CHAPTER LVI.
Of the tremendous battle such as never before was seen that took
place between Don Quixote de la Mancha and the lackey Tosilos in
defense of the duenna Dona Rodriguez I daughter.
The duke and duchess were not sorry for the joke they had played
on Sancho Panza in connection with the government they had given
him, especially when, that same day, the major-domo arrived to give
them a detailed account of practically everything that Sancho had said
and done during the time, ending with a vivid description of the attack
upon the island and the governor's fear and departure, all of which
provided them with considerable amusement.
After that, as the history goes on to relate, the day of battle came.
Having repeatedly instructed the lackey Tosilos as to how he was to
conduct himself so that he would be able to vanquish Don Quixote with-
out killing or wounding him, the duke ordered that the steel tips be
removed from the lances; for, as he remarked to his guest, he prided
himself upon being a Christian and so could not permit this combat
to be waged at such risk and peril to the lives of the participants. The
knight, he added, would have to be content with the free field that was
offered him upon his host's estate, though even that was against the
decree of the holy Council I prohibiting such challenges, for which rea-
son it was too dangerous in the present instance to observe to the full
all the rigorous provisions governing such encounters.
The knight replied that his Excellency might arrange all matters hav-
ing to do with this affair in the way that best suited him, and he, Don
Quixote, would obey him in everything. The dread day having arrived,
then, the duke ordered them to erect a spacious platform facing the
courtyard of the castle for the judges of the field and the two duennas,
mother and daughter, who were the suppliants in the case; and from
all the towns and villages round about a huge throng of people gathered,
attracted by the novel character of the combat, for neither the living
nor the dead in all that region had ever seen or heard tell of such a one.
The first to enter the field and lists was the master of ceremonies, who
surveyed and paced the entire ground very carefully to make sure
there was no chance of foul play, no hidden trap that might cause one
of the contestants to stumble and fall. Then the duennas came in and
took their seats. Wrapped in mantles that covered even their eyes and
bosoms, they displayed no little emotion as Don Quixote made his ap-
pearance. Shortly afterward, accompanied by many trumpets, the big
lackey Tosilos hove in sight at one side of the square. He was mounted
upon a powerful steed that shook the whole place and was clad in a
suit of stoutly wrought and gleaming armor. His horse looked like
one of those that come from Friesland, being broad-backed and of a
grayish color, with an arroba 2 of wool hanging from each of his fet-
locks.
This brave fighter had been well schooled by his master the duke
as to how he was to behave toward Don Quixote de la Mancha, and
he had been warned that under no circumstances was he to slay the
knight ; 8 rather, he was to endeavor to shun the first clash in order
to avoid killing him, as he certainly would do if he met him full tilt.
He now rode slowly across the square to where the duennas were and
remained there for some little while gazing at the one who was asking
that he take her as his bride. Meanwhile, the master of ceremonies had
called to Don Quixote, who was already present in the lists, and, going
over to stand at Tosilos's side, he proceeded to address the duennas,
inquiring if they would consent to have Don Quixote de la Mancha
represent their cause. They agreed to this, with the understanding that
whatever the knight did in their behalf should be looked upon as well
done, valid, and binding.
By this time the duke and duchess had taken their places in a gallery
overlooking the enclosure, which was filled with a vast multitude wait-
ing to witness this most extraordinary conflict. In accordance with the
conditions that had been laid down, if Don Quixote won, his opponent
was to have to marry Dona Rodriguez' daughter; and if he was van-
quished, the other was to be free of the promise that was claimed of
him, without having to give any further satisfaction. The master of
ceremonies now apportioned the sun 4 and placed each of them where
he was supposed to stand. There was a roll of drums, the air was filled
with the sound of trumpets, and the earth trembled underfoot as the
crowd looked on anxiously, some hoping for a fortunate outcome
while others feared the worst. Commending himself with all his heart
to God and to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, Don Quixote awaited the
signal for the charge.
But our lackey had other thoughts in mind; he was thinking only of
what I am now about to tell you. It seems that, as he gazed upon his fair
enemy, she had impressed him as being the most beautiful woman he
had seen in all his life, 5 and the little blind boy who in our street is
commonly called Cupid had been unwilling to let slip the opportunity
of triumphing over a lackey's heart and had wished to add it to his
list of trophies. And so, stealing up very softly, without anyone's see-
ing him, he discharged an arrow two yards long through the poor fel-
low's left side, piercing his heart through and through. This he was
able to do in perfect safety, for Love is invisible and comes and goes
as he likes with no one to call him to account for what he does.
Accordingly, when they came to give the signal for the charge, our
lackey was rapt in ecstasy. Thinking of the beauty of her whom he
had made the mistress of his liberty, he paid no attention to the sound
of the trumpet, but Don Quixote, the moment he heard it, was off or.
the run, bearing down on his enemy at Rocinante's top speed.
Seeing this, Sancho, good squire that he was, cried out, "May God
guide you, O cream and flower of knights-errant! May God give you
the victory, since you have the right on your side!"
Although Tosilos saw Don Quixote charging at him, he did not stir
a step, but instead called in a loud voice to the master of ceremonies;
and when the latter came up to see what was wanted, he said to him,
"Sir, is not this battle being fought to decide whether or not I shall
marry that young lady?"
"It is," was the answer.
"Well, then," said the lackey, "I would have you know that my con-
science hurts me, and I'd be laying a heavy burden on it if I went
through with this battle. I therefore yield myself as vanquished and am
willing to marry the lady at once."
The marshal of the field was astonished by this speech, and, being one
of those who were familiar with the affair as it had been plotted, he did
not know what reply to make. Seeing that his adversary was not charg-
ing him in turn, Don Quixote had stopped midway in his course. As
for the duke, he was unable to make out what was happening until the
marshal came to tell him what Tosilos had said, upon hearing which
he was amazed and very angry.
While this was going on Tosilos rode over to where Dona Rodriguez
sat. "Lady," he called to her, "I am willing to marry your daughter, and
I have no desire to obtain by strife and fighting what I can get peace-
fully, without any danger of death."
"Since that is so," said the valiant Don Quixote when he heard this,
"I am free and absolved of my promise. Let them marry, in Heaven's
name; and seeing that God has bestowed her, may St. Peter bless the
match."
Having come down to the castle courtyard, the duke went up to
Tosilos. "Is it true, knight," he asked, "that you yield yourself
as van-
quished and that, pricked by your uneasy conscience, you wish to marry
this maiden?"
"Yes, my lord," replied Tosilos.
"And right he is," put in Sancho Panza, "for what you have to give
to the mouse, give to the cat and spare yourself the trouble." 8
Tosilos, meanwhile, was endeavoring to unlace his helmet and begged
them to hurry and help him as it was all he could do to get his breath
and he could not stay shut up in that narrow space for so long a time.
They removed it for him in great haste, and then his lackey countenance
was revealed for all to see.
"It's a trick! A trick!" screamed Doha Rodriguez and her daughter.
"They've put Tosilos, lackey to my lord the duke, in the place of the
true husband! Justice from God and the King against such cunning as
this, not to say villainy!"
"Do not distress yourselves, ladies," said Don Quixote. "This is neither
cunning nor villainy, or if it is, it is not the duke who is to blame but
those wicked enchanters that persecute me. Enviously fearful that I
might win a glorious victory, they have converted your husband's face
into that of one who, so you say, is the duke's lackey. Take my advice
and, despite the malice of my enemies, go ahead and marry this man, for
undoubtedly he is the one you wanted to marry all the time."
As he heard this the duke came near losing his anger and bursting into
a fit of laughter. "The things that happen to Senor Don Quixote,"
he
said, "are so extraordinary that I am ready to believe this is not my
lackey. But supposing we employ the following stratagem: let us post-
pone the wedding for, say, a couple of weeks, and in the meantime let
us keep this person, concerning whom we are in doubt, in close con--
finement; it may be that he will then return to his former shape, for
the grudge the enchanters hold against Don Quixote cannot last as long
as that, especially when they see that these tricks and transformations
are doing them so little good."
"Oh, sir," said Sancho, "those scoundrels are used to changing one
thing into another where my master is concerned. A knight that he
vanquished some time ago, the one called the Knight of the Mirrors,
was turned into the bachelor Sanson Carrasco, a native of our village
and a great friend of ours; and they changed my lady Dulcinea del
Toboso into a peasant lass; and so, I fancy, this lackey is going to have
to live and die a lackey all the days of his life."
"Let him be who he may who asks me for my hand," said Rodriguez'
daughter, "I thank him for it; for I would rather be a lackey's lawfully
wedded wife than the cast-off mistress of a gentleman--although he who
deceived me is no gentleman either."
The short of the matter is, as a result of all this talk and all that had
happened Tosilos was placed in confinement until they could see what
the upshot of his transformation would be. They all acclaimed Don
Quixote's victory, although most of them were sadly disappointed at
not having seen the combatants pound each other to bits, after they
had waited for them so eagerly. In this respect they were like boys
who are grieved when the man to be hanged fails to appear, having won
a pardon either from the one he has wronged or from the court. The
crowd now dispersed, and the ducal pair with Don Quixote returned
to the castle, where Tosilos was put under lock and key. As for Dona
Rodriguez and her daughter, they were very well pleased, since one
way or the other the affair would end in marriage, and that was what
Tosilos wanted also.
CHAPTER LVII.
Which treats of how Don Quixote took leave of the duke and of what
happened to him in connection with the witty and impudent Altisidora.
By NOW Don Quixote had come to feel that it would be well for
him to quit a life of idleness such as he was leading in the castle; for
he believed he was doing a great wrong in depriving the outside world
of his presence, by keeping himself shut up like this and leisurely en-
joying all the innumerable comforts and luxuries with which my lord
and lady surrounded him as a knight-errant. It seemed to him that he
would have to give an accounting to Heaven for this sloth and seclu-
sion; and so it was that one day he begged permission of the ducal pair
to take his leave. They granted his request, at the same time showing
how very sorry they were to have him go. The duchess then gave
Sancho Panza the letters from his wife, at which he burst into tears.
"Who would have thought," he said, "that such great hopes as the
news of my government aroused in the bosom of my wife, Teresa
Panza, would end with my going back, as I am doing now, to the long-
drawn-out adventures of my master Don Quixote de la Mancha--But,
for all of that, I am glad to see that my Teresa behaved like herself in
sending the acorns to the duchess; for if she had not sent them, I'd have
been sorry and she would have been ungrateful. What comforts me is
the fact that they can't call that present a bribe, for I already had the
governorship when she sent it, and it stands to reason that those who
receive a favor should show their gratitude, even if it's only with trifles.
The truth is: naked I went into the government and naked I leave it;
and that, I may say in all conscience, is no small matter. 'Naked was I
bom, naked I find myself, and so, I neither win nor lose.' "
Such were Sancho's reflections on the day of his departure. Don
Quixote had said farewell to his hosts the night before, and bright and
early in the morning he appeared fully armed in the courtyard of the
castle. The entire household watched him from the balconies, and even
the duke and duchess came out to see him off. Sancho was mounted on
his gray, with his saddlebags, his valise, and his store of provisions,
and was very happy because the duke's major-domo (the one who had
played the part of La Trifaldi) had presented him with a little purse
containing two hundred gold crowns. The money was intended for their
needs upon the road, but Don Quixote knew nothing of it as yet.
As they all stood looking on in this manner, the witty and impudent
Altisidora, from her place among the duchess's other damsels and duen-
nas, suddenly lifted up her voice and began to sing in a mournful tone:
Lend ear, wicked knight,
Rein in thy steed;
To punish his flanks
There's surely no need.
Whom fleest, false one--
I am no dragon bold
But a gentle spring lamb
That is far from the fold.
Ah, thou hast made mock
Of the fairest of maids
Diana or Venus
E'er glimps'd in their glades.
O cruel Bireno, l Aeneas untrue,
May Bar abbas go with thee, bring thee heart's rue.
In thy pitiless claws,
Ruthless bird of prey,
A lovelorn heart
Thou bearest away.
Three kerchiefs hast stolen,
Of garters a pair
From legs pure as marble,
So white and so fair.
Two thousand sad sighs
Thou takest with thee,
If they were but flame,
What Troys there would be!
O cruel Bireno, Aeneas untrue,
May Barabbas go with thee, bring thee heart's rue.
As for Sancho, thy squire,
May his heart be so fell
Dulcinea will never
Be freed of her spell.
For the fault that is thine
May she bear the pain,
Since the just pay for sinners, 2
So goes the refrain.
May your greatest adventures
Betray each fond hope;
Forgetting your loved one,
In dreams may you grope.
O cruel Bireno, Aeneas untrue,
May Barabbas go with thee, bring thee heart's rue.
May they take thee for false
From Cadiz to Seville, 3
From London to England,
And bear thee ill will.
When thou playest at cards,
May thou never hold kings
Nor aces nor sevens,
But lose at all things.
If thy corns thou shoiddst trim,
Let it be till they bleed;
If thy molars are pulled,
May the roots all recede.
O cruel Bireno, Aeneas untrue,
May Barabbas go with thee, bring thee heart's rue.
All the while the woebegone Altisidora was singing this song, in the
manner that has been described, Don Quixote was gazing at her; and
then, without a word in reply, he turned to Sancho.
"By the souls of your ancestors, friend Sancho," he said, "I conjure
you to speak the truth. Tell me: do you by any chance have upon your
person the three kerchiefs and the garters that this love-sick maid is talk-
ing about?"
"The three kerchiefs I have," said Sancho, "but as for the
garters, it's
over the hills of Ubeda.'' 4
The duchess was astonished at Altisidora's brazenness. She had taken
her for a bold, sprightly, impudent girl but had never thought that she
would carry her impudence to such an extreme as this; and not having
been forewarned of the joke, my lady was more amazed than ever. The
duke for his part was of a mind to carry on the jest.
"It does not seem fitting to me, Sir Knight," he said, "in view of the
hospitality you have been accorded here in my castle, that you should
be so bold as to make off with three kerchiefs if nothing more--not to
speak of my damsel's garters--an act which indicates an evil disposition
on your part and is not in keeping with your reputation. Return the
garters, or otherwise I challenge you to mortal combat; and I have no
fear, either, that those scoundrelly enchanters will change or transform
my features as they did those of Tosilos, my lackey, when he joined bat-
tle with you."
"God forbid," replied Don Quixote, "that I should unsheath my sword
against your most illustrious person, seeing that I have received so many
favors from you. The kerchiefs I will return, for Sancho says that he
has them; but it is impossible to return the garters, for the reason that
neither I nor he have had them in our possession. If this damsel of yours
will look in her hiding places, I am sure she will come upon them. I,
my lord the Duke, have never been a thief, nor do I expect to be so
long as I live if God does not let me out of His keeping. This maiden
speaks as one who is lovelorn, as she herself admits, but, since l am not
to blame for that, there is no occasion for me to beg her pardon or
your Excellency's. I would merely entreat you to have a better opinion
of me and once again grant me permission to continue my journey.
"And God give you a fortunate one, Senor Don Quixote," said the
duchess, "so that we may always hear good news of your exploits. Go,
then, and God go with you; for the longer you tarry the more you
add to the flame in the hearts of these damsels who look upon you. As
for this girl of mine, I will so chastise her that she will henceforth
offend no more either by look or words."
"O valiant Don Quixote!" exclaimed Altisidora at this point, there
is one word, no more, that I have to say to you and I would have you
listen to it: I wish to beg your pardon about the theft of my garters,
for, by God and upon my soul, I have them on at this moment; I made
the same mistake as the man on the ass who went looking for it.
"What did I tell you?" said Sancho. "I'm a fine one when it comes
to concealing stolen property! If I had wanted to do anything like that,
I had plenty of chances in my government."
Don Quixote then bowed his head in a farewell to the duke and
duchess and all the bystanders, and, turning Rocinante about, followed
by Sancho on the ass, he left the castle and took the highroad for Sara-
gossa.
CHAPTER LVIII.
Which tells how adventures came crowding thick and fast on Don Quixote.
As SOON as Don Quixote found himself in the open country, free
to roam at will and without being annoyed by Altisidora's advances,
his spirits rose and he felt at peace, ready to take up once more the pur-
suit of his ideals of chivalry.
"Freedom," he said, turning to Sancho, "is one of the most precious
gifts that the heavens have bestowed on men ; I with it the treasures
locked in the earth or hidden in the depths of the sea are not to be com-
pared; for the sake of freedom, as for the sake of honor, one may and
should risk one's life, and captivity, on the other hand, is the greatest evil
that can befall a human being. 2 You have seen, Sancho, the abundance
and luxury in that castle we have just left; yet I assure you that in the
midst of those delicious banquets and snow-cooled beverages it seemed
to me as though I were in the straits of hunger, since I did not enjoy them
with the same freedom as if they had been my own. The obligation to
return benefits and favors received is a shackle on the liberty-loving
spirit of man. Happy he to whom Heaven gives a slice of bread with-
out his being obliged to thank any other person but only Heaven it-
self !"3
"For all that your Grace says," remarked Sancho, "we ought to be
duly grateful for the two hundred gold crowns which the duke's major-
domo handed to me in a little purse and which I now carry next my
heart as a kind of soothing plaster against a time of need; for we are
not always going to find castles where they will entertain us, and some-
times we are likely to come upon inns where they will give us a beat-
ing."
Talking of this and other subjects, the knight and his squire had gone
a little more than a league when they caught sight of a dozen men
dressed like workmen and lying upon their cloaks which they had spread
out on the green grass of a little meadow. They were engaged in eating,
and beside them were a number of white sheets, or such they appeared
to be, covering something underneath, objects that were either stand-
ing upright or lying flat, with small spaces in between. Coming up to
them as they made their meal, Don Quixote greeted them at first very
courteously and then inquired what was beneath the cloths.
"Sir," one of the men answered him, "those are images carved in
relief to be used in an altar piece 4 that we are putting up in our village.
We keep them covered like that to prevent them from becoming
soiled, and we carry them on our shoulders so that they will not be
broken." 6
"If you would be so good," said Don Quixote, "I should like to see
them, for images that are transported with such care must surely be
fine ones."
"I should think they are!" said another of the men. "You can tell
from what they cost; for the truth is, there is not a one of them that is
not worth more than fifty ducats; but if you will wait a moment, your
Grace, you may see with your own eyes."
Leaving his dinner and rising to his feet, the workman went over
and took the cover off the first image, which proved to be one of St.
George on horseback, with a dragon coiled at his feet and a lance thrust
down its throat, a scene marked by all the ferocity with which it is cus-
tomarily depicted. The entire image appeared to be one blaze of gold,
as the saying is; and, as he gazed upon it, Don Quixote observed, "This
was one of the best knights-errant that the heavenly militia ever had.
His name was Don St. George a and he was, moreover, a protector of
damsels. 7 Let us see this other one."
The man uncovered it, and it was seen to be an image of St. Martin,
likewise mounted, and sharing his cloak with the beggar. No sooner
had he laid eyes upon it than Don Quixote had a comment to make.
"This knight, also," he said, "was one of the Christian adventurers,
and it is my opinion, Sancho, that he was even more liberal than he was
valiant, 8 as you may see from the fact that he is here dividing his cloak
and giving the beggar half of it; and it undoubtedly must have been
winter at the time or otherwise he would have given him all of it, he
was so charitable."
"I don't think it was that," said Sancho. "He most likely believed in
the proverb that says, 'Brains are required for giving and keeping.' " 9
Don Quixote laughed at this and then asked them to remove another
cloth, beneath which was revealed a likeness of Spain's patron. He too
was on horseback and bore a bloodstained sword as he trampled over
Moors and human heads.
"Ah! " exclaimed Don Quixote, "this is a real knight and one of Christ's
own cohorts. He is Don San Diego Matamoros, 10 the Moor-slayer, one
of the most valiant saints and men of arms that this world ever had or
Heaven has now."
The next cloth that they lifted covered a figure representing the fall
of St. Paul from his horse, along with all the circumstances attendant
upon his conversion such as are commonly to be seen upon altar pieces
and which were here portrayed so vividly that one would have said that
Christ was speaking and Paul answering.
"This man in his day," said Don Quixote, "was the greatest enemy
that the Church of Our Lord God had to combat, and he became the
greatest champion it will ever have, a knight-errant in life, and in death
a steadfast saint, a tireless worker in the Lord's vineyard, teacher of the
Gentiles with Heaven for a school 11 and Jesus Christ as instructor and
schoolmaster."
There being no more to see, Don Quixote directed them to cover the
images once more. "I take it as a good omen, my brothers," he said to
the workmen, "to have seen what I have today; for these saints and
knights followed the same profession that I do, which is that of arms.
The only difference between them and me is that they, being saints,
waged a holy warfare, while I fight after the manner of men. They
conquered Heaven by force of arms, for Heaven suffereth violence; 12
but, up to now, I do not know what I have won with all the hardships
I have endured. However, if my lady Dulcinea were but free of those
that she is suffering, it may be that my fortunes would improve, and
with a sounder mind 13 I should be able to tread a better path than the
one I follow at present."
"May God hear and sin be deaf," said Sancho. 14
The men were equally astonished by Don Quixote's figure and by
his conversation, for they did not understand the half of what he said.
Having finished their dinner, they took up the images and, bidding the
knight farewell, resumed their journey.
Once again, Sancho was amazed at his master's erudition; it was as
if he had never known him before. There surely was not a story in the
world, he thought to himself, not a single event that the knight did not
have at his fingertips and firmly fixed in his memory. "Truly, sir," he
said, "if what happened to us today can be called an adventure, it has
been one of the sweetest and pleasantest that we have had in all our wan-
derings. We have come out of it without any fright or beating, nor have
we laid hand to sword or flayed the earth with our bodies or gone hun-
gry. Praise God for having let me see such a one with my own eyes!"
"You are right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "but you must remember
that all times are not alike and do not always take the same course; and
what the vulgar commonly call omens (for which there is no rational
basis) are to be looked upon by the wise man as being no more than
happy accidents. One of these believers in omens will rise in the morn-
ing, leave his house, and fall in with a friar of the order of the blessed
St. Francis; whereupon, as though he had encountered a griffin, he will
turn around and go home. If a Mendoza chances to spill salt on the table,
he spills gloom over his heart at the same time, 15 just as if nature were
under any obligation to give notice of coming misfortunes through
things of such little moment as those mentioned. The man who is at once
wise and a Christian ought not to trifle with the will of Heaven. When
Scipio came to Africa he stumbled as he leaped ashore, and his sol-
diers took it for an ill omen, but as he embraced the earth he cried out,
'You will not escape me, Africa, for I hold you tightly in my arms.
And similarly, Sancho, our meeting with these images has been for me
simply 17 a very happy occurrence."
"I believe it," said Sancho, "and now I wish your Grace would tell
me why it is the Spaniards as they go into battle call upon San Diego
Matamoros; crying, 'Santiago, and close, Spain! 18 Does it mean by any
chance that Spain is open and has to be closed, or what kind of talk is
this?" 19
"You are very simple-minded, Sancho," replied Don Quixote. "Look
you, God gave Spain that great knight of the Red Cross as her patron
and protector, especially in those arduous struggles that the Spaniards
had with the Moors; and so it is they call upon him as their defender
in all the battles that they join; and very often, in those battles, they
have plainly seen him overthrowing, trampling under foot, destroying,
and killing the Hagarene 20 cohorts. Many examples of the truth of this
will be found recorded in the veracious Spanish histories."
Sancho now changed the subject. "I marvel, sir," he said, "at the im-
pudence of Altisidora, the duchess's damsel. She must have been pierced
and sorely wounded by the one they call Cupid, who, they say, is a
little blind boy; but though he may be blear-eyed, or, more properly
speaking, sightless, if he takes aim at a heart, however small it may be,
he is sure to hit it and run it through with his arrows. I have heard it said,
on the other hand, that the darts of love are blunted by the modesty
and reserve of maidens, but in Altisidora's case it would seem they had
been sharpened rather than dulled."
"You must bear in mind, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that love is no
respecter of the conventions nor in its actions does it keep within the
bounds of reason, but rather resembles death which without discrimina-
tion assails the lofty palaces of kings and the humble shepherd's hut. 21
When love takes complete possession of a heart, the first thing it does is
to banish all fear and shame; and thus it was that Altisidora shamelessly
declared her passion, awakening thereby no pity in my bosom but only
a feeling of embarrassment."
"What cruelty!" exclaimed Sancho. "What unheard-of ingratitude!
For myself I can say that at the slightest word of love from her I'd have
surrendered and become her slave. Son of a whore! what a heart of
marble, what bowels of brass, what a soul of mortar! But I can't imagine
what it was that girl saw in your Grace that made her turn slave and
offer herself to you. Where was the bold and dashing appearance, the
grace of manner, the handsome face--any of these things singly or all
of them together--that led her to fall in love with you--To tell the
honest truth, I have many times stopped to look your Grace over from
the topmost hair of your head down to the soles of your feet and when
I do so I see more things to frighten a person than to cause one to love
you. I have heard it said that beauty is the first and principal thing where
falling in love is concerned, and since your Grace has none at all, I'm
sure I don't know why the poor girl did it."
"Do not forget, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that there are two
kinds of beauty, one being of the soul and the other of the body. That
of the soul is revealed through intelligence, modesty, right conduct,
generosity, and good breeding, all of which qualities may exist in an
ugly man; and when one's gaze is fixed upon beauty of this sort and not
upon that of the body, love is usually born suddenly and violently. I,
Sancho, can see very well that I am not handsome, but I am also aware
that i am not misshapen; and it is enough for a man not to be a monster
in order to be well loved, so long as he possesses those other endowments
of which I have told you."
Conversing in this manner, they entered a wood alongside the road,
when suddenly, without his expecting it, Don Quixote found himself
entangled in some nets of green cord that had been strung between the
trees; and being unable to imagine what the meaning of it was, he said
to Sancho, "It is my opinion that this is going to be one of the rarest ad-
ventures that could be conceived. May they slay me if the enchanters
who persecute me are not trying to enmesh me, by way of delaying my
journey and in revenge for my stern treatment of Altisidora. But let me
inform them that even though these nets were made of hardest diamonds
in place of green cord, and even though they were stronger than the
one in which the jealous god of the forge snared Venus and Mars, I
still would break them as if they were fashioned of rushes or cotton
thread."
He was about to ride on and burst through them all when without
warning there appeared before him from among the trees two most
beautiful shepherd lasses-or, at least, they were dressed like shepherd-
esses, save for the fact that their jackets and peasant skirts 22 were of
fine brocade (that is to say, they wore hoop skirts made of tabby and
richly embroidered in gold). 23 Their hair, which fell down loose over
their shoulders, might well compete with the rays of the sun in bright-
ness and was crowned with garlands of laurel interwoven with red
amaranth. They appeared to be between fifteen and eighteen years of
age, and the sight of them was such as to fill Sancho with astonishment
and Don Quixote with admiration and cause the sun to halt in its
course. 24 An uncanny silence held them all, and then, finally, one of
the lasses spoke.
"Stop, Sir Knight," she said, "and do not break those nets; for they
have been stretched not to do you harm but for our amusement. And
since you are bound to ask us why they were put there and who we are,
I will answer you in a few words. In a village some two leagues away,
where there are many rich gentlefolk and important personages, a num-
ber of friends and relatives decided among themselves that they would
come here with their sons, wives, daughters, neighbors, acquaintances,
and kinsmen to seek diversion in this spot, which is one of the most
pleasing to be found in all these parts. It is our intention to set up here
a new pastoral Arcadia, with the maidens dressing as shepherdesses and
the lads as shepherds. We have been studying two eclogues, one by
the famous poet Garcilaso, and the other by the most excellent Camoes
in his own Portuguese tongue, but we have not as yet acted them.
"We came only yesterday, and we have erected some field tents, as
they are called, among the trees on the edge of a brook whose abundant
waters fertilize all these meadows. Last night we stretched the nets you
see here to snare the foolish little birds that, startled by our clamor, fall
into them. If you, sir, would like to be our guest, you will receive a
most courteous and hospitable welcome, since for the present all care
and melancholy are banished from this place."
"Assuredly, fairest lady," replied Don Quixote, "Actaeon 25 when he
surprised Diana at the bath could not have been more amazed and
charmed than I at beholding your beauty. I approve the way you have
found of amusing yourselves and thank you for your invitation, and if
I can serve you in any way, you have but to command with the cer-
tainty that you will be obeyed; for my calling is none other than that
of showing gratitude and doing good to people of every sort, especially
those of high station, as you quite evidently are. If these nets that prob-
ably occupy but a small space were spread out over the whole round
earth, I still should seek new worlds through which I might pass in
order to avoid breaking them. What I say may sound exaggerated, but
in order that you may believe it let me tell you that he who gives you
this assurance is Don Quixote de la Mancha himself, if by chance that
name has reached your ears."
"Ah, my dear," said the other maid, "what great good fortune has
befallen us! Do you see this gentleman here before us--I would have
you know that he is the bravest, the most lovelorn, and the most courte-
ous of any in this world, if one is to believe the story of his deeds which
has been put into print and which I have read. And I will wager that this
good man with him is a certain Sancho Panza, his squire, whose droll-
eries are quite incomparable."
"That is the truth," said Sancho. "I am that droll squire that your
Grace is speaking of, and this gentleman is my master, the same Don
Quixote de la Mancha that is in the story."
"Oh!" exclaimed the first maiden, "let us beg him to stay, my dear;
our fathers and brothers would be delighted to have him, and I too have
heard of his valor and his squire's amusing ways. 26 But, above all, they
tell me he is the most steadfast and loyal lover that ever was and that
his lady is a certain Dulcinea del Toboso to whom all Spain awards the
palm of beauty."
"And rightly so," said Don Quixote, "unless it be that your own
unrivaled beauty puts hers in doubt. But do not trouble yourselves, la-
dies, by urging me to stay, for the imperative duties of my profession
do not suffer me to rest under any circumstances."
At that moment a brother of one of the maidens came up, dressed
like them in gay and costly shepherd attire. They informed him that
the gentleman with them was the valiant Don Quixote de la Mancha,
and that the other was Sancho, his squire, with whom the young man
was already familiar through the history, which he had read. The dash-
ing shepherd then begged the knight to come to their tents, and Don
Quixote was compelled to yield.
The beaters now began starting the game, and the nets were soon
filled with small birds of various species that, deceived by the color,
had fallen into the danger from which they were fleeing. As many as
thirty persons gathered there, all of them festively garbed as shepherds
and shepherdesses, and within a very short while they all knew who Don
Quixote and his squire were, which pleased them greatly, for they too
had heard of the knight through the history of his exploits. Making their
way to the tents, they found the tables neatly laid with an abun-
dance of choice food, and they honored their guest by according
him first place among them as all looked on and marveled at the sight
of him.
When the cloth had at last been removed, Don Quixote raised his
voice and spoke.
"There are those who will tell you that one of the greatest sins men
can commit is pride, but I maintain that ingratitude is worse; and in
making this assertion, I am mindful of the common saying to the effect
that Hell is full of ingrates. This sin, insofar as possible, I have en-
deavored to avoid ever since I had the use of my reasoning powers. If I
find myself unable to repay the good deeds that have been done me with
others in kind, I substitute the desire for the performance; and when
this is not enough, I make public the favors I have received, since he
who publishes abroad the benefits conferred upon him would surely
repay them if it were possible for him to do so. Those that receive are
for the most part the inferiors of those that give. Thus God, being the
supreme giver, is over all; the gifts of man fall short by an infinite dis-
tance of those that He bestows, but gratitude to a certain extent makes
up for this shortcoming and deficiency.
"And so, being grateful for the kindness that has been shown me here
and being unable to return it in full measure, owing to the limited means
at my disposal, I do hereby offer you what lies within my power. I ac-
cordingly declare that for two whole days, in the middle of this high-
way that leads to Saragossa, I will maintain that these ladies disguised as
shepherd lasses are the most beautiful and courteous damsels of any in
the world, excepting only the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole mis-
tress of my affections, if I may say so without offense to any of the
ladies and gentlemen who hear my words."
Sancho had been listening most attentively to everything Don Quixote
said, and he now cried out in a loud voice, "Is it possible there are any
in the world who would dare to say and swear that this master of mine
is a madman--Tell me, you gentlemen shepherds, is there any village
curate, however wise and however much of a scholar he may be, who
could make the speech you have just heard--Is there any knight-errant,
however famous for his bravery, who could make the offer my master
has made you?"
Exceedingly angry and red in the face, the knight now turned upon
his squire. "Is it possible, Sancho," he said, "that there is anyone in this
world who would say that you are not a fool--a fool lined with folly,
with I know not what trimmings of cunning and roguery--Who told
you to meddle in my affairs and decide whether I am a wise man or a
blockhead--Be quiet and do not answer me, but go and saddle Rocinante
at once if he is unsaddled, for we are going to put my offer into effect,
and, with the right that I have on my side, you may reckon as van-
quished all who would contradict me."
He rose from his seat in a rage, his anger plainly visible to the others
present, who were amazed by it, being unable to make up their minds
as to whether he was mad or sane. They did their best to dissuade him
from the proposed challenge, telling him that they were assured of
his gratitude and there was no need for him to give fresh proof of his
courage as the instances of it contained in the history were quite suf-
ficient. Nevertheless, Don Quixote insisted upon carrying out his in-
tention, and, having mounted Rocinante, grasped his lance, and braced
his buckler on his arm, he took his stand in the middle of a highway
not far distant from the verdant meadow. Sancho followed on his
donkey, with the throng of pastoral revelers hard at his heels, for they
were anxious to see what would be the outcome of this vainglorious,
unheard-of undertaking.
Having posted himself, then, in the middle of the highway as has been
stated, Don Quixote rent the air with such words as these:
"O ye travelers and wayfarers, knights and squires, those on foot and
those on horseback, who pass along this road within the next two days,
know that Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant, stands here to
maintain that the nymphs who inhabit these groves and meadows excel
in beauty and in courtesy all others in the world, leaving aside the lady
of my heart, Dulcinea del Toboso. And so, let anyone who holds the
contrary come on, for I await him on this spot."
Twice he repeated these same words and twice there was no adven-
turer to hear them. But fate, which was guiding his affairs from better
to better, ordained that shortly afterward he should descry down the
road a large number of men on horseback, many of them with lances
in their hands and all riding hard, in close formation. No sooner did
those who were with Don Quixote catch sight of the horsemen than
they turned and withdrew some distance from the road; for they knew
very well that if they stayed they might incur some danger. Don Quix-
ote alone stood his ground, while Sancho shielded himself behind
Rocinante's crupper.
The troop of lancers came on, and one of them who rode ahead of
the others cried out to the knight, "Out of the way, devil take you, or
these bulls will trample you to pieces!"
"Ha, rabble!" replied Don Quixote, "bulls mean nothing to me, even
though they be the fiercest that Jarama breeds upon its banks. 27 Con-
fess at once, ye scoundrels, that it is the truth I have here proclaimed
or be prepared to do battle with me!"
The herdsman had no time to reply and the knight did not have time
to get out of the way if he had wished to do so, and as a result the wild
bulls and the tame leading-oxen 28 and all the many drovers and others
who were taking the animals to be penned in a village where the bulls
were to be baited 29 the following day--the entire troop, in short, both
man and beast, passed over Don Quixote and over Sancho, Rocinante,
and the gray as well, knocking them all down and sending them rolling.
Sancho was badly mauled, his master was frightened, the ass was bat-
tered, and Rocinante was far from sound; but they all finally got to
their feet, and, stumbling here and falling there, Don Quixote ran after
the herd as fast as he could.
"Stop, scoundrelly rabble!" he shouted. "It is a single knight who
awaits you, and he is not one who agrees with those that say 'When the
enemy flees, build him a bridge of silver.
But the drovers in their haste did not stop for this; indeed, they paid
no more attention to his threats than to the clouds of yesteryear. It was
weariness that stopped Don Quixote as, filled with rage at being balked
of his revenge, he sat down to wait for Sancho, Rocinante, and the ass
to reach his side. Then master and man mounted once again, and with-
out turning to bid farewell to the imitation Arcadia they continued on
their way with more of shame than pleasure in their mien.
CHAPTER LIX.
Wherein is related an extraordinary experience of Don Quixote's,
which may be looked upon as an adventure.
IT WAS the bright clear water of a spring which they had come
upon within the cool shade of a grove that afforded Don Quixote and
Sancho their first relief from the dust that covered them and the weari-
ness they felt as a result of the incivility of the bulls; and, having turned
both the gray and Rocinante loose, without headstall or bridle, the
long-suffering pair, master and man, now sat down beside it. Not, how-
ever, before Sancho had hastened over to his saddlebag-pantry and taken
out what he was in the habit of calling the "grub," 2 while Don Quixote
rinsed his mouth and bathed his face, a proceeding which cooled him off
and revived somewhat his sagging spirits. Out of pure disgust he would
not eat anything, nor did Sancho out of pure politeness venture to touch
any of the victuals before him until his master had acted as taster. 3
But
when the latter saw that the knight, lost in thought, had forgotten to lift
the food to his mouth, he proceeded to trample under foot any kind of
good breeding and, without opening his mouth to say a word, 4 began
stowing away in his stomach the bread and cheese that were at hand.
"Eat, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and sustain life, since that
is of more importance to you than it is to me. Leave me to die of my
thoughts and my misfortunes; for you may know, Sancho, that I was
born to live dying and you to die eating. That you may see how true
this is, look at me now. Here I am with my name in the history books,
a famous man of arms, courteous in my conduct, respected by princes,
sought after by damsels, and just when I was expecting palms, triumphs,
and crowns, I find myself this morning, as a climax to it all, trodden
underfoot, battered, and kicked by a herd of filthy animals. When I
think of this, my teeth are blunted, my jaws are numbed, my hands are
paralyzed, and I lose all appetite to such an extent that I've a mind to
die of hunger, which is the cruelest death there is."
"In that case," observed Sancho, who did not leave off munching all
the while, "I take it your Grace does not agree with the proverb that
says, 'Let Marta die, but let her die with her belly full.' 5 As for me,
I
have no intention of killing myself. Rather, I mean to do like the shoe-
maker, who stretches the leather with his teeth to make it reach as far
as he likes. I intend to stretch my life out by eating until I come to the
end that Heaven has fixed for it; and let me tell you, sir, there is no
greater madness than to despair as your Grace is doing. Take my word
for it; after you have had a bite to eat, stretch out for a little nap on this
green grass-mattress and you will see how much better you feel when
you wake up again."
Finding that Sancho's reasoning was that of a philosopher rather than
a fool, Don Quixote decided to take his advice. But first he said to him,
"If you will do what I am going to tell you, Sancho, I am certain that
I shall feel better and less heavyhearted. What I ask is that while I am
Sleeping as you have urged me to do, you go off to one side some dis-
tance away, lay bare your flesh, and with Rocinante's reins give your-
self three or four hundred lashes as a substantial payment on account
of the three thousand and some that you have yet to give yourself in
order to accomplish Dulcinea's disenchantment. It is no small sorrow to
me that the poor lady has to remain bewitched as a result of your care-
lessness and neglect."
"There is much to be said as to that," replied Sancho. "Let us both
sleep for the present, and afterward what is to be is in God's hands.
Your Grace should know that this business of a man's flogging himself
in cold blood is a hard thing to do, especially when the lashes fall on a
body that is as badly nourished and underfed as mine. Let my lady Dul-
cinea be patient, for when she's least expecting it I'll be whipping my-
self until I'm as full of holes as a sieve. Until death it s all life; 0 by which
I mean to say, there's life in me yet, along with the desire to accomplish
what I promised."
Thanking him for this, Don Quixote ate a little and Sancho a good
deal, and then they both lay down to sleep, leaving those two constant
friends and companions, Rocinante and the gray, to roam at will with-
out restraint of any kind and feed upon the grass in which the meadow
abounded. Waking somewhat tardily, they mounted once more and re-
sumed their journey, being in haste to reach an inn which they could
see, about a league from where they were, as it appeared. I say inn, for
the reason that this was what Don Quixote called it, contrary to his
usual custom of calling all inns castles. Drawing up in front of it, they
inquired of the landlord if he had a lodging for them and were in-
formed that he did have, one with all the comforts and conveniences that
were to be found in Saragossa. When they had dismounted, Sancho car-
ried their store of provisions into a room to which the innkeeper gave
him a key; then he took the animals out to the stable, fed them their
rations, and returned to see what further orders Don Quixote had for
him. The knight was seated upon a stone bench against the wall, and his
squire was especially grateful to Heaven that this particular inn had not
appeared to him to be a castle.
When the supper hour came they retired to their room, and Sancho
then asked the landlord what he had in the way of fare and was told
that his mouth should be the measure and he might order anything that
pleased him, as this hostelry was provided with birds of the air, fowls
of the earth, and fish of the sea.
"We don't need all that," said Sancho. "A couple of roast chickens
will be enough for us, for my master has a delicate stomach and eats
very little and I'm not too much of a glutton myself."
The innkeeper replied that they had no chickens, the kites having
made away with them.
"Well, then, Sir Landlord, have them roast a pullet for us, and be sure
it's nice and tender."
"A pullet--My father!" exclaimed their host. "It's the truth I'm tell-
ing you that only yesterday I sent more than fifty of them to market
in the city; but, outside of pullets, your Grace may have what you
wish."
"If that is so, you must have some veal or kid."
"There is none in the house just now, for as it happens we just
finished the last of it, but next week we'll have plenty and to spare."
"A lot of good that will do us!" said Sancho. "I'll bet that when we
come to the end of all the things you don't have, we'll end up with
plenty of bacon and eggs."
"In God's name," said the innkeeper, "my guest is not very sharp-
witted! Here I have just told him that I have neither pullets nor hens
and he expects me to have eggs. Talk about something else that's good
to eat but don't be asking for fancy dishes." 7
"Body of me!" cried Sancho. "Come to the point, Sir Landlord; tell
me what you have and stop all this talk."
"What I really and truly have," replied their host, "is a couple of cow-
heels that look like calves' feet, or a couple of calves' feet that look like
cow-heels, boiled with chickpeas, onions, and bacon, and right now
they're calling 'Eat me! Eat me!' "
"Put them aside for me this minute," said Sancho, "and don't
let any-
body touch them. I'll pay more than anyone else, for there's nothing
that I like better and it makes no difference to me whether they're feet
or heels."
"No one will touch them," said the innkeeper, "for I have other guests,
persons of quality who bring with them their own cook, butler, and
larder."
"They could not be of any better quality than my master," said
Sancho, "but the calling he follows does not permit of larders or store-
rooms; we stretch ourselves out in the middle of a field and fill up on
acorns or medlars."
Such was the conversation that Sancho had with the innkeeper, and
he did not carry it any further by answering the question which the
landlord put to him regarding his master's calling or profession. When
the supper hour came Don Quixote withdrew into his room, 8 the land-
lord brought in the stew-pot just as it was, and the knight straightaway
fell to eating. While he was so engaged, he heard voices from the next
room, which was separated from his own by a thin partition.
"Upon your life, Senor Don Jeronimo," someone was saying, "while
they are bringing our supper, let us read another chapter of the Second
Part of Don Quixote de la Mancha." 0
No sooner did he hear his name mentioned than Don Quixote rose to
his feet and began listening intently to what they were saying about
him.
"Why would your Grace have us read such nonsense as that, Senor
Don Juan," came the reply, "seeing that he who has read the First Part
of the history of Don Quixote de la Mancha cannot possibly find any
pleasure in this second one?"
"For all of that," said Don Juan, "it would be well to read it, since
no book is so bad that there is not some good to be found in it. What
displeases me most about it is that it depicts Don Quixote as no longer
in love with Dulcinea del Toboso " 10
Hearing this, the knight was filled with anger and resentment; raising
his voice, he called out, "Whoever says that Don Quixote has forgotten
or ever can forget the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso will have to answer
to me, and I will show him with evenly matched weapons how far he
is from the truth. Forgetfulness is not a part of his make-up, but con-
stancy is his motto, and his profession is to preserve it with gentle bear-
ing and without doing it any violence whatsoever." 11
"Who is it that answers us?" came the question from the other room.
"Who should it be," replied Sancho, "if not Don Quixote
de la Mancha
himself, who will make good all that he has said or may say--For he
who is well able to pay doesn't mind giving pledges."
He had no more than said this when two gentlemen, for such they
appeared to be, entered the room, one of whom threw his arms about
Don Quixote's neck.
"Your appearance," he said, "does not belie your name, nor can your
name fail to suggest your appearance. You, sir, are undoubtedly the
true Don Quixote de la Mancha, north pole and morning star of knight-
errantry despite the one who has sought to usurp your name and
obliterate your achievements, as the author of this book which I hand
you here has done."
With this, he placed the book which his companion carried in Don
Quixote's hands. The knight took it and, without saying a word, began
leafing through it, and then after a short while he gave it back, saying,
"From the little I have seen of it, I have found three things for which
the author deserves to be censured. The first is certain words that I
have read in the preface; 18 the second is the fact that the language is
that of an Aragonese who frequently omits his articles; 14 and the third
(which above all brands him as ignorant) is the mistake he makes, and
the falsehood of which he is guilty in the essential part of the story, by
stating that the wife of Sancho Panza, my squire, is named Mari Gu-
tierrez when the name should be Teresa Panza. 16 And it is greatly to be
feared that one who errs in so important a matter as this will be wrong
in all the other particulars throughout the history."
Sancho now spoke up. "A fine historian he is! He surely must know
a lot about our business when he calls my wife, Teresa Panza, Mari
Gutierrez! Take the book again, Senor, and see if I am in it and if they've
changed my name too."
"From what I have heard tell, my friend," said Don Jeronimo, "you
must be Sancho Panza, Senor Don Quixote's squire."
"That I am," said Sancho, "and I'm proud of it."
"Faith, then," said the gentleman, "this new author docs not treat
you with that decency that your person displays. He portrays you as a
glutton and a simpleton, not at all droll--in short, quite different from
the Sancho described in the first part of your master's history." 16
"May God forgive him," said Sancho. "He'd have done better if he
had forgotten all about me and left me in my corner; for let him who
is able play the instrument, and St. Peter is well enough off in Rome." 17
The two gentlemen then invited Don Quixote to come into their
room and have supper with them, for they well knew that the inn had
nothing suitable for him to eat. The knight, always extremely courte-
ous, yielded to this request, but Sancho remained with the stew-pot and,
invested with delegated plenary authority, 18 seated himself at the head
of the table, with the landlord sharing the meal, for the latter was no
less fond of feet and heels than was the squire.
In the course of the supper Don Juan asked Don Quixote what news
he had of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. Was she married or not, had
she given birth or was she with child, or was she still a virgin, preserv-
ing her modesty and good name and cherishing amorous thoughts of
Senor Don Quixote--
"Dulcinea," replied the knight, "is yet a maid, and my passion for
her is more unwavering than ever. Our relations are as unsatisfactory as
they were before, and as for her beauty, it has been transformed into
that of an unclean peasant lass."
He then went on to tell them, point by point, all about the spell that
had been laid upon the lady Dulcinea and what had occurred in the
Cave of Montesinos, together with the instructions which the magician
Merlin had given for her disenchantment and the lashes that Sancho
was to give himself. The two gentlemen were delighted as they listened
to Don Quixote's account of these strange events in his history and
were at once astonished at the nonsense he talked and the polished man-
ner in which he told the story. At times they would take him for a man
of intelligence and at other times for a fool, without being able to make
up their minds as to just where they were to place him in the vague realm
between sound sense and madness.
Having finished his supper, Sancho left the landlord with his legs wob-
bling 10 and went to the room where his master was.
"May they slay me, good sirs," he said, "if the author of that book
that your Worships have is any friend of mine. 20 He calls me a glutton,
if what your Worships say is true, and I only hope he doesn't call me
a drunkard as well."
"He does call you something of the sort," said Don Jeronimo, "though
I cannot remember just how he puts it. I only know that his language
is offensive and, moreover, that he lies, as I can tell by looking at the
face of our worthy Sancho, here present."
"Believe me, your Worships," said the squire, "the Sancho and the
Don Quixote of that story cannot be the same as those in the history
composed by Cid Hamete Benengeli, that is to say, they cannot be
ourselves: my master, who is valiant, wise, and in love; and I, who
am simple-minded, droll, and neither a glutton nor a drunkard."
"I believe you "said Don Juan; "and if it were possible
an order should
be issued to the effect that no one is to dare to treat of the affairs of
the great Don Quixote unless it be Cid Hamete, the original author-
just as Alexander ordered that none but Apelles was to dare paint his
portrait."
"Let him who will portray me," said Don Quixote, "but let him not
mistreat me; for one very often loses patience when insult is heaped
on injury."
"No one," said Don Juan, "can insult Senor Don Quixote without
his being able to avenge himself, unless he chooses to ward off the blow
with the shield of his patience, which appears to me to be great and
strong."
Speaking of these and other things, they spent a good part of the
night together, and although Don Juan wanted Don Quixote to read
more of the book to see what it contained, he could not persuade him
to do so; for the knight stated that he regarded it as read and took it
to be altogether silly, adding that if by any chance the author should
hear that he had had it in his hands, he did not wish to give him the
pleasure of thinking that he, Don Quixote, had perused these pages,
for we should keep our thoughts and above all, our eyes away from that
which is lewd and obscene. They then asked him what his destination
was, and he replied that he was bound for Saragossa, where he pro-
posed to take part in the armored tourney that was customarily held
there every year; whereupon Don Juan informed him that this new
history told how Don Quixote, whoever he might be, in that same tourna-
ment had participated in a tilting at the ring but that the description
given had shown a sorry lack of inventiveness, especially with regard
to the mottoes of the knights and their liveries, in which regard it was
impoverished in the extreme though rich in foolishness. 21
"For that very reason," said Don Quixote, "I will not set foot in Sara-
gossa but will let the world see how this new historian lies, by showing
people that I am not the Don Quixote of whom he is speaking."
"You are quite right in doing so," said Don Jeronimo, "for there are
other joustings in Barcelona where Don Quixote can display his valor."
"That is what I have in mind," said the knight; "and now, if your
Worships will excuse me, it is time to go to bed, and so I will take my
leave, trusting that you will number me among your best friends and
faithful servants."
"And me too,'* said Sancho. "It may be I'll be good for something."
With this, they bade one another farewell and Don Quixote and
Sancho retired to their own room, leaving Don Juan and Don Jeronimo
marveling still at the strange admixture of good sense and madness they
had observed; for the two gentlemen were convinced that these were
the true Don Quixote and Sancho, while those the Aragonese author had
portrayed were not. The knight was up at an early hour the next morn-
ing and took leave of his hosts of the evening before by knocking on
the partition. As for Sancho, he paid the landlord handsomely, advising
him after this not to praise so highly the accommodations of his hostelry
or else to lay in a better stock of provisions.
CHAPTER LX.
Of what happened to Don Quixote on his way to Barcelona.
THE morning was cool and gave promise of the same kind of day to
follow as Don Quixote sallied forth from the inn, having made inquiries
as to which was the most direct route to Barcelona without passing
through Saragossa; for he was determined to give the lie to that new
historian, who, so they told him, had heaped so much abuse upon him.
For the first six days nothing happened to him worthy of being set
down. in writing; but at the end of that time, having left the highway,
he found himself at nightfall in a dense grove of oak or cork trees (on
this point Cid Hamete is not as precise as he usually is). Master and
man thereupon dismounted and made themselves as comfortable as they
could at the foot of the trees, and Sancho, who had had a good noon-
day meal, lost no time in entering the gates of sleep. Don Quixote, on
the other hand, kept awake by his thoughts rather than by hunger,
was unable to close his eyes as his mind wandered here and there
through a thousand different places. Now it seemed that he was in the
Cave of Montesinos and was beholding Dulcinea, transformed into a
peasant maid, skipping about and mounting her she-ass; and again the
words of Merlin the sage were ringing in his ears, setting forth the con-
ditions to be observed and what was to be done in order to accomplish
the lady's disenchantment. He fell into a mood of despair as he thought
of the laxness and want of charity displayed by his squire Sancho, who,
to his master's knowledge, had given himself but five lashes in all, a very
small proportion indeed of the countless number that remained to be
administered. This made him feel so sad and vexed that he was led to in-
dulge in the following soliloquy:
"If Alexander the Great cut the Gordian knot, saying, 'To cut comes
to the same thing as untying,' and for all of that did not cease to be the
universal lord of all Asia, this should apply neither more nor less to the
present case, if by way of disenchanting Dulcinea I were to flog Sancho
whether he likes it or not. If the remedy lies in his receiving three
thousand-odd lashes, what difference does it make to me whether he or
someone else inflicts them, seeing that the heart of the matter lies in his
receiving them, regardless of where they come from?" I
With this idea in mind he went over to his squire, having first taken
Rocinante's reins and adjusted them in such a manner that they might
be used as a lash. He then began undoing Sancho's points 2 (it is the gen-
eral belief that there was only the one in front to hold up the breeches),
but no sooner had he approached him than Sancho was wide awake.
"What is this--Who is laying hands on me and undressing me?"
"It is I," replied Don Quixote. "I have come to make up for your
negligence and relieve my own sufferings. I am going to give you a
flogging, Sancho, and so discharge a part of the debt you owe. Dulcinea
is pining away, you lead a carefree life, and I die of longing. Untruss
yourself, then, of your own free will, for it is my will to give you,
here in this out-of-the-way place, not less than a thousand strokes."
"You will do nothing of the sort," said Sancho. "Be quiet, your Grace,
or by the living God the deaf shall hear us. The lashes that I owe are to
be voluntary, not forced, and just now I don't feel like giving myself
any. Your Grace has my word that I will whip and swat myself when-
ever the notion takes me and that should be enough."
"No, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I cannot leave it to your courtesy,
for you are hardhearted and, for a countryman, have very tender flesh."
He accordingly kept on struggling to undo his squire's trousers; see-
ing which, Sancho leaped to his feet and charged at him. Grappling with
him man to man, 8 he tripped him up and brought him down flat on his
back, and then placing his right knee on the knight's chest, he grasped
his master's hands and held them in such a way that the poor fellow could
neither stir nor breathe.
"How now, traitor?" cried Don Quixote. "So you would rebel against
your lord and master, would you, and dare to raise your hand against
the one who feeds you?"
"I neither unmake nor make a king," 4 replied Sancho, "but am simply
standing up for myself, for I am my own lord. If your Grace will
promise me to be quiet and not undertake to flog me for the present, I
will let you go free as you like; otherwise not, but
Here shalt thou die, traitor,
Dona Sancha's enemy." 8
Don Quixote gave the promise and swore by the one who was his life
and the object of his affections 6 that he would not touch a hair of his
squire's garments but would leave the matter of flogging himself en-
tirely to Sancho's own free choice. Sancho then rose and walked away
for some little distance. Just as he was about to lean back against another
tree, he felt something touching his head, and, raising his hands, he
found that it was a pair of feet with shoes and stockings on them. Trem-
bling with fright, he ran over to another tree, and the same thing hap-
pened, whereupon he began shouting at the top of his voice, calling upon
Don Quixote to come and help him. The knight did so, and when he
asked Sancho what had occurred to frighten him, the latter replied that
all the trees were full of human feet and legs. His master in turn felt them
and at once realized what they were.
"There is no reason to be afraid," he said, "for these feet and legs that
you feel but do not see are undoubtedly those of some outlaws and high-
waymen who have been strung up here, for it is the custom of the
officers of justice to hang them in this manner, twenty or thirty at a
time, when they capture them; all of which leads me to believe that
we must be near Barcelona." 7
And he was right. It was daylight now, and, lifting their eyes, they
saw that these were indeed the bodies of bandits; but if the sight of
the dead was terrifying, they were no less dismayed by the appearance
of more than forty living robbers who of a sudden surrounded them,
telling them in the Catalan tongue that they should keep quiet and wait
until the captain of the band came up. Don Quixote was on foot, his
horse unbridled, his lance reposing against a tree; he was, in short,
utterly defenseless, and so there was nothing for him to do but fold his
arms, bow his head, and conserve his energies for a more favorable time
and circumstance. The bandits, meanwhile, went over and searched the
donkey, leaving nothing in the saddlebags or the valise, and a lucky
thing it was for Sancho that he carried in his girdle the crowns that the
duke had given him and those that he had brought from home. As it
was, those fine fellows would have stripped him and looked to see what
he had hidden between his hide and his flesh if at that moment their
captain had not arrived on the scene.
He was a stockily built, swarthy-complexioned man of a little more
than average height, apparently about thirty-four years of age and with
a stern-looking face. He was mounted on a powerful horse and was clad
in a coat of mail, and at his side he carried four pistols of the sort which
in that country are known as petronels. 8 Perceiving that his squires (for
such is the name given to those that follow this calling) were about to
despoil Sane ho, he ordered them to desist and was at once obeyed; and
thus it was the girdle escaped. He was astonished to observe a lance
leaning against a tree and a shield on the ground while the sight of Don
Quixote in a suit of armor, standing there in deep dejection, filled him
with amazement; it seemed to him that this was the most mournful
and melancholy countenance that sorrow's own self could have fash-
ioned.
"Do not be so sad, my good man," he said, going up to him. "You
have not fallen into the hands of any cruel Busiris,R but into those of
Roque Guinart, 10 who is inclined to be merciful rather than stern."
"I am not sad to have fallen into your hands, O valiant Roque," re-
plied Don Quixote, "for your fame on this earth is boundless. What
grieves me, rather, is the fact that your soldiers have found me without
a bridle on my steed, whereas in accordance with that order of knight-
errantry that I profess I am required to be constantly on the alert, serv-
ing as my own sentinel at all hours. I would have you know, O great
Roque, that had they found me upon my horse, armed with lance and
shield, it would not have been so easy for them to subdue me; for l
am Don Quixote de la Mancha, with whose exploits the whole world is
filled"
Then it was that Roque Guinart came to realize the nature of Don
Quixote's infirmity, which had more to do with madness than with
boastfulness. Although he had heard the knight's name mentioned a
number of times, he had never regarded his deeds as true, since he could
not bring himself to believe that such a whim could so take possession
of the human heart. For this reason he was very glad indeed to have
fallen in with him and to have the opportunity of seeing for himself at
close range what he had heard so much about from a distance.
"Valiant knight," he said, "do not be downcast nor look upon this
situation in which you find yourself as an unfortunate one; for it may
be that through such mischances your crooked fortunes will be straight-
ened out, seeing that Heaven, by strange and unheard-of roundabout
ways that men never dreamed of, is accustomed to lift up the fallen and
enrich the poor "
Don Quixote was about to thank him when they heard behind them
what sounded like a troop of horses. It was, however, but a single horse
upon which a young man came riding furiously. He looked to be
about twenty, and his attire consisted of a gold-trimmed suit of green
damask with breeches and a loose jacket; 11 he wore a cocked hat of the
Walloon variety, tight-fitting waxed boots, and gilded spurs, sword,
and dagger; in his hands he carried a fowling piece, and at his side was
a brace of pistols. Hearing the sound, Roque turned his head to behold
the handsome figure, and, riding up to him, the youth addressed him as
follows:
"O valiant Roque, I come to seek you out and to find in you if not a
cure, at least some relief, for my misfortune. Not to keep you in sus-
pense, for I am aware that you do not recognize me, I will tell you who
I am. I am Claudia Jeronima, daughter of Simon Forte, your very good
friend and the special enemy of Clauquel Torrellas, who is also your
enemy since he is of the rival band. As you know, this Torrellas has a
son, Don Vicente Torrellas, or, at any rate, that is what he was called
less than a couple of hours ago. But to cut short the story of my mis-
adventure, I will tell you in a few words what he has done to me. He
saw me and took a fancy to me, and I listened to and fell in love with
him without my father's knowledge; for there is not a woman, how-
ever retiring and secluded she may be, who will not find more than
enough opportunities for carrying out her reckless desires.
"The short of it is, he promised to be my husband and I gave him
my word that I would be his wife, and the matter went no further.
Yesterday I learned that, forgetful of what he owed me, he was about
to marry another and that the nuptials were to be held this morning, a
piece of news that upset me greatly and put an end to my patience. As
my father was not in the village at the time, I donned this costume in
which you see me and, riding this horse as hard as I could, I caught up
with Don Vicente about a league or so from here. Without pausing
to indulge in any reproaches or listen to any excuses, I fired this fowl-
ing piece at him and these two pistols besides, and to the best of my be-
lief I must have lodged more than two bullets in his body, opening in
it doors through which my honor might emerge bathed in his blood. I
left him there with his servants, who did not dare undertake to defend
him, and came to look for you that you might help me get to France,
where I have relatives with whom I can live. And I would also ask you
to protect my father lest Don Vicente's kinsmen 12 wreak some mon-
strous vengeance."
Admiring the beautiful Claudia's dash and spirit and her charming
figure, and admiring her as well for what she had done, Roque now spoke
to her.
"Come, Senora," he said, "let us go see if your enemy is
dead, and
afterward we will consider what is best for you."
Don Quixote had been listening attentively to Claudia's words and
Roque Guinart's reply. "There is no need," he observed, "for anyone
to go to the trouble of defending this lady, as I will take that respon-
sibility upon myself. Give me my horse and my arms and await me
here. I will go look for the knight and, living or dead, compel him to
keep the promise he made to so beautiful a creature."
"And let no one think that he won't," said Sancho, "for my master
is a good hand when it comes to matchmaking. Why, it's not many days
ago that he forced another to marry who also wanted to break his word
to a certain damsel, and if it had not been for the enchanters who perse-
cuted the fellow and changed his true shape into that of a lackey, the
maiden I am telling you about would not be a maid at this minute."
Roque, more concerned with thinking of the beauteous Claudia and
her plight than he was with listening to the conversation of master and
man, did not hear these remarks. He now ordered his squires to return
to Sancho all that they had taken from the gray and to withdraw to that
spot where they had spent the night; and, accompanied by the young
woman, he then set out at full speed in search of the dead or wounded
Don Vicente. When they reached the place where she had come upon
her betrothed, they found nothing more than recently spilled blood;
but, looking around in all directions, they sighted a number of people
on the slope of a hill, which led them to believe, as was the case, that this
must be the one they sought and that his servants were carrying him
away either to care for his wounds or to bury him. Quickening their
pace, Roque and his companion had no difficulty in overtaking the
others, who were proceeding very slowly.
They found Don Vicente in the arms of his servants. In a voice that
was faint from exhaustion he was calling upon them to let him die, in-
asmuch as the pain from his wounds would not permit of his going any
farther. Flinging themselves from their horses, the pair went over to
him. The servants were frightened at Roque's appearance, and Claudia
was deeply moved at sight of Don Vicente as, half tenderly half sternly,
she knelt beside him and took his hand in hers.
"Had you given me this," she said, "in accordance with our under-
standing, you would never have found yourself brought to such a pass."
Opening his eyes, the wounded gentleman recognized her. "I per-
ceive plainly enough, O beautiful and deceived lady," he said, "that it is
you who have slain me, a punishment that, by reason of the affection I
bear you, I did not deserve; for never in thought or deed have I ever
wished to offend you, nor would such a thing have been possible."
"Then," said Claudia, "it is not true that you were on your way this
morning to wed Leonora, daughter of the rich Balvastro?"
"Most certainly not," replied Don Vicente. "It must have been my
evil fortune that brought you such tidings, so that, in your jealous rage,
you might be led to take my life; but seeing that I now leave that life
in your hands and arms, I look upon my lot as a fortunate one after all. 18
By way of assurance that I speak the truth, press my hand and take me
for your husband if you will, since there is no better way in which I
may atone for the wrong you fancy I have done you."
Claudia did so, and her own heart was so oppressed that she fell in
a faint on Don Vicente's bloodstained bosom even as the death spasm
seized him. Roque was perplexed by it all, not knowing what to do.
The servants ran for water and with it bathed the faces of the couple,
whereupon the young woman recovered from her swoon, but not her
bridegroom from his paroxysm, for his life had come to an end. When
Claudia saw this and was certain that her beloved husband was no more,
she rent the air with her sighs, made the heavens ring with her laments,
tore her hair and cast it on the breeze, clawed her face with her hands,
and gave all the signs of grief and feeling that could conceivably come
from an afflicted bosom.
"O cruel and thoughtless woman," she cried, "how readily did you
let yourself be moved to carry out so evil a design! O mad force of
jealousy, to what desperate straits do you bring those who accord you
a place in their hearts! O my husband, whose misfortune in being mine
has taken you from the marriage bed to the grave! ^
Claudia's laments were so heart-rending as to bring tears to Roque's
eyes, unaccustomed as he was to shedding tears on any occasion what-
soever. The servants wept, Claudia swooned away at every step, and all
the region round about appeared to be one vast field of sorrow and mis-
fortune. Roque Guinart ordered the servants to take Don Vicente's body
to the village where his father lived, which was not far away, in order
that it might be given burial. Claudia informed him that she wished to
go to a certain convent where an aunt of hers was the abbess, as she
intended to spend the rest of her life there with another and eternal
bridegroom, and Roque praised this worthy resolution and offered to
escort her to her destination, promising further that he would protect
her father against Don Vicente's relatives or anyone else who might seek
to attack him.
Claudia, however, would not consent to his accompanying her but
thanked him heartily for his kindness and took leave of him in tears.
The servants bore the body away and Roque returned to his followers,
and thus did the love affair of Claudia Jeronima come to an end. Was
such an end to be wondered at, seeing that it was the cruel and invinci-
ble power of jealousy that wove the web of her lamentable history?
Roque Guinart found his squires in the place to which he had ordered
them to retire, and in the midst of them, mounted on Rocinante, was
Don Quixote. The Knight was engaged in making a speech to them in
which he sought to persuade them to give up this mode of life which
was so dangerous to body and soul; but inasmuch as most of them were
Gascons, a rude lot with no respect for law and order, 14 his words had
little effect upon them. Roque as he drew up inquired of Sancho if they
had returned to him the valuables which they had stripped from the ass,
and the squire replied that they had, but that three kerchiefs worth as
much as three whole cities, still were missing.
"What are you talking about, man?" said one of the band. "I have
them myself, and they are not worth three reales."
"That is true," said Don Quixote, "but my squire values them at the
price he has mentioned by reason of the one who gave them to me."
Roque ordered the fellow to give them back at once, after which he
lined his men up and had them produce all the clothing, jewels, money,
and other objects that they had stolen since the last time they had di-
vided the spoils. Having made a hasty appraisal and reduced to terms
of money those items that could not be divided, he split the whole into
shares with such equity and exactitude that in not a single instance did
he go beyond or fall short of a strict distributive justice. They were
all well satisfied with the payment received, indeed they were quite well
pleased; and Roque then turned to Don Quixote.
"If I did not observe an absolute impartiality with these fellows," he
said, "there would be no living with them."
"From what I have seen here," remarked Sancho, "justice is so good
a thing that even robbers find it necessary."
Hearing this, one of the band raised the butt end of an harquebus 11
and would undoubtedly have come down with it on Sancho's head if
Roque Guinart had not shouted to him to refrain. Sancho was terrified
and made up his mind that from then on he would keep a tightly sewn
lip as long as he was in the present company.
At this point one of those squires who had been stationed as sen-
tinels along the highway to see who came and went and report to their
chief on what happened, came riding up.
"Sir," he said, "not far from here, along the road to Barcelona, there is
a great crowd of people approaching."
"Were you able to make out," Roque asked him, "whether they are
the kind that are looking for us or the kind we are looking for?"
"The kind we are looking for," replied the squire.
"Well, then," said Roque, "be on your way, all of you; bring them to
me here at once and see that not a one escapes."
The men did as they had been commanded to do, leaving Don Quix-
ote, Sancho, and Roque alone together; and as the three of them waited
to see what the squires would bring back, the leader of the band ad-
dressed the knight.
"The life we lead," he said, "must appear a strange one to Sefior Don
Quixote, one filled with strange happenings and adventures and all of
them dangerous. I am not at all surprised that it should seem so, for I
really must confess that there is no mode of existence that is more rest-
less and laden with anxiety than ours. What led me to adopt such a life
was a certain desire for vengeance, which has the power to disturb
the quietest of hearts. I am by nature merciful and well meaning, but,
as I say, the will to avenge a wrong that was done me so overcomes my
virtuous inclinations that I continue in this calling in spite of what
my
better judgment tells me; and even as one depth calls to another and
one sin to another sin, so have the objects of my vengeance come to be
linked together in such a manner that I have taken upon myself not
merely my own wrongs but those of others as well. But, please God,
though I find myself in this bewildering labyrinth, I still have not given
up hope of reaching a secure haven in the end.
Don Quixote was amazed to hear Roque express such praiseworthy
and well-reasoned sentiments; for among those who follow the high-
wayman's trade of robbing and killing he had not believed it possible
there could be anyone so right-thinking as this.
"Senor Roque," he now replied to him, "the beginning of
health lies
in a knowledge of one's infirmity, and in the sick man's being willing
to take the medicines that the physician prescribes. Your Grace is sick,
you know what the disease is from which you are suffering, and Heaven,
or, better, God, who is our physician, will provide the remedies to cure
you--but not all of a sudden or through any miracle, for they usually
do their healing work little by little. Moreover, intelligent sinners are
nearer redemption than simple-minded ones, and by what your Grace
has said you have shown that you are a man of sense. There is nothing
to do, then, but to be of good courage and wait for your sickly con-
science to improve. And if your Grace is of a mind to take a short cut
and obtain your salvation with ease, then come with me and I will
teach you to be a knight-errant. In that life you will meet with so many
hardships and misadventures that, if they were to be taken as a penance,
they would land you in Heaven in the twinkling of an eye."
Roque laughed at Don Quixote's advice, and then, changing the sub-
ject, went on to tell him of the outcome of Claudia Jeronima's affair,
which made Sancho feel very sad, for he had been struck by the young
woman's beauty, courage, and self-assurance. By this time the squires
were back with their prize, consisting of two gentlemen on horseback,
two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full of women accompanied by about
half a dozen servants, some of whom were mounted while others were
not. The squires had them surrounded, and both victors and vanquished
preserved a deep silence as they waited for the great Roque Guinart to
speak. He now inquired of the gentlemen who they were and whence
they came and what money they had on them.
"Sir," one of them answered, "we are two captains of Spanish in-
fantry; our companies are in Naples and we are to embark in four gal-
leys that are said to be in Barcelona with orders for Sicily. We have with
us three or four hundred crowns, which is enough to make us feel rich
and happy, as it is truly a fortune in view of that poverty to which sol-
diers are accustomed."
Roque put the same question to the pilgrims as to the captains and was
told that they were on their way to take ship for Rome and that they
had about sixty reales between them. He also wanted to know who the
women in the coach were, whither they were bound, and how much
money they had on their persons.
"Those in the coach," one of the men on horseback replied, "are my
lady Dona Guiomar de Quinones, wife of the president of the vicarial
court of Naples, her small daughter, a young waiting woman, and a
duenna; we six servants are accompanying them, and their money
amounts to six hundred pounds."
"That means," said Roque Guinart, "that we have here altogether
nine hundred crowns and sixty reales; my soldiers should have about
sixty; see how much is coming to each one of them, for I am a poor
hand at reckoning."
Upon hearing this, the highwaymen raised a shout: "Long live Roque
Guinart, in spite of the thieving rascals 16 that seek his ruin!"
The captains were obviously grieved, the president's lady was down-
cast, and the pilgrims were by no means happy as they thought of their
funds being confiscated. Roque kept them in suspense like this for a
short while and then, their distress being visible at the distance of a
crossbow shot, he put an end to it by saying to the captains, "Will you
be so courteous, your Worships, as kindly to lend me sixty pounds, and
will my lady, the president's wife, let me have eighty, to satisfy the
members of my band, since the abbot must dine on what he gets by
singing--17 You may then go your way free and unhindered with a safe-
conduct which I will give you in order that, should you fall in with
other bands of mine that I have scattered around these parts, they may
not do you any harm; for it is not my intention to do wrong to soldiers
or to any woman, especially persons of quality.
The captains were most eloquent and profuse in thanking Roque for
his courtesy and generosity, for such was the way they felt about his
leaving them their own money. The lady, Dona Guiomar de Quinones,
wanted to fling herself out of the coach that she might kiss the great
man's hands and feet, but he would by no means consent to this; rather,
he begged her pardon for the wrong he had done her, explaining that
he was forced to comply with the unavoidable exigencies of his un-
pleasant calling. She thereupon ordered one of her servants to pay over
at once the eighty crowns that constituted her share, for the captains
had already disbursed their sixty.
The pilgrims were about to give up the pitiably small sum of money
that they had on them, but Roque told them to keep quiet, and, turning
to his followers he said, "Of these crowns, two go to each one of you,
which leaves twenty over; let ten be given to the pilgrims and ten to
this worthy squire that he may speak well of the present adventure.'
He then had them bring him pen and ink and paper, with which he
always went provided, and proceeded to write out a safe-conduct ad-
dressed to the leaders of his bands, after which he bade them good-by,
leaving the travelers free to go their way as they marveled at his
magnanimity, generosity, and unusual conduct, for they regarded him
as more like Alexander the Great than a notorious bandit.
"This captain of ours," said one of his men, speaking in a mixture of
Gascon and Catalan, "is better suited to be a friar 18 than a highwayman;
after this, if he wants to be so liberal, let it be with his own property, not
with ours."
The poor wretch did not speak so low but that Roque overheard
him, and, drawing his sword, the latter laid the fellow's head open, di-
viding it almost in two.
"That," he said, "is the way I punish those who are impudent and too
free with their tongues."
All his men were stunned by this and did not utter a word, such was
the respect they had for him. Then, going off to one side, he wrote a
letter to a friend of his in Barcelona, stating that the famous knight, Don
Quixote de la Mancha, of whom there was so much talk, was with him
at the moment and that he found him to be the most entertaining and
sensible man in all the world. He added that, four days from then,
which would be on St. John the Baptist's Day, 19 he meant to set him
down in the middle of the beach of that city, clad in full armor, mounted
on Rocinante his horse, and accompanied by his squire Sancho on an ass,
and he wished his correspondent to notify his friends, the Niarros, of
this fact so that they might have some diversion with the knight. He
would have liked, he said, to deprive his enemies, the Cadells, 20 of this
pleasure, but that was impossible since Don Quixote's mad actions and
shrewd observations and Sancho Panza's drolleries could not fail to
amuse them all. This letter he dispatched by one of his followers, who,
exchanging his highwayman's costume for peasant garb, made his way
into Barcelona and delivered it to the individual to whom it was ad-
dressed.
CHAPTER LXI.
Of what happened to Don Quixote upon his entrance into Barcelona,
with other matters that contain more truth than wit .
Three days and three nights Don Quixote spent with Roque, and if
it had been three hundred years the former would still have found plenty
to observe and wonder at in the bandit's mode of life. Daybreak would
find them in one place, dinnertime in another; they would now flee, not
knowing from whom, and now would lie in wait, not knowing what to
expect. They slept standing up, interrupting their slumbers to move
from one place to another. And all the while they were sending out
spies, posting sentinels, and blowing on the matchlocks of their harque-
buses, though they had but few of these weapons as all of them I carried
petronels.
Roque passed the night apart from his followers, keeping them in
ignorance of his whereabouts; for the many proclamations which the
viceroy of Barcelona had issued against him, putting a price upon his
head, 2 made him fearful and uneasy and he did not dare trust anyone,
being in dread even of his own men lest they slay him or hand him over
to the authorities. It was truly a wretched and a wearying life that he
led.
At length, following untraveled roads, short cuts, and secret paths,
Roque, Don Quixote, Sancho, and six squires set out for Barcelona,
arriving at the beach during the night of St. John's Eve. There the
bandit chief embraced his guests and, giving Sancho the ten crowns
which he had promised him but which had not as yet been paid, bade
them farewell and departed, leaving Don Quixote to sit in the saddle just
as he was and wait for the coming of day.
It was not long before the fair Aurora began to show herself on
the balconies of the east, bringing joy to the grass and flowers; and if
there was nothing about her coming to please the ear, that deficiency
was instantly remedied by the sound of many flageolets and drums, and
the "Look out, there! Make way! Make way!" of runners who appeared
to sally forth from the city. Aurora, meanwhile, was making way for
the sun, which was gradually lifting above the horizon's lowest rim a
face larger than a shield.
Looking about them in all directions, Don Quixote and Sancho now
had their first view of the sea, which impressed them as being very
broad and spacious, much larger than the Lakes of Ruidera in La Mancha*
They saw the galleys on the beach with their lowered awnings, decked
out with streamers and pennants that fluttered in the breeze and swept
and kissed the surface of the water, while from aboard the vessels, near
and far, bugles, trumpets, and clarions filled the air with a martial mel-
ody. The boats now began to move about and engage in a sort of skirmish
in the quiet water, and at the same moment a large number of horsemen
on handsome mounts with showy liveries came riding from the city and
began executing a similar maneuver. The soldiers on the galleys dis-
charged a countless number of rounds of artillery, and their fire was
returned by those on the walls and in the forts, the deafening roar of
the heavy cannon being answered in turn by the guns amidship. The
sea was bright, the earth rejoicing, the air clear save now and then for
the smoke from the artillery--in short, everything was such as to in-
fuse all the people gathered there with an unlooked-for sense of pleasure.
As for Sancho, he was unable to make out how those bulky objects
moving over the water could have so many feet. But at this point the
liveried horsemen with cheers, cries, and Moorish war whoops 8 came
galloping up to where Don Quixote waited in astonishment and some
alarm.
And then one of them--the one to whom Roque had sent word--
raised his voice and cried out to the knight, "Welcome to our city, O
mirror, beacon, and north star of all knight-errantry, in the full sense
of the word. 4 You are, I repeat, very welcome indeed, O valiant Don
Quixote de la Mancha--not the false, not the fictitious, not the apocry-
phal one that we read of in mendacious histories that have appeared
of late, but the true and legitimate one, the real one that Cid Hamete
Benengeli, flower of historians, has portrayed for us."
Don Quixote did not utter a word in reply, nor did the horsemen give
him a chance to do so. Wheeling their steeds again and again, they and
their followers began performing a complicated caracole around him;
and he then turned to Sancho and said, "These gentlemen plainly recog-
nized us. I will wager you that they have read our history and that of
the Aragonese as well, which was printed not so long ago."
The horseman who had previously addressed the knight now spoke
to him once more. "Come with us, Senor Don Quixote," he said, "for
we are all at your service, being great friends of Roque Guinart."
"If courtesy begets courtesy," replied Don Quixote, "then that which
you display is the daughter or very near relative of the courtesy mani-
fested by the great Roque. Take me wherever you see fit, for I have
no other will than yours, especially if you choose to employ it in your
service."
The gentleman replied with words equally polite; and then, closing
in around him, they all set out for the city to the sound of drums and
flageolets. But as they were about to enter the town, the Evil One, who
ordains all things evil, and small boys, who are more mischievous than
mischief itself, took a hand in the matter. Forcing their way through
the crowd, a pair of impudent and prankish urchins lifted up the tails
of Rocinante and the gray and inserted a bunch of furze under each of
them. When they felt these unaccustomed spurs, the poor animals pressed
their tails tightly against their bodies, thereby increasing the pain, and
as a result they began leaping and rearing in such a manner that they
tossed their riders to the ground. Very much embarrassed by what
had happened, Don Quixote ran up to relieve the nag of his plume, and
Sancho did the same for his donkey. I hose who were serving as the
knight's escort would have liked to punish the lads for their impudence,
but this was impossible, for the pair were soon lost among the thou-
sands in the crowd.
Master and man then mounted again and, accompanied still by mu-
sic and cheers, reached the home of their guide, which was very large
and imposing, in short, the house of a wealthy gentleman. And here we
shall leave them for the present, seeing that Cid Hamcte would have
it so.
CHAPTER LXII.
Which deals with the adventure of the enchanted head, together
with other trifling things that cannot be left untold.
DON ANTONIO MORENO was the name of Don Quixote's host, a
gentleman of wealth and discernment who was fond of amusing
himself in an innocent and kindly way. Having taken the knight into
his house, he began casting about for some harmless means of bringing
out his mad traits; for jests that give pain are no jests at all, I and
those
pastimes that result in hurting another person are not worth while.
The first thing he did, accordingly, was to have Don Quixote remove
his armor, which left him clad only in that tight-fitting chamois-skin suit
that we have already described and portrayed a number of times; after
which, he led him out onto a balcony overlooking one of the principal
thoroughfares of the city, in order that the people gathered there, in-
cluding the small boys, might have a look at him. The crowd stared as
if he had been a monkey, while the liveried horsemen once more rode
up and down in front of him, as if it was for his special benefit and not
to celebrate some festive occasion that they had donned that garb.
Sancho, meanwhile, was happy as could be; for it seemed to him that,
without his knowing the why or wherefore of it all, he had come upon
another Camacho's wedding, another house like that of Don Diego de
Miranda's, or another castle like the duke's.
Some of Don Antonio's friends dined with him that day, and they
all treated Don Quixote with the utmost respect, showing him the honors
due a knight-errant, at which he became so puffed up and self-satisfied
that he could not contain himself. As for Sancho's witticisms, they
were such that the household servants and all the others present hung
upon his every word. When they were seated at the table, their host
turned to Sancho.
"We have received word here, my good Sancho," he said, "that you
are very fond of manjar bianco 2 and forced-meat balls, so fond, indeed,
that if there is any left over, you put it away in your bosom for another
day " 8
"No, sir, that is not so," replied Sancho, "for I am more cleanly than
greedy, and my master Don Quixote, here present, can very well tell
you that the two of us are used to going for a week at a time with noth-
ing to eat but a handful of nuts or acorns. The truth of the matter is that
if they happen to give me a heifer, I run with the halter, 4 by which I
mean to say, I eat what is set before me and take things as they come;
and if anyone says that I eat more than my share or am unclean, you
may take my word for it, he's wide of the mark, and I'd put it in a
different way if it wasn't for the honorable beards at this table." 5
"I can assure you," said Don Quixote at this point, "that the sparing-
ness and cleanliness with which Sancho eats might be inscribed and en-
graved on tablets of bronze, to be preserved as a lasting memorial for fu-
ture ages. I grant you that when he is hungry he appears to be a bit of
a glutton, for then he eats with great haste and chews his food with both
cheeks bulging. But he is always scrupulously clean, and during the
time that he was governor he became so dainty in his habits that he
even used a fork for eating grapes or pomegranate seeds."
"What?" said Don Antonio. "Has Sancho been a governor?"
"Yes," replied Sancho, "governor of an island named Barataria. For
ten days I governed it as I saw fit, and during that time I lost my rest
and
learned to scorn all the governments in the world. I finally ran away
from it and fell into a pit, where I gave myself up for dead, but by a
miracle I came out alive."
Don Quixote then gave them a detailed account of everything that
had happened in connection with Sancho's government, and they all
enjoyed it very much. When the cloth had been removed, Don Antonio
took his guest by the hand and led him into another room of the house,
where the only article of furniture was a table that appeared to be
made of jasper, resting upon a pedestal of the same material, while upon
it was a head resembling the busts of the Roman emperors and seem-
ingly carved out of bronze. After they had walked around the table
many times, Don Antonio spoke.,
"Now that I am certain, Senor Don Quixote, that the door is shut and
no one can overhear us, I wish," he said, "to tell your Grace
of one of
the rarest adventures, or, more properly speaking, one of the strangest
things, that could be imagined, but upon condition that your Grace keeps
it hidden away in the most remote and secret closet of your mind.
"That I swear to do," said Don Quixote, "and by way of further se-
curity, I will place a flagstone over it; for I would have your Grace
know, Senor Don Antonio"-he had learned his host's name by this
time--"that you are talking to one who, though he has ears for hearing,
has no tongue for speaking. Hence your Grace may feel safe in trans-
ferring to my bosom what you have in yours, knowing full well that I
have consigned it to the depths of silence."
"Relying on that promise," said Don Antonio, "I shall astonish your
Grace with what you will see and hear, and at the same time relieve my-
self of the pain I feel at having no one to whom I may confide my se-
crets, which are not to be entrusted to everybody."
Don Quixote was puzzled as he waited to see what would come of all
these precautions. Taking the knight's hand, Don Antonio now passed
it over the bronze head and over the entire table, all the way down to
the jasper base.
"This head, Senor Don Quixote," he remarked, "was made and fash-
ioned by one of the greatest enchanters and sorcerers in all the world. 6
He was a Pole by birth, a disciple of the famous Escotillo 7 of whom so
many marvels are related. He was here in my house, and for the price
of a thousand crowns which I gave him he carved the head, which has
the property and the virtue of being able to answer all questions that
are asked of its ear. By setting up geometrical figures, 8 observing the
stars, casting horoscopes, and noting the hour and season, he brought
his work to that perfection that we shall see tomorrow; for on Fridays
it is mute, and since today is Friday we must wait. In the meantime, your
Grace may be deciding what questions you wish to put to it, and I
know from experience that it will answer you truly."
Amazed to think that the head should possess such qualities, Don
Quixote was inclined to disbelieve his host; but in view of the fact
that he would shortly be able to put the matter to a test, he merely
thanked Don Antonio for having revealed to him so great a secret. They
then left the room, the master of the house locking the door behind
him, and went down to the great hall where the other gentlemen were
and where Sancho all the while had been telling them of many of the
adventures and accidents that had befallen his master.
That afternoon they took Don Quixote out for a ride, 9 not in his
armor but dressed for the street, being attired in a greatcoat of tawny-
colored cloth which at that season of the year would have made ice
itself sweat, while the servants had orders to keep Sancho entertained
and not to permit him to leave the house. Don Quixote went mounted,
not upon Rocinante, but upon a large even-paced mule with very fine
trappings. Having put his greatcoat on him, they sewed a piece of parch-
ment on the back of it with an inscription in large letters: "THIS IS
DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA" From the moment they set out, the
placard attracted the attention of all those who had come to behold
the spectacle, and the knight for his part was astonished to find so many
people gazing at him and calling him by name.
Turning to Don Antonio, who rode alongside him, he said, "Great are
the prerogatives of knight-errantry, seeing that it makes the one who
follows that calling known and famous in all parts of the earth. If you
do not believe me, Senor Don Antonio, your Grace has but to observe
the lads of this city, who, though they have never seen me, nevertheless
recognize me."
"That is true, Senor Don Quixote," replied Don Antonio; "for just
as fire cannot remain hidden or shut away from view, so virtue cannot
fail to be recognized for what it is, and that virtue which is attained
through the profession of arms shines forth above all others."
It happened, then, that as Don Quixote was riding along in the man-
ner described, to the applause of the multitude, a certain Castilian 10
who had read the placard on the knight's back raised his voice and cried
out, "May the devil take you, Don Quixote dc la Mancha! What! and
aren't you dead from all the clubbings that your ribs have had--You
are a madman, but if you kept your madness to yourself it would not be
so bad. As it is, you have the faculty of turning into madmen and fools
all that have anything to do with you. As proof of this, just look at
those gentlemen that are accompanying you. Go back to your home,
you crackbrain, attend to your own affairs, see to your wife and chil-
dren, and leave off these absurdities that eat your brain away and skim
off your wits."
"Brother," Don Antonio said to him, "go about your business and do
not be giving advice to those that do not ask for it. Senor Don Quixote
de la Mancha is quite sane, and we who are with him are not fools. Virtue
is to be honored wherever it is met with; so go, and bad luck go with
you, and do not be meddling in what does not concern you.
"By God, but your Grace is right," replied the Castilian, for to give
advice to this good man is to kick against the prick; but for aLL of that,
it is a very great pity to see the good sense they say the fool displays
on all other subjects " drained off like this through the channel of his
knight-errantry. And may the bad luck your Grace wished me real y
follow me and my descendants if from this day forth though I live to
be older than Methuselah, I give advice to anyone whether he asks for
it or not."
With this, the advice-giver went his way, and they resumed their
ride; 12 but so great was the eagerness of the small boys and all the rest
of the crowd to see what was on the placard that Don Antonio was
compelled to take it off under pretense of removing something else. At
nightfall they returned home, to find an evening party in progress there;
for Don Antonio's wife, a beautiful lady of high station and endowed
with wit and gaiety, had invited some of her women friends to come
and show honor to her house guest and enjoy his unheard-of variety of
madness. A number of them accepted the invitation, a splendid supper
was served, and the dancing began about ten o'clock.
Among the ladies were two that, being of a mischievous disposition,
were fond of a practical joke, and although they were perfectly re-
spectable they were somewhat free and easy in their ways when it came
to playing pranks for the sake of innocent diversion. This pair insisted
on Don Quixote's dancing with them so often that they wore him out,
not only in body but in spirit as well. He was a sight to see: long, lean,
lank, and yellow-looking, clad in his tight-fitting suit, awkward, and,
above all, not very light on his feet. The frolicsome ladies made furtive
love to him and he, likewise by stealth, rejected their advances; but,
finding, himself hard pressed by these attentions, he finally raised his
voice and cried out, " Fugite, partes adversae! 13 Leave me in peace, un-
welcome temptations! Away with your passion, ladies; for she who is
queen of my heart, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, will consent to
none other assailing it and laying it low!"
Saying this, he sat down in the middle of the ballroom floor, battered
and broken from his exertions as a dancer, and Don Antonio then had
them pick him up and carry him off to bed. The first to lay hold to him
was Sancho.
"It was an evil hour, my master," he said, "when you tried to dance!
Do you think that all brave men and knights-errant can do that--u If
so, I can tell you that you are mistaken. There are those that would
rather slay a giant than cut a caper. Now, if it had been a clog dance 16
I'd have taken your place, for I can tap my heels like a gerfalcon, I R
but
when it comes to your fancy steps 17 I'm no good at it."
With these and other remarks Sancho set the company to laughing,
and then he went off to put his master to bed, taking care to cover him
well that he might sweat out any cold caught by dancing.
The next day Don Antonio decided that it would be well to try out
the enchanted head at once, and so, with Don Quixote, Sancho, and a
couple of friends, together with the ladies who had worn Don Quixote
out with dancing the evening before and who had spent the night there,
he shut himself up in the room where the head was. Explaining to them
its peculiar properties, which he was to put to the test for the first
time that day, he bound them all to secrecy; for, with the exception
of Don Antonio's two friends, there was no one who understood the
mystery behind the enchantment, and if these two had not been informed
of it by the master of the house, they of necessity would have been
quite as amazed as the others, so skillfully and artfully was the mech-
anism contrived.
The first who came up to whisper in the ear of the magic head was
Don Antonio himself, who in a low voice, yet not so low but that the
rest of them could hear him, said, "Tell me, O head, by the virtue that is
in you, 18 what am I thinking of at this moment?"
And without moving its lips the head replied, in a tone so clear and
distinct that all were able to make it out, "I am no judge of thoughts "
The entire company was astonished at hearing it speak, in view of
the fact that neither around the table nor in all the room was there any
human being who could have given the answer.
"How many of us are there here?" was Don Antonio's next question;
and the reply, uttered in the same tone of voice, was, "There are you
and your wife, two friends of yours, two women friends of hers, a
famous knight named Don Quixote de la Mancha, and his squire whose
name is Sancho Panza."
This created fresh astonishment, and everyone's hair was standing on
end from sheer fright. "I am now convinced," remarked Don Antonio
as he turned aside, "that the one who sold you to me did not cheat me,
O wise head, talking head, answering and admirable head! Let someone
else come up and ask any question that he likes.
Since women ordinarily are extremely curious, the first to do so was
one of. the friends of Don Antonio's wife. "Tell me, O head," she in-
quired, "what must I do to be very beautiful?" And the answer
was, Be
very modest."
"I ask no more," said the one who had put the question.
She was followed by her companion. "I should like to know, O head,
whether my husband loves me or not"
"Observe the way he treats you," came the response, "and )udge for
"There was no need of my asking to learn that," said the married
lady as she walked away; "for it goes without saying that the way a
person treats you shows the way he feels toward you. "
One of Don Antonio's friends was the next questioner. Who am I.
"You know who you are."
"That is not what I asked you," said the gentleman. "I wanted you to
tell me if you recognized me."
"Yes, I recognize you; you are Don Pedro Noriz."
"That is all I seek to know, as it is enough to assure me, O head, that
you know everything."
It was the other friend's turn now. "Tell me, O head, what does my
son and heir desire--"
"I have already told you that I am no judge of such things, but, never-
theless, I may inform you that what your son desires is to bury you."
"That is to say," the gentleman replied, "'What I see with my eyes
I point out with my finger.' 20 I have no further questions."
Don Antonio's wife came next. "I do not know, O head, what to ask
you. I should merely like to have you tell me if I am to enjoy my good
husband for many years to come."
"Yes, you will," was the answer, "for his good health and temperate
mode of living promise him a long life-span, which many by their in-
temperance cut short."
Don Quixote now came forward. "Tell me," he said, "you who
do
the answering, with regard to my story of what happened to me in the
Cave of Montesinos, did it really happen or was it a dream--Will my
squire Sancho be sure to receive the lashes that are his due--And will
Dulcinea finally be disenchanted?"
"With respect to the cave," the head replied, "there is much to be
said on both sides; Sancho's lashes will proceed apace; and the disen-
chantment of Dulcinea will ultimately be accomplished."
"That is enough," said Don Quixote. "Let me but see Dulcinea freed
of the magic spell and it will seem to me that all the good fortune I
could wish for has come to me at once."
Sancho was the last, and his question was, "Head, shall I have another
government--Shall I ever be through with this poverty-stricken life of
a squire--Shall I see my wife and children again?"
"You will govern in your house," the head assured him; "if you re-
turn to it, you will see your wife and young ones; and if you leave off
serving, you will cease to be a squire."
"That's fine, by God!" exclaimed Sancho. "I could have told myself
as much as that. The prophet Perogrullo 21 could not have done better."
"Stupid creature," said Don Quixote, "what answer did you
expect--
Is it not enough that the replies which this head gives have a bearing
on the questions put to it?"
"Yes," said Sancho, "it will do; but I'd have liked it better if it had
spoken longer and told me more."
This ended the questions and answers, but it did not end the astonish-
ment they all felt, with the exception of Don Antonio and his friends,
who knew the secret of the thing. That secret Cid Hamete Benengeli
chose to reveal at once, not wishing to keep the world in suspense or
under the impression that there was anything strange and magical about
it. He accordingly goes on to state that Don Antonio, in imitation of
another head which he had seen in Madrid, the work of an artisan of
that city, had had this one made in his own house in order to provide
entertainment and astonish the ignorant.
The mechanism was constructed in the following manner. The table
was made of wood painted and varnished like jasper, and the pedestal
upon which it rested was of the same material, with four projecting
eagles' claws to give it greater firmness. The bronze-colored head, which
resembled the bust of a Roman emperor, of the kind seen on coins and
medals, was entirely hollow, and so was the table on which it stood,
into which it fitted so exactly that there was no sign of any juncture.
The foot of the table was also hollow, forming a continuation of the
throat and chest of the head above, and the whole was connected with
another room immediately below. Through the hollow foot, table, throat,
and chest there was inserted a tin-plate tube very nicely adjusted and
out of sight, while in the lower room was stationed the one who did
the answering; he would place his mouth to the tube and voices would
then travel up and down it as through an ear trumpet, the words being
articulated very clearly and everything being arranged so cleverly that
it was impossible to discover the trick.
A nephew of Don Antonio's, an intelligent, sharp-witted student, was
the one who gave the responses, and having been previously advised by
his uncle as to who were to be present in the room with the head, he had
found no difficulty in answering the first question promptly and ac-
curately but had been compelled to resort to guesses in replying to the
others. However, being a clever fellow, he acquitted himself in a clever
manner. Cid Hamete further tells us that this marvelous contrivance
lasted for ten or a dozen days, but as the news spread through the city
that Don Antonio had in his house an enchanted head that answered all
queries put to it, he, fearing lest word of this should reach the alert ears
of those reverend gentlemen, the sentinels of our faith, had explained
the matter to the Inquisitors, who had ordered him to smash the mech-
anism and carry the jest no further, in order that the ignorant rabble
might not be scandalized. But in Don Quixote's opinion and that of
Sancho, the head remained an enchanted one with the virtues ascribed
to it, though the knight was better satisfied than his squire with the
answers that it gave.
By way of humoring Don Antonio and keeping Don Quixote en-
tertained, while affording the latter, at the same time, an opportunity
to display his absurdities, the gentlemen of the city arranged for a tilt-
ing at the ring six days from then, but, owing to circumstances that will
be related further on, this event did not take place. In the meantime,
Don
Quixote wished to go out for a quiet stroll, for he feared that if he went
on horseback the small boys would follow him, and so, accompanied
only by Sancho and a couple of servants that Don Antonio had fur-
nished him, he set out with this object in view.
As he was going down a certain street he glanced up and saw a sign
in large letters over a doorway, reading: "BOOKS PRINTED HERE."
This pleased him very much, as he had never seen a printing shop up
to that time and had a desire to find out what it was like. Going inside
with all his retinue, he saw them drawing proofs here, correcting them
there, setting type in one place and making revisions in another--in
short, he beheld everything that goes to make up a large establishment
of this sort. Going up to one of the cases, he inquired what was being
done there, the workmen explained things for him, and, wondering at
what he had observed, he passed on. He put the same question to an-
other printer, and the man replied, "Sir, this gentleman here"--and he
pointed to an impressive individual with a rather grave look on his face--
"has translated a Tuscan book into our Castilian tongue, and I am now
engaged in setting the type for it."
"What is the title of the book?" asked Don Quixote.
It was the author 22 who answered. "Sir," he said, "this work in Tus-
can is called Le Bagatelle." 28
"And what does Le Bagatelle mean in Castilian?"
"Le Bagatelle replied the author, "is equivalent to los juguetes 24 in
Spanish; and although the title is a humble-sounding one, this book con-
tains much meat and substance."
"I," said Don Quixote, "am somewhat acquainted with Tuscan and
pride myself on being able to recite certain stanzas of Ariosto. 2 * But
tell me, my dear sir, and I ask this not to test your Grace's ability but
merely out of curiosity, in the course of your labors have you come upon
such a word as pignatta?" 26
"Yes, many times," was the answer.
"And how does your Grace render it into Castilian?"
"How should I render it except by olla?" 27
"Body of me!" exclaimed Don Quixote, "how far advanced your
Grace is in the Italian language! I will lay you a good wager that you
translate piace as place, piu as mas, su as arriba, and giu as abajo" * #
"I do indeed," said the author, "for those are the proper equivalents."
"And I would venture to take an oath," Don Quixote went on, "that
your Grace is not known to the world at large, which always is chary
of rewarding men of exceptional ability and works deserving of praise.
How many talents have been lost in that way, how many geniuses have
been tossed into the corner, how much of real worth has gone unap-
preciated! But, for all of that, it appears to me that translating from
one language into another, unless it be from one of those two queenly
tongues, Greek and Latin, is like gazing at a Flemish tapestry with the
wrong side out: even though the figures are visible, they are full of
threads that obscure the view and are not bright and smooth as when
seen from the other side. 29 Moreover, translating from easy languages
does not call for either wit or eloquence, any more than does the mere
transcription or copying of a document.
"By this," the knight continued, "I do not mean to imply that the
task of translating is not a laudable occupation, for a man might em-
ploy his time less worthily and with less profit to himself. I make an
exception here of those two famous translators: Doctor Cristobal dc
Figueroa in his Pastor Fido and Don Juan de Jauregui in his Aminta,
where happily one may doubt as to which is the translation and which
the original. But, your Grace, I should like to know, is this book being
printed at your own expense or have you already disposed of the rights
to some bookseller?"
"I pay for the printing," said the author, "and I expect to clear at
least a thousand ducats on this first edition of two thousand copies,
which at two reales apiece ought to sell in no time at all."
"That," said Don Quixote, "is a fine bit of calculation on your Grace's
part, but it is plain to be seen that you are not familiar with the ins and
outs of the printers and the way in which they all work together. 8 I
can promise you that when you find yourself weighted down with two
thousand copies, you will be astonished how your body will ache all
over, especially if the book happens to be a little out of the ordinary
and does not make spicy reading."
"But what would your Grace have me do--Give it to a bookseller
who will pay me three maravedis for the rights and think that he is
doing me a favor--I do not have books printed to win fame in this world,
for I am already well known through my works; it is money that I
seek, for without it a fine reputation is not worth a cent." 34
"Well, good luck and God help you," said Don Quixote; and with
this he moved on to another case, where he perceived that they were
correcting the proofs of a book entitled Light of the Soul.--
"These," he said, "are the books that ought to be printed, even though
there are many of the sort, for many are the sinners these days, 36 and an
infinite number of lights are required for all those that are in darkness."
Going up to another case, he saw that here, too, they were correcting
a book, and when he asked the title he was told that it was the Second
Part of the Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha, com-
posed by a certain native of Tordesillas. 87
"I have heard of this work," he said, "and, in all truth and upon my
conscience, I think it ought to be burned to ashes as a piece of imperti-
nence; but Martinmas will come for it as it does for every pig. 38 Fic-
tional tales are better and more enjoyable the nearer they approach the
truth or the semblance of the truth, and as for true stories, the best
are those that are most true." 39
Saying this, he stalked out of the printing shop with signs of con-
siderable displeasure.
That same day Don Antonio made arrangements to take him to see
the galleys on the beach, and Sancho was delighted at this as he never
in his life had beheld such a sight. 40 Their host thereupon notified the
commander 41 that he was bringing with him his guest, the famous Don
Quixote de la Mancha, of whom that officer and everyone in the city
had heard. As for what happened to them aboard the vessels, that will
be related in the following chapter.
CHAPTER LXIII.
Of the misfortune that befell Sancho Panza upon his visit to the
galleys, and the strange adventure of the beautiful Moorish maiden.
Don QUIXOTE pondered deeply the reply which the enchanted
head had given him. No matter how much he thought about it, he was
unable to hit upon the method by which the trick was worked but
always came back to the one thing he accepted as being unquestionably
true: the promise that Dulcinea would be disenchanted. He turned this
over and over in his mind and was very happy in the thought that he
would soon be witnessing its fulfillment. As for Sancho, while he hated
being a governor, as has been stated, he nonetheless had a desire to give
orders once more and be obeyed, such is the misfortune that a position
of authority, even if only held in jest, brings with it.
But to come back to our story: That afternoon their host, Don An-
tonio Moreno, and his two friends with Don Quixote and Sancho re-
paired to the galleys. The commander had been advised of his good luck
in being able to lay eyes upon so famous a pair, and no sooner had they
reached the waterfront than all the vessels struck their awnings and the
flageolets began to resound. A small boat covered with costly rugs and
cushions of crimson velvet was lowered, and the moment Don Quixote
set foot in the skiff the commander's galley fired its cannon amidship
and all the others did the same. As the knight mounted the starboard
ladder, the entire crew saluted him, as is the custom when an important
personage comes aboard, crying "Hu, hu, hu three times.
The general--for such we shall call him, seeing that he was a Valencian
gentleman of high rank--then gave Don Quixote his hand and em-
braced him, saying, "This day I shall mark with a white stone I as being
one of the best I ever expect to enjoy as long as l live, since it has afforded
me a sight of Sefior Don Quixote de la Mancha-a monument in memory
of the occasion 2 when I met the one who, as we can plainly see, con-
tains within himself the sum and substance of all that is worth while in
knight-errantry."
Overjoyed at finding himself received in so lordly a manner, Don
Quixote made an equally courteous speech in reply, and they all retired
to the poop, which was vexy well fitted out, and sat down upon the
benches there. The boatswain then went to the gangway and with his
whistle gave the signal for the crew to strip, 8 which was done in a mo-
ment's time. Sancho was astonished to see so many naked men, and he
marveled still more as he saw them rig the awning with such speed that
it seemed to him as if all the devils in Hell must be working there. This,
however, was but gingerbread and cakes 4 compared to what I am about
to tell you now.
The squire was seated on the captain's platform next to the foremost
rower on the right; and this fellow, having been instructed as to what
he was to do, now seized him and, raising him in his arms, started pass-
ing him down the line on that side. All the members of the crew were
standing ready, and they proceeded to send him flying from one pair of
arms to another and from bench to bench so fast that poor Sancho lost
the sight of his eyes and undoubtedly must have fancied that it was the
demons themselves that were carrying him off; and this did not stop until
he had been returned on the left-hand side and set down once more in
the poop, bruised and breathless, and sweating all over and unable to
imagine what it was that had happened to him.
Upon witnessing this flight without wings on Sancho's part, Don
Quixote inquired of the general if it was a customary ceremony in the
case of those who came aboard for the first time; for if by any chance
it was, he did not intend to follow this calling, as he had no desire to
engage in any such exercises; and he further vowed to God that if any-
one should lay hands on him for that purpose, he would kick the life out
of him. With this, he rose to his feet and grasped his sword.
At that instant they struck the awning and brought down the lateen
yard with so tremendous a clatter that Sancho thought the heavens
were becoming unhinged and were about to fall upon him, and full of
fear he stuck his head between his legs. Don Quixote's own legs, for
that matter, were none too steady as he sat huddled and trembling with
all the color gone from his face. The crew thereupon hoisted the yard
as speedily and noisily as they had lowered it, preserving all the while a
dead silence, as though they had neither voice nor breath; following
which, the boatswain piped them to weigh anchor, and, leaping upon
the middle of the gangway, he began flaying the backs of the rowers
as they little by little put out to sea. When Sancho perceived all those
ruddy-colored feet in motion--for such he took the oars to be--he
started speaking to himself.
"This," he said, "is really magic, and not the kind my master talks
about. What have these poor wretches done that they should be whipped
like that, and how comes it that this one man who goes along whistling
there dares to punish so many of them--I declare, this is Hell or at the
very least purgatory."
Don Quixote, meanwhile, had noticed how attentively his squire was
taking it all in. "Ah, friend Sancho," he remarked, "how quickly you
could finish with the disenchantment of Dulcinea if you would only
strip down to the waist and take your place among these gentlemen! For
amid the pain and misery of so many you would not feel your own to
any great extent; and it might be that the wise Merlin would count each
one of these lashes, lustily laid on, as equivalent to ten of those which
you must give yourself anyway, sooner or later."
The general was about to ask what was the meaning of this talk of
lashes and Dulcinea's disenchantment when a sailor exclaimed, "Mon-
juich 6 signals that there is a vessel with oars standing offshore to west-
ward."
Hearing this, the general leaped to the gangway and shouted, "Ho,
there, my lads, don't let her get away from us! It must be some corsair
brigantine from Algiers that the watchtower has signaled."
With this, the three other galleys came up alongside the commander's
craft to find out what his orders were. The general commanded two
of them to put out to sea while he and the other one would hug the
land, and that way the brigantine would not escape them. The crew
then began rowing so furiously that the boats appeared to be flying over
the water. When the two that had put out from shore had gone a
couple of miles or so, they sighted a vessel which they took to be one of
fourteen or fifteen banks of oars, as proved to be the case. As soon as
it made out the galleys, it took to flight, hoping and expecting to escape
by sheer speed; but in this it was mistaken, for the commander's galley
was one of the swiftest that sailed the sea and bore down so hard upon
the brigantine that those aboard clearly realized there was no chance
of their getting away.
The captain, accordingly, was of a mind to stop rowing and surrender,
in order not to anger our commander, but fate ordained otherwise; and
just as the galley came up near enough for those on the vessel to be
able to hear the call to surrender, two drunken Toraquis, that is to say
Turks, who with a dozen more of their countrymen were on board, dis-
charged their muskets, killing two of our soldiers lined up on the wales.
When he saw what had happened, the general swore that he would not
leave a man of them alive and immediately attacked with great fury,
but the enemy slipped away beneath our oars. The galley darted on
past for a considerable distance, and while it was engaged in turning
about those aboard the brigantine, seeing their lot was hopeless, hoisted
sail and, trusting to the breeze and their oars, once again endeavored to
flee. Their exertions, however, did not do them as much good as their
rashness did them harm; for our chief galley having overtaken them
after a pursuit of a little more than half a mile, we threw our oars over
them and captured them all.
The other two galleys now came up and all four with their prize
returned to the beach, where a huge crowd was awaiting them to see
what they brought with them. The general cast anchor close to shore
and, perceiving that the viceroy of the city was there, he ordered the
small boat to be lowered to bring him aboard. At the same time he com-
manded his men to let down the yardarm that he might promptly
hang the captain and all the rest of the prisoners, about thirty-six in
number, strapping fellows all, and most of them Turkish musketeers.
When the general asked who the ship's master was, one of the captives
spoke up and answered him in the Castilian tongue, for, as was after-
ward learned, he was a renegade Spaniard.
"Sir," he said, "this young man that you see here is our captain." And
he pointed to one of the most handsome and gallant-looking youths that
the human imagination could conceive, a lad who, to all appearances,
was under twenty years of age.
"Tell me, foolish dog," the general said to the youth, "what led you to
kill two of my soldiers when you saw it was impossible for you to escape
--Is this the respect you show to commanders' galleys--Do you not
know that valor does not consist in rashness and that faint hopes
should make men brave but not foolhardy?"
The captain was about to reply, but the general could not listen to him
as the viceroy was already boarding the galley, accompanied by a num-
ber of attendants and townspeople.
"So, the hunting was good, Senor General?" said the viceroy.
"How good it was your Excellency will see as soon as I've strung up
the game on this yardarm."
"How does it come you are doing that?" the viceroy wished to know.
"Because," said the general, "against all law and reason and military
custom they have killed two of my best soldiers, and I have sworn to
hang every man of them, especially this youth who is their captain."
As he said this he pointed to the young fellow who stood there, his hands
already bound and the rope about his neck, waiting for death.
The viceroy looked the prisoner over and saw how handsome he
was, how gallant and modest his bearing, and, the young man's come-
liness being his letter of recommendation, 6 he at once felt a desire to
spare his life.
"Tell me, Captain," he asked, "are you a Turk by nationality, a Moor,
or a renegade?"
To this the youth replied, also in Spanish, "I am neither a Turk, nor
a Moor, nor a renegade."
"Then what are you?"
"A Christian woman."
"A woman and a Christian, in such a costume and in such a plight--
Why, it is astonishing--scarcely to be believed."
"If you gentlemen," replied the youth, "will suspend my execution
while I tell you the story of my life, you will not have to wait too long
for your revenge."
Who could have had so hard a heart that it would not have been soft-
ened by these words, at least to the extent of listening to what the poor
unfortunate lad wished to say--The general told him that he might feel
free to speak but that he was not to hope for pardon inasmuch as his
guilt was plainly established. Having been granted this permission, the
youth began his story.
"I," he said, "am of that race whose misfortunes exceed their pru-
dence, for over it of late has rolled a sea of troubles. I was born of
Morisco parents, and in the course of our wanderings I was taken to
Barbary by an uncle and aunt 7 of mine. It was of no use my telling
them that I was a Christian, which, as a matter of fact, I am--and not
one of those pretended or seeming converts but a true believer of the
Catholic faith. It did me no good to state this fact to those charged
with enforcing our wretched banishment, nor would my kinsfolk be-
lieve me; they looked upon it as a lying invention on my part to enable
me to remain in the land of my birth, and so it was by force rather than
of my own free will that they took me with them.
"I had a Christian mother and a father who was a sensible man and a
Christian as well. I imbibed the Catholic faith with my mother's milk.
I had a good upbringing, and never in word or deed, to the best of my
knowledge, did I give any sign of being a Morisco. And keeping pace
with these virtues (for such is the way in which I regard the habits I
had formed), my beauty, if I may claim any, grew with the years.
Although I lived a very retiring and secluded life, I was not so shut
off from the world but that a young gentleman, named Don Gaspar
Gregorio, 8 had an opportunity of seeing me. He is the son and heir of
one who is the lord of a village next to ours; but it would take too long
to tell you how we met and talked and how he fell hopelessly in love
with me while I was not wholly indifferent to him--especially since I
am fearful every moment that this cruel rope that threatens me will
tighten between my tongue and throat.
"And so I will merely say that it was Don Gregorio's desire to ac-
company me into exile. Knowing our language very well, he mingled
with the Moors that came from other villages, and on the way he made
friends with my uncle and aunt; for my father, being a prudent and far-
sighted man, as soon as he heard of the decree of banishment, had left
our village and gone to look for some place in a foreign land that
would serve us as a refuge, leaving behind him, concealed and buried in
a spot with which I alone am acquainted, many pearls and precious
stones, together with a certain sum of money in gold, in the form of
cruzados 0 and doubloons. His instructions were that under no cir-
cumstances was I to touch this treasure if by any chance they expelled
us before he returned. I obeyed his orders, and with my uncle and aunt,
as I have said, and other friends and relatives I went to Barbary. It was in
Algiers that we settled, but it might as well have been in Hell itself.
"The king of the country heard of my beauty and of the rumor
regarding my wealth, and this in a way was fortunate for me. Summon-
ing me before him, he asked what part of Spain I was from and what
money and jewels I had brought with me. I told him the name of my
village and informed him that the jewels and the money were still
buried there, but that I could very easily recover them if I myself were
to return for them. Even as I said this I was in dread lest he should
be blinded by my beauty rather than by his own covetousness, and
while we were conversing in this manner word reached him that I was
accompanied by one of the most handsome and gallant youths that could
be imagined, whereupon I knew at once that they were speaking of Don
Gaspar Gregorio, whose comeliness is beyond all praise. I was greatly
disturbed, knowing the danger that Don Gregorio ran; for among those
barbarous Turks a handsome boy or youth is more highly esteemed
than the most beautiful of women. 10
"The king ordered them to bring the young man before him that he
might have a sight of him, and in the meantime he inquired of me if all
that he had heard was true. As if forewarned by Heaven, I assured hini
that it was, but that I wished to inform him that the youth in question
was not a man but a woman like myself, and I begged him to allow me
to go and clothe her in the garments proper to her sex in order that
he might behold her in all her beauty and that she might be less em-
barrassed at appearing in his presence. He readily consented to my do-
ing so, adding that some other time we would discuss the means by
which I could return to Spain to get the hidden treasure.
"I spoke to Don Gaspar and reminded him of the danger that lay in
his appearing as a man. I then dressed him as a Moorish woman and
that same afternoon conducted him before the king, who was struck
with admiration upon seeing him and announced his intention of keep-
ing the 'girl' as a present for the Grand Seignior. 11 Being afraid of leav-
ing her among the women of his harem as well as distrustful of himself,
he commanded that she be taken to the house where some of the leading
Moorish ladies dwelt, which was done at once. As to the feelings of
both of us (for I cannot deny that I care for him deeply), that is some-
thing that may be left to the imagination of any pair of lovers who are
separated.
"The king then arranged that I should return to Spain in this brigan-
tine, accompanied by two Turks, who were the ones that killed your
soldiers. This Spanish renegade"--and she pointed to the one who had
been the first to speak--"also came with me, and I can tell you that I
know well that he is a Christian at heart and that he would much rather
remain in Spain than go back to Barbary. The other members of the
brigantine's crew are Moors and Turks who serve only to man the
oars. As for this greedy and insolent pair, they chose to disregard the
orders they had to set me and this renegade ashore the moment wc
reached Spanish soil. We were to be landed in Christian garb, with
which we came provided; but they insisted upon first skirting the coast
to see if they could capture some prize, for they feared that if they
obeyed orders and some accident happened to us we might reveal the
fact that there was a brigantine at sea, in which case, if there chanced
to be any galleys around, they would be taken.
"Last night we sighted this beach and, knowing nothing of these four
vessels, we were discovered, with the result that you have seen To
make a long story short, Don Gregorio, dressed as a woman still lives
among women, and his life is clearly in danger, while I stand here with
my hands tied, waiting, or rather, dreading to lose the life of which
already am weary. That, sirs, is the end of my sad tale, as true as it is un-
fortunate. What I would ask of you is that you let me die like a Chris-
tian woman, for, as I have said, I am in no wise guilty of the offense that
my people have committed." 12
As she fell silent her eyes filled with tears, and those of many of the
bystanders did so as well. Moved to compassion, the viceroy went up to
her and with his own hands undid the rope that bound those of the beau-
tiful Moorish Christian. In the meantime, as she related her story, an
aged pilgrim who had come aboard with the viceroy watched her most
intently, and she had no sooner finished speaking than he cast himself
down at her feet and embraced them.
"O Ana Felix, my unhappy daughter!" he cried in a voice that was
broken by innumerable sobs and sighs. "I am your father, Ricote, who
has returned to seek you, being unable to live without you, since you
are my very soul."
At these words Sancho opened his eyes and looked up, for he had
been sitting all the while with his head bowed, brooding over the un-
pleasant treatment he had experienced; and as he gazed at Ricote he
recognized him as the same pilgrim whom he had met the day he left
his government, and felt quite sure that this was indeed the old man's
daughter.
Freed now of her bonds, the girl embraced her father, mingling her
tears with his, as he turned to the general and the viceroy and said,
"This, gentlemen, is my daughter, more unfortunate in life than her
name would imply. Ana Felix she is called, her surname being Ricote,
and she is famed as much for her beauty as for my wealth. I left my
native country to go seek in foreign lands someone who would take us
in and shelter us, and, having found such a person in Germany, I re-
turned in this pilgrim's guise and in the company of certain other pil-
grims of that nation to hunt for my daughter and dig up the treasure
hoard which I had left buried here. I found the treasure, which I carry
with me, but not my daughter; and now, by this strange turn of events
which you have witnessed, I have come upon the most valuable thing I
possess, in this my beloved child. If the small amount of blame that
attaches to us, and her tears as well as mine, without impairing the in-
tegrity of justice, can open the door to mercy, then I beseech you to be
merciful to us, since we have never had any thought of offending you,
nor do we in any way sympathize with the plottings of our people, who
have justly been sent into banishment."
At this point Sancho spoke up. "I know Ricote well," he said, "and I
know that what he says about Ana Felix's being his daughter is the truth,
but as to all the other things he has to say about his comings and goings
and his good or evil intentions, I do not propose to meddle in that."
All those present were amazed at the strange case. "One by one," said
the general, "your tears have prevented me from carrying out my oath.
May you live as many years as Heaven has allotted you, beauteous Ana
Felix, but these two rash and insolent fellows must pay the penalty for
the crime they have committed." And with this he ordered the Turks
who had slain his men to be hanged from the yardarm. The viceroy,
however, pleaded with him earnestly to spare them, pointing out that
their actions savored more of madness than of defiance. The general
acceded to his wishes, for deeds of vengeance are seldom executed in
cold blood.
They then began laying plans for rescuing Don Gaspar Gregorio
from his perilous situation, Ricote offering to put up more than two
thousand ducats in the form of pearls and other jewels that were in his
possession. Many plans were suggested, but none of them as good as
that proposed by the above-mentioned Spanish renegade, who volun-
teered to go to Algiers in some small craft with about six banks of oars
manned by Christian rowers; for he knew where, how, and when
he could and should land, and he was also acquainted with the house
where Don Gaspar was kept. The general and the viceroy were at first
inclined to be doubtful of the renegade and were hesitant about entrust-
ing to his charge the Christians who were to do the rowing, but Ana
Felix vouched for him and her father, Ricote, promised that he would
come forward with the ransom money in case anything happened to
them.
This decision having been reached, the viceroy went ashore and Don
Antonio Moreno took the Morisco maid and her father home with him,
the viceroy charging him to show them all the hospitality in his power,
while for his own part he offered them anything his house contained
that might serve for their entertainment, such was the good will and
benevolence that Ana Felix's beauty had inspired in his bosom.
CHAPTER LXIV.
Which treats of the adventure that caused Don Quixote the most
sorrow of all those that have thus far befallen him.
DON ANTONIO MORENO'S wife, the history tells us, was
very happy to take Ana Felix into her home and she gave the young
Moorish woman a most cordial reception, being charmed by her wit
and beauty alike, for in both respects the girl was more than ordinarily
gifted--indeed, so attractive was she that all the townspeople came to
have a look at her, as if they had been summoned by the ringing of a
bell.
Don Quixote, meanwhile, remarked to his host that the decision
reached with regard to freeing Don Gregorio was not a good one inas-
much as the dangers inherent in the plan outweighed the advantages.
It would be better, he said, if he himself were to be set down in Bar-
bary with his arms and steed, as he would surely effect a rescue in spite
of all the Moors in the world, just as Don Gaiferos had done in the case
of his wife, Melisendra. I
"Your Grace," Sancho reminded him, "should remember that it was
on the mainland that Don Gaiferos rescued his lady and it was by land
that he took her to France; but with us, even supposing that we did
rescue Don Gregorio, we'd have no way of getting him back to Spain,
since there is an ocean in between."
"There is a remedy for everything except death," 2 said Don Quixote.
"Let them but bring the boat to the strand and we shall be able to em-
bark though all the world try to prevent us."
"It sounds easy to hear your Grace tell it," replied Sancho, "but it's a
long way from saying to doing. 8 I'm for leaving it to the renegade;
he seems to me to be an honest fellow with plenty of guts." 4
Don Antonio settled the matter by stating that in case the renegade
did not succeed they would resort to the expedient of sending the great
Don Quixote. And so, a couple of days later, the rescue party put out in
a light craft with six oars on each side, manned by a most valiant crew;
and two days after that the galleys set sail for the east, the general having
asked the viceroy to be so good as to let him know what happened
in connection with Ana Felix and the freeing of Don Gregorio, which
that gentleman readily consented to do.
And then, one morning, as Don Quixote went for a ride along the
beach, clad in full armor--for, as he was fond of saying, that was his
only ornament, his only rest the fight, 5 and, accordingly, he was never
without it for a moment 6--he saw approaching him a horseman simi-
larly arrayed from head to foot and with a brightly shining moon bla-
zoned upon his shield.
As soon as he had come within earshot the stranger cried out to Don
Quixote in a loud voice, "O illustrious knight, the never to be sufficiently
praised Don Quixote de la Mancha, I am the Knight of the White Moon,
whose incomparable exploits you will perhaps recall. I come to con-
tend with you and try the might of my arm, with the purpose of having
you acknowledge and confess that my lady, whoever she may be, is
beyond comparison more beautiful than your own Dulcinca del Toboso.
If you will admit the truth of this fully and freely, you will escape death
and I shall be spared the trouble of inflicting it upon you. On the other
hand, if you choose to fight and I should overcome you, I ask no other
satisfaction than that, laying down your arms and seeking no further
adventures, you retire to your own village for the space of a year, dur-
ing which time you are not to lay hand to sword but are to dwell
peacefully and tranquilly, enjoying a beneficial rest that shall redound
to the betterment of your worldly fortunes and the salvation of your
soul. But if you are the victor, then my head shall be at your disposal,
my arms and steed shall be the spoils, and the fame of my exploits shall
go to increase your own renown. Consider well which is the better
course and let me have your answer at once, for today is all the time
I have for the dispatching of this business."
Don Quixote was amazed at the knight's arrogance as well as at the
nature of the challenge, but it was with a calm and stern demeanor that
he replied to him.
"Knight of the White Moon," he said, "of whose exploits up to now
I have never heard, I will venture to take an oath that you have not
once laid eyes upon the illustrious Dulcinea; for I am quite certain that
if you had beheld her you would not be staking your all upon such an
issue, since the sight of her would have convinced you that there never
has been, and never can be, any beauty to compare with hers. I do not
say that you he, I simply say that you are mistaken; and so I accept
your challenge with the conditions you have laid down, and at once, be-
fore this day you have fixed upon shall have ended. The only exception
I make is with regard to the fame of your deeds being added to my re-
nown, since I do not know what the character of your exploits has been
and am quite content with my own, such as they are. Take, then, which-
ever side of the field you like, and I will take up my position, and may
St. Peter bless what God may give." 7
Now, as it happened, the Knight of the White Moon was seen by some
of the townspeople, who informed the viceroy that he was there, talk-
ing to Don Quixote de la Mancha. Believing this to be a new adventure
arranged by Don Antonio Moreno or some other gentleman of the place,
the viceroy at once hastened down to the beach, accompanied by a large
retinue, including Don Antonio, and they arrived just as Don Quixote
was wheeling Rocinante to measure off the necessary stretch of field.
When the viceroy perceived that they were about to engage in combat,
he at once interposed and inquired of them what it was that impelled
them thus to do battle all of a sudden.
The Knight of the White Moon replied that it was a matter of beauty
and precedence and briefly repeated what he had said to Don Quixote,
explaining the terms to which both parties had agreed. The viceroy then
went up to Don Antonio and asked him if he knew any such knight as
this or if it was some joke that they were playing, but the answer that
he received left him more puzzled than ever; for Don Antonio did not
know who the knight was, nor could he say as to whether this was a
real encounter or not. The viceroy, accordingly, was doubtful about
letting them proceed, but inasmuch as he could not bring himself to be-
lieve that it was anything more than a jest, he withdrew to one side,
saying, "Sir Knights, if there is nothing for it but to confess 8 or die, and
if Senor Don Quixote's mind is made up and your Grace, the Knight of
the White Moon, is even more firmly resolved, then fall to it in the name
of God and may He bestow the victory."
The Knight of the White Moon thanked the viceroy most courteously
and in well-chosen words for the permission which had been granted
them, and Don Quixote did the same, whereupon the latter, commending
himself with all his heart to Heaven and to his lady Dulcinea, as was his
custom at the beginning of a fray, fell back a little farther down the field
as he saw his adversary doing the same. And then, without blare of
trumpet or other warlike instrument to give them the signal for the
attack, both at the same instant wheeled their steeds about and returned
for the charge. Being mounted upon the swifter horse, the Knight of the
White Moon met Don Quixote two-thirds of the way and with such
tremendous force that, without touching his opponent with his lance
(which, it seemed, he deliberately held aloft) he brought both Rocinante
and his rider to the ground in an exceedingly perilous fall. At once the
victor leaped down and placed his lance at Don Quixote's visor.
"You are vanquished, O knight! Nay, more, you are dead unless you
make confession in accordance with the conditions governing our en-
counter."
Stunned and battered, Don Quixote did not so much as raise his visor
but in a faint, wan voice, as if speaking from the grave, he said, "Dul-
cinea del Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world and I the
most unhappy knight upon the face of this earth. It is not right that my
weakness should serve to defraud the truth. Drive home your lance,
O knight, and take my life since you already have deprived me of my
honor."
"That I most certainly shall not do," said the one of the White Moon.
"Let the fame of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso's beauty live on un-
diminished. As for me, I shall be content if the great Don Quixote will
retire to his village for a year or until such a time as I may specify, as
was agreed upon between us before joining battle."
The viceroy, Don Antonio, and all the many others who were present
heard this, and they also heard Don Quixote's response, which was to the
effect that, seeing nothing was asked of him that was prejudicial to
Dulcinea, he would fulfill all the other conditions like a true and punc-
tilious knight. The one of the White Moon thereupon turned and with
a bow to the viceroy rode back to the city at a mild canter. I he viceroy
promptly dispatched Don Antonio to follow him and make every effort
to find out who he was; and, in the meanwhile, they lifted Don Quixote
up and uncovered his face, which held no sign of color and was bathed
in perspiration. Rocinante, however, was in so sorry a state that he was
unable to stir for the present.
Brokenhearted over the turn that events had taken, Sancho did not
know what to say or do. It seemed to him that all this was something that
was happening in a dream and that everything was the result of magic.
He saw his master surrender, heard him consent not to take up arms
again for a year to come as the light of his glorious exploits faded into
darkness. At the same time his own hopes, based upon the fresh promises
that had been made him, were whirled away like smoke before the wind.
He feared that Rocinante was maimed for life, his master's bones perma-
nently dislocated--it would have been a bit of luck if his madness also
had been jolted out of him.R
Finally, in a hand litter which the viceroy had them bring, they bore
the knight back to town. The viceroy himself then returned, for he
was very anxious to ascertain who the Knight of the White Moon was
who had left Don Quixote in so lamentable a condition.
CHAPTER LXV.
Wherein is revealed who the Knight of the White Moon was,
with the freeing of Don Gregorio and other events.
THE Knight of the White Moon was followed not only by Don
Antonio Moreno, but by a throng of small boys as well, who kept after
him until the doors of one of the city's hostelries had closed behind him.
A squire came out to meet him and remove his armor, for which pur-
pose the victor proceded to shut himself up in a lower room, in the
company of Don Antonio, who had also entered the inn and whose
bread would not bake until he had learned the knight's identity. Perceiv-
ing that the gentleman had no intention of leaving him, he of the White
Moon then spoke.
"Sir," he said, "I am well aware that you have come to find out who
I am; and, seeing that there is no denying you the information that you
seek, while my servant here is removing my armor I will tell you the
exact truth of the matter. I would have you know, sir, that I am the
bachelor Sanson Carrasco from the same village as Don Quixote de la
Mancha, whose madness and absurdities inspire pity in all of us who
know him and in none more than me. And so, being convinced that his
salvation lay in his returning home for a period of rest in his own house,
l formed a plan for bringing him back.
"It was three months ago I that I took to the road as a knight-errant,
calling myself the Knight of the Mirrors, with the object of fighting and
overcoming him without doing him any harm, intending first to lay
down the condition that the vanquished was to yield to the victor's will.
What I meant to ask of him--for I looked upon him as conquered from
the start--was that he should return to his village and not leave it for
a
whole year, in the course of which time he might be cured. Fate, how-
ever, ordained things otherwise; for he was the one who conquered me
and overthrew me from my horse, and thus my plan came to naught.
He continued on his wanderings, and I went home, defeated, humiliated,
and bruised from my fall, which was quite a dangerous one. But I did
not for this reason give up the idea of hunting him up once more and
vanquishing him as you have seen me do today.
"Since he is the soul of honor when it comes to observing the ordi-
nances of knight-errantry, there is not the slightest doubt that he will
keep the promise he has given me and fulfill his obligations. And that,
sir, is all that I need to tell you concerning what has happened. I beg
you not to disclose my secret or reveal my identity to Don Quixote, in
order that my well-intentioned scheme may be carried out and a man
of excellent judgment be brought back to his senses for a sensible man
he would be, once rid of the follies of chivalry."
"My dear sir," exclaimed Don Antonio, "may God forgive you for the
wrong you have done the world by seeking to deprive it of its most
charming madman! Do you not see that the benefit accomplished by
restoring Don Quixote to his senses can never equal the pleasure which
others derive from his vagaries--But it is my opinion that all the trouble
to which the Seiior Bachelor has put himself will not suffice to cure a
man who is so hopelessly insane; and if it were not uncharitable, I would
say let Don Quixote never be cured, since with his return to health we
lose not only his own drolleries but also those of his squire, Sancho
Panza, for either of the two is capable of turning melancholy itself into
joy and merriment. Nevertheless, I will keep silent and tell him noth-
ing, that I may see whether or not I am right in my suspicion that Senor
Carrasco's efforts will prove to have been of no avail." ...
The bachelor replied that, all in all, things looked very favorable and
he hoped for a fortunate outcome. With this, he took his leave of Don
Antonio, after offering to render him any service that he could, an
having had his armor tied up and placed upon a mule's back he rode
out of the city that same day on the same horse on which he had gone
into battle, returning to his native province without anything happen-
ing to him that is worthy of being set down in this veracious chronicle.
Don Antonio informed the viceroy of what Carrasco had told him
and that official was none too well pleased to hear it since wi.th Don
Quixote's retirement all those who had heard of his mad exploits would
lose a great deal of enjoyment.
For six days Don Quixote remained in bed, sad and dejected, moody
and ill-tempered, as he went over again and again in his mind the un-
fortunate defeat he had experienced.
Sancho sought to console him, and among other things he said to him,
"Raise your head, master, and cheer up a bit if you can. You ought to
thank Heaven that, even though you were thrown to earth, you came
out of it without a single broken rib. You know that those that give
must take, 2 and there is not always bacon where there are stakes. 3 A
fig for the doctor; we don't need him to cure this sickness. Let's return
home and give up going around looking for adventures in strange lands
and places. If you stop to consider, I am the one who stands to lose the
most, though your Grace may have more bruises to show. For while I
lost all desire to be a governor when I left my government, I still shouldn't
mind being a count; but that can never be if your Grace quits the call-
ing of chivalry and gives up the idea of becoming a king. And so it is
my hopes go up in smoke."
"Be quiet, Sancho," said his master, "for you know very well that my
retirement and seclusion is not to exceed a year, after which time I shall
return to my honorable profession, and I cannot fail to win a kingdom,
along with some county to bestow on you."
"May God hear you and sin be deaf," 4 said Sancho. "I have always
heard tell that a good hope is better than a bad holding." 6
At this point Don Antonio entered the room with a great show of
satisfaction. "Pay me for good news, O Senor Don Quixote," he said. "Don
Gregorio and the renegade who went for him are now on the beach!
What am I saying--They are already at the viceroy's house and will be
here any moment."
Don Quixote was somewhat cheered by this report. "To tell the truth,"
he said, "I should have been glad, almost, if it had turned out differently,
as that would have obliged me to go to Barbary, where by the might
of my arm I should have freed not Don Gregorio alone, but all the
Christian captives that are there. But what am I thinking of, wretch that
I am--Am I not the vanquished one--Am I not the one who was over-
thrown--Am I not he who cannot take up arms for an entire year--
What, then, am I promising, of what do I boast, seeing that I am better
fitted to handle the distaff than the sword?"
"Stop talking like that, master," said Sancho. "Let the
hen live even
though she may have the pip; 7 it's today for thee and tomorrow for
me; 8 as to this matter of encounters and blows, you should pay no heed
to them, since he who falls today may be on his feet again tomorrow 9
--that is to say, unless he prefers to stay in bed and lose heart instead
of
plucking up fresh courage for battles to come. So, get up this minute,
your Grace, and prepare to receive Don Gregorio; for I think I hear
people stirring about, and that means he must already be in the house."
This was the truth. Don Gregorio and the renegade having given
the viceroy an account of their crossing, the youth was anxious to see
Ana Felix, and so the two men came on to Don Antonio's home. Although
he had been clad in a woman's garments when they took him out of
Algiers, Gregorio had exchanged them on the boat for those of another
captive who had come with them; but whatever the garb he wore, he
was plainly a person to be loved, served, and esteemed, for he was ex-
traordinarily handsome and about seventeen or eighteen years of age.
Ricote and his daughter went out to meet him, the father with tears and
the maiden with becoming modesty. The young couple did not em-
brace, for where there is much love there should not be too great a free-
dom of manners. All those present were filled with admiration at Don
Gregorio's comeliness and Ana Felix's beauty, but it was silence that
spoke for the lovers and their eyes were the tongues that revealed the
joy they felt and the purity of their affection.
The renegade then described the means which lie had adopted in res-
cuing Don Gregorio, while the latter told of the perils and straits in
which he had found himself during his sojourn among the womenfolk.
He did not make a long speech, his words in fact were few, and in this
he displayed a wisdom beyond his years. Ricote then paid both the rene-
gade and the rowers very liberally for their services. As for the one who
had abjured the Faith, he was soon reunited with the Church through
penance and a contrite heart, and from a rotten limb became a sound
and clean one. A couple of days later the viceroy and Don Antonio
had a discussion as to what should be done to enable Ana Felix and her
father, to remain in Spain; for it seemed to them there could be no harm
in permitting a daughter uho was so good a Christian and a father who
was seemingly so right-minded to continue residing in the country.
Don Antonio even offered to go to the capital and arrange matters, since
in any case he had other pressing business that required his presence
there, and he dropped a hint to the effect that many difficulties could
be overcome by means of favor and bribery.
"No," said Ricote, who was present at this conference neither avor
nor bribes will be of any avail, for the great Don P^ardmo de V la^o
Count of Salazar,'" whom his Majesty has charged with seeing in ou
banishment, is not to be moved by entreaties, promises, gifts, or PP≪> S
to his sympathy. While it is true that he tempers mercy with justice,
nevertheless, perceiving as he does that the entire body of our nation is
rotting and corrupt, he would rather make use of the cautery that sears
than of the ointment that soothes; and, accordingly, by means of pru-
dence, sagacity, diligence, and the fear that he inspires, he has been
able to carry upon his sturdy shoulders the weight of this great under-
taking. As a result, all the plottings and schemings, the importunities
and wiles, of our people have not succeeded in blinding his Argus-eyes,
which are ever on the alert lest some one of us should remain behind in
concealment and, like a hidden root, in the course of time come to bear
poisonous fruit in a Spain that is now cleansed and freed of that terror
that our excessive numbers inspired in it. A heroic resolve, this, on the
part of the great Philip III, and what unheard-of wisdom, his entrusting
the task to such a one as Don Bernardino de Velasco!"
"At any rate," said Don Antonio, "once I am there I will exert every
effort, and let Heaven do as it may see fit. Don Gregorio shall come with
me that he may relieve the anxiety his parents must feel on account of
his absence, Ana Felix may stay here with my wife or in a convent,
and I know that the Senor Viceroy will be pleased to have the worthy
Ricote as his guest until we see how I make out with the negotiations."
The viceroy gave his consent to everything, but Don Gregorio, upon
hearing what had been suggested, declared that he neither could nor
would leave Doha Ana Felix under any circumstances; however, as he
had intended in any event to go visit his parents and arrange to return for
her, he ended by falling in with the plan that had been agreed upon. And
so Ana Felix remained with Don Antonio's wife and Ricote stayed in
the viceroy's house.
Two days after Don Antonio's departure Don Quixote and Sancho
prepared to leave, the injuries which the knight had sustained in his fall
having prevented his taking the road any sooner. There were tears,
sighs, sobs, and swoonings as Don Gregorio said good-by to Ana Felix.
Ricote offered the former a thousand crowns if he needed them, but all
the money the young man would accept was five crowns, which Don
Antonio lent him and which he promised to pay back when they reached
the capital. The two of them then set out, followed shortly afterward
by Don Quixote and Sancho, as we have said. The knight wore no fight-
ing gear now but was dressed for the road, while Sancho went along
on foot, the armor being piled upon the ass's back.
CHAPTER LXVI.
Which treats of that which he who reads will see and that
which he will hear who listens to a reading of it.
UPON leaving Barcelona, Don Quixote turned to gaze back at the
spot where he had met with his downfall.
"Here," he said, "was Troy; here my ill luck and not my cowardice
robbed me of the glory I had won; here it was that fortune practiced
upon me her whims and caprices; here my exploits were dimmed; and
here, finally, my star set never to rise again."
"Master," said Sancho when he heard this, "brave hearts should be
patient in adversity just as they are joyous in prosperity. I am judging
by the way I feel about it myself, for when I was a governor I was
glad, but now that I am a squire and go on foot I am not sad. For I have
heard it said that what they call luck is a drunken wench who does not
know her own mind; above all, she is blind and so cannot see what she
is doing, nor does she know who it is she is overthrowing or exalting."
"You are quite a philosopher, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and you
speak words of wisdom; I am sure I do not know who has been your
teacher. But I can tell you one thing: that there is no such thing as luck
in this world, and whatever happens, whether it be good or bad, does not
occur by chance but through a special providence of Heaven; hence
the saying that each man is the architect of his own fortune.1 I was the
architect of mine, but I did not observe the necessary prudence, and as
a result my presumptuousness has brought me to a sorry end. I should
have reflected that Rocinante, weak as he is, could not withstand the
Knight of the White Moon's powerful steed. In short, I was too daring;
I did my best but I was overthrown. However, although I sacrificed
my honor, I cannot be accused of failing to keep my word. When I was
a knight-errant, valiant and bold, my deeds and the might of my arm
supported my reputation, and now that I am an ordinary squire I will
back up my word by keeping the promise I have given. Proceed, then,
friend Sancho. and let us go to fulfill the year of our novitiate in our
native province, for during that period of retirement we shall obtain
fresh strength, which will enable us to return to the profession of arms,
one that I never can forget"
"Sir," replied Sancho, "it is not so pleasant traveling on foot, and
I do not feel equal to any long marches. Suppose that we leave this armor
on a tree, in place of some hanged man, and then with me on the gray's
back and my feet off the ground, we will go as far at a stretch as your
Grace chooses; but there's no use expecting me to do it if I have to walk."
"That is a good idea, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Let my arms be
hung up as a trophy, and round about them on the trees we will carve
the inscription that was placed over those that Orlando had borne:
These let none move
Who dares not with Orlando his valor prove" 2
"All that," said Sancho, "strikes me as sound sense; and if it wasn't
that we'll be needing Rocinante along the road, it might be well to string
him up, too."
"But come to think of it," said Don Quixote, "I have no desire to hang
either him or the armor, lest it be said, 'For good service an ill reward.' " 3
"Your Grace is quite right," Sancho agreed, "for, according to the
opinion of the wise the fault of the ass is not to be attributed to the pack-
saddle. 4 Since it is your Grace that is to blame for what has happened,
punish yourself and do not be letting your anger out on that battered
and bloody suit of armor, nor on poor, meek Rocinante, nor on my
tender feet by trying to make them travel more than is right and proper."
In this and similar conversation they spent the whole of that day and
the four succeeding ones without anything happening to interrupt their
journey. On the fifth day, as they entered a village, they encountered
a great crowd of merrymakers at the door of an inn, for it was a feast
day. As Don Quixote approached them a peasant raised his voice and
called out, "One of those two gentlemen coming there, who do not
know the parties concerned, will tell us what is to be done with regard
to our wager."
"That I will gladly do," said Don Quixote, "and in all fairness, if I
can understand the matter."
"Well, then, good sir," said the peasant, "it is like this. One of the na-
tives of this village who is so fat that he weighs eleven arrobas 6 has
challenged a neighbor of his, who does not weigh more than five, to
run a race. The understanding was that they were to run a hundred paces,
their weights being equalized, and when the challenger was asked how
this was to be done, he replied that the other should put six arrobas of
iron on his back, which would even things between the fat man and the
lean one."
Before Don Quixote could reply, Sancho spoke up. "No," he said,
"that won't do. It is only a few days now since I quit being a governor
and a judge, as everybody knows, and so I am used to settling such
doubtful points and giving a verdict in all sorts of cases."
"Answer them, then, friend Sancho, by all means," said Don Quix-
ote, "since I am in no mood to give crumbs to a cat, 0 my mind is so ex-
cited and upset."
Having thus been granted permission, Sancho addressed himself to
the peasants, who were standing around open-mouthed, waiting to hear
his opinion.
"Brothers," he began, "what the fat man asks is unreasonable and
altogether unjust; for if it is true that the one who is challenged has a
right to choose the weapons, it is not proper for him to accept those
that will make it impossible for him to come out the winner. Accord-
ingly, it is my opinion that the fat challenger ought to trim, prune, cull,
peel off, and tidy up his flesh until he has taken off six arrobas here and
there on his body wherever he may think best, and in that manner,
being left with five arrobas, he will be on an equal footing with his
opponent and the race may be run with the odds even.
"Well, now, I swear," declared one of the peasants who had heard
what Sancho said, "this gentleman has spoken like a saint and given judg-
ment like a canon. But you can be sure that the fat one will not be will-
ing to part with a single ounce of flesh, much less six arrobas."
"The best thing would be for them not to run at all," said another.
"That way, the lean man will not be battered down under the load, and
the fat one will not have to part with his flesh. Lets spend half the
wager on wine and take these gentlemen to the tavern where they sell
the good stuff, 8 and upon my head be--the cloak when it rains.
"I thank you, gentlemen," replied Don Quixote, "but I cannot pause
for a moment; it is sad thoughts and unfortunate circumstances that com-
pel me to appear discourteous and be on my way with all possible speed.
Saying which, he gave Rocinante the spur and rode on, leaving the
crowd to marvel equally at the knight's strange figure and the wisdom
of his servant, for such they took Sancho to be.
"If the man," said one of the peasants, "is as wise as that,
what must
the master be! I'll lay you a bet that if they're going to Salamanca to
study, they will become court judges in no time at all; for it's a joke-
all you have to do is to study and study some more, have someone to
back you, and a little luck, and before you know it you find yourself
with a rod of justice in your hand or a miter on your head."
That night master and man spent in the fields, under the open sky,
and the next day, upon continuing their journey, they saw coming
toward them a man on foot with saddlebags about his neck and in his
hand a javelin or pike. In short, he was the very picture of a foot-courier,
and as he approached Don Quixote he quickened his pace and, coming
up to him half on the run, embraced his right thigh, for that was as far
as he could reach.
"O Senor Don Quixote de la Mancha," he exclaimed with a show of
great joy, "how happy at heart my lord the duke will be when he hears
that your Grace is returning to the castle! For he and the duchess are
still there."
"I do not recognize you, my friend," said Don Quixote, "unless you
see fit to tell me who you are."
"I," replied the courier, "am Tosilos, lackey to my lord the duke, the
one who refused to fight with your Grace over the marriage of Dona
Rodriguez' daughter."
"Why, God bless me!" said Don Quixote, "is it possible you are the
one whom my enemies the enchanters transformed into this lackey that
you say you are, in order to cheat me of the honor of winning that
battle?"
"No more of that talk, my good sir," said the courier. "There was no
enchantment about it, nor any change of appearance whatsoever. It
was as Tosilos the lackey that I entered and came out of the lists. I
liked the girl and thought that I could win her without fighting; but
things did not turn out that way, for just as soon as your Grace had
left our castle my lord the duke had them give me a hundred blows
with a club for having disobeyed his orders about the combat. The up-
shot of it all is: the girl has become a nun, Doha Rodriguez has gone back
to Castile, and I am now on my way to Barcelona with a packet of letters
from my master to the viceroy. If your Grace would like a wee drop,
I have here a gourd full of the best; 10 it's not very cold but it's good
wine, and I also have a few slices of Tronchdn cheese, which will serve
as the summoner and awakener of thirst if by any chance it is asleep." 11
"That suits me," said Sancho. "Let's not stand on ceremony, but let
the good Tosilos pour in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies."
"I must say, Sancho," remarked Don Quixote, "that you are the
biggest glutton on the face of the earth, and the biggest dunce besides
not to be able to see that this courier is enchanted and this Tosilos a false
one. Stay with him and drink your fill, and I will ride on very slowly
and wait for you to catch up with me."
With a laugh the lackey unsheathed 12 his gourd and brought out
the cheese and a small loaf of bread from the saddlebags, whereupon he
and Sancho seated themselves upon the greensward and most peaceably
and companionably proceeded to do away with the entire store of pro-
visions, exhibiting so hearty an appetite that they even licked the pack-
age of letters because it smelled of cheese.
"Undoubtedly, Sancho my friend," said Tosilos, "this master of yours
must be a madman."
"He owes no one anything," 18 replied Sancho, "especially when it
comes to the coin of madness. I can see it plainly enough, and I've told
him as much, but what good does it do--Above all, now that he's done
for; for he has been conquered by the Knight of the White Moon."
Tosilos then begged him to relate what had happened, but Sancho
replied that it would be discourteous to keep his master waiting, and
there would be time for that another day if they chanced to meet. And
shaking out his jacket and brushing the crumbs from his beard, he gave
Tosilos an adios and drove the gray forward until he came to where
the knight was sitting in the shade of a tree.
CHAPTER LXVII.
How Don Quixote resolved to turn shepherd and lead a rustic life
during the year for which he had given his promise, with other events
that are truly diverting and that make good reading .
IF Don Quixote had had a great deal on his mind before his downfall,
it was even worse afterward. There he sat in the shade of a tree, as
has been said, and thither like flies to honey thoughts came swarming
to sting and annoy him. Some of them had to do with Dulcmea s disen-
chantment, while others were concerned with his forced retirement.
As Sancho reached his master's side, he began praising the generosity
of the lackey Tosilos, whereupon Don Quixote said to him, "Is it pos-
sible, Sancho, that you still believe him to be a real lackey--You do not
seem to remember having seen Dulcinea converted and transformed into
a peasant lass and the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor Sanson
Carrasco, all of which was the work of those enchanters that persecute
me. But come now, tell me: did you ask this Tosilos as you call him
what, through God's will, has become of Altisidora, whether or not
she has wept over my absence or has already consigned to oblivion the
love thoughts that tortured her when I was present?"
"The things on my mind," replied Sancho, "had nothing to do with
asking foolish questions like that. Body of me! master, is your Grace in
any position to be inquiring into the thoughts of others, and especially
love thoughts?"
"Look, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there is a great deal of differ-
ence between those actions that are performed out of love and those
that are motivated by gratitude. A knight may well withhold his affec-
tions, but he cannot be ungrateful. Altisidora, it would seem, cared for
me deeply; she gave me those three kerchiefs, as you know; I she wept
when I departed; she heaped maledictions on my head and, casting mod-
esty aside, bewailed her fate in public; all of which is a sign that she
adores me, since lovers when angry usually end by cursing each other.
There was no hope I could give her, no treasure I could offer her, for
all that I have belongs to Dulcinea, and the treasure of knights-errant
is like that of the fairy folk: seeming but unreal. 2 All that I can give
her is a place in my memory, without prejudice to that which I reserve
for Dulcinea--the Dulcinea to whom you do so grievous a wrong by
your remissness in lashing yourself and punishing that flesh of yours
(would that I saw it eaten by wolves), which you would keep for the
worms rather than devote to the relief of that poor lady."
"Sir," Sancho answered him, "I cannot see what lashing my backside
has to do with the disenchanting of the enchanted; it's like saying 'If
you have a headache, rub ointment on your knees.' At any rate, I'll
venture to swear that in all the histories your Grace has read on the sub-
ject of knight-errantry you have never heard of a spell being removed
by such means. But however that may be, I'll see to whipping myself
whenever I happen to feel like it and when I have an opportunity to do
it with some comfort."
"God grant it may be so," said Don Quixote, "and may Heaven give
you the grace to remember the obligation you are under to aid my lady,
who is at the same time your lady, seeing that you belong to me."
With talk of this sort they jogged along until they came to the place
where they had been trampled by the bulls. Don Quixote recognized
it at once.
"This," he observed, "is the meadow where we fell in with those
gallant and gaily bedecked shepherds and shepherdesses who were en-
deavoring to imitate and restore the Arcadia of old, a novel idea and an
inspired one; and if you approve, Sancho, I would suggest that, at least
for the time that I have to live in retirement, we likewise turn shepherds.
I will purchase some sheep and all the other things that are necessary
to the pastoral life, taking for myself the name of 'the shepherd Quix-
otiz/ while you will be 'the shepherd Pancino.' Together we will roam
the hills, the woods, and the meadows, now singing songs and now com-
posing elegies, drinking the crystal water of the springs or that of the
clear running brooks or mighty rivers. The oaks will provide us with
an abundance of their delicious' fruit, 8 the hardwood trunks of the cork
trees will furnish us a seat, the willows will give us shade, the roses will
lend their perfume, and the spacious meadows will spread a myriad-
colored carpet for our feet; we shall breathe the clean, pure air, and
despite the darkness of the night the moon and stars will afford us illumi-
nation; song will be our joy, and we shall be happy even in our laments,
for Apollo will supply the inspiration for our verses and love will endow
us with conceits and we shall be everlastingly famous--not only in this
age but for all time to come.
"By God," exclaimed Sancho, "that kind of life squares and corners
with me. 4 And what's more, the moment they hear of it the bachelor
Sanson Carrasco and Master Nicholas the barber will want to do the
same thing and turn shepherds with us. I only hope to God the curate
also doesn't take it into his head to enter the fold, seeing that hes so
olly and fond of amusing himself."
"You are quite right," said Don Quixote, 'and the bachelor Sanson
Carrasco if he joins the flock, as I have no doubt he will, can call himself
'the shepherd Sansonino,' or, it may be, 'the shepherd Carrascon";
barber Nicholas can be 'Niculoso,'--just as old Boscan was known as
'Nemoroso.'--As for the curate, I do not know what we can call him
unless it is something derived from his title, such a 'the shepherd Curi-
ambro.' As for the shepherdesses whose lovers we shall be. we can pick
their names as we would pears, and since my lady has one that befits
a shepherdess as well as it does a princess, I need not trouble myself with
looking for anything better; but you, Sancho, may call yours whatever
you choose."
"I will simply call her 'Teresona,'" 7 said Sancho, "seeing
that her
real name is Teresa and she is big and fat. And, moreover, when I
come to sing her praises in my verses, I'll show how chaste my love is,
as I don't propose to go looking for fancy bread in other men's houses. 8
It will not be proper for the curate to have a shepherdess, since he must
set a good example, but as for the bachelor, his soul is in the palm of
his hand."
"God bless me!" cried Don Quixote, "what a life we are going
to lead,
Sancho my friend! What music we shall hear--the strains of reed
flutes, 9 Zamora bagpipes, tabors, timbrels, rebecs! And if amid all these
different varieties of music the albogues 10 also resound, then practically
all the pastoral instruments will be there."
"What are albogues?" inquired Sancho. "I never heard tell of them,
nor have I ever seen one in all my life."
"Albogues," replied Don Quixote, "are plates resembling brass candle-
sticks, which, when struck together on the empty or hollow side, make
a noise that, if not very agreeable or harmonious, is still not displeasing
to the ear and goes well with the rustic character of the bagpipe and
tabor. The name is a Moorish one, as are all those in our Castilian tongue
that begin with al, such as almohaza, almorzar, alfombra, alguacil,
alhucema, almacin, alcancta, and a few other similar ones. Our lan-
guage has only three such nouns that end in i, and they are borcegui
zaquizami, and maravedi. 12 As for alheli and alfaqui, 13 both the initial
al and the final i show them at once to be Arabic.
"If I speak of this, it is because I was reminded of it by the mention of
the word albogues. The fact that I myself, as you know, am something
of a poet will be of great assistance to us in perfecting ourselves in
this way of life, 14 and the bachelor Sanson Carrasco is a very fine one.
As for the curate I cannot say, but I will wager you that he must have a
bit of the poet in him, and Master Nicholas as well, no doubt, since all
barbers, or most of them at any rate, like to strum the guitar and im-
provise verses. In my songs I shall lament my separation from my loved
one, while you may sing your own praises as the constant lover; the
shepherd Carrascon will be the rejected swain, and the curate Curiam-
bro may choose whatever theme may suit him best. That way every-
thing will go very well with nothing left to be desired."
"Ah, master," said Sancho, "I am so unlucky I fear the day will never
come when I can lead such a life as that. Oh, what neat spoons I'll turn
out when I'm a shepherd! 15 What tidbits, creams, garlands, and pastoral
odds and ends! 16 If they don't look upon me as a wise man, I'll at least
get a reputation for being ingenious! My daughter Sanchica will bring
us our dinner to the sheepfold--but wait a minute! She's good-looking
and the shepherds are not so simple-minded after all; they have plenty
of mischief in them, and I would not have her go for wool and come
back shorn. 17 You will find love-making and evil passions in the fields
as in the cities, in shepherds' huts as well as in royal palaces. Do away
with the cause, you do away with the sin; 18 if the eyes don't see, the
heart will not break; 19 and escape from the slaughter is worth more than
good men's prayers." 20
"That will be enough of your proverbs, Sancho ," said Don Quixote,
"since any one of those you have quoted is sufficient to express your
thought. Many times have I advised you not to be so prodigal in your
use of them and to observe some degree of moderation, but it appears
to be like preaching in the desert: 'My mother whips me and I keep
right on.' " 21
"Your Grace," remarked Sancho, "puts me in mind of the proverb:
'Said the frying pan to the kettle, get away, black-eyes.' 12 You scold
me for doing it, and you start stringing them yourself.
"Mark you, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "when I bring them in
they are to the purpose and fit the subject like a ring on the finger;
whereas you, in place of introducing them, drag them in by the hair
of the head. If I remember rightly, I have told you once before tha
proverbs are concise maxims drawn from the wisdom and experience
of our elders, and the saying that is not appropnate is simply nonsensical.
However, no more of this, for darkness is coming on. Let us retire some
little distance from the highway to a place where we may spend the
night God knows what tomorrow will bring."
They did so, and had a late supper and a bad one, at which Sancho was
greatly put out. He could not help thinking of the hardships of knight-
errantry as experienced in the woods and wilds, even though one occa-
sionally met with abundance in homes and castles, as in the houses of
Don Diego de Miranda and Don Antonio Moreno and at the wedding of the
rich Camacho. But, he reflected, it could not be always day or always
night, and so he spent that particular night in sleeping, while his
master kept vigil.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
Of the bristly adventure that befell Don Quixote.
THE night was rather dark. The moon, true enough, was in the sky
but not anywhere to be seen; for my lady Diana upon occasion goes
for a little stroll in the antipodes, leaving the hills in blackness and the
valleys devoid of light. Don Quixote complied with the demands of
nature by yielding to his first sleep but not to his second, in which respect
he differed from his squire, who never had a second sleep since his first
one lasted from night until morning, showing what a good constitution
he had and how few cares. Don Quixote's anxieties, on the other hand,
kept him awake, to such an extent that he aroused Sancho.
"It amazes me, Sancho," he said, "to see how unconcerned you are. I
think you must be made of marble or solid brass without any trace of
feeling whatsoever. Here I keep vigil while you sleep, I weep while you
sing, I am faint from hunger while you are sluggish and exhausted from
pure gluttony. Good servants ought to share the sufferings of their
masters and feel for them, if only for the sake of appearances. Behold
the calmness of the night and this solitude round about us which invites
us to break our sleep by a vigil of some sort. And so, as you live, bestir
yourself, go off some little distance from here, and with right good will
and courage cheerfully lay on three or four hundred lashes of those that
you owe toward Dulcinea's disenchantment.
"I put this in the form of a request, having no desire to come to grips
with you as I did the other time, for I know what strength you have
in your arms. And then, after you have done this, we will spend the rest
of the night singing as I lament my separation and you praise your lover's
constancy. In this manner we may at once begin that pastoral life we
mean to follow when we reach our own village."
"Master," replied Sancho, "I am no monk to be getting up in the mid-
dle of my sleep and disciplining myself, nor do I think I would feel
much like singing after the pain I would suffer from the whipping
--you can't go from one extreme to another like that. So, let me sleep,
your Grace, and do not trouble me about the lashes, or you'll make me
swear never to touch a hair of my smock, much less my flesh."
"O hardhearted one!" cried Don Quixote. "O pitiless squire! O what
ingratitude for the ill-bestowed bread of mine you have eaten and the
favors I have shown and expected to show you! It was through me that
you became a governor, and it is owing to me that you may hope soon
to become a count or to obtain some title of equal worth; for the ful-
fillment of that promise will not be long delayed once this year has
passed, I since I--post tenebras spero lucem."
"I don't know anything about that," said Sancho. "All I know is that
while I am asleep I have neither fear nor hope nor troubles nor any
concern about glory. Blessings on the one who invented sleep, the cloak
that covers all human thoughts, the food that relieves hunger, the water
that quenches thirst, the fire that keeps the cold away, the cold that
tempers heat--in short, the common currency with which all things are
bought, the weight and balance that makes the shepherd equal to the
king and that puts the fool on an equal footing with the wise man. There
is only one fault to be found with sleep, according to what I've heard,
and that is the fact that it resembles death; for between a sleeping man
and a dead one there is very little difference." 3
"Never, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "have I heard you use such pol-
ished language as now, which leads me to recognize the truth of the
proverb you sometimes quote: 'Not with whom you are bred, but with
whom you are fed.' " 4
"Ha! master," exclaimed Sancho, "upon my word, I'm not the one
who's stringing proverbs now; they also drop from your Grace s mouth
in pairs and faster than they do from mine. The only thing is that be-
tween my sayings and yours there is this difference: yours are always
timely and my own are not; but they are all proverbs just the same.
At this point they heard a kind of subdued roar, a harsh and grating
sound that spread through all the valleys. Don Quixote at once stood
up and laid his hand upon his sword, while Sancho crouched beneath
the gray, placing the bundle of armor on one side of him and the pack-
saddle on the other; for he was quite as alarmed as his master was ex-
cited, and was trembling all over. The noise grew in volume as it came
near the terrified pair-at least one of them was terrified; as for the
other, his valor is well known.
The truth of the matter was, some men were driving to the fair in
than six hundred pigs and were continuing their ,ourney even at that
hour; and so great was the din the animals created with their grunting
and snorting that it deafened the ears of Don Quixote and Sancho, who
could not make out what it was. Meanwhile, the grunting herd rushed
onward, fanning out far and wide, and without any respect for Don
Quixote's person or that of Sancho, either, it passed over both of them,
knocking down Sancho's intrenchments, unseating the knight, and
sweeping Rocinante off his feet. The trampling, the grunting, and the
speed with which the filthy beasts came on threw everybody and every-
thing into confusion and on the ground: the packsaddle, the armor, the
ass, Rocinante, Sancho, Don Quixote, and all the rest. Picking himself
up as best he could, Sancho asked his master for the sword, saying he
wished to slaughter half a dozen of these gentry, these impolite pigs (for
by this time he had realized what they were).
"Let them be, my friend," said Don Quixote, "seeing this is but the
penalty for my sin; for Heaven justly decrees as punishment for a van-
quished knight-errant that he shall be eaten by jackals, stung by wasps,
and trampled by swine."
"In that case," said Sancho, "Heaven's way of punishing the squires
of vanquished knights must be to have them bitten by flies, eaten up
with lice, and attacked by hunger. If we were the sons of those we serve
or very near relatives, it would not be so strange if we were to suffer
the punishment for their misdeeds even to the fourth generation; but
what, after all, have the Panzas to do with the Quixotes--Oh, well, let's
settle ourselves again and get what little sleep is left us this night, for
God will send the dawn and we will make out somehow."
"Go ahead and sleep, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "since you were
born for that purpose. As for me, I was born to keep vigil; and in the
time that remains between now and morning I propose to give rein to
my longings and find outlet for them in a little madrigal which, without
your knowing anything about it, I composed last night."
"If you ask me," replied Sancho, "longings that lead one to make
verses can't amount to very much. So, versify all you like, your Grace,
and I will get what sleep I can." Saying this, he took what space
he re-
quired and, huddling down, fell into a dreamless slumber undisturbed
by bond or debt or trouble of any kind.
Whereupon, leaning against the trunk of a beech--or it may have
been a cork tree, for Cid Hamete Benengeli is not definite on the point
--Don Quixote began singing the following air to the accompaniment
of his own sighs:
Love, when I pause to think
Of the terrible wound that thou hast dealt to me,
To the haven of death I'd flee
And let my troubles in oblivion sink.
But as the port l near,
Sailing a sea of woe to my anodyne,
Such wondrous joy is mine
That life once more doth live and finds me here.
Life, then, it is that slays
And death restores to me the one l hate--
O strange, unheard-of fate
That juggles life and death and with me plays! 8
Each of these verses was accompanied by many sighs and not a few
tears, as if the singer's heart were transfixed with grief over his down-
fall and his separation from Dulcinea.
Day finally came, and as the rays of the sun fell on Sancho s eyes he
awoke, roused and shook himself, and stretched his sluggish limbs. Be-
holding the damage which the pigs had done to his pantry, he cursed
the drove in no uncertain terms. Then the two of them took to the road
again, and along toward sunset they saw coming toward them about
ten men on horseback and four or five on foot. Don Quixote's heart
gave a leap and Sancho once more was frightened, for the men who
were approaching carried lances and bucklers and appeared to be war-
riors.
"If it were permitted me, Sancho," said Don Quixote, to make use
of my weapons, if my promise did not keep my arms tied, that crew
coming there would be but cakes and gingerbread for me.* But it may
be something other than what we fear.
By this time those on horseback were upon them, and without saying
a word they surrounded Don Quixote, pointing their upraised spears at
his back and bosom and threatening him with death. Putting a finger
to his mouth by way of signifying that silence was called for, one of the
men on foot then seized Rocinante's bridle and led him out of the road,
while his companions drove Sancho and the gray before them, pre-
serving an astonishing silence all the while, as they followed in the
tracks of Don Quixote and his guide. Two or three times the knight
started to inquire where they were taking him and what they wanted
him, but no sooner had he begun to move his lips than his abductors
threatened to close them with their lance points. The same thing hap
pened with Sancho: the moment he showed signs of talking, one of the
foot attendants would prick him with a goad, and the gray as well, just
as if he too were about to speak.
As night closed in upon them they quickened their pace, and the two
prisoners were more afraid than ever, especially when they heard the
men saying to them every now and then, "Get on with you, you
troglodytes! Be quiet, barbarians! Pay the price, you cannibals! No
complaints, you Scythians! Keep your eyes shut, you murderous Po-
lyphemuses, you flesh-eating lions!"
These and other similar epithets tortured the ears of the wretched
master and man and caused Sancho to mutter to himself, "So, we are
tortolites, are we--So, we are barbers and clouts, bitches that you say
'come, come' to--7 I don't like those names at all; it's a bad wind for
thrashing our corn ; 8 misfortune comes upon us all at once like blows
on a dog's back, 9 and I only hope this unlucky adventure that threatens
us will lead to nothing worse than blows."
As for Don Quixote, he was dumfounded by it all, being at his wits'
end to make out what the purpose of this vicious name-calling could be.
The only thing of which he was certain was that no good could come of
it and there was much to be feared. And then, about an hour past mid-
night, they arrived at a castle which was quite familiar to him, for it was
that of the duke where he had stayed not long before.
"God bless me!" he cried as soon as he recognized the edifice, "and
what is the meaning of this--Here is a house in which all is courtesy and
graciousness, but for the vanquished good turns into evil and evil into
something worse."
Upon entering the principal courtyard of the castle, they found it
fitted out in such a manner as to add to their astonishment and increase
their fears twofold, as will be seen in the following chapter.
CHAPTER LXIX.
Of the strangest and most extraordinary adventure that has befallen
Don Quixote in the entire course of this great history.
THE horsemen dismounted and together with those on foot at once
and in great haste picked up Sancho and Don Quixote bodily and car-
ried them into the courtyard. There nearly a hundred torches, fixed in
their sockets, were flaring, while the adjoining galleries were illuminated
bv more than five hundred lamps, as a result of which, despite the fact
that the night was somewhat overcast, the absence of daylight was not
noticed. In the middle of the courtyard a funeral mound about two yards
high had been reared, completely covered by an enormous black velvet
canopy, and on the steps leading up to it more than a hundred white
wax tapers in silver candlesticks were shedding their glow. Upon this
catafalque lay the lifeless body of a maiden, so lovely as to make even
death itself seem beautiful. Her head rested upon a brocade pillow and
was crowned with a plaited garland of sweet-smelling flowers of various
sorts; her hands were folded over her bosom and between them was a
a bough of the yellow palm of victory.
At one side of the patio was a stage with two chairs on which were seat-
ed two personages who, from the crowns upon their heads and the scep-
ters in their hands, appeared to be kings, whether real ones or not. This
stage also was reached by steps, and beside it were two other seats,
where those who were carrying the prisoners now deposited Don Quixote
and Sancho, preserving a dead silence as they did so and giving the
knight and his squire to understand by means of signs that they too were
to say nothing. The captives, however, would have been silent even with-
out this admonition, for the astonishment they felt at all the things
they beheld was more than sufficient to render them tongue-tied.
Two persons of obvious importance accompanied by a large retinue then
mounted the stage, and Don Quixote at once recognized them as his hosts,
the duke and duchess. They seated themselves upon two richly adorned
chairs alongside the two individuals who looked the part of kings, all
of which was cause enough for amazement, not to mention the fact that
the knight had discovered the dead woman upon the catafalque to be none
other than the beauteous Altisidora. Who would not have been amazed?
As the duke and duchess mounted the stage, Don Quixote and Sancho
rose and made a profound obeisance, the ducal pair replying with a slight
inclination of their heads. An officer thereupon crossed the courtyard
and, going up to Sancho, threw over him a black buckram robe with
flames painted on it, and removing the squire's cap he replaced it with
a miter of the kind that those under sentence from the Holy Office wear,
at the same time whispering in his ear that he was not to open his lips
or they would gag him or possibly put him to death. Surveying himself
from head to foot, Sancho saw that he was all aflame, but inasmuch as
the flames did not burn him he did not give a rap for them. He took
off his miter, and when he saw there were devils painted on it he put it
back on again.
"So far so good," he muttered. "Those haven't scorched me
yet
and these haven't carried me off."
Don Quixote also looked him over, and although he was frightened
out of his wits he could not help laughing at the figure that Sancho
cut. Then, seemingly from beneath the catafalque, there came the low
and pleasing sound of flutes, which, unaccompanied by any human voice
(for here silence's self kept silent), produced an effect that was at once
gentle and amorous; and suddenly, beside the pillow where the head
of the "corpse" reclined, there appeared a handsome youth clad like
an ancient Roman who, to the sound of a harp which he himself played,
began singing in a very sweet, clear voice the two stanzas that follow:
While in this court 'where magic doth hold sway
The fair Altisidora seeks the light
('Twas Don Quixote's cruelty did slay
The hapless maid); while ladies all bedight
In goat-hair garments 2 celebrate the day,
With dour duennas dressing for the rite
In robes of baize and wool, my harp Pll play
Better than Thracian bard--to hymn her plight.
And not in life alone be this my theme,
But when my tongue in death is cold and still,
I mean to raise my voice and thus redeem
The debt l owe thee, with a right good will.
Free of its prison cell, on Stygian stream
My constant soul shall try its singing skill
In odes to tbee, and in that hour supreme
Roll back oblivion's waters, dark and chill.
"That will do " said one of the "kings" at this point; "proceed no
further, divine singer, as it would be an endless task to portray for us
now the death and all the graces of the peerless Altisidora. For she is not
dead as the ignorant ones think, but lives on by the tongue of fame and
through the penance which Sancho Panza here present must endure in
order to restore her to the light of this world. And so, O Rhadamanthus,
thou who dost sit in judgment with me in Pluto's murky pit, R seeing thou
dost know all that the inscrutable Fates have decreed in regard to the
manner in which this damsel is to be revived, do thou tell us at once
in order that the hoped-for boon be no longer deferred."
No sooner had Minos, his fellow judge, said this than Rhadamanthus
rose to his feet. "Ho!" he cried, "you officers of this household, great
and small, of high and low degree, come one and all and imprint on
Sancho's face twenty-four smacks, 6 and give him besides a dozen pinches
and half a dozen pinpricks in his back and arms; for upon this ceremony
Altisidora 's salvation is dependent."
Hearing this, Sancho broke his silence at last. "I swear," he said,
"I'd just as soon turn Moor as let this face of mine be slapped or mis-
treated! Body of me! What has that to do with the resurrection of this
damsel--The old woman was fond of blites ... 7 They enchant Dul-
cinea and flog me to disenchant her. Altisidora dies of the sickness God
sends her, and to bring her back to life they have to give me a couple
of dozen smacks, make a sieve of my body with pinpricks, and raise
welts on my arms with their pinches. Try those jokes on your brother-
in-law; 8 I'm an old dog and it's no use saying tus, tus to me." 9
"Thou shalt die!" shouted Rhadamanthus at the top of his voice.
"Re-
lent, thou tiger! Humble thyself, haughty Nimrod! Suffer and be si-
lent, seeing that nothing impossible is asked of thee, and complain not
of the hardships involved in this matter. Smacked thou shalt be, pricked
full of holes, and pinched until thou dost groan with pain. What, ho,
officers! Carry out my behest or ye shall see for what it was ye were
born."
At this moment a procession of as many as six duennas was to be
seen crossing the courtyard. Four of them wore spectacles and all had
their right hands raised with four inches of wrist showing, by way of
making them seem longer as is the present fashion. 10 As soon as he
caught sight of them Sancho began bellowing like a bull.
"I might allow myself to be manhandled by anybody else," he said,
"but to think that I am going to let duennas touch me--nothing of the
sort! Cat-claw my face as they did my master's in this very castle, run
my body through with burnished dagger points, nip my arms with red-
hot pincers--I'll bear it all patiently to please these gentlefolk; but the
devil take me if I let duennas lay hands on me!"
It was Don Quixote's turn to break silence now. "Be patient, my
son," he said. "Comply with the wishes of these gentlemen, and thank
Heaven there is lodged in your person such virtue that through the
martyrdom of your flesh you are able to disenchant the enchanted and
resurrect the dead."
As the duennas approached him Sancho became more quiet and tract-
able, and, settling himself comfortably in his chair, he held up his face
and beard to the first comer, who gave him a resounding smack, fol-
lowed by a low bow.
"Less bowing and scraping, Senora Duenna," he said, "and less paint
and lotions 11 for, by God, your hands smell of vinegar water." 12
To make a long story short, all the duennas slapped him and many
other members of the household pinched him, but the thing he could
not stand was the pinpricks. When it came to that, he rose from his
chair with a show of anger and, seizing a lighted torch that stood near
by, began laying about him among the duennas and all his other tor-
mentors, crying, "Away with you, ministers of Hell! I am not made of
brass so that I do not feel such unusual torture as this!"
Then it was that Altisidora, who must have been tired of lying on
her back for so long a time, turned over on her side, beholding which,
all the bystanders shouted, with one voice as it were, "Altisidora is alive!
Altisidora lives!" And Rhadamanthus commanded Sancho to forego his
wrath, seeing that their purpose had now been achieved.
When Don Quixote saw Altisidora stirring, he fell on his knees before
Sancho.
"O son of my loins," he said, "for I will not call you squire, now is
the time for you to give yourself a few of those lashes that you owe
toward Dulcinea's disenchantment. Now, I repeat, is the time, when the
virtue that is in you is ripe and may efficaciously accomplish the good
that is expected of you."
"That," said Sancho, "to my mind, is trick upon trick and not honey
on pancakes. It would be a fine thing to have lashes on top of pinches,
slaps, and prickings! You might as well take a big stone, tie it around
my neck, and throw me into a well; it doesn't make much difference to
me if in order to cure other people's ills I have to be the cow at the
wedding. 18 Leave me alone or by God I'll throw everything over, no
matter what happens." 14
Altisidora by now had risen to a sitting posture upon the bier, and at
that very instant there was a blare of flutes and flageolets, and all
those present cried out, "Long live Altisidora! Long live Altisidora!"
The duke and duchess and the kings Minos and Rhadamanthus then
rose, and all of them together, with Don Quixote and Sancho, advanced
to receive the maiden and take her down from the catafalque. Acting
like one who had just recovered from a swoon, she bowed to the ducal
pair and to the kings, and then, with a sidewise glance at Don Quixote,
she said, "May God forgive you, heartless knight, for thanks to your
cruelty I have been in the other world more than a thousand years as
it seems to me. As for you, O most compassionate of all the squires in
this world, I thank you for the life I now possess! From this day forth,
friend Sancho, you may look upon as yours six chemises of mine which
I am presenting to you that you may make yourself as many shirts; and
if some of them are a little ragged, at least all of them are clean."
Doffing his miter, Sancho knelt and kissed her hand in return for
this favor, and the duke then ordered them to relieve him of that head-
piece, and his flamc-covered robe as well, and to restore his cap and
jacket. Sancho, however, begged to be allowed to keep the accouter-
ments, saying he wished to take them back to his own country as a
memento of this most extraordinary event, and the duchess replied that
he might do so, adding that he already had reason to know what a great
friend of his she was. And, finally, the duke directed that the courtyard
be cleared and all should retire to their rooms, with Don Quixote and
Sancho being conducted to the ones they had formerly occupied.
CHAPTER LXX.
Which follows the sixty-ninth and treats of matters that cannot
be omitted if this history is to be clearly understood.
SANCHO slept that night on a truckle bed I in Don Quixote's cham-
ber. This he would gladly have avoided if he could have, for he knew
very well that his master would keep him awake answering questions and
he was in no mood for an extended conversation; the pain that he still
felt from his recent martyrdom interfered with the free exercise of his
tongue, and as a result he would rather have slept alone in a hovel than
in this sumptuous room with company of any sort. His apprehensions
proved to be justified, for his master began talking the moment they were
in bed.
"What do you think, Sancho, of what happened this evening--Great
and mighty is the power wielded by one who is scornful in love; for you
with your own eyes have seen Altisidora lying there dead, slain not by
arrows, or sword, or any warlike weapon, and not by any deadly poison,
but solely by thought of the unrelenting disdain that I have always shown
her."
"She's welcome to die any time she likes," replied Sancho, "for I didn't
make her fall in love and I never in all my life disdained her. As I have
said once before, I fail to see what the saving of Altisidora, a maid more
whimsical than she is sensible, has to do with the tormenting of Sancho
Panza. Now I begin to perceive, clearly and distinctly, that there are
such things as enchanters and enchantments in this world, and God de-
liver me from them since I cannot free myself. But no more of that. I
beg your Grace to let me sleep and not ask me any more questions, unless
you want me to throw myself out the window."
"Sleep, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "providing the pinpricks
and pinches you received and the slaps they gave you will let you do so."
"There is no pain," said Sancho, "that can equal those insulting smacks,
if for no other reason than that they were given me by those confounded
duennas. But again I beg you: let me sleep; for sleep is relief from misery
to those who are miserable when they are awake."
So be it, said Don Quixote, "and God keep you company."
The two of them then dropped off ; and Cid Hamete, the author of this
great history, takes the opportunity thus afforded him to explain how it
was the duke and duchess came to devise the elaborate plot that has been
described. It appears that the bachelor Sanson Carrasco had not forgotten
how the Knight of the Mirrors had been conquered and overthrown by
Don Quixote, an event that had upset all his plans, and he had, accord-
ingly, wished to try his hand again, hoping for better luck the next time.
From the page who brought the letter and gift to Teresa Panza, Sancho's
wife, he had learned where the knight was and had then once more pro-
vided himself with weapons and a horse, taking care to have a white moon
painted on his shield. He had transported the armor upon the back of
a mule, led by a peasant and not by Tome Cecial, his former squire, who
fnight be recognized by Sancho or his master.
Upon reaching the duke's castle, he was informed of the road that Don
Quixote had taken with the object of participating in the tournament
at Saragossa. He also learned of the jokes that had been played upon the
knight in connection with Dulcinea's disenchantment, which was to
be accomplished at the expense of Sancho's backside. Finally, the duke
told him of the trick the squire had played in making his master believe
that Dulcinea was under a magic spell and had been transformed into
a peasant lass, and how the duchess had ended by convincing Sancho that
he was the one that was deceived since Dulcinea really was enchanted.
The bachelor marveled at all this and laughed over it no little as he
thought of Sancho's shrewdness combined with his simple-mindedness
and the extremes to which Don Quixote's madness was capable of carry-
ing him.
The duke requested him, if he found the knight, and whether he suc-
ceeded in overcoming him or not, to return and let them know how
things turned out. Promising to do so, the bachelor took his departure.
Not encountering Don Quixote in Saragossa, he went on, with the result
that has already been set forth. Going back to the castle, he gave the
duke a full account of the combat, with the conditions that had been
laid down, adding that, being a good knight-errant and bent upon keep-
ing his word, the vanquished one was already on his way back to his
native village, where he was to remain for a year, in which time it might
be that he would be cured of his madness; for this, after all, said the
bachelor, was what had led to the assuming of these disguises on his part,
since he looked upon it as a pity that so well-intentioned a gentleman
should be so insane. With this, he took his leave once more and went on
to the village to wait there for Don Quixote, who was coming along the
road behind him.
It was then that the duke took occasion to play this joke, so great was
the pleasure he derived from everything that had to do with the pair.
Sending out a host of retainers on foot and on horseback along all the
roads far and near and in every direction from which he thought
Don Quixote might be approaching, he gave them orders in case they
found the knight to bring him to the castle, either of his own free will or
by force. When they came upon him, the servants advised their master
of the fact, and, having already decided on all that was to be done, as
soon as he received this message the duke ordered that the torches and
lamps in the courtyard be lighted and thaf Altisidora be placed upon the
funeral mound with all the pomp and ceremony previously mentioned,
all of which was done so skillfully and in so lifelike a manner that it was
the next thing to reality itself.
Here, Cid Hamete remarks, it is his personal opinion that the jesters
were as crazy as their victims and that the duke and duchess were not
two fingers' breadth removed from being fools when they went to so
much trouble to make sport of the foolish.
As for these latter, one of them was sleeping soundly and the other
was still keeping vigil with his aimless thoughts when daylight came
upon them, bringing with it the desire to rise; for whether he was the
victor or the vanquished Don Quixote was not slothful and never took
a delight in wallowing in the feathers. No sooner was he awake than
Altisidora, upon the bidding of her master and mistress, entered the
room. To him she was as one returned from the dead, for she wore the
same garland as when she lay upon the bier, being clad in a robe of white
taffeta with gold flowers; with hair loose-flowing over her shoulders, she
leaned upon a cane of very fine black ebony.
Greatly embarrassed by her presence in his chamber, Don Quixote
huddled down in the bed, covering himself almost entirely with the
sheets and counterpane. Too tongue-tied to speak, he was unable to show
her any courtesy whatever. She sat down upon a chair at the head of
his bed and, heaving a deep sigh, addressed him in a faint voice but one
filled with emotion,
'When women of high station," she said, "and modest, retiring damsels
trample on their honor and give free rein to their tongues, breaking
through all obstacles to publish abroad the inmost secrets of their hearts,
they are indeed in dire straits. I, Senor Don Quixote, am one of these,
hard pressed and overcome by love but, for all of that, so long-suffering
and modest that silence broke my heart and I died. Slain by thought of
the stern manner in which you have treated me, stonyhearted knight--
Oh, harder far than marble to my plaint! 2--
I lay dead for two whole days, judging from what I was told by those
that looked upon me. And had it not been that love took pity on me,
finding a remedy for me in the tortures laid on this worthy squire, I
should still be in the other world."
"Love," said Sancho, "might very well have laid them on my donkey
instead, and I'd have thanked him for it. But tell me, my lady--and may
Heaven provide you with a softer-hearted lover than my master--what
did you see in that other world--What is there in Hell, anyway--For,
of course, that is where you have to go when you die in despair."
"To tell you the truth," replied Altisidora, "I do not think
that I died
completely since I did not enter Hell, for once I had done so I should
never have been able to leave no matter how much I wished to. The fact
is, I only went as far as the gate, where I saw about a dozen devils play-
ing a game of tennis. They were dressed in breeches and doublets and
wore Walloon collars trimmed with Flemish bone-lace, with ruffles of
the same material that served them as cuffs and with four inches of their
arms sticking out in order to make their hands, which carried blazing
rackets, appear longer than they were. 3 But what amazed me more than
this was the fact that, in place of tennis balls, they made use of what
appeared to be books filled with wind and rubbish, which was something
strange and marvelous to behold. And I was still further astonished to
note that, whereas it is natural for the winners in a game to be glad and
the losers sorry, in this case all those that took part were growling,
snarling, and cursing all the time."
"That is not to be wondered at," said Sancho, "for, whether they play
games or not and whether they win or lose, devils are never satisfied."
"That must be the way it is," agreed Altisidora, "but there is another
thing that surprises me, or surprised me then, and that is the fact that no
ball was of any use a second time, and it was wonderful to see the con-
stant succession of books, new and old. To one of the brand-new volumes,
which was very well bound, they gave such a whack that they knocked
the insides out of it and sent the leaves flying in all directions. 'Just see
what book that is,' said a devil to his companion, and the other devil re-
plied, 'This is the Second Part of the History of Don Quixote de la
Mancha, written not by Cid Hamete, the original author, but by an
Aragonese who, according to his own account, is a native of Tordesillas.'
"'Take it away,' said the other. 'Throw it into the bottomless pit
so
I shan't have to see it.'
"'Is it as bad as all that?'
"'It is so bad,' said the first devil, 'that if I had deliberately set myself
to write a worse one, I shouldn't have been able to achieve it.'
"They then went on with their game, batting about other books, but,
for my part, on hearing the name of Don Quixote whom I so adore, I
made up my mind then and there to remember this vision I had seen.''
"It must undoubtedly have been a vision,'' said Don Quixote, "seeing
there is no other in the world who bears that name. The history you
speak of has been going from hand to hand for some time but does not
stay long anywhere, for everybody gives it a kick and has done with it.
I am not disturbed to hear that I am wandering about in fantastic garb
in the infernal regions just as I do in the light above, for I am not the
one of whom that history treats. If it by chance is a true, faithful, and
worthy account, then it will live for ages, but if it is bad, it will not
be a far step for it from the cradle to the grave."
Altisidora was about to go on with her reproaches addressed to Don
Quixote when he interrupted her. "Lady," he said, "I have told you many
times how it grieves me that you should have fastened your affections
upon me, since I am not in a position to give you anything but gratitude
in return. I was born to belong to Dulcinea del Toboso, and the Fates, if
Fates there be, have set me aside for her. Accordingly, to think that the
beauty of another can make any impression upon my heart is vain indeed.
This frankness on my part should be sufficient to induce you to retire
within the bounds of your modesty, as no one is under any obligation
to do that which is impossible."
Hearing this, Altisidora became angry and excited. "By the living God,
Don Codfish!" she cried. "Soul of a brass mortar, date-stone harder and
more obdurate than an ignorant rustic when you ask him to do you a
favor and he has made up his mind to the contrary! Just let me throw
myself on you and I'll scratch your eyes out! Do you perhaps think, Don
Vanquished, Don Cudgeled, that it was for you I died--All that you saw
last night was pretense. I am not the woman to let the black of my nail
suffer for such a camel as you, not to speak of dying for you!"
"That I can well believe," said Sancho, "for this business of people
dying from love is something to laugh at. They may talk about it, but
when it comes to doing it--tell that to Judas!" 4
While they were conversing, the musician, singer, and poet who had
rendered the verses given above came in. "Sir Knight," he said with a
profound obeisance to Don Quixote, "will your Grace be so good as to
count me among your most faithful servants--For l have long been a
great admirer of yours and of your famous exploits."
"Will your Grace kindly tell me who you are," said the knight, "that
I may show you the courtesy that is your due?"
The youth thereupon informed him that he was the panegyrist of the
night before.
"I must say,' replied Don Quixote, "that your Grace has an excellent
voice, although what you sang did not appear to me to be very much
to the purpose; for what have Garcilaso's stanzas to do with this lady's
death?" 8
"Your Grace need not wonder at that," said the musician. "Among the
unshorn poets 6 of our day it is customary for each one to write as he
pleases and steal from anyone he chooses, whether his borrowings be to
the point or not, 7 and there is no absurdity that may not be attributed
to poetic license."
Don Quixote was about to make a reply but was interrupted by the
entrance of the duke and duchess, who had come to pay him a visit.
They had a long and agreeable conversation, in the course of which
Sancho made so many droll remarks, and mischievous ones as well, as to
leave the lord and lady of the house wondering alike at his sharp-
wittedness and his simplicity. Don Quixote begged them to grant him
permission to depart that same day, as it was more becoming for van-
quished knights like him to dwell in pigsties than in royal palaces. His
hosts very amiably acceded to this request, and the duchess then inquired
if Altisidora was in his good graces.
"My lady," he replied, "I can assure you that this damsel's affliction is
solely due to idleness, the remedy for which is constant and honorable
employment. She has just informed me that they wear lace in Hell, and
inasmuch as she is skilled at making it, she should keep her hands occu-
pied; for when she is busy moving the bobbins back and forth, images of
that which she desires will not go flitting across her mind. It is the truth
I speak, or such is my opinion and my advice ." 8
"And mine too," put in Sancho, "for in all my life I never knew a lace-
maker that died for love. Young ladies who are busy have their minds
on their work and not on their lovers. I speak from experience, for when
I'm busy with the spade I never think of my old woman--I mean my
Teresa Panza--although I love her better than I do my own eyelashes."
"You are quite right, Sancho," said the duchess, "and I will see that my
Altisidora is kept occupied from now on at some kind of needlework,
for she is exceedingly clever at it."
"There is no need, my lady," said Altisidora, "of your resorting to
that remedy, for the thought of the cruel way in which this scoundrelly
vagabond has treated me will efface him from my memory without hav-
ing recourse to any other means. With your Highnesses' permission, I
should like to leave this room in order that my eyes may not have to be-
hold his mournful countenance, his ugly and abominable features."
"That," observed the duke, "reminds me of the saying:
For he 'who doth rave, and insults shout y
Is very near forgiving." 9
Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief as if to wipe the tears away,
Altisidora then rose and, with a curtsy to her master and mistress, went
out the door.
"Bad luck go with you, poor damsel," said Sancho, "bad luck, I say;
for you've fallen in with a soul of matweed and a heart of oak. Now,
if it had been me, faith, and another cock would have crowed for you."
This brought an end to the conversation, and Don Quixote proceeded
to dress himself, had dinner with his hosts, and took his leave that after-
noon.
CHAPTER LXXI.
Of what befell I Don Quixote and his squire Sancho
on the way to their village.
AS THE vanquished and deeply afflicted Don Quixote went his way,
he was, on the one hand, overly sad, and, on the other, very happy. His
sadness was due to his defeat, while his happiness lay in thinking of the
virtue his squire had shown he possessed by resurrecting Altisidora, al-
though it must be admitted he had some difficulty in persuading him-
self that the lovelorn maiden had really been dead. As for Sancho, he
found no cause for rejoicing but was downcast because the damsel had
failed to keep her word and give him the chemises.
As he kept going over this in his mind, he turned to his master and
said, "Really, sir, I am the most unlucky doctor in all the world. There's
many a one that kills the patient he treats, yet insists on being paid even
though all he does is write out a prescription for certain medicines which
the apothecary not he--makes up, and in this way he wheedles the
sick man out of it. 2 With me, the health of another costs me drops of
blood, slaps, pinches, pinpricks, and lashes, and I don't get a penny for it.
But I swear, if they bring me any more, they'll have to grease my palm
before I cure them; for it is by singing that the abbot gets his dinner, 8
and I can't believe that Heaven has bestowed this power on me in order
that I should pass it on to others for nothing."
"You are right, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote. "It was very
wrong of Altisidora not to have given you the chemises she promised
you. It is true, the virtue that is in you is gratis data, having cost you no
effort other than that involved in receiving the torments inflicted on
your person; but, nevertheless, I can tell you that, so far as I am con-
cerned, if you want pay for those lashes with which Dulcinea is to be
disenchanted, I would gladly compensate you. The only thing is: I am
not certain that the cure would be effective if it were paid for, and I
would not have the reward interfere with the medicine. But, for all of
that, I do not see that there would be any harm in trying; so, think it
over, Sancho, and decide upon your price; then administer the flogging
and pay yourself off with your own hand, since you are the one who
holds my money."
Sancho opened his eyes wide at this offer and pricked up his ears until
they stood out a palm's breadth from his head. In his heart he was now
quite willing to take a whipping.
"Very well, then, master," he said, "I will hold myself at your Grace's
disposition; for I shall be only too glad to gratify your desires so long
as I profit by it. If I appear grasping, you must blame it on the love I
have for my wife and young ones. Tell me, your Grace, how much is
each lash worth to you?"
"Sancho," said Don Quixote, "if I had to pay you in accordance with
the great value of the remedy, all the treasure of Venice and the mines
of Potosi would not suffice. 4 So, see what you have of mine and put a
price on each stroke."
"The strokes," said Sancho, "amount to three thousand three
hundred-
odd, of which I have already given myself five--that leaves the rest to
come. But let the five go for the odd ones; three thousand three hundred
at a cuartillo 5 each--and I wouldn't take less if all the world insisted on
it--that makes three thousand three hundred cuartillos, or fifteen hun-
"O blessed Sancho!" cried Don Quixote, "O kind Sancho! Dulcinea
and I will be under obligations to serve you all the days of our life that
Heaven may allot us! If she resumes her lost shape--and it is not possible
that she should fail to do so--her misfortune will have been her good luck
and my downfall a most happy triumph. But tell me, Sancho; when do
you propose to begin your discipline--For if you speed it, I will give
you an additional hundred reales."
"When?" said Sancho. "Tonight without fail. Let your Grace see to
it that we spend the night in the fields, under the open sky, and I will
lay my flesh open at the same time."
The night so anxiously awaited by Don Quixote was long in coming;
indeed, it seemed to him that the wheels of Apollo's chariot must have
broken down and the day was being unduly prolonged, as is always the
case with lovers who can never adjust their desires to the course of time. 8
At last they entered a pleasant grove a short distance off the highway, and
here, leaving Rocinante's saddle and the ass's packsaddle unused, they
stretched themselves out on the green grass and had their supper from
Sancho's supply of provisions. Then, having made a powerful and flexible
whip out of the donkey's halter, the squire retired for a distance of some
twenty paces among a clump of beech trees.
Seeing him set about it so energetically and courageously, his master
called after him, "Take care, my friend, that you do not cut yourself to
pieces; let there be a space between the lashes, and do not be in such
haste that your breath will give out by the time you are half done; by
which I mean to say, do not lay on so stoutly that life will fail you before
you have attained the desired number. And in order that you may not
lose by a card too many or too few, 9 1 will stand to one side and keep
count on my rosary. May Heaven favor you as your good intentions
deserve."
"He who is well able to pay doesn't worry about pledges," 10 was
Sancho's answer. "I intend to lay them on in such a way that I will feel
them and yet not kill myself; for that, I take it, is where the miracle comes
Saying this, he stripped to the waist, snatched up the whip, and began,
with Don Quixote counting the strokes. He had given himself six or eight
lashes when he began to think that the jest was a somewhat heavy one
and the price very cheap. Pausing for a moment, he informed his master
that he had made a mistake in his estimate and that each stroke ought to
be paid for at the rate of half a real and not a cuartillo.
"Continue, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and don't lose courage,
for I am doubling your pay."
"In that case," said the squire, "God be with me and let the lashes rain
down."
Rascal that be was, however, he stopped laying them on his shoulders
and let them fall on the trees instead, uttering such moans every now and
then that it seemed as if each one was tearing his heart out. Don Quixote
became alarmed at this, fearing that Sancho by his imprudence would do
away with himself before the purpose of the thing had been achieved.
"Upon your life, my friend," he called to him, "let the
matter rest
there, for this impresses me as being a very harsh remedy and we shall
have to be patient: Zamora was not won in an hour. 11 Unless I missed my
count, you have already given yourself more than a thousand lashes, and
that will do for the present; for, to employ a homespun phrase, the ass
will bear the load but not the overload." 13
"No, no, master," Sancho protested, "I will not have it
said of me,
'The money paid, the arm broken.' 13 Stand back a little farther, your
Grace, and let me give myself a thousand or so more. A couple of flour-
ishes like this and we'll have done with it, and there'll be cloth to spare."
"Well, then," said Don Quixote, "seeing that you are so well disposed,
may Heaven help you. Lay on, for I am going away."
Sancho then returned to his task so intrepidly that before long he had
stripped the bark off any number of trees, such was the severity with
which he whipped himself. As he dealt a tremendous stroke to one of the
beeches he raised his voice and cried, "Here shalt thou die, Samson, and
all those that are with you!" 15
At the sound of this agonized wail and the thud of the cruel lash, Don
Quixote came running up and snatched from Sancho's hand the twisted
halter that served as a whip. "Fate, my dear Sancho," he said, "will not
have you lose your life to please me, for you need it to support your wife
and children. Let Dulcinea wait for a better occasion. As for me, content
with a hope that is soon to be realized, I will bide my time until you
have
recovered your strength so that this business may be finished to the
satisfaction of all concerned."
"Since your Grace will have it so," said Sancho, "so be it. Throw your
cloak 16 over my shoulders if you will, for I am all a-sweat and don't
want to catch cold--that is a risk that novices run, you know, when they
discipline themselves."
Don Quixote did as requested; stripping to his undergarments, he
covered Sancho, who slept until the sun awakened him. They then re-
sumed their journey, which for the time being ended in a village three
leagues from there. Dismounting at a hostelry, the knight recognized it
for what it was and did not take it to be a castle with a deep moat, turrets,
portcullis, and a drawbridge; for ever since he had been overcome in
combat he had talked more rationally on all subjects, as will presently
be seen.
They were given lodging in a lower room, the walls of which were
covered with some old bits of painted serge of the kind found in villages
in place of leather hangings . 17 On one of these was depicted, by a very
crude hand, the abduction of Helen, when the bold guest bore her off
from Menelaus, and on the other was represented the story of Dido and
Aeneas, with the queen standing on a high tower and signaling with half
a sheet to the fugitive, who was now at sea on a frigate or brigantine.
Helen did not appear very reluctant about going, for she was laughing
slyly and roguishly, but the beauteous Dido was shedding tears the size
of walnuts.
"These two ladies," observed Don Quixote as he surveyed the paint-
ings, "were most fortunate not to have been born in this age, and I, above
all men, am unlucky not to have lived in their time. Had I encountered
those gentlemen, Troy would not have been burned nor Carthage de-
stroyed, for all I should have had to do would have been to slay Paris,
and all the ensuing misfortunes would have been avoided."
"I will wager you," said Sancho, "that before long there will not be
an alehouse, inn, tavern, or barbershop where the history of our exploits
will not be painted on the walls, 18 but I'd like it done by a better hand
than the one that did these."
"Right you are, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for this painter is like
Orbaneja who lived in Ubeda and who, when asked what he was paint-
ing, used to reply, 'Whatever it turns out to be'; and if it happened to be
a cock, he would write beneath it, 'This is a rooster,' so that it would
not be taken for a fox . 18 And it is my opinion, Sancho, that the painter
or writer (it is all the same) who brought to light the history of this
new Don Quixote that was recently published must be one of this sort:
that is to say, he painted or wrote whatever came out. Or one might
compare him to a poet by the name of Mauleon who was at court some
years ago and who was in the habit of answering offhand any and all
questions put to him. When someone asked him what Deum de Deo
meant, he replied, 'De donde diere 20
"But, leaving all this aside, tell me, Sancho, whether or not you mean
to have another turn at flogging yourself tonight and whether you prefer
that it be indoors or out."
"Upon my word, master," said Sancho, "considering what I mean to
do to myself, it makes no difference to me whether it's in a house or in
the fields; but, for all of that, I'd prefer that it be among trees, for they
seem to keep me company and are a wonderful help in bearing the pain.
"But after all, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "you have to recover
your strength, and so I think we had best wait until we get back to our
village, which will be day after tomorrow at the latest."
Sancho replied that his master should do as he saw fit, but that he him-
self preferred to get the business over with while his blood was warm and
while he had an appetite for it, 21 for there was often danger in delay,
pray to God and wield the hammer, 22 one "take" was better than two
"I'll give you's," 22 and a bird in the hand was better than a vulture on
the wing . 24
"No more proverbs, Sancho, for God's sake," said Don Quixote. It
would seem that you are back to the sicut erat 22 again. Speak plainly,
simply, and in a straightforward manner, as I have so often told you, and
you will see how much better it will be." 26
"I don't know what bad luck it is of mine," said Sancho, "but I can t
talk without proverbs, and for me they all make sense ; 27 but I'll mend
my ways if I can."
And with this their conversation ended.
CHAPTER LXXII.
Wherein is related how Don Quixote and Sancho reached their village.
Don QUIXOTE and Sancho spent the entire day at the village
inn, waiting for night to come in order that the one might go out into
the fields and finish the task of disciplining himself, while the other wit-
nessed this action, which for him meant the fulfillment of his desires.
Meanwhile, there came riding up to the hostelry a gentleman with
three or four servants.
"Here, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe," said one of the attendants, addressing
the person who appeared to be their master, "your Grace may take your
siesta, for the lodgings appear to be clean and cool."
"Listen, Sancho," said Don Quixote when he heard this, "it seems to me
that when I was leafing through that book containing the second part of
my history I came upon the name Don Alvaro Tarfe."
"That may well be," replied Sancho, "but let him dismount and we
can ask him about it afterward."
The landlady gave the gentleman a room on the ground floor opposite
Don Quixote's and similarly adorned with painted serge. The new ar-
rival then put on a summer coat and, coming out into the portico of the
inn, which was wide and airy, he encountered the knight, who was pac-
ing up and down there. 1
"In which direction is your Grace traveling, gentle sir?" the newcomer
inquired.
"I am bound for a near-by village of which I am a native," was the
answer. "And your Grace?"
"I, sir," said the gentleman, "am on my way to Granada, which is my
own country."
"And a good country it is," said Don Quixote. "But will your Grace
please be so good as to inform me of your name, since it is more important
than I can tell you that I should know it."
"My name," replied the other guest, "is Don Alvaro Tarfe."
"Well, then," said Don Quixote, "I think your Grace must undoubt-
edly be the Don Alvaro Tarfe who is spoken of in the Second Part of the
History of Don Quixote de la Mancha that was recently printed and
published by a new author."
"I am the same one," the gentleman assured him, "and the Don Quixote
you mention, who is the chief subject of that history, was a very great
friend of mine. It was I who took him away from his native heath, or,
at least, I induced him to come and attend a tournament that was being
held in Saragossa, whither I was bound. The truth of the matter is, I
did him many favors and kept him from a flogging at the hands of the
executioner as a result of his rash conduct." 2
"Tell me, Senor Don Alvaro, do I in any way resemble the Don Quixote
of whom you are speaking?"
"No, certainly not; in no way whatever."
"And this Don Quixote of yours--did he have with him a squire by the
name of Sancho Panza?" 3
Yes, he did; and although the fellow had the reputation of being very
droll, I never once heard him say anything amusing."
That I can believe, said Sancho at this point, "for it is not given to
everyone to say droll things. The fellow your Grace is talking about,
gentle sir, must have been some very great scoundrel, blockhead, and
thief all in one; for I am the real Sancho Panza, and my drolleries come
faster than rain. If your Grace would put it to the test, you have but to
follow me around for at least a year and you will see how they drop from
me at every turn--so many of them and of such a sort that, without
realizing most of the time what it is I am saying, I bring a laugh to all
who hear me. And the real Don Quixote, the famous, the valiant, the wise,
the lovelorn, the undoer of wrongs, the guardian of minors and orphans,
the protector of widows, the slayer of damsels, 3 he who has for his one
and only lady the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, is this gentleman here
present, my master. All other Don Quixotes and all other Sancho Panzas
are a mockery and a dream."
"By Heaven if I don't believe you," said Don Alvaro, "for in the course
of these few words you have uttered, my friend, you have said more
amusing things than are to be found in all the talk I heard from the other
Sancho, and I heard a great deal of it. He was more of a glutton than a
talker and more stupid than droll. I have no doubt that those enchanters
that persecute the good Don Quixote have wished to persecute me
through my association with the bad one. But what am I saying--I will
venture to take an oath that I left him locked up in a madhouse in Toledo 4
so that they might treat him, and now another Don Quixote appears upon
the scene, though quite different from mine."
"I do not know," said our Don Quixote, "whether I am good or not,
but I can assure you that I am not 'the bad one'; in proof of which, Senor
Don Alvaro Tarfe, I would have your Grace know that I have never
been in Saragossa in all the days of my life. When I heard that the
imaginary Don Quixote had taken part in the tournament in that city,
I resolved not to go there so that I might show all the world it was a lie.
I accordingly went straight on to Barcelona, that storehouse of courtesy,
haven of wayfarers, fatherland of the brave, avenger of the wronged,
home of loyal friendships freely bestowed, and, moreover, in point of
beauty and situation, a city without a peer. And while the things that
happened to me there were none too pleasant and, indeed, caused me
much sorrow, I still have no regrets but am glad that I have seen that
town.
"In short, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha,
the one who is known to fame and not the wretch who has sought to
usurp my name and do himself honor by thinking my thoughts. And
so, I implore your Grace--for I know you must be a gentleman--to make
a declaration before the local magistrate 5 to the effect that you have
never in all your life laid eyes on me up to now, that I am not the Don
Quixote referred to in the Second Part, and that Sancho Panza my squire
is not the one that your Grace knew."
"That I will gladly do," said Don Alvaro, "although I must say I am
amazed to find that there are two Don Quixotes and two Sanchos so alike
in names and so unlike in the way they deport themselves. I will state and
affirm, then, that I have not seen what I did see and that what happened
to me could not have occurred."
"Your Grace," said Sancho, "is undoubtedly enchanted like my lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, and I would to Heaven that your disenchantment
depended upon my giving myself another three thousand-odd lashes as
I am doing for her sake. I would lay them on without looking for any
reward whatever."
"I do not undertsand this matter of lashes," said Don Alvaro; to which
Sancho replied that it was a long story but he would be glad to explain
if the gentleman by any chance was going their way.
When the dinner hour came Don Quixote and Don Alvaro sat down at
table together, and, as chance would have it, the village magistrate ac-
companied by a notary entered the inn, whereupon the knight laid a
petition before him, setting forth that it was necessary for the protection
of his, Don Quixote's, rights that the other gentleman there present
should make an affidavit. This was to be to the effect that the gentleman
in question was not personally acquainted with Don Quixote de la
Mancha, also present, and it was to be further stated that this latter person
was not the individual referred to in a history entitled Second Part of
Don Quixote de la Mancha, 6 composed by a certain Avellaneda, native
of Tordesillas.
The short of the matter is, the magistrate drew up the document and
the affidavit was made with all the legal formalities customary in such
cases. Don Quixote and Sancho were very happy over this, just as if it
were a matter of great importance to them, and as if their own words
and deeds did not reveal clearly enough the difference between the true
knight and his squire and the pair of pretenders. There followed then
an elaborate exchange of courtesies between Don Alvaro and Don
Quixote, with the great Manchegan displaying such good sense and
moderation as completely to disabuse the other gentleman of the mistake
under which he had been laboring, causing him to feel that he must have
been enchanted, now that he had come into contact with a person who
was the direct opposite of the one of the same name he had previously
known. 7
As evening came on they all set out from the village, and at a distance
of something like half a league their paths separated, Don Quixote taking
the road that led to his home and Don Alvaro the other one. In this brief
space of time the knight related to his companion how he had been over-
come in combat and told him of Dulcinea's enchantment and how it was
to be remedied. Don Alvaro was more astonished than ever at all this,
and, embracing the two of them, he went his way. Don Quixote and
Sancho likewise continued their journey, spending the night in a grove
in order to give the squire an opportunity of fulfilling his penance, with
the strokes for the most part falling on the bark of the beech trees instead
of on his shoulders; for he took care to see to it that the lashes he gave
himself were such as would not have disturbed a fly had there been one
on him.
Don Quixote, however, was under the same illusion as before and did
not miss counting a single stroke, finding that with those of the previous
night the total now amounted to three thousand twenty-nine. It seemed
as if the sun that morning rose earlier than usual to witness the sacrifice,
and with the coming of day they took to the road again, talking all the
while of the mistake Don Alvaro had made and congratulating them-
selves on having secured his affidavit in the presence of a magistrate and
in so binding a form.
They traveled all that day and night with nothing occurring worthy
of note save for the fact that Sancho completed his task, which made
Don Quixote so exceedingly happy that he could scarcely wait for day-
light to see if he would meet with his by now disenchanted lady along
the highway; and each time that he encountered a woman he would go
up to her in the hope of recognizing Dulcinea del Toboso, for he be-
lieved that Merlin could not lie and that his promises were infallible. Oc-
cupied with such thoughts and anxieties as these, they mounted a slope
from the top of which they had a view of their village, at the sight of
which Sancho fell on his knees.
"Open your eyes, O beloved homeland," he cried, "and behold your
son, Sancho Panza, returning to you. If he does not come back very
rich, he comes well flogged. Open your arms and receive also your other
son, Don Quixote, who returns vanquished by the arm of another but
a victor over himself; and this, so I have been told, is the greatest victory
that could be desired. I bring money with me, too; for while they gave
me many good lashes, I went mounted like a fine gentleman.'' 8
"Leave off that nonsense," said Don Quixote, "and let us go straight on
to our village, where we may give our fancies free rein as we plan the
pastoral life that we intend to lead."
With this, they descended the other side of the slope and came to the
town.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
Of the omens that Don Quixote encountered upon entering his village,
with other incidents that embellish and lend credence to this great
history.
AS THEY entered the village, Cid Hamete informs us, Don Quixote
caught sight of two lads on the communal threshing floor who were
engaged in a dispute.
"Don't let it worry you, Periquillo," one of them was saying to the
other; "you'll never lay eyes on it again as long as you live."
Hearing this, Don Quixote turned to Sancho. "Did you mark what
that boy said, my friend?" he asked. "'You'll never lay eyes on it 1
again . . "
"Well," replied Sancho, "what difference does it make what he said?"
"What difference?" said Don Quixote. "Don't you see that, applied
to the one I love, it means I shall never again see Dulcinea."
Sancho was about to answer him when his attention was distracted
by a hare that came flying across the fields pursued by a large number
of hunters with their greyhounds. The frightened animal took refuge
by huddling down beneath the donkey, whereupon Sancho reached out
his hand and caught it and presented it to his master.
"Malum signum, malum signum," 2 the knight was muttering to him-
self- "A hare flees, the hounds pursue it, Dulcinea appears not."
"It is very strange to hear your Grace talk like that," said Sancho. "Let
us suppose that this hare is Dulcinea del Toboso and the hounds pursuing
it are those wicked enchanters that transformed her into a peasant lass;
she flees, I catch her and turn her over to your Grace, you hold her in
your arms and caress her. Is that a bad sign--What ill omen can you find
in it?"3
The two lads who had been quarreling now came up to have a look at
the hare, and Sancho asked them what their dispute was about. To this
the one who had uttered the words "You'll never lay eyes on it again as
long as you live," replied that he had taken a cricket cage from the other
boy and had no intention of returning it ever. Sancho then brought out
from his pocket four cuartos ' and gave them to the lad in exchange for
the cage, which he placed in Don Quixote's hands.
"There, master," he said, "these omens are broken and destroyed, and
to my way of thinking, even though l may be a dunce, they have no more
to do with what is going to happen to us than the clouds of yesteryear. If
I am not mistaken, I have heard our curate say that sensible persons of the
Christian faith should pay no heed to such foolish things, and you your-
self in the past have given me to understand that all those Christians who
are guided by omens are fools. 5 But there is no need to waste a lot of
words on the subject; come, let us go on and enter our village."
The hunters at this point came up and asked for the hare, and Don
Quixote gave it to them. Continuing on their way, the returning pair
encountered the curate and the bachelor Carrasco, who were strolling in
a small meadow on the outskirts of the town as they read their breviaries.
And here it should be mentioned that Sancho Panza, by way of sumpter
cloth' had thrown over his gray and the bundle of armor it bore the
flame-covered buckram robe in which they had dressed the squire at
the duke's castle, on the night that witnessed Altisidora's resurrection;
and he had also fitted the miter over the donkey's head, the result being
the weirdest transformation and the most bizarrely appareled ass that
ever were seen in this world. The curate and the bachelor recognized
the pair at once and came forward to receive them with open arms. Don
Quixote dismounted and gave them both a warm embrace; meanwhile,
the small boys (boys are like lynxes in that nothing escapes them ),
having spied the ass's miter, ran up for a closer view.
"Come, lads," they cried, "and see Sancho Panza s ass trigged out finer
than Mingo,' and Don Quixote's beast is skinnier than ever!"
Finally, surrounded by the urchins and accompanied by the curate and
the bachelor, they entered the village and made their way to Don
Quixote's house, where they found the housekeeper and the niece stand-
ing in the doorway, for the news of their return had preceded them.
Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife, had also heard of it, and, half naked and
disheveled, dragging her daughter Sanchica by the hand, she hastened to
greet her husband and was disappointed when she saw him, for he did
not look to her as well fitted out as a governor ought to be.
"How does it come, my husband," she said, "that you return like this,
tramping and footsore--You look more like a vagabond than you do
like a governor." 9
"Be quiet, Teresa," Sancho admonished her, "for very often there are
stakes where there is no bacon . 10 Come on home with me and you will
hear marvels. I am bringing money with me, which is the thing that mat-
ters, money earned by my own efforts and without harm to anyone."
"You just bring along the money, my good husband," said Teresa,
"and whether you got it here or there, or by whatever means, you will
not be introducing any new custom into the world."
Sanchica then embraced her father and asked him if he had brought her
anything, for she had been looking forward to his coming as to the
showers in May. And so, with his wife holding him by the hand while his
daughter kept one arm about his waist and at the same time led the gray,
Sancho went home, leaving Don Quixote under his own roof in the com-
pany of niece and housekeeper, the curate and the barber.
Without regard to time or season, the knight at once drew his guests
to one side and in a few words informed them of how he had been over-
come in battle and had given his promise not to leave his village for a
year, a promise that he meant to observe most scrupulously, without
violating it in the slightest degree, as every knight-errant was obliged to
do by the laws of chivalry. He accordingly meant to spend that year
as a shepherd, he said, amid the solitude of the fields, where he might
give free rein to his amorous fancies as he practiced the virtues of the
pastoral life; and he further begged them, if they were not too greatly
occupied and more urgent matters did not prevent their doing so, to
consent to be his companions. He would purchase a flock sufficiently
large to justify their calling themselves shepherds; and, moreover, he
would have them know, the most important thing of all had been taken
care of, for he had hit upon names that would suit them marvelously
well. When the curate asked him what these names were, Don Quixote
replied that he himself would be known as "the shepherd Quixotiz," the
bachelor as "the shepherd Carrascon," the curate as "the shepherd
Curiambro," 11 and Sancho Panza as "the shepherd Pancino."
Both his listeners were dismayed at the new form which his madness
had assumed. However, in order that he might not go faring forth from
the village on another of his expeditions (for they hoped that in the course
of the year he would be cured), they decided to fall in with his new plan
and approve it as being a wise one, and they even agreed to be bis com-
panions in the calling he proposed to adopt.
"What's more," remarked Sanson Carrasco, "I am a very famous poet,
as everyone knows, and at every turn I will be composing pastoral or
courtly verses or whatever may come to mind, by way of a diversion
for us as we wander in those lonely places; but what is most necessary
of all, my dear sirs, is that each one of us should choose the name of the
shepherd lass to whom he means to dedicate his songs, so that we may
not leave a tree, however hard its bark may be, where their names are
not inscribed and engraved as is the custom with lovelorn shepherds."
"That is exactly what we should do," replied Don Quixote, "although,
for my part, I am relieved of the necessity of looking for an imaginary
shepherdess, seeing that I have the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, glory
of these brookside regions, adornment of these meadows, beauty's main-
stay, cream of the Graces--in short, one to whom all praise is well be-
coming however hyperbolical it may be."
"That is right," said the curate, "but we will seek out some shepherd
maids that are easily handled, 12 who if they do not square with us will
fit in the corners." 13
"And," added Sanson Carrasco, "if we run out of names we will give
them those that we find printed in books the world over: such as Filida,
Amarilis, Diana, Flerida, Galatea, and Belisarda; 14 for since these are for
sale in the market place, we can buy them and make them our own. If
my lady, or, rather, my shepherdess, should by chance be called Ana,
I will celebrate her charms under the name of Anarda; if she is Francisca,
she will become Francenia; if Lucia, Luscinda; for it all amounts to the
same thing. And Sancho Panza, if he enters this confraternity, may com-
pose verses to his wife, Teresa Panza, under the name of Teresaina."
Don Quixote had to laugh at this, and the curate then went on to heap
extravagant praise upon him for his noble resolution which did him so
much credit, and once again he offered to keep the knight company
whenever he could spare the time from the duties of his office. With this,
they took their leave of him, advising and beseeching him to take care of
his health and to eat plentifully of the proper food.
As fate would have it, the niece and the housekeeper had overheard
the conversation of the three men, and as soon as the visitors had left they
both descended upon Don Quixote.
"What is the meaning of this, my uncle--Here we were thinking your
Grace had come home to lead a quiet and respectable life, and do you
mean to tell us you are going to get yourself involved in fresh complica-
tions--
Young shepherd, thou who contest here,
Young shepherd, thou who goest there...15
For, to tell the truth, the barley is too hard now to make shepherds' pipes
of it." 16
"And how," said the housekeeper, "is your Grace going to stand the
midday heat in summer, the winter cold, the howling of the wolves out
there in the fields--You certainly cannot endure it. That is an occupation
for robust men, cut out and bred for such a calling almost from their
swaddling clothes. Setting one evil over against another, it is better to be
a knight-errant than a shepherd. Look, sir, take my advice, for I am not
stuffed with bread and wine when I give it to you but am fasting and am
going on fifty years of age: stay at home, attend to your affairs, go often
to confession, be charitable to the poor, and let it be upon my soul if
any harm comes to you as a result of it."
"Be quiet, daughters," said Don Quixote. "I know very well what I
must do. Take me up to bed, for I do not feel very well; and you may be
sure of one thing: whether I am a knight-errant now or a shepherd to
be, I never will fail to look after your needs as you will see when the
time comes."
And good daughters that they unquestionably were, the housekeeper
and the niece helped him up to bed, where they gave him something to
eat and made him as comfortable as they could.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
Of how Don Quixote fell sick, of the will that he made,
and of the manner of his death.
INASMUCH as nothing that is human is eternal but is ever declining
from its beginning to its close, this being especially true of the lives of
men, and since Don Quixote was not endowed by Heaven with the privi-
lege of staying the downward course of things, his own end came when
he was least expecting it. Whether it was owing to melancholy occasioned
by the defeat he had suffered, or was, simply, the will of Heaven which
had so ordained it, he was taken with a fever that kept him in bed for
a week, during which time his friends, the curate, the bachelor, and the
barber, visited him frequently, while Sancho Panza, his faithful squire,
never left his bedside.
Believing that the knight's condition was due to sorrow over his down-
fall and disappointment at not having been able to accomplish the dis-
enchantment and liberation of Dulcinea, Sancho and the others en-
deavored to cheer him up in every possible way. The bachelor urged
him to take heart and get up from bed that he might begin his pastoral
life, adding that he himself had already composed an eclogue that would
cast in the shade all that Sannazaro 1 had ever written, and had purchased
with his own money from a herdsman of Quintanar two fine dogs to
guard the flock, one of them named Barcino and the other Butron. All
this, however, did not serve to relieve Don Quixote's sadness; whereupon
his friends called in the doctor, who took his pulse and was not very
well satisfied with it. In any case, the physician told them, they should
attend to the health of his soul as that of his body was in grave danger.
Don Quixote received this news calmly enough, but not so his house-
keeper, niece, and squire, who began weeping bitterly, as if he were
already lying dead in front of them. It was the doctor's opinion that
melancholy and depression were putting an end to his patient's life. The
knight then requested them to leave him alone as he wished to sleep a
little, and they complied. He slept for more than six hours at a stretch,
as the saying is, and so soundly that the housekeeper and niece thought
he would never wake.
At last he did, however, and at once cried out in a loud voice, "Blessed
be Almighty God who has given me so many blessings! Truly His mercy
is boundless and is not limited or restrained by the sins of men."
The niece listened carefully to what her uncle said, and it seemed to
her that he was speaking more rationally than was his wont, at least dur-
ing his illness.
"Sir," she said to him, "what does your Grace mean--Has something
occurred that we know nothing about--What is this talk of mercy and
sins?"
"The mercy that I speak of," replied Don Quixote, "is that which God
is showing me at this moment--in spite of my sins, as I have said. My
mind now is clear, unencumbered by those misty shadows of ignorance
that were cast over it by my bitter and continual reading of those hate-
ful books of chivalry. I see through all the nonsense and fraud contained
in them, and my only regret is that my disillusionment has come so late,
leaving me no time to make any sort of amends by reading those that are
the light of the soul. I find myself, niece, at the point of death, and I
would die in such a way as not to leave the impression of a life so bad
that I shall be remembered as a madman; for even though I have been
one, I do not wish to confirm it on my deathbed. And so, my dear, call
in my good friends: the curate, the bachelor Sanson Carrasco, and Master
Nicholas the barber; for I want to confess my sins and make my last will
and testament."
The niece, however, was relieved of this errand, for the three of them
came in just then.
"I have good news for you, 2 kind sirs," said Don Quixote the moment
he saw them. "I am no longer Don Quixote de la Mancha but Alonso
Quijano, 8 whose mode of life won for him the name of 'Good.' I am the
enemy of Amadis of Gaul and all his innumerable progeny; for those
profane stories dealing with knight-errantry are odious to me, and I
realize how foolish I was and the danger I courted in reading them; but I
am in my right senses now and I abominate them."
Hearing this, they all three were convinced that some new kind of
madness must have laid hold of him.
"Why, Senor Don Quixote!" exclaimed Sanson. "What makes you
talk like that, just when we have received news that my lady Dulcinea
is disenchanted--And just when we are on the verge of becoming shep-
herds so that we may spend the rest of our lives in singing like a lot of
princes, why does your Grace choose to turn hermit--Say no more, in
Heaven's name, but be sensible and forget these idle tales."
"Tales of that kind, said Don Quixote, "have been the truth for me in
the past, and to my detriment, but with Heaven's aid I trust to turn them
to my profit now that I am dying. For I feel, gentlemen, that death is
very near; so, leave all jesting aside and bring me a confessor for my
sins and a notary to draw up my will. In such straits as these a man cannot
trifle with his soul. Accordingly, while the Senor Curate is hearing my
confession, let the notary be summoned."
Amazed at his words, they gazed at one another in some perplexity,
yet they could not but believe him. One of the signs that led them to
think he was dying was this quick return from madness to sanitv and
all the additional things he had to say, so well reasoned and well put and
so becoming in a Christian that none of them could any longer doubt that
he was in full possession of his faculties. Sending the others out of the
room, the curate stayed behind to confess him, and before long the
bachelor returned with the notary and Sancho Panza, who had been
informed of his master's condition, and who, finding the housekeeper
and the niece in tears, began weeping with them. When the confession
was over, the curate came out.
"It is true enough," he said, "that Alonso Quijano the Good is dying,
and it is also true that he is a sane man. It would be well for us to go in
now while he makes his will."
At this news the housekeeper, niece, and the good squire Sancho Panza
were so overcome with emotion that the tears burst forth from their eyes
and their bosoms heaved with sobs; for, as has been stated more than
once, whether Don Quixote was plain Alonso Quijano the Good or Don
Quixote de la Mancha, he was always of a kindly and pleasant disposition
and for this reason was beloved not only by the members of his house-
hold but by all who knew him.
The notary had entered along with the others, and as soon as the
preamble had been attended to and the dying man had commended his
soul to his Maker with all those Christian formalities that are called for
in such a case, they came to the matter of bequests, with Don Quixote
dictating as follows:
"ITEM. With regard to Sancho Panza, whom, in my madness, I ap-
pointed to be my squire, and who has in his possession a certain sum of
money belonging to me: inasmuch as there has been a standing account
between us, of debits and credits, it is my will that he shall not be asked
to give any accounting whatsoever of this sum, but if any be left over
after he has had payment for what I owe him, the balance, which will
amount to very little, shall be his, and much good may it do him. If when
I was mad I was responsible for his being given the governorship of an
island, now that I am of sound mind I would present him with a kingdom
if it were in my power, for his simplicity of mind and loyal conduct merit
no less."
At this point he turned to Sancho. "Forgive me, my friend," he said,
"for having caused you to appear as mad as I by leading you to fall into
the same error, that of believing that there are still knights-errant in the
world."
"Ah, master," cried Sancho through his tears, "don't die, your Grace,
but take my advice and go on living for many years to come; for the
greatest madness that a man can be guilty of in this life is to die without
good reason, without anyone's killing him, slain only by the hands of
melancholy. Look you, don't be lazy but get up from this bed and let
us go out into the fields clad as shepherds as we agreed to do. Who knows
but behind some bush we may come upon the lady Dulcinea, as disen-
chanted as you could wish. If it is because of worry over your defeat that
you are dying, put the blame on me by saying that the reason for your
being overthrown was that I had not properly fastened Rocinante's girth.
For the matter of that, your Grace knows from reading your books of
chivalry that it is a common thing for certain knights to overthrow
others, and he who is vanquished today will be the victor tomorrow."
"That is right," said Sanson, "the worthy Sancho speaks the truth."
"Not so fast, gentlemen," said Don Quixote. "In last year's nests there
are no birds this year. 4 1 was mad and now I am sane; I was Don Quixote
de la Mancha, and now I am, as I have said, Alonso Quijano the Good.
May my repentance and the truth I now speak restore to me the place
I once held in your esteem. And now, let the notary proceed:
"ITEM. I bequeath my entire estate, without reservation, 5 to my
niece Antonia Quijana, 8 here present, after the necessary deductions shall
have been made from the most available portion of it to satisfy the be-
quests that I have stipulated. The first payment shall be to my house-
keeper for the wages due her, with twenty ducats over to buy her a dress.
And I hereby appoint the Senor Curate and the Senor Bachelor Sanson
Carrasco to be my executors.
"ITEM. It is my will that if my niece Antonia Quijana should see fit
to marry, it shall be to a man who does not know what books of chivalry
are; and if it shall be established that he is acquainted with such books
and my niece still insists on marrying him, then she shall lose all that I
have bequeathed her and my executors shall apply her portion to works
of charity as they may see fit.
"ITEM. I entreat the aforementioned gentlemen, my executors, if by
good fortune they should come to know the author who is said to have
composed a history now going the rounds under the title of Second Part
of the Exploits of Don Quixote de la Mancha, to beg his forgiveness in
my behalf, as earnestly as they can, since it was I who unthinkingly led
him to set down so many and such great absurdities as are to he found in
it; for I leave this life with a feeling of remorse at having provided
him
with the occasion for putting them into writing.
The will ended here, and Don Quixote, stretching himself at length in
the bed, fainted away. They all were alarmed at this and hastened to aid
him. The same thing happened very frequently in the course of the
three days of life that remained to him after he had made his will. The
household was in a state of excitement, but with it all the niece continued
to eat her meals, the housekeeper had her drink, and Sancho Panza
was in good spirits; for this business of inheriting property effaces or
mitigates the sorrow which the heir ought to feel and causes him to
forget. 7
Death came at last for Don Quixote, after he had received all the sacra-
ments 8 and once more, with many forceful arguments, had expressed his
abomination of books of chivalry. The notary who was present remarked
that in none of those books had he read of any knight-errant dying in his
own bed so peacefully and in so Christian a manner. And thus, amid the
tears and lamentations of those present, he gave up the ghost; that is to
say, he died. Perceiving that their friend was no more, the curate asked
the notary to be a witness to the fact that Alonso Quijano the Good,
commonly known as Don Quixote, was truly dead, 9 this being neces-
sary in order that some author other than Cid Hamete Benengeli might
not have the opportunity of falsely resurrecting him and writing endless
histories of his exploits.
Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, 10 whose
birthplace Cid Hamete was unwilling to designate exactly 11 in order that
all the towns and villages of La Mancha might contend among them-
selves for the right to adopt him and claim him as their own, just as the
seven cities of Greece did in the case of Homer. The lamentations of
Sancho and those of Don Quixote's niece and his housekeeper, as well as
the original epitaphs that were composed for his tomb, will not be re-
corded here, but mention may be made of the verses by Sanson Carrasco:
Here lies a gentleman bold
Who was so very brave
He went to lengths untold,
And on the brink of the grave
Death had on him no hold.
By the 'world he set small store--
He frightened it to the core--
Yet somehow, by Fate's plan,
Though he'd lived a crazy man,
When he died he was sane once more.12
As for that most wise chronicler, Cid Hamete, he has left us the fol-
lowing address to his pen: 13
everyone to say droll things
"Here shalt thou remain, hung upon this rack by this brass wire. I know
not if thou beest well cut or not, O pen of mine, but here thou shalt live
for long ages to come, unless some presumptuous and scoundrelly histor-
ians should take thee down to profane thee. But ere they do this thou
may'st warn them and say to them as best thou canst:
Hands off, o'erweening ones!
Let it by none attempted be;
For this emprise, my lord the King,
Hath been reserved for me.14
"For me alone Don Quixote was born and I for him; it was for him to
act, for me to write, and we two are one in spite of that Tordesillesque 15
pretender who had, and may have, the audacity to write with a coarse and
ill-trimmed ostrich quill of the deeds of my valiant knight. This is no
burden for his shoulders, no subject for his congealed talent; and if per-
chance thou shouldst come to know him, advise him that he should let
Don Quixote's tired and moldering bones rest in their sepulcher and not
try to bear him off, contrary to all the laws of death, to Old Castile 10 by
raising him from that grave where he really and truly lies stretched out,
being quite unable now to sally forth once again on a third expedition.
For the two sallies that he did make to the delight and approval of all
who heard of them, in foreign countries as well as our own, are sufficient
to cast ridicule upon all the ridings forth of knights-errant in times past.
"Doing this, thou shalt fulfill thine obligations as a Christian by giving
good counsel to one who wished thee ill, and I shall be the first one to
enjoy the fruit of his own writings as fully as he desired, since I have
had no other purpose than to arouse the abhorrence of mankind toward
those false and nonsensical stories to be met with in the books of chivalry,
which, thanks to this tale of the genuine Don Quixote, are already totter-
ing and without a doubt are doomed to fall. 17 Vale."