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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘My armour is my only wear,
My only rest the fray.’”


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

“‘Your bed is on the flinty rock,
Your sleep to watch alway;’


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISHAP IS CONTINUED


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his breastplate
and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he could perceive no
blood nor any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise him from the
ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted him upon his ass, which
seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and collecting the arms,
even to the splinters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and
leading him by the bridle and the ass by the halter he took the road
for the village, very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote was
talking.

Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could
not sit upright on the ass, and from time to time he sent up sighs to
heaven, so that once more he drove the peasant to ask what ailed him.
And it could have been only the devil himself that put into his head
tales to match his own adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he
bethought himself of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of
Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him away
to his castle; so that when the peasant again asked him how he was and
what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same words and phrases that
the captive Abindarraez gave to Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read
the story in the “Diana” of Jorge de Montemayor where it is written,
applying it to his own case so aptly that the peasant went along
cursing his fate that he had to listen to such a lot of nonsense; from
which, however, he came to the conclusion that his neighbour was mad,
and so made all haste to reach the village to escape the wearisomeness
of this harangue of Don Quixote’s; who, at the end of it, said, “Señor
Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair Xarifa I
have mentioned is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have
done, am doing, and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in
this world have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is,” said the barber, “the ‘Sergas de Esplandian,’ the lawful son
of Amadis of Gaul.”

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

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

“Proceed,” said the curate.

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

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

“I am of the same mind,” said the barber.

“And so am I,” added the niece.

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

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

“Who is that tub there?” said the curate.

“This,” said the barber, “is ‘Don Olivante de Laura.’”

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

“This that follows is ‘Florismarte of Hircania,’” said the barber.

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

“With all my heart, señor,” said she, and executed the order with great
delight.

“This,” said the barber, “is ‘The Knight Platir.’”

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

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

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

Taking down another book, the barber said, “This is ‘The Mirror of
Chivalry.’”

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

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

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

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

“Nay, gossip,” said the barber, “for this that I have here is the
famous ‘Don Belianis.’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This book,” said the barber, opening another, “is the ten books of the
‘Fortune of Love,’ written by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian poet.”

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

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

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

“This next is the ‘Pastor de Fílida.’”

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

“This large one here,” said the barber, “is called ‘The Treasury of
various Poems.’”

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

“This,” continued the barber, “is the ‘Cancionero’ of Lopez de
Maldonado.”

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

“The ‘Galatea’ of Miguel de Cervantes,” said the barber.

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

“Very good,” said the barber; “and here come three together, the
‘Araucana’ of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the ‘Austriada’ of Juan Rufo,
Justice of Cordova, and the ‘Montserrate’ of Christobal de Virués, the
Valencian poet.”

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.
OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He must have said Friston,” said Don Quixote.

“I don’t know whether he called himself Friston or Friton,” said the
housekeeper, “I only know that his name ended with ‘ton.’”

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neighbour of his,
an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is poor),
but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked him over,
and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor clown made up his
mind to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote,
among other things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him
gladly, because any moment an adventure might occur that might win an
island in the twinkling of an eye and leave him governor of it. On
these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the labourer was
called) left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to his
neighbour.

Don Quixote next set about getting some money; and selling one thing
and pawning another, and making a bad bargain in every case, he got
together a fair sum. He provided himself with a buckler, which he
begged as a loan from a friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as
best he could, he warned his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant
to set out, that he might provide himself with what he thought most
needful. Above all, he charged him to take alforjas with him. The other
said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good ass he had,
as he was not much given to going on foot. About the ass, Don Quixote
hesitated a little, trying whether he could call to mind any
knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back, but no
instance occurred to his memory. For all that, however, he determined
to take him, intending to furnish him with a more honourable mount when
a chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the horse of the
first discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he provided with
shirts and such other things as he could, according to the advice the
host had given him; all which being done, without taking leave, Sancho
Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his housekeeper and
niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody from the village one night,
and made such good way in the course of it that by daylight they held
themselves safe from discovery, even should search be made for them.

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

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

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

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

“Well, who doubts it?” said Don Quixote.

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

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

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

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

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

“What giants?” said Sancho Panza.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.
WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANTONIO’S BALLAD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

’Twas a lie, and so I told her,
And her cousin at the word
Gave me his defiance for it;
And what followed thou hast heard.

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

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

Else—and once for all I swear it
By the saint of most renown—
If I ever quit the mountains,
’Twill be in a friar’s gown.


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

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

“It’s sweet to us all, blessed be God,” said Sancho.

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

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

CHAPTER XII.
OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE

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

“How could we know it?” replied one of them.

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

“You mean Marcela?” said one.

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

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

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

“For all that, we thank thee,” answered Pedro.

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

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

“Sterility, you mean,” said Don Quixote.

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

“That science is called astrology,” said Don Quixote.

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

“Say Sarra,” said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goatherd’s
confusion of words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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




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The sage Cid Hamete Benengeli relates that as soon as Don Quixote took
leave of his hosts and all who had been present at the burial of
Chrysostom, he and his squire passed into the same wood which they had
seen the shepherdess Marcela enter, and after having wandered for more
than two hours in all directions in search of her without finding her,
they came to a halt in a glade covered with tender grass, beside which
ran a pleasant cool stream that invited and compelled them to pass
there the hours of the noontide heat, which by this time was beginning
to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and turning
Rocinante and the ass loose to feed on the grass that was there in
abundance, they ransacked the alforjas, and without any ceremony very
peacefully and sociably master and man made their repast on what they
found in them.



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Sancho had not thought it worth while to hobble Rocinante, feeling
sure, from what he knew of his staidness and freedom from incontinence,
that all the mares in the Cordova pastures would not lead him into an
impropriety. Chance, however, and the devil, who is not always asleep,
so ordained it that feeding in this valley there was a drove of
Galician ponies belonging to certain Yanguesan carriers, whose way it
is to take their midday rest with their teams in places and spots where
grass and water abound; and that where Don Quixote chanced to be suited
the Yanguesans’ purpose very well. It so happened, then, that Rocinante
took a fancy to disport himself with their ladyships the ponies, and
abandoning his usual gait and demeanour as he scented them, he, without
asking leave of his master, got up a briskish little trot and hastened
to make known his wishes to them; they, however, it seemed, preferred
their pasture to him, and received him with their heels and teeth to
such effect that they soon broke his girths and left him naked without
a saddle to cover him; but what must have been worse to him was that
the carriers, seeing the violence he was offering to their mares, came
running up armed with stakes, and so belaboured him that they brought
him sorely battered to the ground.

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

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

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

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



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Then, seeing the mischief they had done, the Yanguesans with all the
haste they could loaded their team and pursued their journey, leaving
the two adventurers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The very devil would be in it in that case,” said Sancho; and letting
off thirty “ohs,” and sixty sighs, and a hundred and twenty
maledictions and execrations on whomsoever it was that had brought him
there, he raised himself, stopping half-way bent like a Turkish bow
without power to bring himself upright, but with all his pains he
saddled his ass, who too had gone astray somewhat, yielding to the
excessive licence of the day; he next raised up Rocinante, and as for
him, had he possessed a tongue to complain with, most assuredly neither
Sancho nor his master would have been behind him.

To be brief, Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured Rocinante
with a leading rein, and taking the ass by the halter, he proceeded
more or less in the direction in which it seemed to him the high road
might be; and, as chance was conducting their affairs for them from
good to better, he had not gone a short league when the road came in
sight, and on it he perceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the
delight of Don Quixote must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it
was an inn, and his master that it was not one, but a castle, and the
dispute lasted so long that before the point was settled they had time
to reach it, and into it Sancho entered with all his team without any
further controversy.