cannot stay to give so long an account as you
require:” then, spurring his mule, he passed forward. Don
Quixote, highly resenting this answer, laid hold of his bridle,
and said, “Stand, and with more civility give me the account I
demand; otherwise I challenge ye all to battle.” The mule was
timid, and started so much upon his touching the bridle, that,
rising on her hind-legs, she threw her rider over the crupper to
the ground. A lacquey that came on foot, seeing the man in
white fall, began to revile Don Quixote; whose choler being now
raised, he couched his spear, and immediately attacking one of
the mourners, laid him on the ground grievously wounded; then
turning about to the rest, it was worth seeing with what agility
he attacked and defeated them; it seemed as if wings at that
instant had sprung on Rozinante—so lightly and swiftly he
moved! All the white-robed people, being timorous and unarmed,
soon quitted the skirmish, and ran over the plain with
their lighted torches, looking like so many masqueraders on a
carnival or a festival night. The mourners were so wrapped up
and muffled in their long robes that they could make no exertion;
so that the Don, with entire safety to himself, assailed them all,
and, sorely against their will, obliged them to quit the field; for
they thought him no man, but the devil broke loose upon them
to seize the dead body they were conveying in the litter.

All this Sancho beheld, with admiration at his master’s intrepidity,
and said to himself, “This master of mine is certainly as
valiant and magnanimous as he pretends to be.” A burning
torch lay on the ground, near the first whom the mule had overthrown;
by the light of which Don Quixote espied him, and
going up to him placed the point of his spear to his throat, commanding
him to surrender, on pain of death. To which the fallen
man answered, “I am surrendered enough already, since I
cannot stir, for one of my legs is broken. I beseech you, sir, if
you are a Christian gentleman, do not kill me; you would commit
a great sacrilege; for I am a licentiate, and have taken the
lesser orders.” “What, then, I pray you,” said Don Quixote,
“brought you hither, being an ecclesiastic?” “What, sir?” replied
[Pg 49]
the fallen man, “but my evil fortune.” “A worse fate now
threatens you,” said Don Quixote, “unless you reply satisfactorily
to all my first questions.” “Your worship shall soon be
satisfied,” answered the licentiate; “and therefore you must
know, sir, that, though I told you before that I was a licentiate,
I am, in fact, only a bachelor of arts, and my name is Alonzo
Lopez. I am a native of Alcovendas, and came from the city of
Baeza, with eleven more ecclesiastics, the same who fled with the
torches; we were attending the corpse in that litter to the city of
Segovia: it is that of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he
was deposited till now that, as I said before, we are carrying his
bones to their place of burial in Segovia, where he was born.”
“And who killed him?” demanded Don Quixote. “God,” replied
the bachelor, “by means of a pestilential fever.” “Then,”
said Don Quixote, “Heaven hath saved me the labour of revenging
his death, in case he had been slain by any other hand;
but since he fell by the decree of God, there is nothing expected
from us but patience and resignation; for just the same must
I have done, had it been his pleasure to pronounce the fatal sentence
upon me. It is proper that your reverence should know
that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote by name; and
that it is my office and profession to go all over the world, righting
wrongs and redressing grievances.” “I do not understand your
way of righting wrongs,” said the bachelor; “for from right you
have set me wrong, having broken my leg, which will never be
right again whilst I live. But since my fate ordained it so, I
beseech you, sigñor knight-errant, who have done me such arrant
mischief, to help me to get from under this mule: for my leg is
held fast between the stirrup and the saddle.” “I might have
continued talking until to-morrow,” said Don Quixote; “why
did you delay acquainting me with your embarrassment?” He
then called out to Sancho Panza to assist; but he did not choose
to obey, being employed in ransacking a sumpter-mule, which
those pious men had brought with them, well stored with eatables.
Sancho made a bag of his cloak, and having crammed
into it as much as it would hold, he loaded his beast; after which
he attended to his master’s call, and helped to disengage the
bachelor from the oppression of his mule; and, having mounted
him and given him the torch, Don Quixote bade him follow the
track of his companions, and beg their pardon, in his name, for
the injury which he could not avoid doing them. Sancho likewise
said, “If perchance those gentlemen would know who is
the champion that routed them, tell them it is the famous Don
Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Sorrowful
Figure.”

The bachelor being gone, Don Quixote asked Sancho what
induced him to call him the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, at
[Pg 50]
that time more than any other? “I will tell you,” answered
Sancho; “it is because I have been viewing you by the light of
the torch, which that unfortunate man carried; and, in truth,
your worship at present makes the most woful figure I have ever
seen; which must be owing, I suppose, either to the fatigue of
this combat or the want of your teeth.” “It is owing to
neither,” replied Don Quixote; “but the sage who has the charge
of writing the history of my achievements has deemed it proper
for me to assume an appellation, like the knights of old; one of
whom called himself the Knight of the Burning Sword; another
of the Unicorn; this, of the Damsels; that, of the Phœnix;
another, the Knight of the Griffin; and another, the Knight of
Death; and by those names and ensigns they were known over
the whole surface of the earth. And therefore I say that the
sage I just now mentioned has put it into thy thoughts and into
thy mouth to call me the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, as I
purpose to call myself from this day forward; and that this name
may fit me the better, I determine, when an opportunity offers,
to have a most sorrowful figure painted on my shield.” “You
need not spend time and money in getting this figure made,”
said Sancho; “your worship need only shew your own, and,
without any other image or shield, they will immediately call
you him of the Sorrowful Figure; and be assured I tell you the
truth; for I promise you, sir (mind, I speak in jest), that hunger
and the loss of your teeth makes you look so ruefully that, as I
said before, the sorrowful picture may very well be spared.”

Don Quixote smiled at Sancho’s pleasantry; nevertheless, he
resolved to call himself by that name, and to have his shield
or buckler painted accordingly; and he said, “I conceive,
Sancho, that I am liable to excommunication for having laid
violent hands on holy things, ‘Juxta illud, Siquis suadente
diabolo,’ &c.: although I know I did not lay my hands, but my
spear, upon them; besides, I did not know that I was engaging
with priests, or things belonging to the Church, which I reverence
and adore, like a good catholic and faithful Christian as I am, but
with phantoms and spectres of the other world. And even were
it otherwise, I perfectly remember what befell the Cyd Ruy Diaz,
when he broke the chair of that king’s ambassador in the presence
of his holiness the Pope, for which he was excommunicated;
yet honest Roderigo de Vivar passed that day for an honourable
and courageous knight.”

They had not gone far between two hills, when they found
themselves in a retired and spacious valley, where they alighted.
Sancho disburdened his beast; and, extended on the green grass,
with hunger for sauce, they despatched their breakfast, dinner,
afternoon’s luncheon, and supper all at once; regaling their palates
with more than one cold mess, which the ecclesiastics who
[Pg 51]
attended the deceased had brought with them on the sumpter-mule.
But there was another misfortune, which Sancho accounted
the worst of all; namely, they had no wine; nor even water, to
drink; and were, moreover, parched with thirst.

But they had not gone two hundred paces when a great noise of
water reached their ears, like that of some mighty cascade pouring
down from a vast and steep rock. The sound rejoiced them
exceedingly, and stopping to listen whence it came, they heard
on a sudden another dreadful noise, which abated the pleasure
occasioned by that of the water; especially in Sancho, who was
naturally faint-hearted. I say they heard a dreadful din of irons
and rattling chains, accompanied with mighty strokes, repeated
in regular time and measure; which, together with the furious
noise of the water, would have struck terror into any other heart
but that of Don Quixote. The night, as we have before said, was
dark; and they chanced to enter a grove of tall trees, whose
leaves, agitated by the breeze, caused a kind of rustling noise,
not loud, though fearful; so that the solitude, the situation, the
darkness, and the sound of rushing water, with the agitated
leaves, all concurred to produce surprise and horror, especially
when they found that neither the blows ceased, nor the wind
slept, nor the morning approached; and in addition to all this
was their total ignorance of the place where they were in. But
Don Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped upon Rozinante,
and, bracing on his buckler, brandished his spear, and
said, “Friend Sancho, know that, by the will of Heaven, I was
born in this age of iron, to revive in it that of gold, or, as it is
usually termed, ‘the golden age.’ I am he for whom dangers,
great exploits, and valorous achievements, are reserved; I am he,
I say again, who am destined to revive the order of the round
table; that of the twelve peers of France, and the nine worthies,
and to obliterate the memory of the Platirs, the Tablantes, Olivantes,
and Tirantes, Knights of the Sun, and the Belianises,
with the whole tribe of the famous knights-errant of times past.
Stay for me here three days, and no more: if I return not in that
time, thou mayest go back to our village; and thence, to oblige
me, repair to Toboso, and inform my incomparable lady Dulcinea
that her enthralled knight died in attempting things that might
have made him worthy to be styled hers.”

When Sancho heard these words of his master, he dissolved
into tears, and said, “Sir, I cannot think why your worship
should encounter this fearful adventure. It is now night, and
nobody sees us. We may easily turn aside, and get out of danger,
though we should not drink these three days; and, being
unseen, we cannot be taxed with cowardice. Besides, I have
heard the curate of our village, whom your worship knows very
well, say in the pulpit that ‘he who seeketh danger perisheth
therein;’ so that it is not good to tempt God by undertaking so
[Pg 52]
extravagant an exploit, whence there is no escaping but by a
miracle. I left my country and forsook my wife and children
to follow and serve your worship; but as covetousness bursts
the bag, so hath it rent my hopes; for when they were most
alive, and I was just expecting to obtain that unlucky island
which you have so often promised me, I find myself, in lieu
thereof, ready to be abandoned by your worship in a place remote
from every thing human.” “Be silent,” said Don Quixote; “for
God, who has inspired me with courage to attempt this unparalleled
and fearful adventure, will not fail to watch over my safety,
and comfort thee in thy sadness. All thou hast to do is to girth
Rozinante well, and remain here; for I will quickly return, alive
or dead.”

Sancho now had recourse to stratagem; therefore, while he
was tightening the horse’s girths, softly, and unperceived, with
his halter he tied Rozinante’s hinder feet together, so that when
Don Quixote would fain have departed, the horse could move
only by jumps. Sancho, perceiving the success of his contrivance,
said: “Ah, sir, behold how Heaven, moved by my tears and
prayers, has ordained that Rozinante should be unable to stir;
and if you will obstinately persist to spur him, you will but provoke
fortune.” This made the Don quite desperate, and the more
he spurred his horse the less he could move him; he therefore
thought it best to be quiet, and wait either until day appeared or
until Rozinante could proceed; never suspecting the artifice of
Sancho, whom he thus addressed: “Since so it is, Sancho, that
Rozinante cannot move, I consent to remain until the dawn
smiles, although I weep in the interval.” “You need not weep,”
answered Sancho; “for I will entertain you until day by telling
you stories, if you had not rather alight and compose yourself to
sleep a little upon the green grass, as knights-errant are wont to
do, so that you may be less weary when the day and hour comes
for engaging in that terrible adventure you wait for.” “To
whom dost thou talk of alighting or sleeping?” said Don Quixote.
“Am I one of those knights who take repose in time of danger?
Sleep thou, who wert born to sleep, or do what thou wilt: I shall
act as becomes my profession.” “Pray, good sir, be not angry,”
answered Sancho; “I did not mean to offend you:” and, coming
close to him, he laid hold of the saddle before and behind, and
thus stood embracing his master’s left thigh, without daring to
stir from him a finger’s breadth, so much was he afraid of the
blows which still continued to sound in regular succession. Don
Quixote bade him tell some story for his entertainment, as he had
promised; Sancho replied that he would, if his dread of the noise
would permit him: “I will endeavour,” said he, “in spite of it,
to tell a story, which, if I can hit upon it, and it slips not through
my fingers, is the best of all stories; and I beg your worship to
be attentive, for now I begin:

[Pg 53]
“What hath been, hath been; the good that shall befall be for
us all, and evil to him that evil seeks. Which fits the present
purpose like a ring to your finger, signifying that your worship
should be quiet, and not go about searching after evil.” “Proceed
with thy tale, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and leave to my
care the road we are to follow.” “I say then,” continued Sancho,
“that in a village of Estremadura, there was a shepherd, I
mean a goatherd; which shepherd, or goatherd, as my story says,
was called Lope Ruiz; and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a
shepherdess called Torralva; which shepherdess called Torralva
was daughter to a rich herdsman, and this rich herdsman”——”If
this be thy manner of telling a story, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“thou wilt not have done these two days; tell it concisely, and
like a man of sense, or else say no more.” “I tell it in the same
manner that they tell all stories in my country,” answered Sancho;
“and I cannot tell it otherwise, nor ought your worship to
require me to make new customs.” “Tell it as thou wilt, then,”
said Don Quixote; “since it is the will of fate that I must hear
thee, go on.”

“And so, sir,” continued Sancho, “as I said before, this shepherd
was in love with the shepherdess Torralva, who was a merry
strapping wench, somewhat scornful, and somewhat masculine;
but, in process of time, it came about that the love which the shepherd
bore to the shepherdess turned into hatred; and the cause
was a certain quantity of little jealousies she gave him, so as to
exceed all bounds: and so much did he hate her thenceforward,
that, to shun the sight of her, he chose to absent himself from that
country, and go where his eyes should never more behold her.
Torralva, who found herself disdained by Lope, then began to
love him better than ever she had loved him before.” “It is a
disposition natural in women,” said Don Quixote, “to slight
those who love them, and love those who hate them: go on,
Sancho.”

“It fell out,” proceeded Sancho, “that the shepherd put his
design into execution; and, collecting together his goats, went
over the plains of Estremadura, in order to pass over into the
kingdom of Portugal. Upon which, Torralva followed him at a
distance, on foot and bare-legged, with a pilgrim’s staff in her
hand, and a wallet about her neck. Presently, the shepherd
came with his flock to pass the river Guadiana, which at that
time was swollen, and had almost overflowed its banks; and on
the side he came to there was neither boat nor any body to ferry
him or his flock over to the other side; which grieved him
mightily: for he saw that Torralva was at his heels, and would
give him much disturbance by her entreaties and tears. He
therefore looked about him until he espied a fisherman with a
boat near him, but so small that it could hold only one person and
one goat: however, he spoke to him, and agreed with him to
[Pg 54]
carry over himself and his three hundred goats. The fisherman
got into the boat, and carried over a goat; he returned and carried
over another; he came back again, and carried over another.
Pray, sir, keep an account of the goats that the fisherman is carrying
over; for if you lose count of a single goat, the story ends,
and it will be impossible to tell a word more of it. I go on then,
and say that the landing-place on the opposite side was covered
with mud, and slippery, and the fisherman was a great while in
coming and going. However, he returned for another goat, and
another, and another.” “Suppose them all carried over,” said
Don Quixote, “and do not be going and coming in this manner;
or thou wilt not have finished carrying them over in a twelvemonth.”
“Tell me, how many have passed already?” said
Sancho. “How should I know?” answered Don Quixote. “See
there, now! did I not tell thee to keep an exact account? There
is now an end of the story; I can go no farther.” “How can
this be?” answered Don Quixote. “Is it so essential to the
story to know the exact number of goats that passed over, that
if one error be made, the story can proceed no farther?” “Even
so,” answered Sancho; “for when I desired your worship to tell
me how many goats had passed, and you answered you did not
know, at that very instant all that I had to say fled out of my
memory; though, in truth, it was very edifying and satisfactory.”
“So, then,” said Don Quixote, “the story is at an end?” “To
be sure it is,” quoth Sancho. “Verily,” answered Don Quixote,
“thou hast told one of the rarest tales, fables, or histories,
imaginable; and thy mode of relating and concluding it is such
as never was, nor ever will be, equalled; although I expected no
less from thy good sense: however, I do not wonder at it, for this
incessant din may have disturbed thy understanding.” “All that
may be,” answered Sancho; “but as to my story, I know there’s
no more to be told; for it ends just where the error begins in the
account of carrying over the goats.” “Let it end where it will,”
said Don Quixote, “and let us see whether Rozinante can stir
himself.” Again he clapt spurs to him, and again the animal
jumped, and then stood stock still, so effectually was he fettered.

Thus passed the night; and when Sancho perceived the dawn
of morning, with much caution he unbound Rozinante, who being
at liberty, though naturally not over-mettlesome, seemed to feel
himself alive, and began to paw the ground; but as for curvetting
(begging his pardon) he knew nothing about it. Don Quixote,
perceiving that Rozinante began to be active, took it for a
good omen, and a signal that he should forthwith attempt the
tremendous adventure. The dawn now making the surrounding
objects visible, Don Quixote perceived he was beneath some tall
chestnut-trees, which afforded a gloomy shade: but the cause of
that striking, which yet continued, he was unable to discover;
therefore, without farther delay, he made Rozinante feel the spur,
[Pg 55]
and again taking leave of Sancho, commanded him to wait there
three days at the farthest, as he had said before, and that if he returned
not by that time, he might conclude that it was the will of
Heaven that he should end his days in that perilous adventure. And
now, dissembling as well as he could, he advanced towards the
place whence the noise of the water and of the strokes seemed to
proceed. Sancho followed him on foot, leading his ass—that
constant companion of his fortunes, good or bad. And having
proceeded some distance among those shady chestnut-trees, they
came to a little green meadow, bounded by some steep rocks,
down which a mighty torrent precipitated itself. At the foot of
these rocks were several wretched huts, that seemed more like
ruins than habitable dwellings; and it was from them, they now
discovered, that the fearful din proceeded. Rozinante was startled
at the noise; but Don Quixote, after quieting him, went slowly
on towards the huts, recommending himself devoutly to his lady,
and beseeching her to favour him in so terrific an enterprise.
Sancho kept close to his side, stretching out his neck to see if he
could discover the cause of his terrors. In this manner they advanced
about a hundred yards farther, when, on doubling a point,
the true and undoubted cause of that horrible noise, which had held
them all night in such suspense, appeared plain and exposed to
view. It was (kind reader, take it not in dudgeon) six fulling-hammers,
whose alternate strokes produced that hideous sound.
Don Quixote, on beholding them, was struck dumb, and in the
utmost confusion. Sancho looked at him, and saw he hung down
his head upon his breast, with manifest indications of being
abashed. Don Quixote looked also at Sancho, and seeing his
cheeks swollen, and his mouth full of laughter, betraying evident
signs of being ready to explode, notwithstanding his vexation he
could not forbear laughing himself at the sight of his squire, who,
thus encouraged by his master, broke forth in so violent a manner
that he was forced to apply both hands to his sides, to secure
himself from bursting. Don Quixote, perceiving that Sancho
made a jest of him, was so enraged that he lifted up his lance, and
discharged two such blows on him that, had he received them on
his head, instead of his shoulders, the knight would have acquitted
himself of the payment of his wages, unless it were to his
heirs. Sancho, finding he paid so dearly for his jokes, and fearing
lest his master should proceed farther, with much humility
said, “Pray, sir, be pacified; as truly as I live, I did but
jest.” “Though thou mayest jest, I do not,” answered Don
Quixote. “Come hither, merry sir; what thinkest thou? Suppose
these mill-hammers had really been some perilous adventure,
have I not given proof of the courage requisite to undertake
and achieve it? Am I obliged, being a knight as I am, to distinguish
sounds, and know which are, or are not, those of a fulling-mill,
more especially if (which is indeed the truth) I had
[Pg 56]
never seen any fulling-mills in my life, as thou hast—a pitiful
rustic as thou art, who wert born and bred amongst them? but
let these six fulling-hammers be transformed into six giants, and
let them beard me one by one, or altogether, and if I do not set
them all on their heads, then make what jest thou wilt of me.”
“It is enough, good sir,” replied Sancho; “I confess I have been
a little too jocose; but pray tell me, now that it is peace between
us, was it not a thing to be laughed at, and worth telling, what a
fearful taking we were in last night—I mean, that I was in?—for I
know that your worship is a stranger to fear.” “I do not deny,”
answered Don Quixote, “that what has befallen us may be risible,
but it is not proper to be repeated; for all persons have not
the sense to see things in their right point of view.” “But,”
answered Sancho, “your worship knew how to point your lance
aright when you pointed it at my head, and hit me on the shoulders;
let that pass, for I have heard say, ‘he loves thee well who
makes thee weep;’ and, besides, your people of condition, when
they have given a servant a hard word, presently give him some
old hose, though what is usually given after a beating I cannot
tell, unless it be that your knights-errant, after bastinadoes, bestow
islands, or kingdoms on terra firma.” “The die may so
run,” quoth Don Quixote, “that all thou hast said may come to
pass; excuse what is done, since thou art considerate; for know
that first impulses are not under a man’s control: and that thou
mayest abstain from talking too much with me henceforth, I
apprise thee of one thing, that in all the books of chivalry I ever
read, numerous as they are, I recollect no example of a squire
who conversed so much with his master as thou dost with thine.
And really I account it a great fault both in thee and in myself;
in thee, because thou payest me so little respect; in me, that I do
not make myself respected more. There was Gandalin, squire to
Amadis de Gaul, earl of the firm island, of whom we read that
he always spoke to his master cap in hand, his head inclined, and
body bent after the Turkish fashion. What shall we say of Gasabel,
squire to Don Galaor, who was so silent that, to illustrate the
excellence of his marvellous taciturnity, his name is mentioned
but once in all that great and faithful history? From what I have
said, thou mayest infer, Sancho, that there ought to be a difference
between master and man, between lord and lacquey, and between
knight and squire; so that, from this day forward, we must
be treated with more respect: for howsoever thou mayest excite
my anger, ‘it will go ill with the pitcher.’ The favours and benefits
I promised thee will come in due time; and if they do not
come, the wages, at least, thou wilt not lose.” “Your worship
says very well,” quoth Sancho; “but I would fain know (if perchance
the time of the favours should not come, and it should be
necessary to have recourse to the article of the wages) how much
might the squire of a knight-errant get in those times? and
[Pg 57]
whether they agreed by the month, or by the day, like labourers?”
“I do not believe,” answered Don Quixote, “that those squires
were retained at stated wages, but they relied on courtesy; and
if I have appointed thee any in the will I left sealed at home, it
was in case of accidents; for I know not yet how chivalry may
succeed in these calamitous times, and I would not have my soul
suffer in the other world for trifles; for I would have thee know,
Sancho, that there is no state more perilous than that of adventurers.”
“It is so, in truth,” said Sancho, “since the noise of
the hammers of a fulling-mill were sufficient to disturb and discompose
the heart of so valorous a knight as your worship.”

CHAPTER XII.

Which treats of the grand adventure of Mambrino’s helmet, with other
things which befel our invincible Knight.

About this time it began to rain, and Sancho proposed entering
the fulling-mill; but Don Quixote had conceived such an abhorrence
for the late jest that he would by no means go in. Soon
after he discovered a man on horseback, who had on his head
something which glittered, as if it had been of gold; and turning
to Sancho, he said, “I am of opinion, Sancho, there is no proverb
but what is true, because they are all sentences drawn from experience;
especially that which says, ‘Where one door is shut,
another is opened.’ I say this because, if fortune last night shut
the door against us with the fulling-mills, it now opens another,
for a better and more certain adventure, in which, if I am deceived,
the fault will be mine, without imputing it to my ignorance
of fulling-mills, or to the darkness of night. This I say
because, if I mistake not, there comes one towards us who carries
on his head Mambrino’s helmet.” “Take care, sir, what you say,
and more what you do,” said Sancho; “for I would not wish
for other fulling-mills to finish the milling and mashing our
senses.” “What has a helmet to do with fulling-mills?” replied
Don Quixote. “I know not,” answered Sancho; “but if I
might talk as much as I used to do, perhaps I could give such
reasons that your worship would see you are mistaken in what
you say.” “How can I be mistaken?” said Don Quixote.
“Seest thou not yon knight coming towards us on a dapple-grey
steed, with a helmet of gold on his head?” “What I see
and perceive,” answered Sancho, “is only a man on a grey ass
like mine, with something on his head that glitters.” “Why,
that is Mambrino’s helmet,” said Don Quixote; “retire, and
leave me alone to deal with him, and thou shalt see how, in order
to save time, I shall conclude this adventure without speaking a
[Pg 58]
word, and the helmet I have so much desired remain my own.”
“I shall take care to get out of the way,” replied Sancho; “but
grant, I say again, it may not prove another fulling-mill adventure.”
“I have already told thee, Sancho, not to mention those
fulling-mills, nor even think of them,” said Don Quixote.

Now, the truth of the matter, concerning the helmet, the
steed, and the knight which Don Quixote saw, was this. There
were two villages in that neighbourhood, one of them so small
that it had neither shop nor barber, but the other adjoining to it
had both; therefore the barber of the larger served also the less,
wherein one customer now wanted to be let blood, and another to
be shaved; to perform which the barber was now on his way,
carrying with him his brass basin; and it so happened that,
while upon the road, it began to rain, and to save his hat, which
was a new one, he clapped the basin on his head, which being
lately scoured, was seen glittering at the distance of half a league;
and he rode on a grey ass, as Sancho had affirmed. Thus Don
Quixote took the barber for a knight, his ass for a dapple-grey
steed, and his basin for a golden helmet; and when the knight
drew near, he advanced at Rozinante’s best speed, and couched
his lance, intending to run him through and through; but when
close upon him, without checking the fury of his career, he cried
out, “Defend thyself, caitiff, or instantly surrender what is justly
my due!” The barber had no other way to avoid the thrust of
the lance than to slip down from the ass: and leaping up nimbler
than a roebuck, he scampered over the plain with such speed that
the wind could not overtake him. The basin he left on the
ground, with which Don Quixote was satisfied. He ordered
Sancho to take up the helmet, who, holding it in his hand, said,
“The basin is a special one, and is well worth a piece of eight,
if it is worth a farthing.” He then gave it to his master, who
immediately placed it upon his head, turning it round in search
of the vizor; and, not finding it, he said, “Doubtless the pagan
for whom this famous helmet was originally forged must have
had a prodigious head—the worst of it is, that one half is wanting.”
When Sancho heard the basin called a helmet, he could
not forbear laughing; which, however, he instantly checked on
recollecting his master’s late choler. “What dost thou laugh at,
Sancho?” said Don Quixote. “I am laughing,” answered he,
“to think what a huge head the pagan had who owned that
helmet, which is for all the world just like a barber’s basin.”
“Knowest thou, Sancho, what I conceive to be the case? This
famous piece, this enchanted helmet, by some strange accident
must have fallen into the possession of one who, ignorant of its
true value as a helmet, and seeing it to be of the purest gold,
hath inconsiderately melted down the one half for lucre’s sake,
and of the other half made this, which, as thou sayest, doth indeed
look like a barber’s basin; but to me, who know what it really
[Pg 59]
is, its transformation is of no importance, for I will have it so
repaired, in the first town where there is a smith, that it shall
not be surpassed, nor even equalled. In the mean time I will
wear it as I can; for something is better than nothing; and it
will be sufficient to defend me from stones.” “It will so,” said
Sancho, “if they do not throw them with slings, as they did in
the battle of the two armies, when they crossed your worship’s
chops. As to being tossed again in a blanket, I say nothing;
for it is difficult to prevent such mishaps, and if they do come,
there is nothing to be done but to wink, hold one’s breath, and
submit to go whither fortune and the blanket shall please.”
“Thou art no good Christian, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“since thou dost not forget an injury once done thee; but know
it is inherent in generous and noble minds to disregard trifles.
What leg of thine is lamed, or what rib or head broken, that thou
canst not forget that jest? for, properly considered, it was a mere
jest and pastime; otherwise I should long ago have returned
thither, and done more mischief in revenging thy quarrel than
the Greeks did for the rape of Helen; who, had she lived in these
times, or my Dulcinea in those, would never have been so famous
for beauty as she is!” and here he heaved a sigh towards heaven.
“Let it pass, then, for a jest,” said Sancho, “since it is not likely
to be revenged in earnest: but I know of what kind the jests
and the earnests were; and I know also they will no more slip
out of my memory than off my shoulders. But, setting this aside,
tell me, sir, what shall we do with this dapple-grey steed which
looks so like a grey ass, and which that caitiff whom your worship
overthrew has left behind here, to shift for itself; for, by his
scouring off so hastily, he does not think of ever returning for
him; and, by my beard, the beast is a special one.” “It is not
my custom,” said Don Quixote, “to plunder those whom I overcome,
nor is it the usage of chivalry to take from the vanquished
their horses, and leave them on foot, unless the victor hath lost
his own in the conflict; in such a case it is lawful to take that of
the enemy, as fairly won in battle. Therefore, Sancho, leave
this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be; for, when
we are gone, his owner will return for him.”

They now breakfasted on the remains of the plunder from
the sumpter-mule, and drank of the water belonging to the fulling-mills,
but without turning their faces towards them—such
was the abhorrence in which they were held. Being thus refreshed
and comforted, both in body and mind, they mounted,
and, without determining upon what road to follow, according to
the custom of knights-errant, they went on as Rozinante’s will
directed, which was a guide to his master and also to Dapple,
who always followed, in love and good fellowship, wherever he
led the way. They soon, however, turned into the great road,
which they followed at a venture, without forming any plan.

[Pg 60]
As they were thus sauntering on, Sancho said to his master:
“Sir, will your worship be pleased to indulge me the liberty of
a word or two; for, since you imposed on me that harsh command
of silence, sundry things have been rotting in my breast,
and I have one just now at my tongue’s end that I would not for
any thing should miscarry.” “Speak, then,” said Don Quixote,
“and be brief in thy discourse; for what is prolix cannot be
pleasing.” “I say, then, sir,” answered Sancho, “that for some
days past I have been considering how little is gained by wandering
about in quest of those adventures your worship is seeking
through these deserts and cross ways, where, though you should
overcome and achieve the most perilous, there is nobody to see
or know anything of them; so that they must remain in perpetual
oblivion, to the prejudice of your worship’s intention and their
deserts. And therefore I think it would be more advisable for us,
with submission to your better judgment, to serve some emperor
or other great prince engaged in war, in whose service your worship
may display your valour, great strength, and superior understanding:
which being perceived by the lord we serve, he
must of course reward each of us according to his merit. This is
what I would be at,” quoth Sancho; “this I stick to: for every
tittle of this must happen.” “Doubt not that this will happen,
Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “for by those very means and
those very steps which we are pursuing, knights-errant do rise,
and have risen, to be kings and emperors. All that remains to
be done is to look out and find what king of the Christians or of
the Pagans is at war, and has a beautiful daughter—but there is
time enough to think of this; for you know we must procure
renown elsewhere before we repair to court. Besides, there is
yet another difficulty; for, if a king were found who is at war
and has a handsome daughter, and I had acquired incredible fame
throughout the whole universe, I do not see how it can be made
appear that I am of the lineage of kings, or even second cousin to
an emperor; for the king will not give me his daughter to wife
until he is first very well assured that I am such, however my
renowned actions might deserve it. For thou must know, Sancho,
that there are two kinds of lineages in the world. Some there
are who derive their pedigree from princes and monarchs, whom
time has gradually reduced until they have ended in a point, like
a pyramid; others have had a low origin, and have risen by degrees,
until they have become great lords. So that the difference
is, that some have been what now they are not, and others are
now what they were not before; and who knows but I may be
one of the former, and that, upon examination, my origin may
be found to have been great and glorious, with which the king,
my future father-in-law, ought to be satisfied? and if he should
not be satisfied, the infanta is to be so in love with me that, in
spite of her father, she is to receive me for her lord and husband,
[Pg 61]
even though she knew me to be the son of a water-carrier; and
in case she should not, then is the time to take her away by force,
and convey her whither I please; there to remain until time or
death put a period to the displeasure of her parents.”

“Here,” said Sancho, “comes in properly what some naughty
people say, ‘Never stand begging for that which you have the
power to take;’ though this other is nearer to the purpose: ‘A
leap from a hedge is better than a hundred petitions.’ I say
this, because if my lord the king, your worship’s father-in-law,
should not vouchsafe to yield unto you my lady the infanta, there
is no more to be done, as your worship says, but to steal and carry
her off. But the mischief is, that while peace is making, and
before you can enjoy the kingdom quietly, the poor squire may
go whistle for his reward.” “Say what they will,” rejoined Don
Quixote, “in good faith, they must style thee ‘your lordship,’
however unwillingly.” “Do you think,” quoth Sancho, “I
should not know how to give authority to the indignity?” “Dignity,
you should say, and not indignity,” said his master. “So
let be,” answered Sancho Panza. “I say, I should do well
enough with it; for I assure you I was once beadle of a company,
and the beadle’s gown became me so well that every body said I
had a presence fit to be warden of the same company: what then
will it be when I am arrayed in a duke’s robe, all shining with
gold and pearls, like a foreign count? I am of opinion folks will
come a hundred leagues to see me.” “Thou wilt make a goodly
appearance indeed,” said Don Quixote; “but it will be necessary
to trim thy beard a little oftener, for it is so rough and matted
that, if thou shavest not every day at least, what thou art will be
seen at the distance of a bow-shot.” “Why,” said Sancho, “it
is but taking a barber into the house, and giving him a salary;
and, if there be occasion, I will make him follow me like a gentleman
of the horse to a grandee.” “How camest thou to know,”
demanded Don Quixote, “that grandees have their gentlemen of
the horse to follow them?” “I will tell you,” said Sancho;
“some years ago I was near the court for a month, and I often
saw a very little gentleman riding about, who, they said, was a
very great lord; and behind him I noticed a man on horseback,
turning about as he turned, so that one would have thought he
had been his tail. I asked why that man did not ride by the side
of the other, but kept always behind him? They answered me
that it was his gentleman of the horse, and that it was the custom
for noblemen to be followed by them; and from that day to this
I have never forgotten it.” “Thou art in the right,” said Don
Quixote, “and in the same manner thou mayest carry about thy
barber; for all customs do not arise together, nor were they invented
at once; and thou mayest be the first earl who carried
about his barber after him: and, indeed, it is a higher trust to dress
the beard than to saddle a horse.” “Leave the business of the
[Pg 62]
barber to me,” said Sancho; “and let it be your worship’s care
to become a king and to make me an earl.”

Presently our knight raised his eyes, and saw approaching, in
the same road, about a dozen men on foot, strung like beads, by
the necks, in a great iron chain, and all handcuffed. There came
also with them two men on horseback, and two on foot; those on
horseback were armed with firelocks, and those on foot with pikes
and swords. As soon as Sancho Panza saw them, he said: “This
is a chain of galley-slaves, persons forced by the king to serve in
the galleys.” “How! forced do you say?” quoth Don Quixote,
“is it possible the king should force any body?” “I mean not
so,” answered Sancho, “but that they are persons who, for their
crimes, are condemned by law to the galleys, where they are
forced to serve the king.” “In truth, then,” replied Don
Quixote, “these people are conveyed by force, and not voluntarily?”
“So it is,” said Sancho. “Then,” said his master,
“here the execution of my office takes place, which is to defeat
violence, and to succour and relieve the wretched.” “Consider,
sir,” quoth Sancho, “that justice—which is the king himself—does
no violence to such persons, he only punishes them for
their crimes.” But his master gave no heed to him.

By this time the chain of galley-slaves had reached them, and
Don Quixote desired the guard to inform him of the cause or
causes for which they conducted those persons in that manner.
One of the guards answered that they were slaves, and on their
way to the galleys; which was all he had to say, nor was there
anything more to know. “Nevertheless,” replied Don Quixote,
“I should be glad to be informed, by each individually, of the
cause of his misfortune.” To these he added such other courteous
expressions, entreating the information he desired, that the other
horseman said, “Though we have here the certificate of the sentence
of each of these wretches, this is no time to produce them;
make your inquiry of themselves; they may inform you, if they
please, and no doubt they will: for they are such as take a pleasure
in acting and relating rogueries.” With this Don Quixote
went up to them, and demanded of the first for what offence he
marched in such evil plight? He answered, that it was for being
in love. “For that alone?” replied the Don; “if people are
sent to the galleys for being in love, I might long since have been
rowing in them myself.” “It was not such love as your worship
imagines,” said the galley-slave; “mine was a strong affection
for a basket of fine linen. The process was short; they gave me
a hundred lashes, and sent me to the galleys.”

Don Quixote put the same question to the second, who returned
no answer, he was so melancholy and dejected; but the
first answered for him, and said, “This gentleman goes for being
a canary-bird,—I mean, for being a musician and a singer.”
“How so?” replied Don Quixote; “are men sent to the galleys
[Pg 63]
for being musicians and singers?” “Yes, sir,” replied the slave;
“for there is nothing worse than to sing in an agony.” “Nay,”
said Don Quixote, “I have heard say, ‘Who sings in grief, procures
relief.'” “This is the very reverse,” said the slave; “for
here he who sings once weeps all his life after.” “I do not understand
that,” said Don Quixote. One of the guards said to
him, “Sigñor Cavalier, to sing in an agony means, in the cant of
these rogues, to confess upon the rack. This offender was put to
the torture, and confessed his crime, which was that of a stealer
of cattle; and, because he confessed, he is sentenced for six years,
besides two hundred lashes on the shoulders. He is pensive and
sad, because all the other rogues abuse, vilify, flout, and despise
him for confessing, and not having the courage to say No: for,
say they, No does not contain more letters than Ay; and think
it lucky, when it so happens that a man’s life or death depends
upon his own tongue, and not upon proofs and witnesses; and,
for my part, I think they are in the right.” “And so I think,”
answered Don Quixote; who, passing on to the third, interrogated
him as he had done the others. He answered very readily,
and with much indifference, “I am also going for five years,
merely for want of ten ducats.” “I will give twenty, with all
my heart,” said Don Quixote, “to redeem you from this misery.”
“That,” said the convict, “is like having money at sea, where,
though dying for hunger, nothing can be bought with it. I say
this because, if I had been possessed in time of those twenty
ducats you now offer me, I would have so greased the clerk’s pen
and sharpened my advocate’s wit that I should have been this
day upon the market-place of Toledo, and not upon this road,
coupled and dragged like a hound: but God is great; patience
and—that is enough.”

Behind all these came a man about thirty years of age, of a
goodly aspect, only that his eyes looked at each other. Don
Quixote asked why this man was fettered so much more than the
rest. The guard answered, because he alone had committed
more crimes than all the rest together; and that he was so bold
and desperate a villain that, although shackled in that manner,
they were not secure of him, but were still afraid he would make
his escape. “What kind of villanies has he committed?” said
Don Quixote. “He goes for ten years,” said the guard, “which
is a kind of civil death. You need only be told that this honest
gentleman is the famous Gines de Passamonte, alias Ginesillo de
Parapilla.” “Fair and softly, sigñor commissary,” interrupted
the slave. “Let us not now be spinning out names and surnames.
Gines is my name, and not Ginesillo; and Passamonte
is the name of my family, and not Parapilla, as you say?” “Are
you not so called, lying rascal?” said the guard. “Yes,” answered
Gines; “but I will make them cease calling me so, or I
will flay them where I care not at present to say. Sigñor Cavalier,”
[Pg 64]
continued he, “if you have anything to give us, let us have
it now, and God be with you; for you tire us with inquiring so
much after other men’s lives. If you would know mine, I am
Gines de Passamonte, whose life is written by these very fingers.”
“He says true,” said the commissary; “for he himself has written
his own history as well as heart could wish, and has left the book
in prison pawned for two hundred reals.” “Ay, and I intend to
redeem it,” said Gines, “if it lay for two hundred ducats.”
“What, is it so good?” said Don Quixote. “So good,” answered
Gines, “that woe be to Lazarillo de Tormes, and to all
that have written or shall write in that way. What I can affirm
is, that it relates truths, and truths so ingenious and entertaining
that no fiction can equal them.” “What is the title of your
book?” demanded Don Quixote. “The Life of Gines de Passamonte,”
replied Gines himself. “And is it finished?” quoth Don
Quixote. “How can it be finished?” answered he, “since my
life is not yet finished?” “You seem to be an ingenious fellow,”
said Don Quixote. “And an unfortunate one,” answered Gines;
“but misfortunes always persecute genius.”

The commissary lifted up his staff to strike Passamonte, in
return for his threats; but Don Quixote interposed, and desired
he would not illtreat him, since it was but fair that he who had
his hands so tied up should have his tongue a little at liberty.
After questioning several more in a similar fashion, the Don thus
addressed the company: “From all you have told me, dearest
brethren, I clearly gather that, although it be only the punishment
of your crimes, you do not much relish what you are to
suffer, and that you go to it with ill-will, and much against your
inclination. Now this being the case, my mind prompts me to
manifest in you the purpose for which heaven cast me into the
world, and ordained me to profess the order of chivalry, which I
do profess, and the vow I thereby made to succour the needy
and those oppressed by the powerful; for it seems to me a hard
case to make slaves of those whom God and nature made free.”
“This is pleasant fooling,” answered the commissary. “An admirable
conceit he has hit upon at last! Go on your way, sigñor,
and give us no more of your meddling impertinence.” “Insulting
scoundrel!” answered Don Quixote; and thereupon, with a
word and a blow, he attacked him so suddenly that, before he
could stand upon his defence, he threw him to the ground, much
wounded with a thrust of the lance. The rest of the guards were
astonished and confounded at the unexpected encounter; and the
galley-slaves seized the opportunity now offered to them of recovering
their liberty, by breaking the chain with which they
were linked together. The confusion was such that the guards
could do nothing to any purpose. Sancho, for his part, assisted
in releasing Gines de Passamonte; who, attacking the commissary,
took away his sword and his gun, by levelling which
[Pg 65]
first at one, then at another, he cleared the field of all the
guard.

“It is well,” said Don Quixote; “but I know what is first expedient
to be done.” Then, having called all the slaves before
him, they gathered round to know his pleasure; when he thus
addressed them: “To be grateful for benefits received is natural to
persons well born. This I say, gentlemen, because you already
know, by manifest experience, the benefit you have received at
my hands; in return for which it is my desire that you immediately
go to the city of Toboso, and there present yourselves before
the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and tell her that her Knight of
the Sorrowful Figure sends you to present his service to her; and
recount to her every circumstance of this memorable adventure,
to the point of restoring you to your wished-for liberty: this
done, you may go wherever good fortune may lead you.”

Gines de Passamonte answered for them all, and said, “What
your worship commands us, noble sir and our deliverer, is of all
impossibilities the most impossible to be complied with; for we
dare not be seen together on the road, but must go separate, each
man by himself, and endeavour to hide ourselves in the very
bowels of the earth from the holy brotherhood, who doubtless will
be out in quest of us. To think that we will now return to our
chains, and put ourselves on our way to Toboso, is to imagine it
already night, whereas it is not yet ten o’clock in the morning;
and to expect this from us is to expect pears from an elm-tree.”
“I vow, then,” quoth Don Quixote in a rage, “that you Don Ginesillo
de Parapilla, or whatever you call yourself, shall go there alone
and the whole chain upon your back.” Passamonte, who was not
over passive, seeing himself thus treated, gave a signal to his comrades,
upon which they all began to rain such a shower of stones
upon the knight that he could not contrive to cover himself
with his buckler; and poor Rozinante cared no more for the spur
than if he had been made of brass. Sancho got behind his ass,
and thereby sheltered himself from the hailstorm that poured
upon them both. Don Quixote could not screen himself sufficiently
to avoid the stones, which came against him with such
force that they brought him to the ground. They stripped him
of a jacket he wore over his armour, and would have taken his
trousers too, if the greaves had not hindered them. They took
Sancho’s cloak, leaving him stripped; and after dividing the
spoils of the battle, they made the best of their way off, each
taking a different course; more solicitous to escape the holy
brotherhood than to drag their chain to Toboso and present themselves
before the Lady Dulcinea.

CHAPTER XIII.

Of what befel Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena, being one of the most
extraordinary adventures related in this faithful history.

[Pg 66]
Don Quixote, finding himself thus ill-requited, said to his squire:
“Sancho, I have always heard it said that to do good to the vulgar
is to throw water into the sea. Had I believed what you said
to me, I might have prevented this trouble; but it is done, I must
have patience, and henceforth take warning.” “Your worship
will as much take warning,” answered Sancho, “as I am a Turk;
but since you say that if you had believed me this mischief
would have been prevented, believe me now, and you will avoid
what is still worse; for, let me tell you, there is no putting off
the holy brotherhood with chivalries; they do not care two farthings
for all the knights-errant in the world, and I fancy already
that I hear their arrows whizzing about my ears.” “Thou art
naturally a coward, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “but that
thou mayest not say I am obstinate, and that I never do what
thou advisest, I will for once take thy counsel, and retire from
that fury of which thou art in so much fear; but upon this one
condition—that, neither living nor dying, thou shalt ever say that
I retired and withdrew myself from this peril out of fear, but that
I did it out of mere compliance with thy entreaties.” “Sir,” answered
Sancho, “retreating is not running away, nor is staying
wisdom when the danger overbalances the hope; and it is the
part of wise men to secure themselves to-day for to-morrow, and
not to venture all upon one throw. And know that, although I
am but a clown and a peasant, I yet have some smattering of
what is called good conduct; therefore repent not of having
taken my advice, but get upon Rozinante if you can, if not I will
assist you, and follow me: for my head tells me that, for the present,
we have more need of heels than hands.” Don Quixote mounted
without replying a word more; and, Sancho leading the way
upon his ass, they entered on one side of the Sierra Morena,
which was near, and it was Sancho’s intention to pass through it,
and get out at Viso or Almodovar del Campo, and there hide
themselves for some days among those craggy rocks, in case the
holy brotherhood should come in search of them. He was encouraged
to this, by finding that the provisions carried by his
ass had escaped safe from the skirmish with the galley-slaves,
which he looked upon as a miracle, considering what the slaves
took away, and how narrowly they searched.

That night they got into the heart of the Sierra Morena, where
Sancho thought it would be well to pass the remainder of the
night, if not some days, or at least as long as their provisions
[Pg 67]
lasted. But destiny so ordered it that Gines de Passamonte,
(whom the valour and frenzy of Don Quixote had delivered
from the chain), being justly afraid of the holy brotherhood, took
it into his head to hide himself among those very mountains
where Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had taken refuge. Now,
as the wicked are always ungrateful, Gines, who had neither gratitude
nor good-nature, resolved to steal Sancho Panza’s ass;
not caring for Rozinante, as a thing neither pawnable nor saleable.
Sancho Panza slept; the varlet stole his ass; and, before
dawn of day, was too far off to be recovered.

Aurora issued forth, giving joy to the earth, but grief to
Sancho Panza, who, when he missed his Dapple, began to utter
the most doleful lamentations, insomuch that Don Quixote awaked
at his cries, and heard him say, “O darling of my heart, born in
my house, the joy of my children, the entertainment of my wife,
the envy of my neighbours, the relief of my burdens, and lastly, the
half of my maintenance! For, with the six and twenty maravedis
which I have earned every day by thy means have I half supported
my family!” Don Quixote, on learning the cause of these
lamentations, comforted Sancho in the best manner he could, and
desired him to have patience, promising to give him a bill of exchange
for three asses out of five which he had left at home.
Sancho, comforted by this promise, wiped away his tears, moderated
his sighs, and thanked his master for the kindness he
shewed him. Don Quixote’s heart gladdened upon entering
among the mountains, being the kind of situation he thought
likely to furnish those adventures he was in quest of. They recalled
to his memory the marvellous events which had befallen
knights-errant in such solitudes and deserts. He went on meditating
on these things, and his mind was so absorbed in them
that he thought of nothing else. Nor had Sancho any other concern
than to appease his hunger with what remained of the
clerical spoils; and thus he jogged after his master, emptying
the bag and stuffing his paunch; and while so employed he
would not have given two maravedis for the rarest adventure
that could have happened.

While thus engaged, he raised his eyes, and observed that his
master, who had stopped, was endeavouring, with the point of
his lance, to raise something that lay on the ground; upon
which he hastened to assist him, if necessary, and came up to him
just as he had turned over with his lance a saddle-cushion and a
portmanteau fastened to it, half, or rather quite, rotten and torn,
but so heavy that Sancho was forced to stoop down in order to take
it up. His master ordered him to examine it. Sancho very readily
obeyed, and although the portmanteau was secured with its
chain and padlock, he could see through the chasms what it contained;
which was four fine holland shirts, and other linen, no
less curious than clean; and in a handkerchief he found a quantity
[Pg 68]
of gold crowns, which he no sooner espied than he exclaimed:
“Blessed be heaven, which has presented us with one profitable
adventure!” And, searching further, he found a little pocket-book,
richly bound; which Don Quixote desired to have, bidding
him take the money and keep it for himself. Sancho kissed his
hands for the favour; and, taking the linen out of the portmanteau,
he put it in the provender-bag. All this was perceived by
Don Quixote, who said, “I am of opinion, Sancho (nor can it
possibly be otherwise), that some traveller must have lost his
way in these mountains, and fallen into the hands of robbers,
who have killed him, and brought him to this remote part to
bury him.” “It cannot be so,” answered Sancho; “for had
they been robbers they would not have left this money here.”
“Thou art in the right,” said Don Quixote, “and I cannot conjecture
what it should be; but stay, let us see whether this
pocket-book has any thing written in it that may lead to a discovery.”
He opened it, and the first thing he found was a rough
copy of verses, and, being legible, he read aloud, that Sancho
might hear it, the following sonnet:

“From those verses,” quoth Sancho, “nothing can be collected,
unless, from the clue there given, you can come at the
whole bottom.” “What clue is here?” said Don Quixote. “I
thought,” said Sancho, “your worship named a clue.” “No, I
said Chloe,” answered Don Quixote; “and doubtless that is the
name of the lady of whom the author of this sonnet complains;
and, in faith, either he is a tolerable poet or I know but little of
the art.” “So, then,” said Sancho, “your worship understands
making verses too!” “Yes, and better than thou thinkest,”
answered Don Quixote; “and so thou shalt see, when thou
bearest a letter to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso in verse; for
know, Sancho, that all or most of the knights-errant of times
past were great poets and great musicians; these two accomplishments,
or rather graces, being annexed to lovers-errant.
[Pg 69]
True it is that the couplets of former knights have more of passion
than elegance in them.” “Pray, sir, read on farther,” said
Sancho, “perhaps you may find something to satisfy us.” Don
Quixote turned over the leaf, and said, “This is in prose, and
seems to be a letter.” “A letter of business, sir?” demanded
Sancho. “By the beginning, it seems rather to be one of love,”
answered Don Quixote. “Then pray, sir, read it aloud,” said
Sancho; “for I mightily relish these love-matters.” “With all
my heart,” said Don Quixote; and reading aloud, as Sancho desired,
he found it to this effect:

“Thy broken faith and my certain misery drive me to a
place whence thou wilt sooner hear the news of my death than
the cause of my complaint. Thou hast renounced me, O ungrateful
maid, for one of larger possessions, but not of more
worth than myself. What thy beauty excited, thy conduct has
erased: by the former I thought thee an angel, by the latter I
know thou art a woman. Peace be to thee, fair cause of my disquiet!”

The letter being read, Don Quixote said, “We can gather
little more from this than from the verses. It is evident, however,
that the writer of them is some slighted lover.” Then,
turning over other parts of the book, he found other verses and
letters, but the purport was the same in all—their sole contents
being reproaches, lamentations, suspicions, desires, dislikings,
favours, and slights, interspersed with rapturous praises and
mournful complaints. While Don Quixote was examining the
book, Sancho examined the portmanteau, without leaving a corner
which he did not scrutinise, nor seam which he did not rip, nor
lock of wool which he did not carefully pick—that nothing might
be lost through carelessness—such was the cupidity excited in
him by the discovery of this golden treasure, consisting of more
than a hundred crowns! And although he could find no more,
he thought himself abundantly rewarded for the tossings in the
blanket, the loss of the wallet, and the theft of his cloak; together
with all the hunger, thirst, and fatigue he had suffered in
his good master’s service.

The Knight of the Sorrowful Figure was extremely desirous
to know who was the owner of the portmanteau; but as no information
could be expected in that rugged place, he had only to
proceed, taking whatever road Rozinante pleased, and still thinking
that among the rocks he should certainly meet with some
strange adventure.

As he went onward, impressed with this idea, he espied, on
the top of a rising ground not far from him, a man springing
from rock to rock with extraordinary agility. Don Quixote immediately
conceived that this must be the owner of the portmanteau,
and resolved therefore to go in search of him, even though
it should prove a twelvemonth’s labour, in that wild region. He
[Pg 70]
immediately commanded Sancho to cut short over one side of the
mountain, while he skirted the other, as they might possibly by
this expedition find the man who had so suddenly vanished from
their sight. To which Sancho replied, “It would be much more
prudent not to look after him; for if we should find him, and he,
perchance, proves to be the owner of the money, it is plain I
must restore it; and therefore it would be better to preserve
it faithfully until its owner shall find us out; by which time,
perhaps, I may have spent it, and then I am free by law.”
“Therein thou art mistaken, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote;
“for since we have a vehement suspicion of who is the right
owner, it is our duty to seek him, and to return it; otherwise
that suspicion makes us no less guilty than if he really were so.”
Then he pricked Rozinante on, when, having gone round part of
the mountain, they found a dead mule, saddled and bridled,
which confirmed them in the opinion that he who fled from them
was owner both of the mule and the portmanteau.

While they stood looking at the mule, a goatherd descended,
and, coming to the place where Don Quixote stood, he said,
“I suppose, gentlemen, you are looking at the dead mule? in
truth, it has now lain there these six months. Pray tell me,
have you met with his master hereabouts?” “We have met
with nothing,” answered Don Quixote, “but a saddle-cushion
and a small portmanteau, which we found not far hence.” “I
found it too,” answered the goatherd, “but would by no means
take it up, nor come near it, for fear of some mischief, and of
being charged with theft; for the devil is subtle, and lays
stumbling-blocks in our way, over which we fall without knowing
how.” “Tell me, honest man,” said Don Quixote, “do you
know who is the owner of these goods?” “What I know,” said
the goatherd, “is, that six months ago there came to a shepherd’s
hut, three leagues from this place, a genteel and comely youth,
mounted on the very mule which lies dead there. He inquired
which of these mountains was the most unfrequented. We told
him it was where we now are; and so it is truly, for if you were
to go on about half a league farther, perhaps you would never
find the way out; and I wonder how you could get even hither,
since there is no road nor path to lead you to it. The youth,
hearing our answer, turned about, and made towards the part
we pointed out, leaving us all pleased with his goodly appearance,
and wondering at his question and at the haste he made to
reach the mountain. From that time we saw him not again until,
some days after, he issued out upon one of our shepherds, and,
without saying a word, struck him, and immediately fell upon
our sumpter-ass, which he plundered of our bread and cheese,
and then fled again to the rocks with wonderful swiftness. Some
of us sought for him nearly two days, and at last found him lying
in the hollow of a large cork-tree. He came out to us with much
[Pg 71]
gentleness, his garment torn, and his face so disfigured and
scorched by the sun that we should scarcely have known him,
but that his clothes, ragged as they were, convinced us he was
the person we were in search after. He saluted us, and in few
but civil words bid us not be surprised to see him in that condition,
which was necessary in order to perform a certain penance
enjoined him for his sins. We entreated him to tell us who he
was, but could get no more from him. We also desired him to
inform us where he might be found; because when he stood in
need of food, we would willingly bring some to him. He thanked
us, and begged pardon for his past violence, and promised to ask
it for God’s sake, without molesting any body. As to the place
of his abode, he said he had only that which chance presented
him wherever the night overtook him; and he ended his discourse
with so many tears, that we must have been very stones
not to have wept with him, considering what he was when we
first saw him; for, as I before said, he was a very comely and
graceful youth, and by his courteous behaviour shewed himself
to be well-born. We judged that his mad fit was coming on, and
our suspicions were quickly confirmed; for he suddenly darted
forward, and fell with great fury upon one that stood next him,
whom he bit and struck with so much violence that, if we had
not released him, he would have taken away his life. In the
midst of his rage he frequently called out, ‘Ah, traitor Fernando!
now shalt thou pay for the wrong thou hast done me;
these hands shall tear out that heart, the dark dwelling of deceit
and villany!’ We disengaged him from our companion at last,
with no small difficulty; upon which he suddenly left us, and
plunged into a thicket so entangled with bushes and briers that
it was impossible to follow him. By this we guessed that his madness
returned by fits, and that some person, whose name is Fernando,
must have done him some injury of so grievous a nature
as to reduce him to the wretched condition in which he appeared.
And in that we have since been confirmed, as he has frequently
come out into the road, sometimes begging food of the shepherds,
and at other times taking it from them by force; for when the
mad fit is upon him, though the shepherds offer it freely, he will
not take it without coming to blows; but when he is in his
senses, he asks it with courtesy, and receives it with thanks, and
even with tears. In truth, gentlemen, I must tell you,” pursued
the goatherd, “that yesterday I and four young men, two of them
my servants and two my friends, resolved to go in search of him,
and, having found him, either by persuasion or force carry him
to the town of Almodovar, which is eight leagues off, there to get
him cured, if his distemper be curable, or at least to learn who
he is, and whether he has any relations to whom we may give
notice of his misfortune. This, gentlemen, is all I can tell you,
in answer to your inquiry; by which you may understand that
[Pg 72]
the owner of the goods you found is the same wretched person
who passed you so quickly:”—for Don Quixote had told him
that he had seen a man leaping about the rocks.

Don Quixote was surprised at what he heard; and being now
still more desirous of knowing who the unfortunate madman was,
he renewed his determination to search every part of the mountain
until he should find him. But fortune managed better for
him than he expected; for at that very instant the youth appeared,
descending, and muttering to himself something which
was not intelligible. The rags he wore were such as have been
described; but as he drew near, Don Quixote perceived that his
buff doublet, though torn to pieces, still retained the perfume of
amber; whence he concluded that he could not possibly be of low
condition. When he came up, he saluted them in a harsh and
untuned voice, but with a civil air. Don Quixote politely returned
the salute with graceful demeanour, and advanced to embrace
him, and held him a considerable time clasped within his
arms, as if they had been long acquainted. The other, whom we
may truly call the Tattered Knight of the Woful, as Don Quixote
was of the Sorrowful Figure, having suffered himself to be embraced,
drew back a little, and laying his hands on Don Quixote’s
shoulders, stood contemplating him, as if to ascertain whether he
knew him; and perhaps no less surprised at the aspect, demeanour,
and habiliments of the knight than was Don Quixote
at the sight of him. In short, the first who broke silence after
this prelude was the Tattered Knight; and what he said shall be
told in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XIV.

A continuation of the adventure in the Sierra Morena.

Don Quixote listened to the Tattered Knight of the mountain,
who thus addressed himself to him: “Assuredly, sigñor,
whoever you are, I am obliged to you for the courtesy you have
manifested towards me; and I wish it were in my power to serve
you with more than my good-will, which is all that my fate allows
me to offer in return for your civility.” “So great is my
desire to do you service,” answered Don Quixote, “that I had
determined to learn from yourself whether your affliction, which
is evident by the strange life you lead, may admit of any remedy,
and, if so, make every possible exertion to procure it; I conjure
you also by whatever in this life you love most, to tell me who
you are, and what has brought you hither, to live and die like a
brute beast amidst these solitudes: an abode, if I may judge from
your person and attire, so unsuitable to you. And I swear,”
added Don Quixote, “by the order of knighthood I have received,
[Pg 73]
though unworthy and a sinner, to remedy your misfortune,
or assist you to bewail it, as I have already promised.”
The Knight of the Mountain, hearing him talk thus, could only
gaze upon him, viewing him from head to foot; and, after surveying
him again and again, he said to him, “If you have anything
to give me to eat, for God’s sake let me have it; and when
I have eaten, I will do all you desire, in return for the good wishes
you have expressed towards me.”

Sancho immediately took from his wallet some provisions,
wherewith the wretched wanderer satisfied his hunger, eating
what they gave him like a distracted person, so ravenously that
he made no interval between one mouthful and another. When
he had finished, he made signs to them to follow him; and having
conducted them to a little green plot, he there laid himself down,
and the rest did the same. When the Tattered Knight had composed
himself, he said, “If you desire that I should tell you the
immensity of my misfortunes, you must promise not to interrupt
the thread of my doleful history; for in the instant you do so,
my narrative will break off.” These words brought to Don Quixote’s
memory the tale related by his squire, which, because he
had not reckoned the number of goats that had passed the river,
remained unfinished. Don Quixote, in the name of all the rest,
promised not to interrupt him, and upon this assurance he began
in the following manner:

“My name is Cardenio; the place of my birth one of the
best cities of Andalusia; my family noble; my parents wealthy;
my wretchedness so great that it must have been deplored by my
parents, although not to be alleviated by all their wealth—for
riches are of little avail in many of the calamities to which mankind
are liable. In that city there existed a heaven, wherein
love had placed all the joy I could desire: such is the beauty of
Lucinda, a damsel as well-born and as rich as myself, though
more fortunate and less constant than my honourable intentions
deserved. This Lucinda I loved and adored from my childhood;
and she, on her part, loved me with that innocent affection proper
to her age. Our parents were not unacquainted with our attachment,
nor was it displeasing to them. Our love increased with
our years, insomuch that Lucinda’s father thought it prudent to
restrain my wonted freedom of access to his house; thus imitating
the parents of the unfortunate Thisbe, so celebrated by the
poets. This restraint served only to increase the ardour of our
affection; for though it was in their power to impose silence on
our tongues, they could not do the same on our pens, which reveal
the secrets of the soul more effectually than even the speech;
for the presence of a beloved object often so bewilders and confounds
its faculties that the tongue cannot perform its office. O
heavens, how many billet-doux did I write to her! What charming,
what modest answers did I receive! How many sonnets did
[Pg 74]
I pen! At length, my patience being exhausted, I resolved at
once to demand her for my lawful wife; which I immediately did.
In reply, her father thanked me for the desire I expressed to honour
him by an alliance with his family, but that, as my father
was living, it belonged more properly to him to make this demand;
for without his entire concurrence the act would appear
secret and unworthy of his Lucinda. I went therefore directly to
him, and found him with a letter open in his hand, which he gave
me, saying, ‘By this letter you will see, Cardenio, the inclination
Duke Ricardo has to do you service.’ I read the letter, which
was so extremely kind that I thought it would be wrong in my
father not to comply with its request, which was, that I should be
sent immediately to the duke, who was desirous of placing me as
a companion to his eldest son.

“The time fixed for my departure came. I conversed the
night before with Lucinda, and told her all that had passed; and
also entreated her father to wait a few days, and not to dispose of
her until I knew what Duke Ricardo’s pleasure was with me.
He promised me all I desired, and she confirmed it with a thousand
vows and a thousand faintings. I arrived at the residence
of the duke, who treated me with so much kindness that envy
soon became active, by possessing his servants with an opinion
that every favour the duke conferred upon me was prejudicial to
their interest. But the person most pleased at my arrival was a
second son of the duke, called Fernando, a sprightly young gentleman,
of a gallant, liberal, and loving disposition, who contracted
so intimate a friendship with me that it became the subject
of general conversation; and though I was treated with much
favour by his elder brother, it was not equal to the kindness and
affection of Don Fernando.

“Now as unbounded confidence is always the effect of such
intimacy, he revealed to me all his thoughts, and particularly a
love matter, which gave him some disquiet. He loved a country
girl, the daughter of one of his father’s vassals. Her parents were
rich, and she herself was so beautiful, discreet, and modest, that
no one could determine in which of these qualities she most excelled.
Don Fernando’s passion for this lovely maiden was so
excessive that he resolved to promise her marriage. Prompted
by friendship, I employed the best arguments I could suggest to
divert him from such a purpose; but finding it was all in vain, I
resolved to acquaint his father, the duke, with the affair. Don
Fernando, being artful and shrewd, suspected and feared no less,
knowing that I could not, as a faithful servant, conceal from my
lord and master so important a matter: and therefore, to amuse
and deceive me, he said that he knew no better remedy for effacing
the remembrance of the beauty that had so captivated him
than to absent himself for some months; which he said might
be effected by our going together to my father’s house, under pretence,
[Pg 75]
as he would tell the duke, of purchasing horses in our town,
which is remarkable for producing the best in the world. No
sooner had he made this proposal than, prompted by my own
love, I expressed my approbation of it, as the best that possibly
could be devised, and should have done so, even had it been less
plausible, since it afforded me so good an opportunity of returning
to see my dear Lucinda. At the very time he made this
proposal to me he had already, as appeared afterwards, been
married to the maiden, and only waited for a convenient season
to divulge it with safety to himself, being afraid of what the
duke his father might do when he should hear of his folly. Now
love in young men too often expires with the attainment of its
object; and what seems to be love vanishes, because it has nothing
of the durable nature of true affection. In short, Don Fernando,
having obtained possession of the country girl, his love
grew faint, and his fondness abated; so that, in reality, that
absence which he proposed as a remedy for his passion, he only
chose in order to avoid what was now no longer agreeable to him.
The duke consented to his proposal, and ordered me to bear
him company.

“We reached our city, and my father received him according
to his quality. I immediately visited Lucinda; my passion revived
(though, in truth, it had been neither dead nor asleep),
and unfortunately for me, I revealed it to Don Fernando;
thinking that, by the laws of friendship, nothing should be concealed
from him. I expatiated so much on the beauty, grace,
and discretion of Lucinda, that my praises excited in him a desire
of seeing a damsel endowed with such accomplishments. Unhappily
I consented to gratify him, and shewed her to him one night
by the light of a taper at a window, where we were accustomed
to converse together. He beheld her, and every beauty he had
hitherto seen was cast into oblivion. From that time I began
to fear and suspect him; for he was every moment talking of
Lucinda, and would begin the subject himself, however abruptly,
which awakened in me I know not what jealousy; and
though I feared no change in the goodness and fidelity of Lucinda,
yet I could not but dread the very thing against which
they seemed to secure me. He also constantly importuned me
to shew him the letters I wrote to Lucinda, as well as her answers,
which I did, and he pretended to be extremely delighted
with both.

“Now it happened that Lucinda, having desired me to lend
her a book of chivalry, of which she was very fond, entitled Amadis
de Gaul——”

Scarcely had Don Quixote heard him mention a book of
chivalry, when he said, “Had you told me, sir, at the beginning
of your story, that the Lady Lucinda was fond of reading books
of chivalry, no more would have been necessary to convince me
[Pg 76]
of the sublimity of her understanding. I pronounce her to be
the most beautiful and the most ingenious woman in the world.
Pardon me, sir, for having broken my promise by this interruption;
but when I hear of matters appertaining to knights-errant
and chivalry I can as well forbear talking of them as the beams
of the sun can cease to give heat, or those of the moon to moisten.
Pray, therefore, excuse me and proceed; for that is of most importance
to us at present.”

While Don Quixote was saying all this, Cardenio hung down
his head upon his breast, apparently in profound thought; and
although Don Quixote twice desired him to continue his story, he
neither lifted up his head nor answered a word. But after some
time he raised it, and uttering some disloyalty against Queen
Madasima, one of the heroines of the Don’s books of chivalry,
“It is false, I swear,” answered Don Quixote in great wrath;
“it is extreme malice, or rather villany, to say so; and whoever
asserts it lies like a very rascal, and I will make him know it, on
foot or on horseback, armed or unarmed, by night or by day,
or how he pleases.”

Cardenio, being now mad, and hearing himself called liar and
villain, with other such opprobrious names, did not like the jest;
and catching up a stone that lay close by him, he threw it with
such violence at Don Quixote’s breast that it threw him on his
back. Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this manner,
attacked the madman with his clenched fist; and the Tattered
Knight received him in such sort that, with one blow, he laid him
at his feet, and then trampled upon him to his heart’s content.
The goatherd, who endeavoured to defend him, fared little better;
and when the madman had sufficiently vented his fury upon them
all, he left them, and quietly retired to his rocky haunts among
the mountains. Sancho got up in a rage to find himself so roughly
handled, and was proceeding to take revenge on the goatherd,
telling him the fault was his, for not having given them warning
that this man was subject to these mad fits; for had they known
it, they might have been upon their guard. The goatherd answered
that he had given them notice of it, and that the fault was
not his. Sancho Panza replied, the goatherd rejoined; and the
replies and rejoinders ended in taking each other by the beard,
and coming to such blows that, if Don Quixote had not interposed,
they would have demolished each other. But Sancho still
kept fast hold of the goatherd, and said, “Let me alone, sir
knight, for this fellow being a bumpkin like myself, and not a
knight, I may very safely revenge myself by fighting with him
hand to hand, like a man of honour.” “True,” said Don Quixote;
“but I know that he is not to blame for what has happened.”
Hereupon Sancho was pacified; and Don Quixote again inquired
of the goatherd whether it were possible to find out Cardenio;
for he had a vehement desire to learn the end of his story. The
[Pg 77]
goatherd told him, as before, that he did not exactly know his
haunts, but that, if he waited some time about that part, he would
not fail to meet him, either in or out of his senses.

Don Quixote took his leave of the goatherd, and, mounting
Rozinante, commanded Sancho to follow him; which he did very
unwillingly. They proceeded slowly on, making their way into
the most difficult recesses of the mountain; in the mean time
Sancho was dying to converse with his master, but would fain
have had him begin the discourse, that he might not disobey his
orders. Being, however, unable to hold out any longer, he said
to him, “Sigñor Don Quixote, be pleased to give me your worship’s
blessing, and my dismission; for I will get home to my
wife and children, with whom I shall at least have the privilege
of talking and speaking my mind; for it is very hard, and not to
be borne with patience, for a man to ramble about all his life in
quest of adventures, and to meet with nothing but kicks and
cuffs, tossings in a blanket, and bangs with stones, and, with all
this, to have his mouth sewed up, not daring to utter what he has
in his heart, as if he were dumb.” “I understand thee, Sancho,”
answered Don Quixote; “thou art impatient until I take off the
embargo I have laid on thy tongue. Suppose it, then, removed,
and thou art permitted to say what thou wilt, upon condition that
this revocation is to last no longer than whilst we are wandering
among these rocks.” “Be it so,” said Sancho; “let me talk
now, for we know not what will be hereafter. And now, taking
the benefit of this license, I ask what had your worship to do with
standing up so warmly for that same Queen Magimasa, or what’s
her name? for had you let that pass, I verily believe the madman
would have gone on with his story, and you would have escaped
the thump with the stone, the kicks, and above half a dozen
buffets.”

“In faith, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “if thou didst
but know, as I do, how honourable and how excellent a lady
Queen Madasima was, I am certain thou wouldst acknowledge
that I had a great deal of patience in forbearing to dash to pieces
that mouth out of which such blasphemies issued; and to prove
that Cardenio knew not what he spoke, thou mayest remember
that when he said it he was not in his senses.” “That is what
I say,” quoth Sancho; “and therefore no account should have
been made of his words; for if good fortune had not befriended
your worship, and directed the flint-stone at your breast instead of
your head, we had been in a fine condition for standing up in defence
of that dear lady; and Cardenio would have come off unpunished,
being insane.” “Against the sane and insane,” answered
Don Quixote, “it is the duty of a knight-errant to defend the honour
of women, particularly that of a queen of such exalted worth
as Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular affection, on
account of her excellent qualities; for, besides being extremely
[Pg 78]
beautiful, she was very prudent, and very patient in her afflictions,
which were numerous. But prythee, Sancho, peace; and
henceforward attend to our matters, and forbear any interference
with what doth not concern thee. Be convinced, that whatever I
have done, do, or shall do, is highly reasonable, and exactly conformable
to the rules of chivalry, which I am better acquainted
with than all the knights who ever professed it in the world.”
“Sir,” replied Sancho, “is it a good rule of chivalry for us to go
wandering through these mountains, without either path or road,
in quest of a madman who, perhaps, when he is found, will be
inclined to finish what he began,—not his story, but the breaking
of your worship’s head and my ribs?”

“Peace, Sancho, I repeat,” said Don Quixote; “for know
that it is not only the desire of finding the madman that brings
me to these parts, but an intention to perform in them an exploit
whereby I shall acquire perpetual fame and renown over the face
of the whole earth; and it shall be such an one as shall set the
seal to make an accomplished knight-errant.” “And is this exploit
a very dangerous one?” quoth Sancho. “No,” answered
the knight; “although the die may chance to run unfortunately
for us, yet the whole will depend upon thy diligence.” “Upon
my diligence!” exclaimed Sancho. “Yes,” said Don Quixote;
“for if thy return be speedy from the place whither I intend to
send thee, my pain will soon be over, and my glory forthwith
commence; and that thou mayest no longer be in suspense with
regard to the tendency of my words, I inform thee, Sancho, that
the famous Amadis de Gaul was one of the most perfect of knights-errant—I
should not say one, for he was the sole, the principal,
the unique—in short, the prince of all his contemporaries. A fig
for Don Belianis, and all those who say that he equalled Amadis
in any thing; for I swear they are mistaken. I say, moreover,
that if a painter would be famous in his art he must endeavour to
copy after the originals of the most excellent masters. The same
rule is also applicable to all the other arts and sciences which
adorn the commonwealth; thus, whoever aspires to a reputation
for prudence and patience must imitate Ulysses, in whose person
and toils Homer draws a lively picture of those qualities; so also
Virgil, in the character of Æneas, delineates filial piety, courage,
and martial skill, being representations not of what they really
were, but of what they ought to be, in order to serve as models of
virtue to succeeding generations. Thus was Amadis the polar,
the morning-star, and the sun of all valiant and enamoured
knights, and whom all we, who militate under the banners of
love and chivalry, ought to follow. This being the case, friend
Sancho, that knight-errant who best imitates him will be most
certain of arriving at pre-eminence in chivalry. And an occasion
upon which this knight particularly displayed his prudence,
worth, courage, patience, constancy, and love, was his retiring,
[Pg 79]
when disdained by the Lady Oriana, to do penance on the poor
rock, changing his name to that of Beltenebros; a name most
certainly significant and proper for the life he had voluntarily
chosen. Now it is easier for me to imitate him in this than in
cleaving giants, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, routing
armies, shattering fleets, and dissolving enchantments; and since
this place is so well adapted for the purpose, I ought not to neglect
the opportunity which is now so commodiously offered to
me.”

“What is it your worship really intends to do in so remote
a place as this?” demanded Sancho. “Have I not told thee,”
answered Don Quixote, “that I design to imitate Amadis, acting
here the desperate, raving, and furious lover; at the same time following
the example of the valiant Don Orlando with respect to Angelica
the fair: he ran mad, tore up trees by the roots, disturbed
the waters of the crystal springs, slew shepherds, destroyed
flocks, fired cottages, and an hundred thousand other extravagances
worthy of eternal record. And although it is not my
design to imitate Orlando in all his frantic actions, words, and
thoughts, yet I will give as good a sketch as I can of those which
I deem most essential; or I may, perhaps, be content to imitate
only Amadis, who, without committing any mischievous excesses,
by tears and lamentations alone attained as much fame as all of
them.” “It seems to me,” quoth Sancho, “that the knights
who acted in such manner were provoked to it, and had a reason
for these follies and penances; but pray what cause has your worship
to run mad? What lady has disdained you? or what have
you discovered to convince you that the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso
has done you any wrong?” “There lies the point,” answered
Don Quixote, “and in this consists the refinement of my plan.
A knight-errant who runs mad with just cause deserves no
thanks; but to do so without this is the point; giving my lady
to understand how much more I should perform were there a good
reason on her part. But I have cause enough given me by so
long an absence from my ever-honoured Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.
Therefore, friend Sancho, counsel me not to refrain from
so rare, so happy, and so unparalleled an imitation. Mad I am,
and mad I must be, until thy return with an answer to a letter I
intend to send by thee to my Lady Dulcinea; for if good, I shall
enjoy it in my right senses; if otherwise, I shall be mad, and
consequently insensible of my misfortune.”

While they were thus discoursing, they arrived at the foot of
a high mountain, which stood separated from several others that
surrounded it, as if it had been hewn out from them. Near its base
ran a gentle stream, that watered a verdant and luxurious vale,
adorned with many wide-spreading trees, plants, and wild flowers
of various hues. This was the spot in which the Knight of the
Sorrowful Figure chose to perform his penance; and while contemplating
[Pg 80]
the scene, he thus broke forth in a loud voice: “This
is the place, O ye heavens! which I select and appoint for bewailing
the misfortune in which I am so cruelly involved. This is
the spot where my flowing tears shall increase the waters of this
crystal stream, and my sighs, continual and deep, shall incessantly
move the foliage of these lofty trees, in testimony and token of
the pain my persecuted heart endures. O ye rural deities, whoever
ye be that inhabit these remote deserts, give ear to the complaints
of an unhappy lover, whom long absence and some pangs
of jealousy have driven to bewail himself among these rugged
heights, and to complain of the cruelty of that ungrateful fair, the
utmost extent and ultimate perfection of human beauty! And,
O thou my squire, agreeable companion in my prosperous and
adverse fortune, carefully imprint on thy memory what thou
shalt see me here perform, that thou mayest recount and recite it
to her who is the sole cause of all!” Thus saying, he alighted
from Rozinante, and in an instant took off his bridle and saddle,
and clapping him on the back, said to him, “O steed, as excellent
for my performances as unfortunate in thy fate, he gives
thee liberty who is himself deprived of it. Go whither thou wilt;
for thou hast it written on thy forehead that neither Astolpho’s
Hippogriff, nor the famous Frontino, which cost Bradamante so
dear, could match thee in speed.”

Sancho, observing all this, said, “Blessings be with him who
saved us the trouble of unharnessing Dapple; for truly he
should have wanted neither slaps nor speeches in his praise. Yet
if he were here, I would not consent to his being unpannelled,
there being no occasion for it; for he had nothing to do with love
or despair any more than I, who was once his master, when it so
pleased God. And truly, Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, if it
be so that my departure and your madness take place in earnest,
it will be well to saddle Rozinante again, that he may supply the
loss of my Dapple, and save me time in going and coming; for if
I walk, I know not how I shall be able either to go or return,
being, in truth, but a sorry traveller on foot.” “Be that as thou
wilt,” answered Don Quixote; “for I do not disapprove thy proposal;
and I say thou shalt depart within three days, during
which time I intend thee to bear witness of what I do and say for
her, that thou mayest report it accordingly.” “What have I
more to see,” quoth Sancho, “than what I have already seen?”
“So far thou art well prepared,” answered Don Quixote; “but
I have now to rend my garments, scatter my arms about, and
dash my head against these rocks; with other things of the like
sort, which will strike thee with admiration.” “Good master,”
said Sancho, “content yourself, I pray you, with running your head
against some soft thing, such as cotton; and leave it to me to tell
my lady that you dashed your head against the point of a rock
harder than a diamond.” “I thank thee for thy good intentions,
[Pg 81]
friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; “but I would have thee
to know, that all these actions of mine are no mockery, but done
very much in earnest.” “As for the three days allowed me for
seeing your mad pranks,” interrupted Sancho, “I beseech you
to reckon them as already passed; for I take all for granted, and
will tell wonders to my lady: do you write the letter, and despatch
me quickly, for I long to come back and release your
worship from this purgatory, in which I leave you.”

“But how,” said Don Quixote, “shall we contrive to write the
letter?” “And the ass-colt bill?” added Sancho. “Nothing
shall be omitted,” said Don Quixote; “and since we have no
paper, we shall do well to write it as the ancients did, on the
leaves of trees, or on tablets of wax; though it will be as difficult
at present to meet with these as with paper. But, now I recollect,
it may be as well, or indeed better, to write it in Cardenio’s
pocket-book, and you will take care to get it fairly transcribed
upon paper in the first town you reach where there is a schoolmaster.”
“But what must we do about the signing it with your
own hand?” said Sancho. “The letters of Amadis were never
subscribed,” answered Don Quixote. “Very well,” replied
Sancho; “but the order for the colts must needs be signed by
yourself; for if that be copied, they will say it is a false signature,
and I shall be forced to go without the colts.” “The order
shall be signed in the same pocket-book; and, at sight of it, my
niece will make no difficulty in complying with it. As to the
love-letter, let it be subscribed thus: ‘Yours until death, the
Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.’ And it is of little importance
whether it be written in another hand; for I remember, Dulcinea
has never seen a letter or writing of mine in her whole life;
for our loves have always been of the platonic kind, extending
no farther than to modest glances at each other; such is the reserve
and seclusion in which she is brought up by her father
Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza Nogales!”

“Ah!” quoth Sancho, “the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo!
Is she the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza
Lorenzo?” “It is even she,” said Don Quixote, “and she deserves
to be mistress of the universe.” “I know her well,”
quoth Sancho; “and I can assure you she will pitch the bar with
the lustiest swain in the parish; straight and vigorous, and I warrant
can make her part good with any knight-errant that shall
have her for his lady. Oh, what a pair of lungs and a voice she
has! I remember she got out one day upon the bell-tower of the
church, to call some young ploughmen, who were in a field of her
father’s; and though they were half a league off, they heard her as
plainly as if they had stood at the foot of the tower; and the best
of her is, that she is not at all coy, but as bold as a court lady, and
makes a jest and a may-game of every body. I say, then, Sir
Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, that you not only may and ought
[Pg 82]
to run mad for her, but also you may justly despair and hang
yourself; and nobody that hears it but will say you did extremely
well. However, I am anxious to see her; for I have not met with
her this many a day, and by this time she must needs be altered;
for it mightily spoils women’s faces to be abroad in the field, exposed
to the sun and weather. But, all things considered, what good
can it do to the Lady Aldonza Lorenzo—I mean the Lady Dulcinea
del Toboso—to have the vanquished whom your worship sends or
may send falling upon their knees before her? For perhaps at the
time they arrive she may be carding flax, or threshing in the
barn, and they may be confounded at the sight of her, and she
may laugh and care little for the present.” “I have often told
thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that thou art an eternal
babbler, and though void of wit, thy bluntness often stings; but,
to convince thee at once of thy folly and my discretion, I will
tell thee a short tale.

“Know, then, that a certain widow, handsome, young, gay,
and rich, and withal no prude, fell in love with a young man,
handsome, well-made, and active. A relative heard of it, and
one day took occasion to speak to the good widow in the way of
brotherly reprehension. ‘I wonder, madam,’ said he, ‘that a
woman of your quality, so beautiful and so rich, should fall in love
with such a despicable, mean, silly fellow; when there are, in this
house, so many graduates, scholars, and dignitaries, among whom
you might pick and choose, and say, this I like and this I leave,
as you would among pears.’ But she answered him with great
frankness and gaiety, ‘You are much mistaken, worthy sir, and
your sentiments are very antiquated, if you imagine that I have
made an ill choice in that fellow, silly as he may appear, since,
for aught that I desire of him, he knows as much of philosophy
as Aristotle himself, if not more.’ In like manner, Sancho,
Dulcinea del Toboso deserves as highly as the greatest princess
on earth. For of those poets who have celebrated the praises
of ladies under fictitious names many had no such mistresses.
Thinkest thou that the Amaryllises, the Phyllises, the Silvias, the
Dianas, the Galateas, the Alidas, and the like, famous in books,
ballads, barbers’ shops, and stage-plays, were really ladies of
flesh and blood, and beloved by those who have celebrated them?
Certainly not: they are mostly feigned, to supply subjects for
verse, and to make the authors pass for men of gallantry. It is
therefore sufficient that I think and believe that the good Aldonza
Lorenzo is beautiful and modest; and as to her lineage, it matters
not, for no inquiry concerning it is requisite; and to me it is unnecessary,
as I regard her as the greatest princess in the world.
For thou must know, Sancho, that two things, above all others,
incite to love; namely, beauty and a good name. Now both these
are to be found in perfection in Dulcinea; for in beauty none
can be compared to her, and for purity of reputation few can
[Pg 83]
equal her. In fine, I conceive she is exactly what I have described,
and every thing that I can desire, both as to beauty and
quality, unequalled by Helen, or by Lucretia, or any other of the
famous women of antiquity, whether Grecian, Roman, or Goth;
and I care not what be said, since, if upon this account I am
blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the wise.”
“Your worship,” replied Sancho, “is always in the right, and I
am an ass—why do I mention an ass?—one should not talk of
halters in the house of the hanged. But I am off—give me the
letter, sir, and peace be with you.”

Don Quixote took out the pocket-book to write the letter;
and having finished, he called Sancho, and said he would read it
to him, that he might have it by heart, lest he might perchance
lose it by the way; for every thing was to be feared from his evil
destiny. To which Sancho answered: “Write it, sir, two or
three times in the book, and give it me, and I will take good care
of it; but to suppose that I can carry it in my memory is a folly;
for mine is so bad that I often forget my own name. Your worship,
however, may read it to me; I shall be glad to hear it, for
it must needs be very much to the purpose.” “Listen, then,” said
Don Quixote, “this is what I have written:

Don Quixote’s Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso.

“High and sovereign lady,—He who is stabbed by the point
of absence, and pierced by the arrows of love, O sweetest Dulcinea
del Toboso, greets thee with wishes for that health which he
enjoys not himself. If thy beauty despise me, if thy worth favour
me not, and if thy disdain still pursue me, although inured
to suffering, I shall ill support an affliction which is not only
severe but lasting. My good squire Sancho will tell thee, O ungrateful
fair and most beloved foe, to what a state I am reduced
on thy account. If it be thy pleasure to relieve me, I am thine;
if not, do what seemeth good to thee: for by my death I shall at
once appease thy cruelty and my own passion.

Until death thine,

The Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.”

“By the life of my father,” quoth Sancho, after hearing the
letter, “it is the finest thing I ever heard. How choicely your
worship expresses whatever you please! and how well you close
all with ‘the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure!’ Verily, there is
nothing but what you know.” “The profession which I have
embraced,” answered Don Quixote, “requires a knowledge of
everything.” “Well, then,” said Sancho, “pray put on the
other side the order for the three ass-colts, and sign it very plain,
that people may know your hand at first sight.” “With all my
[Pg 84]
heart,” said the knight; and having written it, he read as follows:—

“Dear niece,—at sight of this, my first bill of ass-colts, give
order that three out of the five I left at home in your custody be
delivered to Sancho Panza, my squire; which three colts I order
to be delivered and paid for the like number received of him here
in tale; and this, with his acquittance, shall be your discharge.
Done in the heart of the Sierra Morena, the twenty-second of
August, this present year——”

“It is mighty well,” said Sancho; “now you have only to
sign it.” “It wants no signing,” said Don Quixote; “I need
only put my cipher to it, which is the same thing, and is sufficient,
not only for three, but for three hundred asses.” “I rely
upon your worship,” answered Sancho; “let me go and saddle
Rozinante, and prepare to give me your blessing; for I intend to
depart immediately, without staying to see the frolics you are
about to commit; and I will tell quite enough to satisfy her.
But in the mean time, setting that aside, what has your worship
to eat until my return? Are you to go upon the highway, to rob
the shepherds, like Cardenio?” “Trouble not yourself about
that,” answered Don Quixote; “for were I otherwise provided,
I should eat nothing but the herbs and fruits which here grow
wild: for abstinence and other austerities are essential in this
affair.” “Now I think of it, sir,” said Sancho, “how shall I be
able to find my way back again to this bye-place?” “Observe
and mark well the spot, and I will endeavour to remain near it,”
said Don Quixote; “and will, moreover, ascend some of the
highest ridges to discover thee upon thy return. But the surest
way not to miss me, or lose thyself, will be to cut down some of
the broom that abounds here, and scatter it here and there, on
thy way to the plain, to serve as marks and tokens to guide thee
on thy return, in imitation of Theseus’s clue to the labyrinth.”

Sancho Panza followed this counsel; and having provided
himself with branches, he begged his master’s blessing, and, not
without many tears on both sides, took his leave of him; and
mounting upon Rozinante, with an especial charge from Don
Quixote to regard him as he would his own proper person, he
rode towards the plain, strewing the boughs at intervals, as his
master had directed him.

CHAPTER XV.

Of what happened to Don Quixote’s Squire, with the famous device of
the Curate and the Barber.

The history recounting what the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure
did when he found himself alone, informs us that, having performed
[Pg 85]
many strange antics after Sancho’s departure, he mounted
the top of a high rock, and began to deliberate on a subject that
he had often considered before, without coming to any resolution;
that was, which was the best and most proper model for his imitation,
Orlando in his furious fits, or Amadis in his melancholy
moods; and thus he argued with himself: “If Orlando was as
valiant a knight as he is allowed to have been, where is the
wonder? since, in fact, he was enchanted, and could only be
slain by having a needle thrust into the sole of his foot; therefore
he always wore shoes of iron. But setting aside his valour,
let us consider his madness; and if he was convinced of his lady’s
cruelty, it was no wonder he ran mad. But how can I imitate
him in his frenzy without a similar cause? I should do my Dulcinea
manifest wrong if I should be seized with the same species
of frenzy as that of Orlando Furioso. On the other side, I see
that Amadis de Gaul, finding himself disdained by his Lady
Oriana, only retired to the poor rock, accompanied by a hermit,
and there wept abundantly until Heaven succoured him in his
great tribulation. All honour, then, to the memory of Amadis!
and let him be the model of Don Quixote de la Mancha, of whom
shall be said, that if he did not achieve great things, he at least
died in attempting them; and though neither rejected nor disdained
by my Dulcinea, it is sufficient that I am absent from her.
Now to the work; come to my memory, ye deeds of Amadis,
and instruct me in the task of imitation!” He thus passed the
time, and in writing and graving on the barks of trees many
verses of a plaintive kind, or in praise of his Dulcinea. Among
those afterwards discovered, only the following were entire and
legible:

The whimsical addition at the end of each stanza occasioned
no small amusement to those who found the verses; for they concluded
that Don Quixote had thought that, unless to the name of
“Dulcinea” he added “Del Toboso,” the object of his praise
would not be known—and they were right, as he afterwards confessed.
Here, however, it will be proper to leave him, wrapped
up in poetry and grief, to relate what happened to the squire
during his embassy.

As soon as Sancho had gained the high road, he directed his
course to Toboso, and the next day he came within sight of the
inn where the misfortune of the blanket had befallen him; and
fancying himself again flying in the air, he felt no disposition to
enter it, although it was then the hour of dinner, and he longed
for something warm. And as he stood doubtful whether or not
to enter, two persons came out who recognised him. “Pray,
sigñor,” said one to the other, “is not that Sancho Panza yonder
on horseback, who, as our friend’s housekeeper told us, accompanied
her master as his squire?” “Truly it is,” said the licentiate;
“and that is our Don Quixote’s horse.” No wonder they
knew him so well, for they were the priest and the barber of his
village, and the very persons who had passed sentence on the
mischievous books. Being now certain it was Sancho Panza
and Rozinante, and hoping to hear some tidings of Don Quixote,
the priest went up to him, and calling him by his name, “Friend,”
said he, “where have you left your master?” Sancho immediately
knew them, and resolved to conceal the place of Don Quixote’s
retreat; he therefore told them that his master was very busy
about a certain affair of the greatest importance to himself, which
he durst not discover for the eyes in his head. “No, no,” quoth
the barber, “that story will not pass. If you do not tell us where
he is, we shall conclude that you have murdered and robbed him,
since you come thus upon his horse. See, then, that you produce
the owner of that horse, or woe be to you!” He then freely
related to them in what state he had left him, and how he was
then carrying a letter to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with
whom his master was up to the ears in love.

They were astonished at Sancho’s report; and though they
knew the nature of their friend’s derangement, yet every fresh
[Pg 87]
instance was a new source of wonder. They begged Sancho to
shew them the letter he was carrying to the lady. He said it
was written in a pocket-book, and that his master had ordered
him to get it copied in the first town he should arrive at. The
priest said, if he would shew it to him, he would transcribe it in
a fair character. Sancho put his hand into his bosom to take out
the book, but found it not; for it remained with its owner, who
had forgotten to give it him. When Sancho found he had no
book, he turned as pale as death; he laid hold of his beard with
both hands, and tore away half of it, bestowing at the same time
sundry blows upon his nose and mouth. The priest and barber
asked him wherefore he treated himself so roughly. “Wherefore?”
answered Sancho, “but that I have let slip through my
fingers three ass-colts, each of them a castle!” “How so?” replied
the barber. “I have lost the pocket-book,” answered
Sancho, “that contained the letter to Dulcinea, and a bill signed
by my master, in which he ordered his niece to deliver to me
three colts out of four or five he had at home.” This led him to
mention his loss of Dapple; but the priest bid him be of good
cheer, telling him that when he saw his master he would engage
him to renew the order in a regular way; for one written in a
pocket-book would not be accepted. Sancho was comforted by
this, and said that he did not care for the loss of the letter, as he
could almost say it by heart; so they might write it down, where
and when they pleased. “Repeat it, then, Sancho,” quoth the
barber, “and we will write it afterwards.” Sancho then began
to scratch his head, in order to fetch the letter to his remembrance;
now he stood upon one foot, and then upon the other; sometimes
he looked down upon the ground, sometimes up to the sky; then,
biting off half a nail, and keeping his hearers long in expectation,
he said, “At the beginning I believe it said, ‘High and subterrane
lady.'” “No,” said the barber, “not subterrane, but
superhumane lady.” “Ay, so it was,” said Sancho. “Then,
if I do not mistake, it went on, ‘the stabbed, the waking, and
the pierced, kisses your honour’s hands, ungrateful and most regardless
fair;’ and then it said I know not what of ‘health and
sickness that he sent;’ and so he went on, until at last he ended
with ‘thine till death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.'”

They were both greatly diverted at Sancho’s excellent memory,
desiring him to repeat the letter twice more, that they also
might get it by heart, in order to write it down in due time.
Thrice Sancho repeated it, and added to it fifty other extravagances;
relating to them also many other things concerning
his master, but not a word of the blanket. He informed them
likewise, how his lord, upon his return with a kind despatch from
his Lady Dulcinea, was to set about endeavouring to become an
emperor, or at least a king (for so it was concerted between them)—a
thing that would be very easily done, considering the valour
[Pg 88]
and strength of his arm; and when this was accomplished, his
master was to marry him (as by that time he should, probably,
be a widower), and give him to wife one of the empress’s maids
of honour, heiress to a large and rich territory on the mainland;
for as to islands, he was quite out of conceit with them. “You
talk like a wise man,” said the priest, “and a good Christian;
but we must now contrive to relieve your master from this unprofitable
penance.”

So having deliberated together on the best means of accomplishing
their purpose, a device occurred to the priest, exactly
fitted to Don Quixote’s humour, and likely to effect what they
desired; which was, that he should perform himself the part of
a damsel-errant, and the barber equip himself as her squire; in
which disguise they should repair to Don Quixote; and the
curate, presenting himself as an afflicted and distressed lady,
should beg a boon of him, which he, as a valorous knight-errant,
could not do otherwise than grant; and this should be a request
that he would accompany her whither she should lead him, to
redress an injury done her by a discourteous knight; entreating
him, at the same time, not to desire her to remove her mask, nor
make any farther inquiries concerning her, until he had done her
justice on that wicked knight. He made no doubt but that Don
Quixote would consent to any such terms; and they might thus
get him away from that place, and carry him home, where they
would endeavour to find some remedy for his extraordinary
malady.

CHAPTER XVI.

How the Priest and the Barber proceeded in their project; with other
things worthy of being related.

The barber liked well the priest’s contrivance, and they immediately
began to carry it into execution. They borrowed a
petticoat and head-dress of the landlady; and the barber made
himself a huge beard of the tail of a pied ox, in which the innkeeper
used to hang his comb. The hostess having asked them
for what purpose they wanted those things, the priest gave her a
brief account of Don Quixote’s insanity, and the necessity of that
disguise to draw him from his present retreat. The host and
hostess immediately conjectured that this was the same person
who had once been their guest, and the master of the blanketed
squire; and they related to the priest what had passed between
them, without omitting what Sancho had been so careful to conceal.
In the mean time the landlady equipped the priest to admiration:
she put him on a cloth petticoat all pinked and slashed,
and a corset of green velvet with a border of white satin. The
[Pg 89]
priest would not consent to wear a woman’s head-dress, but put
on a little white quilted cap, which he used as a night-cap, and
bound one of his garters of black taffeta about his forehead, and
with the other made a kind of veil, which covered his face and
beard very well. He then pulled his hat over his face, which
was so large that it served him for an umbrella; and wrapping his
cloak around him, he got upon his mule sideways like a woman.
The barber mounted also, with a beard that reached to his girdle,
of a colour between sorrel and white, being, as before said, made
of the tail of a pied ox.

But scarcely had they got out of the inn when the curate
began to think that it was indecent for a priest to be so accoutred,
although for so good a purpose; and, acquainting the barber
with his scruples, he begged him to exchange apparel, as it would
better become him to personate the distressed damsel, and he
would himself act the squire, as being a less profanation of his
dignity.

They now set forward on their journey; but first they told
Sancho that their disguise was of the utmost importance towards
disengaging his master from the miserable life he had chosen;
and that he must by no means tell him who they were; and if he
should inquire, as no doubt he would, whether he had delivered
the letter to Dulcinea, he should say he had; and that she, not
being able to read or write, had answered by word of mouth, and
commanded the knight, on pain of her displeasure, to repair to
her immediately upon an affair of much importance: for, with
this, and what they intended to say themselves, they should certainly
reconcile him to a better mode of life, and put him in the
way of soon becoming an emperor or a king; as to an archbishop,
he had nothing to fear on that subject. Sancho listened to all
this, and imprinted it well in his memory; and gave them many
thanks for promising to advise his lord to be an emperor, and not
an archbishop; for he was persuaded that, in rewarding their
squires, emperors could do more than archbishops-errant. He
told them also it would be proper he should go before, to find
him, and deliver him his lady’s answer; for, perhaps, that alone
would be sufficient to bring him out of that place, without farther
trouble. They agreed with Sancho, and determined to wait for
his return with intelligence of his master. Sancho entered the
mountain pass, and left them in a pleasant spot, refreshed by a
streamlet of clear water, and shaded by rocks and overhanging
foliage.

While they were reposing in the shade, a voice reached their
ears, which, although unaccompanied by any instrument, sounded
sweet and melodious. They were much surprised, since that was
not a place where they might expect to hear fine singing; for
although it is common to tell of shepherds with melodious voices
warbling over hills and dales, yet this is rather poetical fancy
[Pg 90]
than plain truth. Besides, the verses they heard were not those
of a rustic muse, but of refined and courtly invention, as will
appear by the following stanzas:

The hour, the season, the solitude, the voice, and the skill of the
singer, all conspired to impress the auditors with wonder and delight,
and they remained for some time motionless, in expectation
of hearing more; but finding the silence continue, they resolved
to see who it was who had sung so agreeably; and were again
detained by the same voice regaling their ears with this other
song:

The song ended with a deep sigh; and they went in search of
the unhappy person whose voice was no less excellent than his
complaints were mournful. They had not gone far when, turning
[Pg 91]
the point of a rock, they perceived a man of the same appearance
that Sancho had described Cardenio to them. The man
expressed no surprise, but stood still in a pensive posture, without
again raising his eyes from the ground. The priest, who was a
well-spoken man, went up to him, and, in few but very impressive
words, entreated him to forsake that miserable kind of life,
and not hazard so great a misfortune as to lose it in that inhospitable
place. Cardenio was at this time perfectly tranquil, and he
appeared surprised to hear them speak of his concerns, and replied,
“It is very evident to me, gentlemen, whoever you are,
that Heaven, which succours the good, and often even the wicked,
unworthy as I am, sends to me in this solitude persons who,
being sensible how irrational is my mode of life, would divert me
from it; but by flying from this misery I shall be plunged into
worse; for so overwhelming is the sense of my misery, I sometimes
become like a stone, void of all knowledge and sensation.
But, gentlemen, if you come with the same intention that others
have done, I beseech you to hear my sad story, and spare yourselves
the trouble of endeavouring to find consolation for an evil
which has no remedy.”

The two friends, being desirous of hearing his own account of
himself, entreated him to indulge them, assuring him they would
do nothing but what was agreeable to him, either in the way of
remedy or advice. The unhappy young man began his melancholy
story thus, almost in the same words in which he had related
it to Don Quixote and the goatherd some few days before,
when, on account of Queen Madasima, and Don Quixote’s zeal in
defending the honour of knight-errantry, the tale was abruptly
suspended; but Cardenio’s sane interval now enabled him to conclude
it quietly. On coming to the circumstance of the love-letters,
he repeated one which Don Fernando found between the
leaves of Amadis de Gaul, which had been first lent to Lucinda,
and afterwards to him. It was as follows:

“‘Each day I discover in you qualities which raise you in my
esteem; and therefore, if you would put it in my power to discharge
my obligations to you, without prejudice to my honour,
you may easily do it. I have a father who knows you, and has
an affection for me; who will never force my inclinations, and
will comply with whatever you can justly desire, if you really
have that value for me which you profess, and which I trust you
have.’

“This letter had made me resolve to demand Lucinda in
marriage; but it was this letter, also, which made him determine
upon my ruin before my design could be effected. I
told Don Fernando that Lucinda’s father expected that the
proposal should come from mine, but that I durst not mention
[Pg 92]
it to him, lest he should refuse his consent; not that he
was ignorant of Lucinda’s exalted merits, which might ennoble
any family of Spain; but because I had understood from him
that he was desirous I should not marry until it should be seen
what Duke Ricardo would do for me. In short, I told him that
I had not courage to speak to my father about it, being full of
vague apprehensions and sad forebodings. In reply to all this,
Don Fernando engaged to induce my father to propose me to the
father of Lucinda——O ambitious Marius! cruel Catiline! wicked
Sylla! crafty Galalon! perfidious Vellido! vindictive Julian! O
covetous Judas! cruel, wicked, and crafty traitor! what injury
had been done thee by a poor wretch who so frankly disclosed to
thee the secrets of his heart? Wherein had I offended thee? Have
I not ever sought the advancement of thy interest and honour?
But why do I complain—miserable wretch that I am! For when
the stars are adverse, what is human power? Who could have
thought that Don Fernando, obliged by my services, and secure
of success wherever his inclinations led him, should take such
cruel pains to deprive me of my jewel?—But no more of these
unavailing reflections; I will now resume the broken thread of
my sad story.

“Don Fernando, thinking my presence an obstacle to the
execution of his treacherous design, resolved to send me to pay
for six horses which he had bought, merely as a pretext to get
me out of the way, that he might the more conveniently execute
his diabolical purpose. Could I foresee such treachery? Could
I even suspect it? Surely not: and I cheerfully consented to depart
immediately. That night I had an interview with Lucinda,
and told her what had been agreed upon between Don Fernando
and myself, assuring her of my hopes of a successful result. She,
equally unsuspicious of Don Fernando, desired me to return
speedily, since she believed the completion of our wishes was
only deferred until proposals should be made to her father by
mine. I know not whence it was, but as she spoke her eyes
filled with tears, and some sudden obstruction in her throat prevented
her articulating another word.

“I executed my commission to Don Fernando’s brother, by
whom I was well received, but not soon dismissed. All this was
a contrivance of the false Fernando; and I felt disposed to resist
the injunction, as it seemed to me impossible to support life so
many days absent from Lucinda, especially having left her in
such a state of dejection. Judge of my horror on receiving from
her the following letter, which she contrived to send to me a distance
of eighteen leagues by a special messenger:

“‘The promise Don Fernando gave you to intercede with your
father he has fulfilled, more for his own gratification than your
interest. Know, sir, that he has demanded me to wife; and my
father, allured by the advantage he thinks Don Fernando possesses
[Pg 93]
over you, has accepted this proposal so eagerly that the
marriage is to be solemnised two days hence! Conceive my situation!
Heaven grant this may come to your hand before mine be
compelled to join his who breaks his promised faith!’

“I set out immediately; my rage against Don Fernando, and
the fear of losing the rich reward of my long service and affection,
gave wings to my speed; and the next day I reached our
town, at the moment favourable for an interview with Lucinda.
I went privately, having left my mule with the honest man who
brought me the letter, and fortune was just then so propitious
that I found Lucinda at the grate. We saw each other—but how?
Who is there in the world that can boast of having fathomed and
thoroughly penetrated the intricate and ever-changing nature of
woman? Certainly none. As soon as Lucinda saw me she said,
‘Cardenio, I am in my bridal habit; they are now waiting for
me in the hall—the treacherous Don Fernando and my covetous
father, with some others, who shall sooner be witnesses of my
death than of my nuptials. Be not afflicted, my friend; but endeavour
to be present at this sacrifice, which, if my arguments
cannot avert, I carry a dagger about me, which can oppose a
more effectual resistance, by putting an end to my life, and will
give you a convincing proof of the affection I have ever borne
you.’ I answered, with confusion and precipitation, ‘Let your
actions, madam, prove the truth of your words. If you carry a
dagger to secure your honour, I carry a sword to defend you, or
kill myself if fortune proves adverse.’ I do not believe she heard
all I said, being hastily called away; for the bridegroom waited
for her. Here the night of my sorrow closed in upon me; here
set the sun of my happiness! My eyes were clouded in darkness,
and my brain was disordered! I was irresolute whether to enter
her house, and seemed bereaved of the power to move; but recollecting
how important my presence might be on that occasion,
I exerted myself, and hastened thither. Being perfectly acquainted
with all the avenues, I escaped observation, and concealed
myself in the hall behind the hangings, whence I could see
all that passed. Who can describe the flutterings of my heart,
and my various sensations, as I stood there? The bridegroom
entered the hall, in his usual dress, accompanied by a cousin of
Lucinda; and no other person was present, except the servants of
the house. Soon after, from a dressing-room, came forth Lucinda,
accompanied by her mother and two of her own maids,
adorned in the extreme of courtly splendour. The agony and distraction
I endured allowed me not to observe the particulars of
her dress; I remarked only the colours, which were carnation
and white, and the precious stones that glittered on every part
of her attire; surpassed, however, by the singular beauty of her
fair and golden tresses, in the splendour of which the brilliance
[Pg 94]
of her jewels and the blaze of the surrounding lights seemed to be
lost. O memory, thou mortal enemy of my repose! Were it
not better, thou cruel faculty, to represent to my imagination
her conduct at that period, that, moved by so flagrant an injury,
I may strive, if not to avenge it, at least to end this life of pain?

“I say, then,” continued Cardenio, “that, being all assembled
in the hall, the priest entered, and having taken them both
by the hand, in order to perform what is necessary on such occasions,
when he came to these words, ‘Will you, Sigñora Lucinda,
take Sigñor Don Fernando, who is here present, for your lawful
husband, as our holy mother the Church commands?’ I thrust
out my head and neck through the tapestry, and with attentive
ears and distracted soul awaited Lucinda’s reply, as the sentence
of my death, or the confirmation of my life. Oh, that I had then
dared to venture forth, and to have cried aloud—’Ah, Lucinda,
Lucinda! Remember that you are mine, and cannot belong to
another.’ Ah, fool that I am! Now I am absent, I can say what
I ought to have said, but did not! Now that I have suffered myself
to be robbed of my soul’s treasure I am cursing the thief, on
whom I might have revenged myself, if I had been then as prompt
to act as I am now to complain! I was then a coward and a
fool; no wonder therefore if I now die ashamed, repentant, and
mad.

“The priest stood expecting Lucinda’s answer, who paused for
a long time; and when I thought she would draw forth the dagger
in defence of her honour, or make some declaration which
might redound to my advantage, I heard her say in a low and
faint voice, ‘I will.’ Don Fernando said the same, and the ring
being put on, they remained tied in an indissoluble band. The
bridegroom approached to embrace his bride; and she, laying her
hand on her heart, fainted in the arms of her mother. Imagine
my condition after that fatal Yes, by which my hopes were frustrated,
Lucinda’s vows and promises broken, and I for ever deprived
of all chance of happiness. On Lucinda’s fainting, all were
in confusion; and her mother, unlacing her bosom to give her air,
discovered in it a folded paper, which Don Fernando instantly
seized, and read it by the light of one of the flambeaux; after
which, he sat himself down in a chair, apparently full of thought,
and without attending to the exertions made to recover his bride.

“During this general consternation I departed, indifferent whether
I was seen or not. I quitted the house, and returning to the
place where I had left the mule, I mounted and rode out of the
town, not daring to stop, or even to look behind me; and when
I found myself alone on the plain, concealed by the darkness of
the night, the silence inviting my lamentations, I gave vent to a
thousand execrations on Lucinda and Don Fernando, as if that,
alas, could afford me satisfaction for the wrongs I had sustained.
I called her cruel, false, and ungrateful; and above all, mercenary,
[Pg 95]
since the wealth of my enemy had seduced her affections
from me. But amidst all these reproaches I sought to find
excuses for her submission to parents whom she had ever been
accustomed implicitly to obey; especially as they offered her a
husband with such powerful attractions. Then again I considered
that she need not have been ashamed of avowing her engagement
to me, since, had it not been for Don Fernando’s proposals, her
parents could not have desired a more suitable connexion; and I
thought how easily she could have declared herself mine, when on
the point of giving her hand to my rival. In fine, I concluded
that her love had been less than her ambition, and she had thus
forgotten those promises by which she had beguiled my hopes and
cherished my passion.

“In the utmost perturbation of mind, I journeyed on the rest
of the night, and at daybreak reached these mountains, over
which I wandered three days more, without road or path, until I
came to a valley not far hence; and inquiring of some shepherds
for the most rude and solitary part, they directed me to this place;
where I instantly came, determined to pass here the remainder
of my life. Among these crags, my mule fell down dead through
weariness and hunger; and thus was I left, extended on the
ground, famished and exhausted, neither hoping nor caring for
relief. How long I continued in this state I know not; but at
length I got up, without the sensation of hunger, and found near
me some goatherds, who had undoubtedly relieved my wants:
they told me of the condition in which they found me, and of
many wild and extravagant things that I had uttered, clearly
proving the derangement of my intellects; and I am conscious
that since then I have committed a thousand extravagances, tearing
my garments, cursing my fortune, and repeating in vain the
beloved name of my enemy. When my senses return, I find myself
so weary and bruised that I can scarcely move. My usual
abode is in the hollow of a cork-tree, large enough to enclose this
wretched body. Thus I pass my miserable life, waiting until it
shall please Heaven to bring it to a period, or erase from my
memory the beauty and treachery of Lucinda and the perfidy of
Don Fernando; otherwise, Heaven have mercy on me, for I feel
no power to change my mode of life.”

Here Cardenio concluded his long tale of love and sorrow;
and just as the priest was preparing to say something consolatory,
he was prevented by the sound of a human voice, which, in
a mournful tone, was heard to say what will be related in the following
chapter.

CHAPTER XVII.

Of the new and agreeable adventure that befell the Priest and the
Barber, and of the beautiful Dorothea.

[Pg 96]
“Alas, is it possible that I have at last found out a place which
will afford a private grave to this miserable body, whose load I
so repine to bear? Yes, if the silence and solitude of these deserts
do not deceive me, here I may die concealed from human
eyes. Ah me! ah wretched creature! to what extremity has
affliction driven me, reduced to think these hideous woods and
rocks a kind retreat! It is true, indeed, I may here freely complain
to Heaven, and beg for that relief which I might ask in
vain of false mankind; for it is vain, I find, to seek below either
counsel, ease, or remedy.”

The curate and his company, hearing all this distinctly, and
conceiving they must be near the person who thus expressed his
grief, rose to find him out. They had not gone above twenty paces
before they spied a youth in a country habit, sitting at the foot of
a rock behind an ash-tree; but they could not well see his face,
being bowed almost upon his knees, as he sat washing his feet
in a rivulet that glided by. They approached him so softly that
he did not perceive them; and as he was gently paddling in the
clear water, they had time to discern that his legs were as white
as alabaster, and so taper, so curiously proportioned, and so fine,
that nothing of the kind could appear more beautiful. Our observers
were amazed at this discovery, rightly imagining that such
tender feet were not used to trudge in rugged ways, or measure
the steps of oxen at the plough, the common employments of
people in such apparel; and therefore the curate, who went before
the rest, whose curiosity was heightened by this sight, beckoned
to them to step aside, and hide themselves behind some of the
little rocks that were by; which they did, and from thence making
a stricter observation, they found he had on a grey double-skirted
jerkin, girt tight about his body with a linen towel. He
wore also a pair of breeches, and gamashes of grey cloth, and a
grey huntsman’s cap on his head. His gamashes were now pulled
up to the middle of his leg, which really seemed to be of snowy
alabaster. Having made an end of washing his beauteous feet,
he immediately wiped them with a handkerchief, which he pulled
out from under his cap; and with that looking up, he discovered
so charming a face, so accomplished a beauty, that Cardenio could
not forbear saying to the curate, that since this was not Lucinda,
it was certainly no human form, but an angel. And then the
youth taking off his cap, and shaking his head, an incredible
quantity of lovely hair flowed down upon his shoulders, and not
only covered them, but almost all his body; by which they were
[Pg 97]
now convinced that what they at first took to be a country lad
was a young woman, and one of the most beautiful creatures in
the world. Cardenio was not less surprised than the other two,
and once more declared that no face could vie with hers but Lucinda’s.
To part her dishevelled tresses she only used her slender
fingers, and at the same time discovered so fine a pair of arms,
and hands so white and lovely, that our three admiring gazers
grew more impatient to know who she was, and moved forward
to accost her. At the noise they made, the pretty creature
started; and peeping through her hair, which she hastily removed
from before her eyes with both her hands, she no sooner saw three
men coming towards her, but in a mighty fright she snatched up
a little bundle that lay by her, and fled as fast as she could, without
so much as staying to put on her shoes, or do up her hair.
But, alas, scarce had she gone six steps, when, her tender feet
not being able to endure the rough encounter of the stones, the
poor affrighted fair fell on the hard ground; so that those from
whom she fled hastened to help her. “Stay, madam,” cried the
curate, “whoever you be, you have no reason to fly; we have no
other design but to do you service.” With that, approaching
her, he took her by the hand; and perceiving she was so disordered
with fear and confusion that she could not answer a word,
he strove to compose her mind with kind expressions. “Be not
afraid, madam,” continued he; “though your hair has betrayed
what your disguise concealed from us, we are but the more disposed
to assist you, and do you all manner of service. Then pray
tell us how we may best do it. I imagine it was no slight occasion
that made you obscure your singular beauty under so unworthy
a disguise, and venture into this desert, where it was the
greatest chance in the world that ever you met with us. However,
we hope it is not impossible to find a remedy for your misfortunes,
since there are none which reason and time will not at
last surmount; and therefore, madam, if you have not absolutely
renounced all human comfort, I beseech you to tell us the cause
of your affliction, and assure yourself we do not ask this out of
mere curiosity, but from a real desire to serve you, and assuage
your grief.”

While the curate endeavoured thus to remove the trembling
fair one’s apprehension, she stood amazed, without speaking a
word, looking sometimes at one, sometimes at another, like one
scarce well awake, or like an ignorant clown who happens to see
some strange sight. But at last, the curate having given her
time to recollect herself, and persisting in his earnest and civil
entreaties, she sighed deeply, and then unclosing her lips, broke
silence in the following manner: “Since this desert has not been
able to conceal me, it would be needless now for me to dissemble
with you; and since you desire to hear the story of my misfortunes,
I cannot in civility deny you, after all the obliging offers
[Pg 98]
you have been pleased to make me; but yet, gentlemen, I am
much afraid what I have to say will but make you sad, and afford
you little satisfaction; for you will find my disasters are not to
be remedied. There is one thing that troubles me yet more; it
shocks my nature to think I must be forced to reveal to you some
secrets which I had a design to have buried in my grave; but yet,
considering the garb and the place you have found me in, I fancy
it will be better for me to tell you all than to give occasion to
doubt of my past conduct and my present designs by an affected
reservedness.” The disguised lady having made this answer
with a modest blush and extraordinary discretion, the curate and
his company, who now admired her the more for her sense, renewed
their kind offers and pressing solicitations; and then they
courteously let her retire a moment to some distance to put herself
in decent order. Which done she returned, and, being all seated
on the grass, after she had used no small effort to restrain her
tears, she thus began her story.

“I was born in a certain town of Andalusia, from which a
duke takes his title that makes him a grandee of Spain. This
duke had two sons, the eldest heir to his estate, and, as it may be
presumed, of his virtues; the youngest heir to nothing I know of
but treachery and deceitfulness. My father, who is one of his
vassals, is but of low degree; but so very rich, that had fortune
equalled his birth to his estate, he could have wanted nothing
more, and I, perhaps, had never been so miserable; for I verily
believe my not being of noble blood is the chief occasion of my
distress. True it is, my parents are not so meanly born as to have
any cause to be ashamed, nor so high as to alter the opinion I
have that my misfortune proceeds from their lowness. It is true,
they have been farmers from father to son, yet without any scandal
or stain. They are honest old-fashioned Christian Spaniards, and
the antiquity of their family, together with their large possessions,
raises them much above their profession, and has by little and
little almost universally gained them the name of gentlemen,
setting them, in a manner, equal to many such in the world’s
esteem. As I am their only child, they loved me with the utmost
tenderness; and their great affection made them esteem themselves
happier in their daughter than in the peaceable enjoyment
of their large estate. Now, as it was my good fortune to be possessed
of their love, they were pleased to trust me with their substance.
The whole house and estate was left to my management,
and I took such care not to abuse the trust reposed in me that I
never forfeited their good opinion of my discretion. The time I had
to spare from the care of the family I employed in the usual exercises
of young women, sometimes making bone-lace, or at my
needle, and now and then reading some good book, or playing on
the harp,—having experienced that music was very proper to
recreate the wearied mind. While I thus lived the life of a recluse,
[Pg 99]
unseen, as I thought, by anybody but our own family, and
never leaving the house but to go to church, which was commonly
betimes in the morning, and always with my mother, and so close
hid in a veil that I could scarce find my way; notwithstanding
all the care that was taken to keep me from being seen, it was
unhappily rumoured abroad that I was handsome, and to my
eternal disquiet, love intruded into my peaceful retirement. Don
Fernando, second son to the duke I have mentioned, had a sight
of me”——Scarce had Cardenio heard Don Fernando named
but he changed colour, and betrayed such a disorder of body and
mind that the curate and the barber were afraid he would have
fallen into one of those frantic fits that often used to take him;
but, by good fortune, it did not come to that, and he only set himself
to look stedfastly on the country maid, presently guessing
who she was; while she continued her story, without taking any
notice of the alteration of his countenance.

“No sooner had he seen me,” said she, “but, as he since told
me, he felt in his breast that violent passion of which he afterwards
gave me so many proofs. He purchased the good will of
all our servants with private gifts; made my father a thousand
kind offers of service; every day seemed a day of rejoicing in our
neighbourhood, every evening ushered in some serenade, and the
continual music was even a disturbance in the night. He got an
infinite number of love-letters transmitted to me, I do not know
by what means, every one full of tender expressions, promises,
and vows. But all this assiduous courtship was so far from
inclining my heart to a kind return, that it rather moved my
indignation, insomuch that I looked upon Don Fernando as my
greatest enemy; not but that I was well enough pleased with his
gallantry, and took a secret delight in seeing myself courted by
a person of his quality. Such demonstrations of love are never
altogether displeasing to women, and the most disdainful, in spite
of all their coyness, reserve a little complaisance in their hearts
for their admirers. But the inequality between us was too great
to suffer me to entertain any reasonable hopes, and his gallantry
too singular not to offend me. My father, who soon put the
right construction upon Don Fernando’s pretensions, like a kind
parent, perceiving I was somewhat uneasy, and imagining the
flattering prospect of so advantageous a match might still amuse
me, told me that if I would marry, to rid me at once of his
unjust pursuit, I should have liberty to make my own choice of
a suitable match, either in our own town or the neighbourhood;
and that he would do for me whatever could be expected from a
loving father. I humbly thanked him for his kindness, and told
him that as I had never yet had any thoughts of marriage, I
would try to rid myself of Don Fernando some other way.
Accordingly, I resolved to shun him with so much precaution
that he should never have the opportunity to speak to me; but
[Pg 100]
all my reserve, far from tiring out his passion, strengthened it
the more. In short, Don Fernando, either hearing or suspecting
I was to be married, thought of a contrivance to cross a
design that was likely to cut off all his hopes. One night, therefore,
when I was in my chamber, nobody with me but my maid,
and the door double locked and bolted, that I might be secured
against the attempts of Don Fernando, whom I took to be a
man who would scruple at nothing to accomplish his ends, unexpectedly
I saw him just before me; which amazing sight
so surprised me, that I was struck dumb, and fainted away
with fear. I had not power to call for help, nor do I believe he
would have given me time to have done it, had I attempted it;
for he presently ran to me, and taking me in his arms, while I
was sinking with the fright, he spoke to me in such endearing
terms, and with so much address and pretended tenderness and
sincerity, that I did not dare to cry out when I came to myself.
His sighs, and yet more his tears, seemed to me undeniable proofs
of his vowed integrity; and I being but young, bred up in perpetual
retirement from all society but my virtuous parents, and
inexperienced in those affairs, in which even the most knowing
are apt to be mistaken, my reluctancy abated by degrees, and I
began to have some sense of compassion. However, when I was
pretty well recovered from my first fright, my former resolution
returned; and then, with more courage than I thought I should
have had, ‘My lord,’ said I, ‘if at the same time that you offer
me your love, and give me such strange demonstrations of it,
you would also offer me poison and leave me to take my choice,
I would soon resolve which to accept, and convince you by my
death that my honour is dearer to me than my life. To be
plain, I can have no good opinion of a presumption that endangers
my reputation; and unless you leave me this moment,
I will so effectually make you know how much you are mistaken
in me, that if you have but the least sense of honour left, you will
regret driving me to that extremity as long as you live. I was
born your vassal, but not your slave; nor does the greatness of
your birth privilege you to injure your inferiors, or exact from
me more than the duties which all vassals pay; that excepted, I
do not esteem myself less in my low degree than you have reason
to value yourself in your high rank. Do not, then, think to awe
or dazzle me with your grandeur, or fright or force me into a
base compliance; I am not to be tempted with titles, pomp, and
equipage; nor weak enough to be moved with vain sighs and
false tears. In short, my will is wholly at my father’s disposal,
and I will not entertain any man as a lover but by his appointment.’
‘What do you mean, charming Dorothea?’ cried the
perfidious lord. ‘Cannot I be yours by the sacred title of husband?
Who can hinder me, if you will but consent to bless me
on those terms? I am yours this moment, beautiful Dorothea;
[Pg 101]
I give you here my hand to be yours, and yours alone, for ever;
and let all-seeing Heaven, and this holy image here on your oratory,
witness the solemn truth.’

“In short, urged by his solicitations, I became his wife; but
not long afterwards he left me, I knew not whither. Months
passed away, and in vain I watched for his coming; yet he was
in the town, and every day amusing himself with hunting.
What melancholy days and hours were those to me! I long
strove to hide my tears and so to guard my looks that my parents
might not see and inquire into the cause of my wretchedness;
but suddenly my forbearance was at an end, with all regard to
delicacy and fame, upon the intelligence reaching me that Don
Fernando was married in a neighbouring town to a beautiful
young lady, of some rank and fortune, named Lucinda.”——Cardenio
heard the name of Lucinda at first only with signs of
indignation, but soon after a flood of tears burst from his eyes.
Dorothea, however, pursued her story, saying, “When this sad
news reached my ears, my heart became so inflamed with rage
that I could scarcely forbear rushing into the streets and proclaiming
the baseness and treachery I had experienced; but I
became more tranquil, after forming a project which I executed
the same night. I borrowed this apparel of a shepherd swain in
my father’s service, whom I entrusted with my secret, and begged
him to attend me in my pursuit of Don Fernando. He assured
me it was a rash undertaking; but finding me resolute, he said
he would go with me to the end of the world. Immediately I
packed up some of my own clothes, with money and jewels, and
at night secretly left the house, attended only by my servant and
a thousand anxious thoughts, and travelled on foot to the town,
where I expected to find my husband; impatient to arrive, if not
in time to prevent his perfidy, to reproach him for it.

“I inquired where the parents of Lucinda lived; and the first
person to whom I addressed myself told me more than I desired
to hear. He told me also that on the night that Don Fernando
was married to Lucinda, after she had pronounced the fatal Yes,
she fell into a swoon; and the bridegroom, in unclasping her
bosom to give her air, found a paper written by herself, in which
she affirmed that she could not be wife to Don Fernando, because
she was already betrothed to Cardenio (who, as the man told me,
was a gentleman of the same town), and that she had pronounced
her assent to Don Fernando merely in obedience to her parents.
The paper also revealed her intention to kill herself as soon as
the ceremony was over, which was confirmed by a poniard
they found concealed upon her. Don Fernando was so enraged
to find himself thus mocked and slighted, that he seized hold of
the same poniard, and would certainly have stabbed her, had he
not been prevented by those present; whereupon he immediately
quitted the place. When Lucinda revived, she confessed to her
[Pg 102]
parents the engagement she had formed with Cardenio, who, it
was suspected, had witnessed the ceremony, and had hastened
from the city in despair; for he left a paper expressing his sense
of the wrong he had suffered, and declaring his resolution to fly
from mankind for ever.

“All this was publicly known, and the general subject of conversation;
especially when it appeared that Lucinda also was
missing from her father’s house—a circumstance that overwhelmed
her family with grief, but revived my hopes; for I flattered myself
that Heaven had thus interposed to prevent the completion of
Don Fernando’s second marriage, in order to touch his conscience
and restore him to a sense of duty and honour.

“In this situation, undecided what course to take, I instantly
left the city, and at night took refuge among these mountains.
I engaged myself in the service of a shepherd, and have lived
for some months among these wilds, always endeavouring to be
abroad, lest I should betray myself. Yet all my care was to no
purpose, for my master at length discovered my secret. Lest I
might not always find means at hand to free myself from insult,
I sought for security in flight, and have endeavoured to hide
myself among these rocks. Here, with incessant sighs and tears,
I implore Heaven to have pity on me, and either alleviate my
misery or put an end to my life in this desert, that no traces may
remain of so wretched a creature.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

Which treats of the beautiful Dorothea’s discretion; with other
particulars.

“This, gentlemen,” added Dorothea, “is my tragical story;
think whether the sighs and tears which you have witnessed have
not been more than justified. My misfortunes, as you will confess,
are incapable of a remedy; and all I desire of you is to
advise me how to live without the continual dread of being discovered;
for although I am certain of a kind reception from my
parents, so overwhelmed am I with shame, that I choose rather to
banish myself for ever from their sight than appear before them
the object of such hateful suspicions.”

Here she was silent, while her blushes and confusion sufficiently
manifested the shame and agony of her soul. Her auditors
were much affected by her tale, and the curate was just going
to address her, when Cardenio interrupted him, saying, “You,
madam, then, are the beautiful Dorothea, only daughter of the
rich Clenardo.” Dorothea stared at hearing her father named
by such a miserable-looking object, and she asked him who he
[Pg 103]
was, since he knew her father. “I am that hapless Cardenio,”
he replied, “who suffer from the base author of your misfortunes,
reduced, as you now behold, to nakedness and misery—deprived
even of reason! Yes, Dorothea, I heard that fatal Yes uttered by
Lucinda, and, unable to bear my anguish, fled precipitately from
her house. Amidst these mountains I thought to have terminated
my wretched existence; but the account you have just given has
inspired me with hope that Heaven may still have happiness in
store for us. Lucinda has avowed herself to be mine, and therefore
cannot wed another; Don Fernando, being yours, cannot
have Lucinda. Let us then, my dear lady, indulge the hope that
we may both yet recover our own, since it is not absolutely lost.
Indeed, I swear that, although I leave it to Heaven to avenge
my own injuries, your claims I will assert; nor will I leave you
until I have obliged Don Fernando, either by argument or by
my sword, to do you justice.”

Dorothea would have thrown herself at the feet of Cardenio
to express her gratitude to him, had he not prevented her. The
licentiate, too, commended his generous determination, and entreated
them both to accompany him to his village, where they
might consult on the most proper measures to be adopted in the
present state of their affairs; a proposal to which they thankfully
acceded. The barber, who had hitherto been silent, now joined
in expressing his good wishes to them; he also briefly related
the circumstances which had brought them to that place; and
when he mentioned the extraordinary insanity of Don Quixote,
Cardenio had an indistinct recollection of having had some altercation
with the knight, though he could not remember whence
it arose.

They were now interrupted by the voice of Sancho Panza,
who, not finding them where he left them, began to call out
loudly; they went instantly to meet him, and were eager in
their inquiries after Don Quixote. He told them that he had
found him half dead with hunger, sighing for his Lady Dulcinea;
and that he positively would not appear before her beauty, until
he had performed exploits that might render him worthy of her
favour; so they must consider what was to be done to get him
away. The licentiate begged him not to give himself any uneasiness
on that account, for they should certainly contrive to get
him out of his present retreat.

The priest then informed Cardenio and Dorothea of their plan
for Don Quixote’s cure, or at least for decoying him to his own
house. Upon which Dorothea said she would undertake to act
the distressed damsel better than the barber, especially as she
had apparel with which she could perform it to the life; and
they might have reliance upon her, as she had read many books
of chivalry, and was well acquainted with the style in which distressed
damsels were wont to beg their boons of knights-errant.
[Pg 104]
“Let us, then, hasten to put our design into execution,” exclaimed
the curate; “since fortune seems to favour all our
views.” Dorothea immediately took from her bundle a petticoat
of very rich stuff, and a mantle of fine green silk; and, out
of a casket, a necklace and other jewels, with which she quickly
adorned herself in such a manner that she had all the appearance
of a rich and noble lady. They were charmed with her beauty,
grace, and elegance; and agreed that Don Fernando must be a
man of little taste, since he could slight so much excellence.
But her greatest admirer was Sancho Panza, who thought that
in all his life he had never seen so beautiful a creature; and he
earnestly desired the priest to tell him who that handsome lady
was, and what she was looking for in those parts? “This beautiful
lady, friend Sancho,” answered the priest, “is, to say the
least of her, heiress in the direct male line of the great kingdom
of Micomicon; and she comes in quest of your master, to beg a
boon of him, which is to redress a wrong or injury done her by a
wicked giant; for it is the fame of your master’s prowess, which
is spread over all Guinea, that has brought this princess to seek
him.” “Now, a happy seeking and a happy finding,” quoth
Sancho Panza; “especially if my master is so fortunate as to redress
that injury, and right that wrong, by killing the giant you
mention; and kill him he certainly will if he encounters him,
unless he be a goblin, for my master has no power at all over
goblins.”

Dorothea now having mounted the priest’s mule, and the barber
fitted on the ox-tail beard, they desired Sancho to conduct
them to Don Quixote, cautioning him not to say that he knew
the licentiate or the barber, since on that depended all his fortune.
The priest would have instructed Dorothea in her part;
but she would not trouble him, assuring him that she would
perform it precisely according to the rules and precepts of chivalry.

Having proceeded about three quarters of a league, they discovered
Don Quixote in a wild, rocky recess, at that time not
armed. Dorothea now whipped on her palfrey, attended by the
well-bearded squire; and having approached the knight, her
squire leaped from his mule to assist his lady, who, lightly dismounting,
went and threw herself at Don Quixote’s feet, where,
in spite of his efforts to raise her, she remained kneeling, as she
thus addressed him:

“I will never arise from this place, O valorous and redoubted
knight, until your goodness and courtesy vouchsafe me a boon,
which will redound to the honour and glory of your person, and
to the lasting benefit of the most disconsolate and aggrieved damsel
the sun has ever beheld. And if the valour of your puissant
arm correspond with the report of your immortal fame, you are
bound to protect an unhappy wight, who, attracted by the odour
[Pg 105]
of your renown, is come from distant regions to seek at your
hands a remedy for her misfortunes.”

“It is impossible for me to answer you, fair lady,” said Don
Quixote, “while you remain in that posture.” “I will not arise,
sigñor,” answered the afflicted damsel, “until your courtesy shall
vouchsafe the boon I ask.” “I do vouchsafe and grant it you,”
answered Don Quixote, “provided my compliance be of no detriment
to my king, my country, or to her who keeps the key of my
heart and liberty.” “It will not be to the prejudice of any of
these, dear sir,” replied the afflicted damsel. Sancho, now approaching
his master, whispered softly in his ear, “Your worship
may very safely grant the boon she asks; for it is a mere trifle,
only to kill a great lubberly giant.” “Whosoever the lady may
be,” answered Don Quixote, “I shall act as my duty and my
conscience dictate, in conformity to the rules of my profession:”
then addressing himself to the damsel, he said, “Fairest lady,
arise; for I vouchsafe you whatever boon you ask.” “My request,
then, is,” said the damsel, “that your magnanimity will go
whither I shall conduct you; and that you will promise not to
engage in any other adventure until you have avenged me on a
traitor who, against all right, human and divine, has usurped
my kingdom.” “I grant your request,” answered Don Quixote;
“and therefore, lady, dispel that melancholy which oppresses you,
and let your fainting hopes recover fresh life and strength; for
you shall soon be restored to your kingdom, and seated on the
throne of your ancient and high estate, in despite of all the miscreants
who would oppose it; and therefore we will instantly
proceed to action, for there is always danger in delay.” The distressed
damsel would fain have kissed his hands; but Don Quixote,
making her arise, embraced her with much politeness and
respect, and ordered Sancho to look after Rozinante’s girths, and
to assist him to arm. Sancho took down the armour from a tree,
where it hung, and having got Rozinante ready, quickly armed
his master, who then cried, “In God’s name, let us hasten to
succour this fair lady.” The barber was still upon his knees, and
under much difficulty to forbear laughing, and keep his beard
from falling; but seeing that the boon was already granted, and
Don Quixote prepared to fulfil his engagement, he got up and
took his lady by the other hand; when they both assisted to place
her upon the mule, and then mounted themselves.

Cardenio and the priest, concealed among the bushes, had observed
all that passed, and being now desirous to join them, the
priest, who had a ready invention, soon hit upon an expedient;
for with a pair of scissors which he carried in a case, he quickly
cut off Cardenio’s beard; then put him on a grey capouch, and
gave him his own black cloak, which so changed his appearance
that had he looked in a mirror he would not have known himself.
They waited in the plain until Don Quixote and his party
[Pg 106]
came up; whereupon the curate, after gazing for some time earnestly
at him, at last ran towards him with open arms, exclaiming
aloud, “Happy is this meeting, O thou mirror of chivalry,
my noble countryman, Don Quixote de la Mancha! the flower
and cream of gentility, the protector of suffering mankind, the
quintessence of knight-errantry!” Having thus spoken, he embraced
Don Quixote by the knee of his left leg.

The knight was surprised at this address, but after attentively
surveying the features of the speaker, he recognised him, and
would immediately have alighted; but the priest would not suffer
it. “You must permit me to alight, sigñor licentiate,” said Don
Quixote; “for it would be very improper that I should remain
on horseback, while so a reverend a person as you are travelling
on foot.” “I will by no means consent to your dismounting,”
replied the priest, “since on horseback you have achieved the
greatest exploits this age hath witnessed. As for myself, an unworthy
priest, I shall be satisfied if one of these gentlemen of your
company will allow me to mount behind him; and I shall then
fancy myself mounted on Pegasus, or on a Zebra, or the sprightly
courser bestrode by the famous Moor Muzarque, who lies to this
day enchanted in the great mountain Zulema, not far distant from
the grand Compluto.” “I did not think of that, dear sigñor
licentiate,” said Don Quixote; “and I know her highness the
princess will, for my sake, order her squire to accommodate you
with the saddle of his mule; and he may ride behind, if the beast
will carry double.” “I believe she will,” answered the princess;
“and I know it is unnecessary for me to lay my commands upon
my squire; for he is too courteous and well-bred to suffer an ecclesiastic
to go on foot when he may ride.” “Most certainly,”
answered the barber; and alighting in an instant, he complimented
the priest with the saddle, which he accepted without
much entreaty. But it unluckily happened that as the barber
was getting upon the mule, which was a vicious jade, she threw
up her hind-legs twice or thrice into the air; and had they met
with Master Nicholas’s breast or head he would have wished his
rambling after Don Quixote far enough. He was, however,
thrown to the ground, and so suddenly that he forgot to take due
care of his beard, which fell off; and all he could do was to cover
his face with both hands, and cry out that his jaw-bone was
broken. Don Quixote, seeing such a mass of beard without jaws
and without blood lying at a distance from the fallen squire, exclaimed,
“Heavens! what a miracle! His beard has fallen as
clean from his face as if he had been shaven!” The priest, seeing
the danger of discovery, instantly seized the beard, and ran
to Master Nicholas, who was still on the ground moaning; and
going up close to him, with one twitch replaced it; muttering
over him some words, which he said were a specific charm for
fixing on beards, as they should soon see; and when it was adjusted,
[Pg 107]
the squire remained as well bearded and as whole as before.
Don Quixote was amazed at what he saw, and begged the
priest to teach him that charm; for he was of opinion that its
virtue could not be confined to the refixing of beards, and since
it wrought a perfect cure, it must be valuable upon other occasions.
The priest said that his surmise was just, and promised
to take the first opportunity of teaching him the art.

Don Quixote, the princess, and the priest, being thus mounted,
attended by Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza on foot, Don
Quixote said to the damsel, “Your highness will now be pleased
to lead on, in whatever direction you please.” Before she could
reply, the licentiate interposing said, “Whither would your ladyship
go? To the kingdom of Micomicon, I presume, or I am much
mistaken.” She, being aware that she was to answer in the
affirmative, said, “Yes, sigñor, that kingdom is indeed the place
of my destination.” “If so,” said the priest, “we must pass
through my native village; and thence you must go straight to
Carthagena, where you may embark; and if you have a fair
wind, a smooth sea, and no storms, in somewhat less than nine
years you will get within view of the great lake Meona, I mean
Meotis, which is not more than a hundred days’ journey from
your highness’s territories.” “You are mistaken, good sir,” said
she; “for it is not two years since I left it; and although I had
very bad weather during the whole passage, here I am, and I have
beheld what so ardently I desired to see—Sigñor Don Quixote
de la Mancha; the fame of whose valour reached my ears the
moment I set foot in Spain, and determined me upon seeking
him, that I might appeal to his courtesy, and commit the justice
of my cause to the valour of his invincible arm.” “Cease, I pray,
these encomiums,” said Don Quixote, “for I am an enemy to
every species of flattery; and even if this be not such, still are my
chaste ears offended at this kind of discourse. All I can say, dear
madam, is, that my powers, such as they are, shall be employed
in your service, even at the forfeit of my life; but waving these
matters for the present, I beg the sigñor licentiate to tell me what
has brought him into these parts alone, unattended, and so lightly
apparelled.” “I can soon satisfy your worship,” answered the
priest: “our friend, Master Nicholas and I were going to Seville,
to receive a legacy left me by a relation in India, and no inconsiderable
sum, being sixty thousand crowns; and on our road,
yesterday, we were attacked by four highway robbers, who stripped
us of all we had, to our very beards, and in such a manner
that the barber thought it expedient to put on a false one; as for
this youth here (pointing to Cardenio), you see how they have
treated him. It is publicly reported here that those who robbed
us were galley-slaves, set at liberty near this very place, by a
man so valiant that in spite of the commissary and his guards he
released them all; but he must certainly have been out of his
[Pg 108]
senses, or as great a rogue as any of them, since he could let
loose wolves among sheep, foxes among poultry, and wasps among
the honey; for he has defrauded justice of her due, and has set
himself up against his king and natural lord by acting against
his lawful authority. He has, I say, disabled the galleys of their
hands, and disturbed the many years’ repose of the holy brotherhood;
in a word, he has done a deed by which his body may
suffer, and his soul be for ever lost.”

Sancho had communicated the adventure of the galley-slaves,
so gloriously achieved by his master; and the priest laid it on
thus heavily to see what effect it would have upon Don Quixote;
whose colour changed at every word, and he dared not confess
that he had been the deliverer of those worthy gentlemen.

CHAPTER XIX.

Of the ingenious method pursued to withdraw our enamoured Knight
from the rigorous penance which he had imposed on himself.

As soon as the priest had done speaking, Sancho said, “By my
troth, sigñor, it was my master who did that feat; not but that
I gave him fair warning, and advised him to mind what he was
about, telling him that it was a sin to set them at liberty; for they
were all going to the galleys for being most notorious villains.”
“Blockhead!” said Don Quixote, “knights-errant are not bound
to inquire whether the fettered and oppressed are brought to that
situation by their faults or their misfortunes. It is their part to
assist them under oppression, and to regard their sufferings, not
their crimes. I encountered a bead-roll and string of miserable
wretches, and acted towards them as my profession required of
me. As for the rest, I care not; and whoever takes it amiss,
saving the holy dignity of sigñor the licentiate, and his reverend
person, I say, he knows but little of the principles of chivalry;
and this I will maintain with the edge of my sword!”

Dorothea was possessed of too much humour and sprightly wit
not to join with the rest in their diversion at Don Quixote’s expense;
and perceiving his wrath, she said, “Sir knight, be
pleased to remember the boon you have promised me, and that
you are thereby bound not to engage in any other adventure,
however urgent; therefore assuage your wrath; for had sigñor
the licentiate known that the galley-slaves were freed by that invincible
arm, he would sooner have sewed up his mouth with three
stitches, and thrice have bitten his tongue, than he would have
said a word that might redound to the disparagement of your
worship.” “Ay, verily I would,” exclaimed the priest; “or
even have plucked off one of my mustachios.” “I will say no
[Pg 109]
more, madam,” said Don Quixote; “and I will repress that just
indignation raised within my breast, and quietly proceed, until I
have accomplished the promised boon. But, in requital, I beseech
you to inform me of the particulars of your grievance, as
well as the number and quality of the persons on whom I must
take due, satisfactory, and complete revenge.” “That I will do
most willingly,” answered Dorothea; “but yet I fear a story like
mine, consisting wholly of afflictions and disasters, will prove but
a tedious entertainment.” “Never fear that, madam,” cried Don
Quixote. “Since, then, it must be so,” said Dorothea, “be pleased
to lend me your attention.” With that Cardenio and the barber
gathered up to her, to hear what kind of story she had provided
so soon; Sancho did the same, being no less deceived in her than
his master; and the lady having seated herself well on her mule,
after coughing once or twice, and other preparations, very gracefully
began her story.

“First, gentlemen,” said she, “you must know my name is”—here
she stopped short, and could not call to mind the name
the curate had given her; whereupon finding her at a nonplus,
he made haste to help her out. “It is not at all strange,” said
he, “madam, that you should be so discomposed by your disasters
as to stumble at the very beginning of the account you are
going to give of them; extreme affliction often distracts the mind
to that degree, and so deprives us of memory, that sometimes we
for a while can scarce think on our very names: no wonder, then,
that the Princess Micomicona, lawful heiress to the vast kingdom
of Micomicon, disordered with so many misfortunes, and perplexed
with so many various thoughts for the recovery of her
crown, should have her imagination and memory so encumbered;
but I hope you will now recollect yourself, and be able to proceed.”
“I hope so too,” said the lady, “and I will endeavour
to relate my story without further hesitation. Know,
then, gentlemen, that the king my father, who was called Tinacrio
the Sage, having great skill in the magic art, understood by
his profound knowledge in that science, that Queen Xaramilla,
my mother, should die before him, that he himself should not
survive her long, and I should be left an orphan. But he often
said that this did not so much trouble him as the foresight he had,
by his speculations, of my being threatened with great misfortunes,
which would be occasioned by a certain giant, lord of a
great island near the confines of my kingdom; his name Pandafilando,
surnamed of the Gloomy Sight; because, though his eyeballs
are seated in their due place, yet he affects to squint and look
askew on purpose to fright those on whom he stares. My father,
I say, knew that this giant, hearing of his death, would one day
invade my kingdom with a powerful army, and drive me out
of my territories, without leaving me so much as a village for a
retreat; though he knew withal that I might avoid that extremity
[Pg 110]
if I would but consent to marry him; but as he found out by his
art, he had reason to think I never would incline to such a match.
And indeed I never had any thoughts of marrying this giant,
nor any other giant in the world, how unmeasurably great and
mighty soever. My father therefore charged me patiently to
bear my misfortunes, and abandon my kingdom to Pandafilando
for a time, without offering to keep him out by force of arms, since
this would be the best means to prevent my own death and the
ruin of my subjects, considering the impossibility of withstanding
the terrible force of the giant. But withal he ordered me to direct
my course towards Spain, where I should be sure to meet
with a powerful champion in the person of a knight-errant,
whose fame should at that time be spread over all the kingdom;
and his name, my father said, should be, if I forget not, Don
Azote, or Don Gigote”—”And it please you, forsooth,” quoth
Sancho, “you would say Don Quixote, otherwise called the
Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.” “You are right,” answered
Dorothea; “and doubtless I do right in recommending myself to
Don Quixote, who so well agrees with my father’s description,
and whose renown is so far spread, not only in Spain, but over
all La Mancha, that I had no sooner landed at Ossuna but the
fame of his prowess reached my ears; so that I was satisfied he
was the very person in quest of whom I came.”

“But pray, madam,” cried Don Quixote, “how did you do
to land at Ossuna, since it is no seaport town?” “Doubtless,
sir,” said the curate, before Dorothea could answer for herself,
“the princess would say, that after she landed at Malaga, the
first place where she heard of your feats of arms was Ossuna.”
“That is what I would have said,” replied Dorothea; “and now
I have nothing more to add, but that fortune has so far favoured
me as to make me find the noble knight by whose valour I look
upon myself as already restored to the throne of my ancestors,
since he has so courteously and magnanimously vouchsafed to
grant me the boon I begged. For all I have to do is to shew him
this Pandafilando of the Gloomy Sight, that he may slay him,
and restore that to me of which he has so unjustly deprived me.
For all this will certainly be done with the greatest ease in the
world, since it was foretold by Tinacrio the Sage, my good and
royal father, who has also left a prediction written either in Chaldean
or Greek characters (for I cannot read them) which denotes
that after the knight of the prophecy has cut off the giant’s head
and restored me to the possession of my kingdom, if he should
ask me to marry him, I should by no means refuse him, but
instantly put him in possession of my person and kingdom.”
“Well, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote, hearing this, and
turning to the squire, “what thinkest thou now? Dost thou not
hear how matters go? Did not I tell thee as much before? See
now whether we have not a kingdom which we may command,
[Pg 111]
and a queen whom we may espouse!” “Ah, marry have you,”
replied Sancho; and with that, to shew his joy, he cut a couple
of capers in the air; and turning to Dorothea, laid hold on her
mule by the bridle, and flinging himself down on his knees,
begged she would be graciously pleased to let him kiss her hand,
in token of his owning her for his sovereign lady.

There was none of the beholders but was ready to burst for
laughter, having a sight of the master’s madness, and the servant’s
simplicity. In short, Dorothea was obliged to comply with his
entreaties, and promised to make him a grandee, when fortune
should favour her with the recovery of her lost kingdom. Whereupon
Sancho gave her his thanks in such a manner as obliged the
company to a fresh laughter. Then going on with her relation,
“Gentlemen,” said she, “this is my history; and among all my
misfortunes, this only has escaped a recital, that not one of the
numerous attendants I brought from my kingdom has survived
the ruins of my fortune but this good squire with the long beard:
the rest ended their days in a great storm, which dashed our ship
to pieces in the very sight of the harbour; and he and I had been
sharers in their destiny had we not laid hold of two planks, by
which assistance we were driven to land, in a manner altogether
miraculous, and agreeable to the whole series of my life, which
seems, indeed, but one continued miracle. And if in any part
of my relation I have been tedious, and not so exact as I should
have been, you must impute it to what Master Curate observed
to you in the beginning of my story, that continual troubles oppress
the senses, and weaken the memory.”

“Those pains and afflictions, be they ever so intense and
difficult,” said Don Quixote, “shall never deter me, most virtuous
and high-born lady, from adventuring for your service,
and enduring whatever I shall suffer in it: and therefore I again
ratify the assurances I have given you, and swear that I will
bear you company, though to the end of the world, in search of
this implacable enemy of yours, till I shall find him; whose insulting
head, by the help of Heaven and my own invincible arm,
I am resolved to cut off with the edge of this (I will not say
good) sword;—(a plague on Gines de Passamonte, who took
away my own!)” This he spoke murmuring to himself; and
then prosecuted his discourse in this manner: “And after I have
divided it from the body, and left you quietly possessed of your
throne, it shall be left at your own choice to dispose of your person
as you shall think convenient; for as long as I shall have my
memory full of her image, my will captivated, and my understanding
wholly subjected to her whom I now forbear to name, it
is impossible I should in the least deviate from the affection I bear
to her, or be induced to think of marrying, though it were a
Phœnix.”

The close of Don Quixote’s speech, which related to his not
[Pg 112]
marrying, touched Sancho so to the quick, that he could not forbear
bawling out his resentments: “Sir Don Quixote,” cried he,
“you are certainly out of your wits; or how is it possible you
should stick at striking a bargain with so great a lady as this?
Do you think fortune will put such dainty bits in your way at
every corner? Is my Lady Dulcinea handsomer, do you think?
No, marry, she is not half so handsome: I could almost say she
is not worthy to tie this lady’s shoe-latchets. I am likely, indeed,
to get the earldom I have fed myself with the hopes of, if you
spend your time in fishing for mushrooms at the bottom of the
sea! Marry out of hand, I say, and lay hold of the kingdom
which is ready to leap into your hands; and as soon as you are a
king, make me a marquis, or a peer of the land, and afterwards,
let things go at sixes and sevens, it will be all one to Sancho.”
Don Quixote, quite divested of all patience at the blasphemies
which were spoken against his Lady Dulcinea, could bear with
him no longer; and therefore, without so much as a word to give
him notice of his displeasure, gave him two such blows with his
lance, that poor Sancho measured his length on the ground, and
had certainly there breathed his last, had not the knight desisted
through the persuasions of Dorothea. “Thinkest thou,” said he,
after a considerable pause, “most infamous peasant, that I shall
always have leisure and disposition to put up with thy affronts, and
that thy whole business shall be to study new offences, and mine
to give thee new pardons? Dost thou not know, excommunicated
traitor, (for certainly excommunication is the least punishment
can fall upon thee after such profanations of the peerless
Dulcinea’s name,) and art thou not assured, vile slave and ignominious
vagabond, that I should not have strength sufficient to kill a
flea, did not she give strength to my nerves and infuse vigour into
my sinews? Speak, thou villain with the viper’s tongue; who dost
thou imagine has restored the queen to her kingdom, cut off the
head of a giant, and made thee a marquis, (for I count all this as
done already,) but the power of Dulcinea, who makes use of my
arm as the instrument of her act in me? She fights and overcomes
in me, and I live and breathe in her, holding life and being
from her. Thou base-born wretch! art thou not possessed of
the utmost ingratitude, thou who seest thyself exalted from the
very dregs of the earth to nobility and honour, and yet dost repay
so great a benefit with obloquies against the person of thy
benefactress? But I pardon thee for this time,” added the Don,
“and thou must excuse me for what I have done to thee; for the
first movements are not in our power.” “I perceive that well
enough,” said Sancho, “and that is the reason my first thoughts
are always on my tongue; and I cannot for my life help speaking
what comes uppermost.” “However, friend Sancho,” said Don
Quixote, “thou hadst best think before thou speakest; for the
pitcher never goes so oft to the well.” “No more of this, Sancho,”
[Pg 113]
said Dorothea; “but run and kiss your lord’s hands, and
beg his pardon; and, for the time to come, be more advised and
cautious how you run into the praise or dispraise of any person;
but especially take care you do not speak ill of that lady of Toboso,
whom I do not know, though I am ready to do her any
service; and trust me you shall have a lordship which shall enable
you to live like a prince.” Sancho shrugged up his shoulders,
and in a humble posture went and asked his master for his
hand, which he held out to him with a grave countenance; and
after the squire had kissed the back of it, the knight gave him his
blessing, and told him he had a word or two with him, bidding
him come nearer, that he might have the better convenience of
speaking to him. Sancho did as his master commanded, and
going a little from the company with him, they conversed a while
together. At the conclusion, Sancho said: “Good master, you
shall not want satisfaction; but, your worship, for the time to
come, I beseech you do not be too hasty.” “What occasion
hast thou, Sancho, to make this request?” replied Don Quixote.
“Reason good enough, truly,” said Sancho; “for the blows you
gave me even now were rather given me on account of that quarrel
which was stirred up between your worship and me the other
night, than for your dislike of anything which was spoken against
my Lady Dulcinea.” “Pr’ythee, Sancho,” cried Don Quixote,
“be careful of falling again into such irreverent expressions;
for they provoke me to anger, and are highly offensive. I pardoned
thee then for being a delinquent; but thou art sensible that a new
offence must be attended with a new punishment.”

As they were going on in such discourse as this, they saw at
a distance a person riding up to them on an ass, who, as he came
near enough to be distinguished, seemed to be a gipsy by his
habit. But Sancho Panza, who, whenever he got sight of any
asses, followed them with his eyes and his heart, as one whose
thoughts were ever fixed on his own, had scarce given him half
an eye but he knew him to be Gines de Passamonte, and by the
looks of the gipsy found out the visage of his ass; for indeed it
was the very same which Gines had got under him, who, to conceal
himself from the knowledge of the public, and have the
better opportunity of making a good market of his beast, had
clothed himself like a gipsy; the cant of that sort of people, as
well as the languages of other countries, being as natural and
familiar to them as their own. Sancho saw him and knew him;
and scarce had he seen and taken notice of him, when he cried
out as loud as his tongue would permit him, “Ah, thou thief
Genesillo! leave my goods and chattels behind thee; get off from
the back of my own dear life; thou hast nothing to do with my
poor beast, without whom I cannot enjoy a moment’s ease; away
from my Dapple, away from my comfort! take to thy heels
thou villain! hence, thou hedge-bird, leave what is none of
[Pg 114]
thine!” He had no occasion to use so many words, for Gines
dismounted as soon as he heard him speak, and taking to his
heels, got from them, and was out of sight in an instant. Sancho
ran immediately to his ass, and embraced him: “How hast thou
done,” cried he, “since I saw thee, my darling and treasure, my
dear Dapple, the delight of my eyes, and my dearest companion?”
And then he stroked and slabbered him with kisses, as if the
beast had been a rational creature. The ass, for his part, was as
silent as could be, and gave Sancho the liberty of as many kisses
as he pleased, without the return of so much as one word to the
many questions he had put to him. At sight of this the rest of
the company came up with him, and paid their compliments of
congratulation to Sancho for the recovery of his ass, especially
Don Quixote, who told him that though he had found his ass
again, yet would not he revoke the warrant he had given him for
three asses, for which favour Sancho returned him a multitude of
thanks.

While they were travelling together, and discoursing after
this manner, the curate addressed himself to Dorothea, and gave
her to understand that she had excellently discharged herself of
what she had undertaken, as well in the management of the
history itself, as in her brevity, and adapting her style to the particular
terms made use of in books of knight-errantry. She returned
for answer that she had frequently conversed with such romances,
but that she was ignorant of the situation of the provinces
and the sea-ports, which occasioned the blunder she had made by
saying that she landed at Ossuna. “I perceived it,” replied the
curate, “and therefore I put in what you heard, which brought
matters to rights again. But is it not an amazing thing to see
how ready this unfortunate gentleman is to give credit to these
fictitious reports, only because they have the air of the extravagant
stories in books of knight-errantry?” Cardenio said that
he thought this so strange a madness that he did not believe the
wit of man, with all the liberty of invention and fiction, capable
of hitting so extraordinary a character. “The gentleman,” replied
the curate, “has some qualities in him, even as surprising
in a madman as his unparalleled frenzy; for take him but off
his romantic humour, discourse with him of any other subject,
you will find him to handle it with a great deal of reason, and
shew himself, by his conversation, to have very clear and entertaining
conceptions; insomuch that if knight-errantry bears no
relation to his discourse, there is no man but will esteem him for
his vivacity of wit and strength of judgment.” While they were
thus discoursing, Don Quixote, prosecuting his converse with
his squire, “Sancho,” said he, “let us lay aside all manner of
animosity; let us forget and forgive injuries; and answer me as
speedily as thou canst, without any remains of thy last displeasure,
how, when, and where didst thou find my Lady Dulcinea?
[Pg 115]
What was she doing when thou first paidst thy respects to her?
How didst thou express thyself to her? What answer was she
pleased to make thee? What countenance did she put on at the
perusal of my letter? Who transcribed it fairly for thee? And
every thing else which has any relation to this affair, without
addition, lies, or flattery. On the other side, take care thou losest
not a tittle of the whole matter, by abbreviating it, lest thou rob
me of part of that delight which I propose to myself from it.”
“Sir,” answered Sancho, “if I must speak the truth, and nothing
but the truth, nobody copied out that letter for me; for I
carried none at all.” “That’s right,” cried Don Quixote; “for
I found the pocket-book in which it was written two days after
thy departure, which occasioned exceeding grief in me, because I
knew not what thou couldst do when thou foundst thyself without
the letter; and I could not but be induced to believe that
thou wouldst have returned, in order to take it with thee.” “I
had certainly done so,” replied Sancho, “were it not for this
head of mine, which kept it in remembrance ever since your worship
read it to me, and helped me to say it over to a parish-clerk,
who wrote it out to me word for word so purely, that he vowed,
though he had written out many a letter of excommunication in
his time, he never in all the days of his life had read or seen any
thing so well spoken as it was.” “And dost thou still retain the
memory of it, my dear Sancho?” cried Don Quixote. “Not I,”
quoth Sancho; “for as soon as I had given it her, and your
turn was served, I was very willing to forget it. But if I remember
any thing, it is what was on the top; and it was thus,
‘High and subterrene’—I would say sovereign, lady; and at the
bottom, ‘yours until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure;’
and I put between these two things three hundred souls and lives.”

CHAPTER XX.

The pleasant dialogue between Don Quixote and his Squire continued;
with other adventures.

“All this is mighty well,” said Don Quixote; “proceed therefore:
you arrived, and how was that queen of beauty then employed?
On my conscience thou foundst her stringing of orient
pearls, or embroidering some curious device in gold for me her
captive knight; was it not so, my Sancho?” “No,” answered
the squire; “I found her winnowing a parcel of wheat very
seriously in the back-yard.” “Then,” said the Don, “you may
rest assured that every corn of that wheat was a grain of pearl,
since she did it the honour of touching it with her divine hand.
Didst thou observe the quality of the wheat, was it not of the
finest sort?” “Very indifferent, I thought,” said the squire.
[Pg 116]
“Well, this at least you must allow; it must make the finest
whitest bread, if sifted by her white hands. But go on; when
you delivered my letter, did she kiss it? Did she treasure it in
her bosom? or what ceremony did she use worthy such a letter?
How did she behave herself?” “Why truly, sir,” answered
Sancho, “when I offered her the letter she was very busy handling
her sieve; ‘and, pr’ythee, honest friend,’ said she, ‘do so
much as lay that letter down upon that sack there; I cannot
read it till I have winnowed out what is in my hands.'” “O
unparalleled discretion!” cried Don Quixote; “she knew that a
perusal required leisure, and therefore deferred it for her more
pleasing and private hours. But oh, my squire, while she was
thus employed what conference passed? What did she ask about
her knight, and what did you reply? Say all, say all, my dearest
Sancho, let not the smallest circumstance escape the tongue; speak
all that thought can frame or pen describe.” “Her questions
were easily answered, sir,” said Sancho; “for she asked me none
at all. I told her, indeed, in what a sad pickle I had left you,
and how disconsolate you were; that you eat and slept like the
brute beasts; that you would let a razor as soon touch your
throat as your beard; that you were still blubbering and crying,
or lamenting and cursing your fortune.” “There you mistook,”
replied Don Quixote; “I rather bless my fortune, and always
shall, while life affords me breath, since I am thought to merit
the esteem of so high a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso. But now,”
continued the knight, “supposing the corn winnowed and despatched
to the mill, what did she after she had read my letter?”
“Your letter, sir,” answered Sancho, “your letter was not read
at all, sir; as, for her part, she said she could neither read nor
write, and she would trust nobody else, lest they should tell tales,
and so she cunningly tore your letter. She said that what I told
her by word of mouth of your love and sufferings was enough:
to make short now, she gave her service to you, and said she had
rather see you than hear from you; and she prayed you, if ever
you loved her, upon sight of me forthwith to leave your madness
among the bushes here, and come straight to Toboso (if you be
at leisure), for she has something to say to you, and has a huge
mind to see you; she had like to burst with laughing, when I
called you the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.”

“Thus far all goes well,” said Don Quixote; “but tell me,
pray, what jewel did she present you at your departure, as a
reward for the news you brought? for it is a custom of ancient
standing among knights and ladies errant, to bestow on squires,
dwarfs, or damsels, who bring them good news of their ladies or
servants some precious jewel as a grateful reward of their welcome
tidings.” “Ah, sir,” said Sancho, “that was the fashion
in the days of yore, and a very good fashion, I take it; but all
the jewels Sancho got was a luncheon of bread and a piece of
[Pg 117]
cheese, which she handed to me over the wall, when I was taking
my leave: by the same token (I hope there is no ill luck in it),
the cheese was made of sheep’s milk.” “It is strange,” said
Don Quixote, “for she is liberal even to profuseness; and if she
presented thee not a jewel, she had certainly none about her at
that time; but what is deferred is not lost. I shall see her, and
matters shall be accommodated. But, Sancho, one thing raises
my astonishment, which is thy sudden return; for proportioning
thy short absence to the length of thy journey, Toboso being at
least thirty leagues distant, thou must have ridden on the wind.
Certainly the sagacious enchanter, who is my guardian and
friend,—for doubtless such a one there is and ought to be, or I
should not be a true knight-errant,—certainly, I say, that wise
magician has furthered thee on thy journey unawares; for there
are sages of such incredible power as to take up a knight-errant
sleeping in his bed, and waken him next morning a thousand
leagues from the place where he fell asleep. By this power
knights-errant succour one another in their most dangerous exigents
when and where they please. For instance, suppose me
fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some horrid monster,
some dreadful sprite, or fierce gigantic knight, where perhaps I am
like to be worsted (such a thing may happen), when just in the
very crisis of my fate, when I least expect it, I behold on the top
of a flying cloud, or riding in a flaming chariot, another knight,
my friend, who but a minute before was in England perhaps—he
sustains me, delivers me from death, and returns that night to
his own lodging, where he sups with a very good appetite after
his journey, having rid you two or three thousand leagues that
day; and all this performed by the industry and wisdom of these
knowing magicians, whose only business and charge is glorious
knight-errantry. Some such expeditious power, I believe, Sancho,
though hidden from you, has promoted so great a despatch
in your late journey.” “I believe, indeed,” answered Sancho,
“that there was witchcraft in the case; for Rozinante went
without spur all the way, and was as mettlesome as though he
had been a gipsy’s ass with quicksilver in his ears.” “And
what is thy advice as to my lady’s commands to visit her?
I know her power should regulate my will. But then my
honour, Sancho; my solemn promise has engaged me to the
princess’s service that comes with us; and the law of arms confines
me to my word. Love draws me one, and glory the other
way; on this side Dulcinea’s strict commands, on the other my
promised faith; but—it is resolved. I will travel night and day,
cut off this giant’s head, and, having settled the princess in her
dominions, will presently return to see that sun which enlightens
my senses. She will easily condescend to excuse my absence
when I convince her it was for her fame and glory; since the
past, present, and future success of my victorious arms depends
[Pg 118]
wholly on the gracious influences of her favour, and the honour
of being her knight.” “Oh sad! oh sad!” said Sancho; “I
doubt your worship’s head is much the worse for wearing. Are
you mad, sir, to take so long a voyage for nothing? why don’t
you catch at this preferment that now offers, where a fine kingdom
is the portion, twenty thousand leagues round, they say;
nay, bigger than Portugal and Castile both together. Good your
worship, hold your tongue, I wonder you are not ashamed.
Take a fool’s counsel for once, marry her by the first priest you
meet; here is our own curate can do the job most curiously.
Come, master, I have hair enough in my beard to make a counsellor,
and my advice is as fit for you as your shoe for your foot—a
bird in hand is worth two in the bush, and

“Thou advisest me thus,” answered Don Quixote, “that I may
be able to promote thee according to my promise; but that I
can do without marrying this lady; for I shall make this the
condition of entering into battle, that after my victory, without
marrying the princess, she shall leave part of her kingdom at my
disposal, to gratify whom I please; and who can claim any such
gratuity but thyself?” “That’s plain,” answered Sancho; “but
pray, sir, take care that you reserve some part near the sea-side
for me; that if the air does not agree with me, I may transport
my black slaves, make my profit of them, and go live somewhere
else; so that I would have you resolve upon it presently: leave
the Lady Dulcinea for the present, and go kill this same giant,
and make an end of that business first; for I assure you it will
yield you a good market.” “I am fixed in thy opinion,” said
Don Quixote; “but I admonish thee not to whisper to any person
the least hint of our conference; for since Dulcinea is so cautious
and secret, it is proper that I and mine should follow her
example.” “Why then,” said Sancho, “should you send every
body you overcome packing to Madam Dulcinea, to fall down
before her and tell her they came from you to pay their obedience,
when this tells all the world that she is your mistress, as much as
if they had it under your own hand?” “How dull of apprehension
and stupid thou art!” said the knight; “hast thou not sense
to find that all this redounds to her greater glory? Know, that
in proceedings of chivalry, a lady’s honour is calculated from the
number of her servants, whose services must not tend to any reward
but the favour of her acceptance, and the pure honour of
performing them for her sake, and being called her servants.”

Master Nicholas, seeing them so deep in discourse, called to
them to stop and drink at a little fountain by the road. Don
Quixote halted; and Sancho was very glad of the interruption,
[Pg 119]
his stock of fiction being almost spent, and he stood in danger besides
of being trapped in his words; for he had never seen Dulcinea,
though he knew she lived at Toboso. Cardenio by this time
had changed his clothes for those Dorothea wore when they found
her in the mountains; and though they made but an ordinary
figure, they looked much better than those he had put
off.[5] They
all stopped at the fountain, and fell upon the curate’s provision,
which was but a snap among so many, for they were all very
hungry. While they sat refreshing themselves, a young lad,
travelling that way, observed them, and looking earnestly on the
whole company, ran suddenly and fell down before Don Quixote,
addressing him in a very doleful manner. “Alas, good sir,”
said he, “don’t you know me? don’t you remember poor Andres,
whom you caused to be untied from the tree?” With that the
knight knew him; and raising him up, turned to the company;
“That you may all know,” said he, “of how great importance
to the redressing of injuries, punishing vice, and the universal
benefit of mankind, the business of knight-errantry may be, you
must understand, that riding through a desert some days ago, I
heard certain lamentable shrieks and outcries. Prompted by the
misery of the afflicted, and borne away by the zeal of my profession,
I followed the voice, and found this boy, whom you all see,
bound to a great oak; I am glad he is present, because he can attest
the truth of my relation. I found him, as I told you, bound
to an oak; naked from the waist upwards, and a bloody-minded
peasant scourging his back unmercifully with the reins of a bridle.
I presently demanded the cause of his severe chastisement. The
rude fellow answered, that he had liberty to punish his own
servant, whom he thus used for some faults that argued him
more knave than fool. ‘Good sir,’ said the boy, ‘he can lay
nothing to my charge but demanding my wages.’ His master
made some reply, which I would not allow as a just excuse, and
ordered him immediately to unbind the youth, and took his oath
that he would take him home and pay him all his wages upon the
nail, in good and lawful coin. Is not this literally true, Andres?
Did you not mark, besides, with what face of authority I commanded,
and with how much humility he promised to obey all
I imposed, commanded, and desired? Answer me, boy; and tell
boldly all that passed to this worthy company, that it may appear
how necessary the vocation of knights-errant is up and down the
high roads.”

“All you have said is true enough,” answered Andres; “but
the business did not end after that manner you and I hoped it
would.” “How!” said the knight; “has not the peasant paid
you?” “Ay, he has paid me with a vengeance,” said the boy;
[Pg 120]
“for no sooner was your back turned but he tied me again to
the same tree, and lashed me so horridly that I looked like St.
Bartholomew flayed alive; and at every blow he had some joke
or another to laugh at you; and had he not laid on me as he did,
I fancy I could not have helped laughing myself. At last he left
me, in so pitiful a case that I was forced to crawl to a hospital,
where I have lain ever since to get cured, so wofully the tyrant
had lashed me. And now I may thank you for this; for had you
rode on your journey, and neither meddled nor made, seeing nobody
sent for you, and it was none of your business, my master,
perhaps, had been satisfied with giving me ten or twenty lashes,
and after that would have paid me what he owed me; but you was
so huffy, and called him so many names, that it made him mad,
and so he vented all his spite against you upon my poor back, as
soon as yours was turned, inasmuch that I fear I shall never be
mine own man again.” “The miscarriage,” answered the knight,
“is only chargeable on my departure before I saw my orders
executed; for I might by experience have remembered that the
word of a peasant is regulated, not by honour, but by profit. But
you remember, Andres, how I said, that if he disobeyed, I would
return and seek him through the universe, and find him though
hid in a whale’s belly.” “Ah, sir,” answered Andres, “but
that is no cure for my sore shoulders.” “You shall be redressed,”
answered the knight, starting fiercely up, and commanding Sancho
immediately to bridle Rozinante, who was baiting as fast as
the rest of the company. Dorothea asked what he intended to
do: he answered, that he intended to find out the villain, and
punish him severely for his crimes, then force him to pay Andres
his wages to the last
maravedi,[6]
in spite of all the peasants in the
universe. She then desired him to remember his engagements
to her, which withheld him from any new achievement till that
was finished; that he must therefore suspend his resentments till
his return from her kingdom. “It is but just and reasonable,”
said the knight; “and therefore Andres must wait with patience
my return; but when I do return, I do hereby ratify my former
oath and promise, never to rest till he be fully satisfied and paid.”
“I dare not trust to that,” answered Andres; “but if you will
bestow on me as much money as will bear my charges to Seville,
I shall thank your worship more than for all the revenge you tell
me of. Give me a snap to eat, and a bit in my pocket; and so
Heaven be with you and all other knights-errant, and may they
prove as arrant fools in their own business as they have been in
mine.”

Sancho took a crust of bread and a slice of cheese, and reaching
it to Andres, “There, friend,” said he, “there is something
for thee; on my word, we have all of us a share of thy mischance.”
[Pg 121]
“What share?” said Andres. “Why, the cursed mischance of
parting with this bread and cheese to thee; for my head to a halfpenny,
I may live to want it; for thou must know, friend of mine,
that we, the squires of knights-errant, often pick our teeth without
a dinner, and are subject to many other things which are better
felt than told.” Andres snatched at the provender, and seeing
no likelihood of any more, he made his leg and marched off.
But looking over his shoulder at Don Quixote, “Hark ye, you
Sir Knight-errant,” cried he, “if ever you meet me again in your
travels, which I hope you never shall, though I were torn in
pieces, do not trouble me with your foolish help, but mind your
own business; and so fare you well, with a plague upon you and
all the knights-errant that ever were born!” The knight thought
to chastise him, but the lad was too nimble for any there, and his
heels carried him off, leaving Don Quixote highly incensed at his
story, which moved the company to hold their laughter, lest they
should raise his anger to a dangerous height.

CHAPTER XXI.

What befell Don Quixote and his company at the inn.

When they had eaten plentifully they left that place, and travelled
all that day and the next without meeting anything worth
notice, till they came to the inn, which was so frightful a sight to
poor Sancho, that he would willingly not have gone in, but could
by no means avoid it. The innkeeper, the hostess, her daughter,
and Maritornes, met Don Quixote and his squire with a very
hearty welcome. The knight received them with a face of gravity
and approbation, bidding them prepare him a better bed than
their last entertainment afforded him. “Sir,” said the hostess,
“pay us better than you did then, and you shall have a bed for a
prince.” And upon the knight’s promise that he would, she promised
him a tolerable bed in the large room where he lay before.
He presently undressed, and being heartily crazed in body as
well as in mind, he went to bed. He was scarcely got to his
chamber, when the hostess flew suddenly at the barber, and catching
him by the beard, “On my life,” said she, “you shall use
my tail no longer for a beard; pray, sir, give me my tail; my
husband wants it to stick his comb into; and my tail I will have,
sir.” The barber surrendered the hostess her tail, with the other
trinkets which he had borrowed to decoy Don Quixote out of the
desert. Dorothea’s beauty and Cardenio’s handsome shape surprised
every body. The curate bespoke supper; and the host,
being pretty secure of his reckoning, soon got them a tolerable
[Pg 122]
entertainment. They would not disturb the knight, who slept
very soundly, for his distemper wanted rest more than meat; but
they diverted themselves with the hostess’s account of his encounter
with the carriers, and of Sancho’s being tossed in a blanket.
Don Quixote’s unaccountable madness was the principal subject
of their discourse; upon which the curate insisting and arguing
that it proceeded from his reading romances, the innkeeper took
him up.

“Sir,” said he, “you cannot make me of your opinion; for,
in my mind, it is the pleasantest reading that ever was. I have
now in the house two or three books of that kind, and some other
pieces that really have kept me and many others alive. In harvest-time,
a great many of the reapers come to drink here in the
heat of the day, and he that can read best among us takes up one
of these books, and all the rest of us, sometimes thirty or more,
sit round about him and listen with such pleasure that we think
neither of sorrow nor care. As for my own part, when I hear the
mighty blows and dreadful battles of those knights-errant, I have
half a mind to be one myself, and am raised to such a life and
briskness that I could frighten away old age. I could sit and
hear them from morning till night.” “I wish you would, husband,”
said the hostess; “for then we should have some rest;
for at all other times you are so out of humour and so snappish
that we lead a sad life with you.” “And what think you of this
matter, young miss?” said the curate to the innkeeper’s daughter.
“Alack-a-day, sir,” said she, “I do not understand those
things, and yet I love to hear them; but I do not like that frightful
ugly fighting that so pleases my father. Indeed, the sad
lamentations of the poor knights for the loss of their mistresses
sometimes makes me cry like any thing.” “I suppose, then,
young gentlewoman,” said Dorothea, “you will be tender-hearted,
and will never let a lover die for you.” “I do not know
what may happen as to that,” said the girl; “but this I know, that
I will never give any body reason to call me tigress and lioness,
and I do not know how many other ugly names, as those ladies
are often called; and I think they deserve yet worse, so they do;
for they can never have soul nor conscience to let such fine gentlemen
die or run mad for a sight of them. What signifies all
their fiddling and coyness? If they are civil women, why do not
they marry them; for that is all their knights would be at?”
“Hold your prating, mistress,” said the hostess, “how came you
to know all this? It is not for such as you to talk of these matters.”
“The gentleman only asked me a question,” said she,
“and it would be uncivil not to answer him.” “Well,” said the
curate, “do me the favour, good landlord, to bring out these
books that I may have a sight of them.”

“With all my heart,” said the innkeeper; and with that,
stepping to his chamber, he opened a little portmanteau that shut
[Pg 123]
with a chain, and took out three large volumes, with a parcel of
manuscripts in a fair legible letter. The title of the first was
Don Cirongilio of Thrace; the second Felixmarte of Hircania;
and the third was the History of the great Captain Gonçalo
Hernandes de Corduba, and the Life of Diego Garcia de Paredes,
bound together.[7]
The curate, reading the title, turned to the
barber, and told him they wanted now Don Quixote’s housekeeper
and his niece. “I shall do as well with the books,” said
the barber; “for I can find the way to the back-yard, or to the
chimney; there is a good fire that will do their business.”
“Business!” said the innkeeper, “I hope you would not burn
my books?” “Only two of them,” said the curate; “this same
Don Cirongilio and his friend Felixmarte.” “I hope, sir,” said
the host, “they are neither heretics nor flegmatics.” “Schismatics,
you mean,” said the barber. “I mean so,” said the innkeeper;
“and if you must burn any, let it be this of Gonçalo
Hernandes and Diego Garcia; for you should sooner burn one
of my children than the others.” “These books, honest friend,”
said the curate, “that you appear so concerned for are senseless
rhapsodies of falsehood and folly; and this which you so despise
is a true history, and contains a true account of two celebrated
men. The first by his bravery and courage purchased immortal
fame, and the name of the Great General, by the universal consent
of mankind; and the other, Diego Garcia de Paredes, was
of noble extraction, and born in Truxillo, a town of Estremadura,
and was a man of singular courage, and of such mighty strength,
that with one of his hands he could stop a mill-wheel in its most
rapid motion, and with his single force defended the passage of a
bridge against an immense army. Several other great actions are
related in the memoirs of his life, but all with so much modesty
and unbiassed truth, that they easily pronounce him his own
historiographer; and had they been written by any one else,
with freedom and impartiality, they might have eclipsed your
Hectors, Achilles’s, and Orlandos, with all their heroic exploits.”
“That’s a fine jest, truly,” said the innkeeper; “my father could
have told you another tale, sir. Holding a mill-wheel! why, is
that such a mighty matter? Only do but turn over a leaf
of Felixmarte there; you will find how with one single back-stroke
he cut five swinging giants off by the middle, as if they
had been so many bean-cods, of which the children make little
puppet-friars; and read how at another time he charged a most
mighty and powerful army of above a million and six hundred
thousand fighting men, all armed cap-a-pie, and routed them all
like so many sheep. And what can you say of the worthy Cirongilio
of Thrace? who, as you may read there, going by water one
[Pg 124]
day, was assaulted by a fiery serpent in the middle of the river;
he presently leaped nimbly upon her back, and, hanging by her
scaly neck, grasped her throat fast with both his arms, so that
the serpent, finding herself almost strangled, was forced to dive
into the water to save herself, and carried the knight, who would
not quit his hold, to the very bottom, where he found a stately
palace and such pleasant gardens that it was a wonder; and
straight the serpent turned into a very old man, and told him
such things as were never heard nor spoken. Now, a fig for
your Great Captain and your Diego Garcia.” Dorothea, hearing
this, said softly to Cardenio, that the host was capable of
making a second part to Don Quixote. “I think so too,”
cried Cardenio, “for it is plain he believes every tittle contained
in those books; nor can all the Carthusian friars in the world
persuade him otherwise.” “I tell thee, friend,” said the curate,
“there were never any such persons as your books of chivalry
mention upon the face of the earth; your Felixmarte of Hircania
and your Cirongilio of Thrace are all but chimeras and
fictions of idle and luxuriant wits, who wrote them for the same
reason that you read them, because they had nothing else to do.”
“Sir,” said the innkeeper, “you must angle with another bait,
or you will catch no fish; I know what’s what as well as another;
I can tell where my own shoe pinches me; and you must not
think, sir, to catch old birds with chaff. A pleasant jest indeed,
that you should pretend to persuade me now that these notable
books are lies and stories! why, sir, are they not in print? Are
they not published according to order? licensed by authority
from the privy council? And do you think that they would
permit so many untruths to be printed, and such a number of
battles and enchantments, to set us all a-madding?” “I have
told you already, friend,” replied the curate, “that this is licensed
for our amusement in our idle hours: for the same reason that
tennis, billiards, chess, and other recreations are tolerated, that
men may find a pastime for those hours they cannot find employment
for. Neither could the government foresee this inconvenience
from such books that you urge, because they could not
reasonably suppose any rational person would believe their absurdities.
And were this a proper time, I could say a great deal
in favour of such writings; and how, with some regulations, they
might be made both instructive and diverting. But I design
upon the first opportunity to communicate my thoughts on this
head to some that may redress it. In the mean time, honest landlord,
you may put up your books, and believe them true if you
please, and much good may they do you. And I wish you may
never halt on the same foot as your guest, Don Quixote.” “There’s
no fear of that,” said the innkeeper; “for I never design to turn
knight-errant, because I find the customs that supported the
noble order are quite out of doors.”

CHAPTER XXII.

Of the dreadful battle betwixt Don Quixote and certain Wine-skins.

[Pg 125]
The conversation was hardly concluded when Sancho Panza
came running out of Don Quixote’s chamber in a terrible fright,
crying out, “Help, help, good people! help my master! He is
just now at it tooth and nail with that same giant, the Princess
Micomicona’s foe; I never saw a more dreadful battle in my
born days. He has lent him such a blow, that whip off went the
giant’s head, as round as a turnip.” “You are mad, Sancho,”
said the curate, starting up astonished; “is thy master such
a wonderful hero as to fight a giant at two thousand leagues distance?”
Upon this they presently heard a noise and bustle in
the chamber, and Don Quixote bawling out, “Stay, villain! robber,
stay! since I have thee here, thy scimitar shall but little
avail thee!” and with this they heard him strike with his sword
with all his force against the walls. “Good folks,” said Sancho,
“my master does not want your hearkening; why do not you
run in and help him? though I believe it is after-meat mustard;
for sure the giant is dead by this time, and giving an account
of his ill life; for I saw his blood run all about the house,
and his head sailing in the middle on it; but such a head! it is
bigger than any wine-skin in Spain.”[8]
“Mercy on me!” cried
the innkeeper, “I will be cut like a cucumber, if this Don
Quixote, or Don Devil, has not been hacking my wine-skins
that stood filled at his bed’s head, and this coxcomb has taken the
spilt liquor for blood.” Then running with the whole company
into the room, they found the poor knight in the most comical
posture imaginable.

He wore on his head a little red greasy nightcap of the
innkeeper’s; he had wrapped one of the best blankets about his
left arm for a shield; and wielded his drawn-sword in the right,
laying about him pell-mell; with now and then a start of some
military expression, as if he had been really engaged with some
giant. But the best jest of all, he was all this time fast asleep; for
the thoughts of the adventure he had undertaken had so wrought
on his imagination that his depraved fancy had in his sleep represented
to him the kingdom of Micomicon and the giant; and
dreaming that he was then fighting him, he assaulted the wine-skins
so desperately that he set the whole chamber afloat with
good wine. The innkeeper, enraged to see the havoc, flew at
Don Quixote with his fists; and had not Cardenio and the curate
taken him off, he had proved a giant indeed against the knight.
[Pg 126]
All this could not wake the poor Don, till the barber, throwing
a bucket of cold water on him, wakened him from his sleep,
though not from his dream.

Sancho ran up and down the room searching for the giant’s
head, till, finding his labour fruitless, “Well, well,” said he,
“now I see plainly that this house is haunted; for when I was
here before, in this very room was I beaten like any stock-fish,
but knew no more than the man in the moon who struck me;
and now the giant’s head that I saw cut off with these eyes is
vanished; and I am sure I saw the body spout blood like a
pump.” “What prating and nonsense!” said the innkeeper;
“I tell you, rascal, it is my wine-skins that are slashed, and
my wine that runs about the floor here.” “Well, well,” said
Sancho, “do not trouble me; I only tell you that I cannot
find the giant’s head, and my earldom is gone after it; and so I
am undone, like salt in water.” And truly Sancho’s waking
dream was as pleasant as his master’s when asleep. The innkeeper
was almost mad to see the foolish squire harp so on the
same string with his frantic master, and swore they should not
come off now as before; that their chivalry should be no satisfaction
for his wine, but that they should pay him sauce for the
damage, and for the very leathern patches which the wounded
wine-skins would want.

Don Quixote in the mean while, believing he had finished his
adventure, and mistaking the curate, that held him by the arms,
for the Princess Micomicona, fell on his knees before him, and
with a respect due to a royal presence, “Now may your highness,”
said he, “great and illustrious princess, live secure, free
from any further apprehensions from your conquered enemy;
and now I am acquitted of my engagement, since, by the assistance
of Heaven, and the influence of her favour by whom I live
and conquer, your adventure is so happily achieved.” “Did not
I tell you so, gentlefolks?” said Sancho; “who is drunk or mad
now? See if my master has not already put the giant in pickle?
I am an earl as sure as possible.” The whole company (except
the unfortunate innkeeper) were highly diverted at the extravagances
of both. At last, the barber, Cardenio, and the curate,
having with much ado got Don Quixote to bed, he presently
fell asleep, being heartily tired; and then they left him to comfort
Sancho Panza for the loss of the giant’s head; but it was no
easy matter to appease the innkeeper, who was at his wit’s end
for the unexpected and sudden fate of his wine-skins.

The hostess in the mean time ran up and down the house crying
and roaring: “In an ill hour,” said she, “did this unlucky
knight-errant come into my house; I wish, for my part, I had
never seen him, for he has been a dear guest to me. He and his
man, his horse and his ass went away last time without paying
me a cross for their supper, their bed, their litter and provender;
[Pg 127]
and all, forsooth, because he was seeking adventures. What, in
the wide world, have we to do with his statutes of chivalry? If
they oblige him not to pay, they should oblige him not to eat
neither. It was upon this score that the other fellow took away
my good tail; it is clean spoiled, the hair is all torn off, and my
husband can never use it again. And now to come upon me
again with destroying my wine-skins, and spilling my liquor.
But I will be paid, so I will, to the last maravedis, or I will disown
my name, and forswear my mother.” Her honest maid
Maritornes seconded her fury; but Master Curate stopped their
mouths by promising that he would see them satisfied for their
wine and their skins, but especially for the tail which they made
such a clatter about. Dorothea comforted Sancho, assuring him
that whenever it appeared that his master had killed the giant,
and restored her to her dominions, he should be sure of the best
earldom in her disposal. With this he buckled up again, and
vowed “that he himself had seen the giant’s head, by the same
token that it had a beard that reached down to his middle; and
if it could not be found, it must be hid by witchcraft, for every
thing went by enchantment in that house, as he had found to his
cost when he was there before.” Dorothea answered that she
believed him; and desired him to pluck up his spirits, for all
things would be well.