(Part Two)

Prologue

TO THE READER1

GOD bless me, gentle or, it may be, plebeian reader, how eagerly you
must be awaiting this prologue, thinking to find in it vengeful scold-
ings and vituperations directed against the author of the second Don
Quixote--I mean the one who, so it is said, was begotten in Tordesillas
and born in Tarragona.2 The truth is, however, thati am not going to
be able to satisfy you in this regard; for granting that injuries are cap-
able of awakening wrath in the humblest of bosoms, my own must be
an exception to the rule. You would, perhaps, have me call him an ass,
a crackbrain, and an upstart, but it is not my intention so to chastise
him for his sin. Let him eat it with his bread and have done with it.3

What I cannot but resent is the fact that he describes me as being
old and one-handed, as if it were in my power to make time stand still
for me, or as if I had lost my hand in some tavern instead of upon the
greatest occasion that the past or present has ever known or the future
may ever hope to see.4 If my wounds are not resplendent in the eyes
of the chance beholder, they are at least highly thought of by those
who know where they were received. The soldier who lies dead in
battle has a more impressive mien than the one who by flight attains
his liberty. So strongly do I feel about this that even if it were possible
to work a miracle in my case, I still would rather have taken part in
that prodigious battle than be today free of my wounds without hav-
ing been there. The scars that the soldier has to show on face and
breast are stars that guide others to the Heaven of honor, inspiring
them with a longing for well-merited praise. What is more, it may be
noted that one does not write with gray hairs but with his under-
standing, which usually grows better with the years.

I likewise resent his calling me envious; and as though I were some
ignorant person, he goes on to explain to me what is meant by envy;
when the truth of the matter is that of the two kinds,5 I am acquainted
only with that which is holy, noble, and right-intentioned. And this
being so, as indeed it is, it is not likely that I should attack any priest,
above all, one that is a familiar of the Holy Office.6 If he made this
statement, as it appears that he did, on behalf of a certain person, then
he is utterly mistaken; for the person in question is one whose genius
I hold in veneration and whose works I admire, as well as his constant
industry and powers of application. But when all is said, I wish to
thank this gentlemanly author for observing that my Novels are more
satirical than exemplary, while admitting at the same time that they
are good;7 for they could not be good unless they had in them a little
of everything.

You will likely tell me that I am being too restrained and over-
modest, but it is my belief that affliction is not to be heaped upon the
afflicted, and this gentleman must be suffering greatly, seeing that he
does not dare to come out into the open and show himself by the light
of day, but must conceal his name and dissemble his place of origin,
as if he had been guilty of some treason or act of lese majesty. If you
by chance should come to know him, tell him on my behalf that I do
not hold it against him; for I know what temptations the devil has to
offer, one of the greatest of which consists in putting it into a man's
head that he can write a book and have it printed and thereby achieve
as much fame as he does money and acquire as much money as he does
fame; in confirmation of which I would have you, in your own witty
and charming manner, tell him this tale.

There was in Seville a certain madman whose madness assumed one
of the drollest forms that ever was seen in this world. Taking a hollow
reed sharpened at one end, he would catch a dog in the street or some-
where else; and, holding one of the animal's legs with his foot and rais-
ing the other with his hand, he would fix his reed as best he could in
a certain part, after which he would blow the dog up, round as a ball.
When he had it in this condition he would give it a couple of slaps
on the belly and let it go, remarking to the bystanders, of whom there
were always plenty, "Do your Worships think, then, that it is so easy
a thing to inflate a dog?" So you might ask, "Does your Grace think
that it is so easy a thing to write a book?" And if this story does not
set well with him, here is another one, dear reader, that you may tell
him. This one, also, is about a madman and a dog.

The madman in this instance lived in Cordova. He was in the habit
of carrying on his head a marble slab or stone of considerable weight,
and when he met some stray cur he would go up alongside it and
drop the weight full upon it, and the dog in a rage, barking and
howling, would then scurry off down three whole streets without
stopping. Now, it happened that among the dogs that he treated in
this fashion was one belonging to a capmaker, who was very fond of
the beast. Going up to it as usual, the madman let the stone fall on its
head, whereupon the animal set up a great yowling, and its owner,
hearing its moans and seeing what had been done to it, promptly
snatched up a measuring rod and fell upon the dog's assailant, flaying
him until there was not a sound bone left in the fellow's body; and
with each blow that he gave him he cried, "You dog! You thief! Treat
my greyhound like that, would you--You brute, couldn't you see it
was a greyhound?" And repeating the word "greyhound"8 over and
over, he sent the madman away beaten to a pulp.

Profiting by the lesson that had been taught him, the fellow disap-
peared and was not seen in public for more than a month, at the end
of which time he returned, up to his old tricks and with a heavier
stone than ever on his head. He would go up to a dog and stare at it,
long and hard, and without daring to drop his stone, would say, "This
is a greyhound; beware." And so with all the dogs that he encountered:
whether they were mastiffs or curs, he would assert that they were
greyhounds and let them go unharmed.

The same thing possibly may happen to our historian; it may be that
he will not again venture to let fall the weight of his wit in the form
of books which, being bad ones, are harder than rocks.

As for the threat he has made to the effect that through his book
he will deprive me of the profits on my own,9 you may tell him that
I do not give a rap. Quoting from the famous interlude, La Peren-
denga,10 I will say to him in reply, "Long live my master, the Four-
and-twenty,11 and Christ be with us all." Long live the great Count of
Lemos, whose Christian spirit and well-known liberality have kept me
on my feet despite all the blows an unkind fate has dealt me. Long life
to his Eminertce of Toledo, the supremely charitable Don Bernardo de
Sandoval, Rojas. Even though there were no printing presses in all
the world, or such as there are should print more books directed
against me than there are letters in the verses of Mingo Revulgo,12
what would it matter to me--These two princes, without any cringing
flattery or adulation on my part but solely out of their own goodness
of heart, have taken it upon themselves to grant me their favor and
protection, in which respect I consider myself richer and more fortu-
nate than if by ordinary means I had attained the peak of prosperity.
The poor man may keep his honor, but not the vicious one. Poverty
may cast a cloud over nobility but cannot wholly obscure it. Virtue
of itself gives off a certain light, even though it be through the chinks
and crevices and despite the obstacles of adversity, and so comes to be
esteemed and as a consequence favored by high and noble minds.

Tell him no more than this, nor do I have anything more to say to
you, except to ask you to bear in mind that this Second Part of Don
Quixote, which I herewith present to you, is cut from the same cloth
and by the same craftsman as Part I. In this book I give you Don
Quixote continued and, finally, dead and buried, in order that no one
may dare testify any further concerning him, for there has been quite
enough evidence as it is. It is sufficient that a reputable individual
should have chronicled these ingenious acts of madness once and for all,
without going into the matter again; for an abundance even of good
things causes them to be little esteemed, while scarcity may lend a
certain worth to those that are bad.

I almost forgot to tell you that you may look forward to the Persiles,
on which I am now putting the finishing touches, as well as Part Sec-
ond of the Galatea.



　　　　To the Count of Lemos13



WHEN, some days ago, I sent your Excellency my Comedies, printed
before being performed, I stated, if I remember rightly, that Don
Quixote was then engaged in putting on his spurs to go kiss your Ex-
cellency's hands; and I may now add that he has put them on and has
set out. If he arrives, it is my belief that I shall have been of some
service to your Excellency; for I am being strongly urged on all sides
to send him forth by way of getting rid of the loathing and nausea oc-
casioned by another Don Quixote who, disguising himself under the
name of Part Second, has been wandering about the world. The
one who has shown himself most eager in this regard is the Emperor
of China, who about a month ago dispatched to me by courier a letter
written in the Chinese language, in which he requested or, more prop-
erly speaking, implored, me to send the Knight to him, since he wished
to found a college where the Castilian tongue should be read and he
desired that the book to be used should be the story of Don Quixote.
At the same time he informed me that I was to be the rector of this
college.14

I thereupon asked the bearer of the message if His Majesty had given
him anything toward defraying my expenses, and the reply was that he
had not even thought of it.

"Well, then, brother," I said to him, "you may go back to that
China of yours at ten o'clock, at twenty, or whatever time it was that
you were sent; for I am not in good enough health to undertake so
long a voyage. Moreover, in addition to being ill, I am without money,
and emperor for emperor, monarch for monarch, in Naples I have the
great Count of Lemos, who, without all those college titles and rector-
ships, still supports, protects, and favors me beyond anything that I
could desire."

With this, I sent him away, and I myself now take my leave by
offering to your Excellency The Trials of Persilis and Sigismunda, a
work which, Deo volente, I shall bring to a close within the next four
months. It ought to be the worst or the best that has been written in
our language--I am referring, of course, to books designed for enter-
tainment. As a matter of fact, I repent having said "the worst," for
according to the opinion of my friends it should be extremely good.

May your Excellency come back to us in that state of health in




CHAPTER I .

Of the conversation which the curate and the barber had with
Don Quixote concerning his malady.



IN THE second part of this history, dealing with Don Quixote's third
sally, Cid Hamete Benengeli tells us that the curate and the barber
went nearly a month without seeing their friend, in order not to re-
mind him of what had happened. But they did . not for this reason
leave off visiting the niece and housekeeper, whom they urged to treat
the knight with the greatest of care by seeing to it that he had com-
forting things to eat and such as would be good for his heart and for
his brain as well, the latter being to all appearances the seat of his
trouble and the cause of all his misfortunes. The women replied that
this was what they were doing, and would continue to do, with a right
good will and most attentively; for they had noticed that the master
of the house at moments seemed to be in full possession of his
senses.

The curate and the barber were well pleased at hearing this, and con-
cluded that they had done the wise thing in having Don Quixote borne
away in an ox-cart, as has been related in the last chapter of the First
Part of this great and painstaking chronicle. They accordingly de-
termined to visit him and see for themselves what improvement he had
made, although they believed it to be all but impossible that he could be
any better. They agreed that they would not bring up any subject that
had to do with knight-errantry, as they did not wish to run the risk of re-
opening a wound that was still so sore.

When the pair came to pay their visit, they found their host seated
upon the bed, clad in a green baize waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and
looking as withered and dried up as an Egyptian mummy. He received
them very well and, when they made inquiries regarding his health, dis-
cussed with them this and other matters of a personal nature most sensibly
and in words that were very well chosen. In the course of their conversa-
tion they came to touch upon what is known as statecraft and forms of
government, correcting this abuse, condemning that one, reforming one
custom and banishing another, with each of the three setting himself up
as a new lawgiver, a modern Lycurgus or newly fledged Solon. In this
manner they proceeded to remodel the State, as if they had placed it in
a forge and had drawn out something quite different from what they had
put in. And all the while Don Quixote displayed such good sound sense in
connection with whatever topic was broached as to lead the two ex-
aminers to feel that he must undoubtedly be fully recovered and in his
right mind.

The niece and housekeeper were present at this conversation and
could not thank God enough when they saw how clear-headed their
master apparently was. It was then that the curate changed his mind about
not bringing up anything that had to do with chivalry; for he wished to
make the test complete and assure himself as to whether the knight's re-
covery was real or not. And so, speaking of one thing and another, he
came to relate various items of news that had just been received from
the capital, including a report to the effect that it was looked upon as
a certainty that the Turk was bearing down with a powerful fleet, al-
though nothing was known of his plans as yet, nor where so great a storm
as this would break, but as a result all Christendom was stirred by that
feeling of dread that almost every year summons us to take up arms, and
his Majesty had seen to fortifying the coasts of Naples and Sicily and the
island of Malta.

His Majesty, remarked Don Quixote, "has acted like a most prudent
warrior in providing for the safety of his dominions while there is yet
dine, in order that the enemy may not take him unawares; but if he were
to follow my advice, I should counsel him to adopt a measure which I am
sure is far from his thoughts at the present moment"

"Poor Don Quixote," said the curate to himself when he heard this,
"may God help you; for it looks to me as if you have fallen from the
high cliff of madness into the abyss of simple-mindedness."

The same thought had occurred to the barber, who now asked the
knight what this measure was that in his opinion should be adopted, add-
ing that perhaps it was one that would have to be added to the long list
of impertinent suggestions of the kind commonly offered to princes.

"My suggestion, Master Shaver," replied Don Quixote, "is not an
impertinent one but is very much to the point."

"That is not what I meant," said the barber, "but experience has shown
that all or most of the expedients that are proposed to his Majesty are
either impossible or nonsensical, or else would be detrimental to king
and kingdom."

"But mine," Don Quixote insisted, "is not impossible nor is it nonsensi-
cal, but rather is the easiest, the most reasonable, the readiest, and most
expeditious scheme that anyone could devise."

"It takes your Grace a long time to tell it," observed the curate.

"I do not care to tell it to you here and now," said the knight, "and, the
first thing tomorrow morning, have it reach the ears of my lords, the
councilors, so that some other person may carry off the reward and win
the thanks that are rightly due me."

"For my part," the barber assured him, "I give you my word, here
and before God, that I will say nothing of what your Grace may tell
me, to king, rook, or earthly man.15 That, by the way, is an oath I picked
up from the ballad about the curate who, in the prelude, tells the king
of the thief who had robbed him of a hundred doblas16 and his fast-pacing
mule."17

"I know nothing about such stories," said Don Quixote, "but I do know
that the oath is a good one by reason of the faith that I have in this worthy
man, our master barber."

"And even if he were not what you take him to be," the curate went
on, "I would go bond and put in an appearance for him, to the effect that
in this case he will be as silent as a mute, under pain of any sentence that
might be pronounced upon him."

"And who will go your Grace's bond?" Don Quixote asked the priest.

"My profession," was the curate's reply, "which consists in keeping
secrets."

"Then, damn it, sir!" exclaimed the knight, "what more need his
Majesty do than command by public proclamation that all the knights-
errant at present wandering over Spain shall assemble in the capital on a
given day--Even if no more than half a dozen came, there well might be
one among them who alone would be able to overthrow the Turk's
mighty power. Pay attention, your Worships, and listen closely to what
I am about to say. Is it by any chance an unheard-of thing for a single
knight-errant to rout an army of two hundred thousand men, as if they
all had but one throat or were made of sugar paste--Tell me, how many
stories do we have that are filled with such marvels--If only, alas for me
(I do not care to speak for any other), the famous Don Belianfs were
alive today, or any of the countless other descendants of Amadis of
Gaul! Let one of these but confront the Turk, and my word, they would
have the best of him. But God will look after his people and will provide
someone who, if not so brave as the knights of old, will not be inferior
to them in the matter of courage. God knows what I mean. I need say no
more."

"Oh, dear," wailed the niece at this point, "may they slay me if my
master doesn't want to go back to being a knight-errant!"

"A knight-errant I shall live and die," said Don Quixote, "and let the
Turk come or go as he will, with all the strength he can muster. Again
I say to you, God understands."

The barber now spoke up. "I beg your Worships to grant me permis-
sion to relate to you briefly something that happened in Seville. It is a
story that is made for the present occasion, which is why I should like
to tell it."

Don Quixote gave his consent, and the curate and the others prepared
to lend him their attention.

"In the madhouse of Seville," he began, "was a certain individual who
had been placed there by his relatives, as being out of his mind. He was a
graduate of Osuna, in canon law; but it was the opinion of most people
that even if he had been of Salamanca, he would have been mad all the
same. After a few years of seclusion, this man took it into his head that
he had been wholly cured, and, being so convinced, he wrote to the arch-
bishop, begging that prelate, earnestly and in well-chosen words, to have
him released from the misery in which he was living, since he had now
recovered his lost reason, even though his family, which was enjoying
his share of the estate, insisted upon keeping him there; for contrary to
the truth of the matter, they would make him out to be a madman until
his dying day.

"Impressed by the many well and sensibly written letters he had re-
ceived from the man, the archbishop sent one of his chaplains to find out
from the superintendent of the madhouse if what the licentiate had
written was true or not. The chaplain was further directed to converse
with the patient and if he found him to be sane, he was to take him out
and set him at liberty. Following these instructions, he was informed
by the superintendent that the man was as mad as ever, and that while
he very frequently spoke like a person of great intelligence, he would
suddenly burst out with so many absurdities that they more than made
up, in quantity and in quality, for all the sensible things he had previously
said, as was readily to be seen by talking with him. This the chaplain re-
solved to do, and, sitting down with the patient, he carried on a conversa-
tion with him for more than an hour, during all of which time the mad-
man did not make one incoherent or foolish remark but appeared to be
so rational in everything he said that his visitor was compelled to believe
him sane.

"Among other things, the man stated that the superintendent had it
in for him, being motivated by a desire not to lose the gifts that the rela-
tives made him for saying that his ward was still insane with lucid inter-
vals. The greatest misfortune that he had to contend with, the poor fel-
low added, was his large estate, since it was for the purpose of enjoying
his wealth that his enemies belied and cast doubts upon the grace which
Our Lord had shown him by turning him from a beast into a man once
more. In short, he spoke in such a way as to make the superintendent's
conduct seem highly suspicious, while his relatives were made out to
be covetous and heartless creatures; all of which was uttered with such
a show of reason that the chaplain made up his mind to take the man with
him that the archbishop might see him and come at the truth of this
business.

"With this worthy intention, he asked the superintendent to send for
the clothes which the licentiate had worn when he entered the place,
whereupon that official once more begged him to look well to what he
was doing, as there was not the slightest doubt that the patient was still
mad; but all these cautions and warnings were lost upon the chaplain,
who was bent upon having the man released. Seeing that it was the arch-
bishop's orders, the superintendent complied, and they then brought
the licentiate his clothes, which were new and very presentable. When the
latter saw himself dressed like one in his right senses and rid of his mad-
man's garments, he begged the chaplain to be so kind as to permit him
to take leave of his fellow patients. The chaplain consented, remarking
that he would like to go along and see the others who were confined in
the institution. They accordingly went upstairs, accompanied by some of
those who were present, and came to a cell where one who was raving
mad was lodged, though at that moment he was calm and quiet.

"'Brother,' the licentiate said to him, 'think if there is anything that I
can do for you. I am going home, God in His infinite goodness and mercy,
and through no merit of my own, having seen fit to restore my reason
to me. I am now cured and sane, since where the power of God is con-
cerned, nothing is impossible. You must have a great hope and confidence
in Him, who, just as He has restored me to my former state, will do the
same for you if you trust in Him. I will make it a point to send you some
good things to eat, and be sure that you do eat them; for as one who has
gone through it, I may tell you that in my opinion all our madness comes
from having our stomachs empty and our brains full of air. Pluck up your
courage, then. Despondency in misfortune only impairs the health and
brings death all the sooner.'

"Everything the licentiate said was heard by another madman in a cell
across the way, and, rising from an old mat where he had been lying
stark naked, this man now cried out in a loud voice, demanding to know
who it was that was going away cured and sane.

"'It is I, brother,' the licentiate replied. 'I am leaving you. There is
no longer any need of my remaining here, thanks be to Heaven for hav-
ing shown me this mercy.'

"'Mind what you are saying, licentiate,' the other warned him, 'and do
not let the devil deceive you. You had best not stir a foot but stay where
you are and save yourself the trouble of coming back.'

"'I know that I am all right,' was the reply, 'and that it will not be
necessary for me to do the stations again.'18

"'You are all right, are you?' said the madman across the way. 'We
shall see as to that. May God go with you; but I swear to you, in the
name of Jupiter whose majesty I represent on earth, that for this one
sin which Seville today is committing by releasing you from this place
as if you were cured, I shall have to inflict such a punishment upon it
as will be remembered throughout all the ages to come. Amen. Do you
not know, miserable little licentiate, that I can do this, seeing that, as I
have said, I am Jupiter the Thunderer and hold in my hands the fiery
bolts with which I am accustomed to threaten the world and by means
of which I can destroy it--There is, however, only one way in which
I wish to punish this ignorant town, and that is by not raining upon it
or anywhere in the entire district and vicinity for three whole years,
beginning with the day and moment when this threat is made. You free.
cured, in your right senses, and I a madman, sickly minded and confined--
I would no more think of sending rain than I would of hanging myself.'

"The bystanders all listened attentively to the madman's words and
cries. Then our licentiate turned to the chaplain and seized his hands.
'Do not be disturbed, your Grace,' he pleaded, 'and pay no attention to
what this fellow says. If he is Jupiter and will not rain, then I who am
Neptune, father and god of the waters, will do so any time that I feel
like it or whenever it may be necessary.'

"'For all of that, Sir Neptune,' the chaplain answered him, 'it would
be as well not to annoy Sir Jupiter. Stay here, your Grace, and another
day, when we have more time and it is more convenient, we will return
for you.'

. "The superintendent and the others laughed at this, and the chaplain
was greatly embarrassed. They then undressed the licentiate, and he re-
mained where he was, and that is the end of the story."

"If that is the tale, Master Barber," said Don Quixote, "what did you
mean by saying that it was made for the present occasion, for which
reason you could not refrain from telling it--Ah, Master Shaver, Master
Shaver, how blind is he who cannot see through a sieve! Is your Grace
not aware that comparisons of mind with mind, valor with valor, beauty
with beauty, birth with birth, are invariably odious and ill received--I,
Master Barber, am not Neptune, god of the waters, nor would I have any-
one take me for a wise man when I am not wise. My sole endeavor is to
bring the world to realize the mistake it is making in failing to revive
that happiest of times when the order of knight-errantry was in the field.
But this degenerate age of ours does not deserve to enjoy so great a bless-
ing as that which former ages knew, when wandering men of arms took
upon themselves the defense of realms, the protection of damsels, the suc-
cor of orphans, the punishment of the proud, and the rewarding of the
humble.

"The knights of the present time, for the most part, are accompanied
by the rustling of damasks, brocades, and other rich stuffs that they wear,
rather than by the rattling of coats of mail. There is none that sleeps in
the field, exposed to the inclemency of the heavens and fully armed from
head to foot. There is none who, as they say, snatches forty winks with-
out taking foot from stirrup, merely leaning on his lance. There is none
who, sallying forth from a wood, will go up onto yonder mountain, and
from there come down to tread the barren and deserted shore beside a
sea that is almost always angry and tempest-tossed; or who, finding upon
the beach a small craft, without oars, sail, mast, or rigging of any kind,
will leap into it with intrepid heart and entrust himself to the implacable
waves of the stormy deep, waves that now mount heavenward and now
drag him down into the abyss. Such a one, breasting the irresistible
tempest, may find himself more than three thousand miles from the place
where he embarked; in which case, bounding ashore upon the soil of a
remote and unknown land, he will meet with such adventures as are
worthy of being recorded, not upon parchment, but in bronze.

"Today, sloth triumphs over diligence, idleness and ease over exertion,
vice over virtue, arrogance over valor, and theory over practice of the
warrior's art. Tell me, if you will, who was more virtuous or more valiant
than the famous Amadis of Gaul--Who more prudent than Palmerin of
England--Who more gracious and reasonable than Tirant lo Blanch--
Who was more the courtier than Lisuarte of Greece--Who was more
slashed or slashing than Don Belianis--Who more intrepid than Perion of
Gaul--Or who more forward in facing danger than Felixmarte of
Hircania--Who was more sincere than Esplandian--More daring than
Don Cirongilio of Thrace--Who was braver than Rodamonte--Wiser
than King Sobrino--Bolder than Rinaldo--More invincible than Orlando--
Who was more gallant and courteous than Ruggiero, from whom the
present dukes of Ferrara are descended, according to Turpin in his Cos-
mography?19

"All these and many others whom I could mention, Senor Curate,
were knights-errant, the light and glory of chivalry. It is these, or such
as these, that I would have carry out my plan, in which case his majesty
would be well served and would save himself much expense, while the
Turk would be left tearing out his beard. For this reason, I do not propose
to remain at home,20 even though the chaplain does not take me out;
and if Jupiter, as the barber has said, does not choose to rain, then
I am here to do so whenever it pleases me. I say this in order that Master
Basin may know that I understand him."

"Really, Senor Don Quixote," said the barber, "I did not mean it in
that way. So help me God, my intentions were of the best, and your
Grace ought not to take offense."

"Whether I take offense or not," replied Don Quixote, "is for me to
decide,"

With this, the curate took a hand in the conversation. "I have hardly
said a word up to now, but there is one little doubt that gnaws and pecks
at my conscience and that comes from what Don Quixote has just told
us."

"You may go as far as you like, Senor Curate," said Don Quixote.
"Feel perfectly free to state your doubt, for it is not pleasant to have
something on one's conscience."

"Well, then, with your permission," the curate continued, "I will say
that my doubt arises from the fact that I am unable to persuade myself
by any manner of means that all the many knights-errant your Grace
has mentioned were in reality flesh-and-blood beings who actually lived
in this world. I rather fancy that it is all fiction, fables, and lies, a lot of
dreams related by men just awakened from sleep, or, better, still half
asleep."

"That," declared Don Quixote, "is another error into which many have
fallen who do not believe that such knights ever existed; and I many
times, with various persons and on various occasions, have endeavored
to. bring this all too common mistake to the light of truth. Sometimes
I have not succeeded in my purpose, but other times, sustained upon the
shoulders of the truth, I have been more fortunate. For the truth is so
clear that I can almost assure you that I saw with my own eyes Amadis
of Gaul. He was a tall man, of fair complexion and with a beard which,
though black, was quite handsome. His countenance was half mild, half
stern; his words were few, but he was slow to anger and quick to lay
aside his wrath. And just as I have depicted Amadis for you, so I might
go on, I think, to portray and describe21 all the other knights-errant in
all the storybooks of the world. For I feel sure that they were what the
histories make them out to have been, and from the exploits that they per-
formed and the kind of men they were it would be possible, with the aid
of a little sound philosophy, to reconstruct their features, their complex-
ions, and their stature."

"How big, Senor Don Quixote, was the giant Morgante as your Grace
conceives him?" the barber asked.

"On this subject of giants," replied the knight, "opinions differ as to
whether or not there ever were any in this world: but the Holy Scrip-
tures, which do not depart from the truth by one iota, show us plainly
that giants did exist, when they tell us the story of that big Philistine of
a Goliath, who was seven cubits and a half in height, which is a very
great size.22 Moreover, in the island of Sicily they have found thigh and
shoulder bones so large that they must have belonged to giants as tall as
towers.23 It is a matter of simple geometry. But for all of this, I should
not be able to state with any certainty what Morgante's size was, although
I imagine that he was not exceedingly tall, since I find in that history
where special mention is made of his exploits24 that he very frequently
slept under a roof, and inasmuch as he found houses that were large
enough to accommodate him, he could not have been too big after all."

"I agree with you," said the curate. And merely for the pleasure of
listening to such utter nonsense, he went on to ask Don Quixote what
he thought the countenances of Rinaldo of Montalban, Don Orlando,
and the other Twelve Peers of France must have been like, seeing that
they were all knights-errant.

"Concerning Rinaldo" Don Quixote answered him, "I would venture
to say that he had a broad face, a ruddy complexion, and twinkling,
rather prominent eyes, and that he was punctilious, extremely choleric,
and a friend of robbers and those beyond the pale of the law. As to
Roldan, or Rotolando, or Orlando--for the histories give him all these
names--I am of the opinion, indeed I would assert, that he was of medium
stature, broad-shouldered, somewhat bowlegged, red-bearded, with a
hairy body and a threatening expression, a man of few words, but very
courteous and well bred."

"If Orlando," observed the curate, "had no more of a gentlemanly
appearance than that, I do not wonder that the lady Angelica the Fair
should have disdained him or that she should have left him for that
downy-faced young Moor who was so gay, so sprightly, and so witty. It
seems to me she did wisely in preferring the softness of Medora to Or-
lando's ruggedness."

"That Angelica," replied the knight, "was a giddy damsel, flighty and
capricious, and filled the world with her whims as much as with the
fame of her beauty. She spurned a thousand gentlemen of wit and valor
and was satisfied with a smooth-faced pageling with no other wealth or
claim to fame than his reputation for gratitude, due to the affection that
he showed his friend.25 The great poet who sang of her beauty, the fa-
mous Ariosto, either did not dare or did not wish to relate what happened
to this lady following her disgraceful surrender, but her adventures
could not have been any too edifying, and it is with these lines that the
bard takes his leave of her:

　　　　How she received the scepter of Cathay,
　　　　Another with better plectrum will sing someday.26

There can be no doubt that this was a kind of prophecy; for poets are
also called vates, which means 'diviners.' The truth of this is plainly to be
seen in the fact that a famous Andalusian poet wept for her and sang of
her tears, while another famous and exceptional one of Castile hymned
her beauty."27

"But tell me, Senor Don Quixote," said the barber, "among all the
poets who have praised her, has there been none to compose a satire on
this Lady Angelica?"

"I can well believe," replied Don Quixote, "that if Sacripante or Or-
lando had been poets, they would have given the damsel a dressing-
down; for when poets have been scorned and rejected by their ladies,
whether the ladies in question be real or imaginary28--in short, when
they have been spurned by those whom they have chosen to be the mis-
tresses of their affection--it is natural for them to seek to avenge them-
selves by means of satires and libels, although, to be sure, this is some-
thing that is unworthy of generous hearts; but up to now I have not
come upon any defamatory verses directed at the Lady Angelica, who
set the world on end."29

"That is very strange," said the curate.

At that moment they heard the housekeeper and the niece, who had
left the room a while ago, shouting at someone in the courtyard, and they
all ran out to see what the uproar was about.



CHAPTER II.

Which treats of the notable quarrel that Sancho Panza had with
Don Quixote's niece and housekeeper, along with other droll happenings.



THE history tells us that the cries which Don Quixote, the curate, and
the barber heard came from the niece and the housekeeper. They were
shouting at Sancho Panza, who was struggling to get in to see the
knight, while they were doing their best to keep him out.

"What is this vagabond doing here--Home with you, brother; for
you and no one else are the one who puts these foolish notions into my
master's head; it is you who lure him away to go wandering over the
countryside."

"You devil's housekeeper, you!" exclaimed Sancho. "The one who
has foolish notions put in his head and is lured away is I and not your
master. He has taken me all over this world; and you do not know the
half of it It was through a trick that he persuaded me to leave home,
by promising me an island which I am still waiting to see.

"May you choke on your cursed islands, Sancho, you wretch! the
niece replied. "What are islands anyway--Are they something to eat,
glutton that you are?"

"No," replied Sancho, "they are not something to eat, but something
to govern and rule over and better than four cities30 or four judgeships
at court."

"Well, in spite of all that," said the housekeeper, "you are not coming
in here, you bag of mischief. Go govern that weedpatch of yours and
let us hear no more talk of islands or drylands or what have you.'31

The curate and the barber greatly enjoyed listening to the conversa-
tion of these three; but Don Quixote, fearing that Sancho would talk
too much, blurt out a lot of mischievous nonsense, and touch upon cer-
tain subjects that would not redound to his master's credit, now called
his squire over to him and at the same time ordered the other two to
hold their tongues and let the unwelcome visitor come in. Sancho en-
tered the house as the curate and the barber took their leave. They were
in despair over Don Quixote's state of mind, for they could not help
perceiving how firmly fixed his hallucinations were and how imbued he
was with those foolish ideas of his about knight-errantry.

"You will see, my friend," remarked the curate, "our gentleman will
be off again one of these days when we least expect it."

"I have not the slightest doubt of that," replied the barber. "But I do
not wonder so much at the knight's madness as I do at the simple-minded-
ness of his squire, who believes so firmly in that island that no matter
what you did to disillusion him, you would never be able to get it out
of his head. Such at least is my opinion."

"God help them," said the curate, "and let us keep a close watch to
see what comes of all this falderal about knight and squire. It would
seem they had both been turned out from the same mold and that the
madness of the master without the foolishness of the man would not be
worth a penny."

"You are right," agreed the barber, "and I would give a good deal to
know what the two of them are talking about at this moment."

"I feel certain," replied the curate, "that the niece or the housekeeper
will tell us all about it afterward, for it is not like them to fail to listen."

In the meanwhile Don Quixote had shut himself up in his room with
Sancho.

"It grieves me very much, Sancho," he began as soon as they were
alone, "to hear you saying that it was I who took you away from your
cottage. You know very well that I did not remain in my own house.
We sallied forth and rode away together, and together we wandered
here and there. We shared the same fortune and the same fate, and if
they blanketed you once, they flayed me a hundred times, that is the only
advantage that I have over you."

"That is as it should be," Sancho told him, "for, according to what your
Grace says, misfortunes are better suited to knights-errant than to their
squires."

"That is where you are wrong, Sancho," replied the knight, "in ac-
cordance with the proverb 'Quando caput dolet' etc."

"I understand no other language than my own," said Sancho.

"I mean," said Don Quixote, "that when the head suffers, all the other
members suffer also. Being your master and lord, I am your head, and
you, being my servant, are a part of me; and so it is that the evil which
affects me must likewise affect you and your pain must be my own."

"It may be so," Sancho answered, "but l know that when they were
blanketing me, as a member, my head was on the other side of the wall,
watching me fly through the air, without feeling any pain whatever. And
it does seem to me that if the members are obliged to suffer with the
head, the head ought to suffer with them."

"Do you mean to stand there and tell me, Sancho, that I felt nothing
when they were tossing you in the blanket--You must not say or think
such a thing as that, for I felt more pain in my mind than you did in your
body. However, let us put all this to one side; for there will be time
enough later for us to consider this point and reach a conclusion. Rather,
Sancho my friend, tell me, what are they saying about me here in the
village? What opinion do the people have of me, and what do the gentry
think, the hidalgos and the caballeros?32 What do they say of my valor,
of my exploits, of my courtesy? What kind of talk is there about my
having undertaken to restore to the world the forgotten order of chiv-
alry? In brief, Sancho, I would have you tell me everything that you have
heard on this subject; and this you are to do without adding to the good
or keeping back any of the bad; for it is fitting that loyal vassals should
tell the truth to their lords, just as it is, without magnifying it out of adula-
tion or diminishing it out of a feeling of false respect. I may tell you,
Sancho, that if the naked truth could only reach the ears of princes,
stripped of the garments of flattery, the times would be quite different
from what they are and other eras would be known as the age of iron,
not ours, which indeed I hold to be a golden epoch among those of the
modem world. Give heed to this advice, Sancho, in order that you may
be able to answer my questions intelligently and faithfully and tell me
what you know to be the truth about these things.

"That I will do right willingly, my master," Sancho replied, "on condi-
tion that your Grace will not be angry at what I tell you, seeing that you
would have me give it to you stark naked, without putting any other
clothes on it than those in which it came to me."

"Of course I shall not be angry," said Don Quixote. "You may speak
freely, Sancho, without any beating around the bush.

"Well, in the first place, the common people look upon your Grace as
an utter madman and me as no less a fool. The hidalgos are saying that,
not content with being a gentleman, you have had to put a Don in front
of your name33 and at a bound have made yourself into a caballero,
with four vinestocks, a couple of acres34 of land, and one tatter in
front and another behind. The caballeros, on the other hand, do not
relish having the hidalgos set up in opposition to them, especially those
gentlemen who perform the duties of a squire by polishing their own
shoes and darning their black stockings with green silk."

"That," said the knight, "has nothing to do with me, since I always go
well dressed and never in patches. Ragged I well may be, but rather from
the wear and tear of armor than of time."35

"So far as your Grace's valor is concerned," Sancho went on, "your
courtesy, exploits, and undertaking, there are different opinions. Some
say: 'Crazy but amusing'; others: 'Brave but unfortunate'; others still:
'Courteous but meddlesome'; and they go on clacking their tongues about
this thing and that until there is not a whole bone left in your Grace's
body or in mine."

"Look you, Sancho," replied his master, "wherever virtue exists in an
outstanding degree, it is always persecuted. Few or none of the famous
men of the past have escaped without being slandered by the malicious.
Julius Caesar, a most courageous, wise, and valiant captain, was charged
with ambition and with being none too clean either in his dress or in his
morals. Alexander, whose deeds won him the title of Great, was reported
to be somewhat of a drunkard. Hercules--he of the many labors--if we
are to believe what they say of him, was lascivious and inclined to
effeminacy. Of Don Galaor, brother of Amadis of Gaul, it was whispered
about that he was far too quarrelsome, while Amadis himself was called a
whiner. So you see, Sancho, when good men have been traduced in this
fashion, what they say about me may be overlooked, if it is no more
than what you have told me."

"Body of my father!" exclaimed Sancho, "but there's the rub."

"What?" Don Quixote asked. "Is there more then?"

"That there is," said Sancho. "The tail is yet to be skinned.36 All so far
has been tarts and fancy cakes;37 but if your Grace really wants to know
what they are saying, I can bring you here at once one who will tell you
everything, without leaving out the least particle of it. Bartolome Car-
rasco's son came home last night. He has been studying at Salamanca
and has just been made a bachelor. When I went to welcome him, he told
me that the story of your Grace has already been put into a book called
The Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha. And he says they
mention me in it, under my own name, Sancho Panza, and the lady
Dulcinea del Toboso as well, along with things that happened to us when
we were alone together. I had to cross myself, for I could not help
wondering how the one who wrote all those things down could have
come to know about them."

"I can assure you, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the author of our
history must be some wise enchanter; for nothing that they choose to
write about is hidden from those who practice that art."

"What do you mean by saying he was an enchanter?" Sancho asked.
"Why, the bachelor Sanson Carrasco--which is the name of the man
I was telling you of--says that the one who wrote the story is called
Cid Hamete Berenjena."

"That," said Don Quixote, "is a Moorish name "

"It may be," replied Sancho; "for I have generally heard it said that
the Moors are great lovers of eggplant."38

"You must have made some mistake," said the knight, "regarding the
surname of this Cid, a title which in Arabic means 'Senor.' "

"Maybe I did," replied Sancho; "but if your Grace would like me to
bring the man here, I will go for him in a jiffy."

"It would give me much pleasure, my friend," said Don Quixote, "for
I am astonished by what you have told me and shall not eat a mouthful
that sets well on my stomach until I have learned all about it."

"Very well, then," said Sancho, "I will go fetch him." And, leaving
his master, he went out to look for the bachelor. He returned with him
a short while later, and the three of them then had a most amusing con-
versation.



CHAPTER III.

Of the laughable conversation that took place between Don
Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the bachelor Sanson Carrasco.



DON QUIXOTE remained in a thoughtful mood as he waited for
the bachelor Carrasco, from whom he hoped to hear the news as to how
he had been put into a book, as Sancho had said. He could not bring
himself to believe that any such history existed, since the blood of the
enemies he had slain was not yet dry on the blade of his sword; and here
they were trying to tell him that his high deeds of chivalry were already
circulating in printed form.39 But, for that matter, he imagined that some
sage, either friend or enemy, must have seen to the printing of them
through the art of magic. If the chronicler was a friend, he must have
undertaken the task in order to magnify and exalt Don Quixote's exploits
above the most notable ones achieved by knights-errant of old. If an
enemy, his purpose would have been to make them out as nothing at all,
by debasing them below the meanest acts ever recorded of any mean
squire. The only thing was, the knight reflected, the exploits of squires
never were set down in writing. If it was true that such a history existed,
being about a knight-errant, then it must be eloquent and lofty in tone,
a splendid and distinguished piece of work and veracious in its details.

This consoled him somewhat, although he was a bit put out at the
thought that the author was a Moor, if the appellation "Cid" was to be
taken as an indication, and from the Moors you could never hope for
any word of truth,40 seeing that they are all of them cheats, forgers, and
schemers. He feared lest his love should not have been treated with be-
coming modesty but rather in a way that would reflect upon the virtue
of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso. He hoped that his fidelity had been made
clear, and the respect he had always shown her, and that something had
been said as to how he had spurned queens, empresses, and damsels of
every rank while keeping a rein upon those impulses that are natural to
a man. He was still wrapped up in these and many other similar thoughts
when Sancho returned with Carrasco.

Don Quixote received the bachelor very amiably. The latter, although
his name was Sanson, or Samson, was not very big so far as bodily size
went, but he was a great joker, with a sallow complexion and a ready
wit. He was going on twenty-four and had a round face, a snub nose,
and a large mouth, all of which showed him to be of a mischievous dispo-
sition and fond of jests and witticisms. This became apparent when, as
soon as he saw Don Quixote, he fell upon his knees and addressed the
knight as follows:

"O mighty Don Quixote de la Mancha, give me your hands; for by
the habit of St. Peter that I wear41--though I have received but the first
four orders--your Grace is one of the most famous knights-errant that
ever have been or ever will be anywhere on this earth. Blessings upon Cid
Hamete Benengeli who wrote down the history of your great achieve-
ments, and upon that curious-minded one who was at pains to have it
translated from the Arabic into our Castilian vulgate for the universal
entertainment of the people."

Don Quixote bade him rise. "Is it true, then," he asked, "that there is
a book about me and that it was some Moorish sage who composed
it?"

"By way of showing you how true it is," replied Sanson, "I may tell
you that it is my belief that there are in existence today more than twelve
thousand copies of that history. If you do not believe me, you have but
to make inquiries in Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where editions
have been brought out, and there is even a report to the effect that one
edition was printed at Antwerp.42 In short, I feel certain that there will
soon not be a nation that does not know it or a language into which it
has not been translated."

"One of the things," remarked Don Quixote, "that should give most
satisfaction to a virtuous and eminent man is to see his good name spread
abroad during his own lifetime, by means of the printing press, through
translations into the languages of the various peoples. I have said 'good
name,' for if he has any other kind, his fate is worse than death."

"If it is a matter of good name and good reputation," said the bachelor,
"your Grace bears off the palm from all the knights-errant in the world;
for the Moor in his tongue and the Christian in his have most vividly de-
picted your Grace's gallantry, your courage in facing dangers, your
patience in adversity and suffering, whether the suffering be due to
wounds or to misfortunes of another sort, and your virtue and continence
in love, in connection with that platonic relationship that exists between
your Grace and my lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso."

At this point Sancho spoke up. "Never in my life," he said, "have I
heard my lady Dulcinea called 'Dona, but only 'la Senora Dulcinea del
Toboso'; so on that point, already, the history is wrong."

"That is not important," said Carrasco.

"No, certainly not," Don Quixote agreed. "But tell me, Senor Bachelor,
what adventures of mine as set down in this book have made the deepest
impression?"

"As to that," the bachelor answered, "opinions differ, for it is a matter
of individual taste. There are some who are very fond of the adventure
of the windmills--those windmills which to your Grace appeared to
be so many Briareuses and giants. Others like the episode at the fulling
mill. One relishes the story of the two armies which took on the appear-
ance of droves of sheep, while another fancies the tale of the dead man
whom they were taking to Segovia for burial. One will assert that the
freeing of the galley slaves is the best of all, and yet another will main-
tain that nothing can come up to the Benedictine giants and the encounter
with the valiant Biscayan."

Again Sancho interrupted him. "Tell me, Senor Bachelor," he said,
"does the book say anything about the adventure with the Yanguesans,
that time our good Rocinantc took it into his head to go looking for
tidbits in the sea?"

"The sage," replied Sanson, "has left nothing in the inkwell. lie has
told everything and to the point, even to the capers which the worthy
Sancho cut as they tossed him in the blanket."

"I cut no capers in the blanket," objected Sancho, "but I did in the air,
and more than I liked."

"I imagine," said Don Quixote, "that there is no history in the world,
dealing with humankind, that does not have its ups and downs, and this
is particularly true of those that have to do with deeds of chivalry, for
they can never be filled with happy incidents alone."

"Nevertheless," the bachelor went on, "there are some who have read
the book who say that they would have been glad if the authors had for-
gotten a few of the innumerable cudgelings which Senor Don Quixote
received in the course of his various encounters."43

"But that is where the truth of the story comes in," Sancho protested.

"For all of that," observed Don Quixote, "they might well have said
nothing about them; for there is no need of recording those events that
do not alter the veracity of the chronicle, when they tend only to lessen
the reader's respect for the hero. You may be sure that Aeneas was not
as pious as Vergil would have us believe, nor was Ulysses as wise as Homer
depicts him."

"That is true enough," replied Sanson, "but it is one thing to write as
a poet and another as a historian. The former may narrate or sing of
things not as they were but as they should have been; the latter must
describe them not as they should have been but as they were, without
adding to or detracting from the truth in any degree whatsoever."

"Well," said Sancho, "if this Moorish gentleman is bent upon telling the
truth, I have no doubt that among my master's thrashings my own will
be found; for they never took the measure of his Grace's shoulders with-
out measuring my whole body. But I don't wonder at that; for as my
master himself says, when there's an ache in the head the members have
to share it."

"You are a sly fox, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "My word, but you
can remember things well enough when you choose to do so!"

"Even if I wanted to forget the whacks they gave me," Sancho
answered him, "the welts on my ribs wouldn't let me, for they are still
fresh,"

"Be quiet, Sancho," his master admonished him, "and do not interrupt
the bachelor. I beg him to go on and tell me what is said of me in this
book."

"And what it says about me, too," put in Sancho, "for I have heard
that I am one of the main presonages in it--"

"Personages, not presonages, Sancho my friend," said Sanson.

"So we have another one who catches you up on everything you say,"
was Sancho's retort. "If we go on at this rate, we'll never be through in
a lifetime."

"May God put a curse on my life," the bachelor told him, "if you are
not the second most important person in the story; and there are some
who would rather listen to you talk than to anyone else in the book. It
is true, there are those who say that you are too gullible in believing it
to be the truth that you could become the governor of that island that
was offered you by Senor Don Quixote, here present."

"There is still sun on the top of the wall,"44 said Don Quixote, "and
when Sancho is a little older, with the experience that the years bring,
he will be wiser and better fitted to be a governor than he is at the present
time."

"By God, master," said Sancho, "the island that I couldn't govern right
now I'd never be able to govern if I lived to be as old as Methuselah. The
trouble is, I don't know where that island we are talking about is located;
it is not due to any lack of noddle on my part."

"Leave it to God, Sancho," was Don Quixote's advice, "and everything
will come out all right, perhaps even better than you think; for not a
leaf on the tree stirs except by His will."

"Yes," said Sanson, "if it be God's will, Sancho will not lack a thousand
islands to govern, not to speak of one island alone.

"I have seen governors around here," said Sancho, that are not to
be compared to the sole of my shoe, and yet they call them your Lord-
ship ' and serve them on silver plate."

"Those are not the same kind of governors," Sanson informed him.
"Their task is a good deal easier. The ones that govern islands must at
least know grammar."

"I could make out well enough with the gram replied Sancho, "but
with the mar 45 I want nothing to do, for I don't understand it at all. But
leaving this business of the governorship in God's hands--for He will
send me wherever I can best serve Him--I will tell you, Senor Bachelor
Sanson Carrasco, that I am very much pleased that the author of the
history should have spoken of me in such a way as does not offend me;
for, upon the word of a faithful squire, if he had said anything about
me that was not becoming to an old Christian, the deaf would have
heard of it."

"That would be to work miracles," said Sanson.

"Miracles or no miracles," was the answer, "let everyone take care as
to what he says or writes about people and not be setting down the first
thing that pops into his head."

"One of the faults that is found with the book," continued the bachelor,
"is that the author has inserted in it a story entitled The One Who Was
Too Curious for His Own Good. It is not that the story in itself is a bad
one or badly written; it is simply that it is out of place there, having
nothing to do with the story of his Grace, Senor Don Quixote."

"I will bet you," said Sancho, "that the son of a dog has mixed the
cabbages with the baskets."46

"And I will say right now," declared Don Quixote, "that the author
of this book was not a sage but some ignorant prattler who at haphazard
and without any method set about the writing of it, being content to
let things turn out as they might. In the same manner, Orbaneja, the
painter of Ubeda, when asked what he was painting would reply,
'Whatever it turns out to be.'47 Sometimes it would be a cock, in which
case he would have to write alongside it, in Gothic letters, This is a cock.'
And so it must be with my story, which will need a commentary to make
it understandable."

"No," replied Sanson, "that it will not; for it is so clearly written that
none can fail to understand it. Little children leaf through it, young
people read it, adults appreciate it, and the aged sing its praises. In short,
it is so thumbed and read and so well known to persons of every walk
in life that no sooner do folks see some skinny nag than they at once
cry, 'There goes Rocinante!' Those that like it best of all are the pages;
for there is no lord's antechamber where a Don Quixote is not to be
found. If one lays it down, another will pick it up; one will pounce upon
it, and another will beg for it. It affords the pleasantest and least harmful
reading of any book that has been published up to now. In the whole
of it there is not to be found an indecent word or a thought that is other
than Catholic."48

"To write in any other manner," observed Don Quixote, "would be
to write lies and not the truth. Those historians who make use of false-
hoods ought to be burned like the makers of counterfeit money. I do
not know what could have led the author to introduce stories and epi-
sodes that are foreign to the subject matter when he had so much to write
about in describing my adventures. He must, undoubtedly, have been in-
spired by the old saying, 'With straw or with hay...'49 For, in truth,
all he had to do was to record my thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my lofty
purposes, and my undertakings, and he would have had a volume bigger
or at least as big as that which the works of El Tostado50 would make.
To sum the matter up, Senor Bachelor, it is my opinion that, in compos-
ing histories or books of any sort, a great deal of judgment and ripe under-
standing is called for. To say and write witty and amusing things is the
mark of great genius. The cleverest character in a comedy is the clown,
since he who would make himself out to be a simpleton cannot be one.
History is a near-sacred thing, for it must be true, and where the truth is,
there is God. And yet there are those who compose books and toss them
out into the world as if they were no more than fritters."

"There is no book so bad," opined the bachelor, "that there is not some
good in it."51

"Doubtless that is so," replied Don Quixote, "but it very often hap-
pens that those who have won in advance a great and well-deserved
reputation for their writings, lose it in whole or in part when they give
their works to the printer."

"The reason for it," said Sanson, "is that, printed works being read at
leisure, their faults are the more readily apparent, and the greater the
reputation of the author the more closely are they scrutinized. Men
famous for their genius, great poets, illustrious historians, are almost al-
ways envied by those who take a special delight in criticizing the writings
of others without having produced anything of their own."

"That is not to be wondered at," said Don Quixote, "for there are
many theologians who are not good enough for the pulpit but who are
very good indeed when it comes to detecting the faults or excesses of
those who preach."

"All of this is very true, Senor Don Quixote," replied Carrasco, "but,
all the same, I could wish that these self-appointed censors were a bit more
forbearing and less hypercritical; I wish they would pay a little less atten-
tion to the spots on the bright sun of the work that occasions their fault-
finding. For if aliquavdo bonus dorrnitat Homerus,52 let them consider
how much of his time he spent awake, shedding the light of his genius
with a minimum of shade. It well may be that what to them seems a flaw
is but one of those moles which sometimes add to the beauty of a face.
In any event, I insist that he who has a book printed runs a very great
risk, inasmuch as it is an utter impossibility to write it in such a manner
that it will please all who read it."

"This book about me must have pleased very few," remarked Don
Quixote.

"Quite the contrary," said Sanson, "for just as stultorum infnitus est
numerus,53 so the number of those who have enjoyed this history is
likewise infinite. Some, to be sure, have complained of the author's for-
getfulness, seeing that he neglected to make it plain who the thief was
who stole Sancho's gray;54 for it is not stated there, but merely implied,
that the ass was stolen; and, a little further on, we find the knight mounted
on the same beast, although it has not made its reappearance in the story.
They also say that the author forgot to tell us what Sancho did with those
hundred crowns that he found in the valise on the Sierra Morena, as
nothing more is said of them and there are many who would like to know
how he disposed of the money or how he spent it. This is one of the
serious omissons to be found in the work."

To this Sancho replied, "I, Senor Sanson, do not feel like giving any
account or accounting just now; for I feel a little weak in my stomach,
and if I don't do something about it by taking a few swigs of the old
stuff, I'll be sitting on St. Lucy's thorn.55 I have some of it at home, and
my old woman is waiting for me. After I've had my dinner, I'll come back
and answer any questions your Grace or anybody else wants to ask me,
whether it's about the loss of the ass or the spending of the hundred
crowns."

And without waiting for a reply or saying another word, he went on
home. Don Quixote urged the bachelor to stay and take potluck with
him,56 and Sanson accepted the invitation and remained. In addition to
the knight's ordinary fare, they had a couple of pigeons, and at table their
talk was of chivalry and feats of arms. Carrasco was careful to humor his
host, and when the meal was over they took their siesta. Then Sancho
returned and their previous conversation was resumed.



CHAPTER IV.

Wherein Sancho Panza answers the bachelor's questions and
removes his doubts, together with other events that are worthy
of being known and set down.



Returning to Don Quixote's house, Sancho began where they
had left off.

"Senor Sanson has said that he would like to know who it was that
stole my ass and how and when it was done. In answer to that, I can tell
him that it was the same night that we went up onto the Sierra Morena,
to get away from the Holy Brotherhood. It was after the adventure of
the galley slaves and that of the dead man that they were taking to
Segovia. My master and I had gone into a thicket; and there, with him
leaning on his lance and me seated on my gray and the both of us bruised
and tired from the scuffles we had been through, we dozed off and slept
as if we had had four feather beds beneath us. As for me, I was so dead
to the world that whoever it was that came along was able to put four
stakes under the four sides of my packsaddle and leave me sitting astraddle
of it while he took my gray out from under me without my knowing
anything about it."

"That," said Sanson, "is an easy thing to do and has been done before.
It happened to Sacripante when, at the siege of Albraca, the famous
thief known as Brunello, employing the same device, took the horse out
from between the knight's legs."57

"Well, " Sancho went on, "morning came, and when I went to stretch
myself the stakes gave way and I took a mighty tumble. I looked around
for the ass and could not see it, and then the tears came to my eyes and
I set up such a howling that if the author of the book did not put it in,
then he left out something very good. After I don't know how many
days, going along with her Ladyship, the Princess Micomicona, I caught
sight of Gines de Pasamonte coming down the road dressed like a gvpsy
and mounted on my beast--he was that big rogue and trickster that my
master and I freed from the galley slaves' chain."

"That is not where the error lies," replied Sanson, "but rather in the
fact that before the ass turns up again the author has Sancho riding on
it."

"I don't know what answer to give you," said Sancho, "except that
the one who wrote the story must have made a mistake, or else it must
be due to carelessness on the part of the printer."

"No doubt that is it," said Sanson, "but what became of the hundred
crowns--Did they vanish into thin air?"

"I spent them on myself and on my wife and young ones, and that
is why it is she puts up with my wanderings along the highways and by-
ways in the service of my master Don Quixote; for if after all that time I
had come home without my gray or a penny to my name, I would have
had one devil of a welcome. If there is anything else you would like to
know about me, here I am, ready to answer in person to the king himself,
and it is nobody's business whether I took it or did not take it, whether
I spent it or didn't spend it. If all the whacks they gave me on those
journeys had to be paid for in money, even if they valued them only at
four maravedis apiece, another hundred crowns would not be enough
to pay for the half of them. Let every man look after himself and not be
trying to make out that white is black and black is white; for each one is
as God made him, and a good deal worse a lot of times."

"I shall make it a point," said Carrasco, "to remind the author that if he
has another edition printed, he is by no means to forget what the good
Sancho has told us, which I am sure will greatly improve the book."58

"Are there any other corrections to be made in this work?" Don
Quixote inquired.

"There probably are," the bachelor replied, "but the ones we have
mentioned are the most important."

"And does the author by any chance promise a second part?"

"Yes, he does," said Sanson, "but he states that he has not yet come
upon it, nor does he know in whose possession it is, and accordingly there
is a doubt as to whether it will appear or not Indeed, there is some ques-
tion as to whether a second part is desirable. There are those who say,
'Sequels are never good,' while others assert, 'Enough has been written
already about Don Quixote.' But certain ones who are more jovially in-
clined and not of so morose a disposition will tell you, 'Let us have more
of these Quixotic adventures; let Don Quixote lay on and Sancho talk,
and, come what may, we shall be satisfied.' "

"And how does the author feel about it?"

"If he finds the history he is looking for so diligently," said Sanson, "he
will send it to the printer at once, being more interested in the profit that
may come to him from it than in any praise it may earn him."

Sancho now put in his word. "So, he is interested in money, is he--Then
it will be a wonder if he doesn't botch the job, for it will be nothing but
hurry, hurry, hurry, as at the tailor's on Easter Eve, and work done in
haste is never done as it should be. Let that Moorish gentleman, or who-
ever he is, pay attention, and my master and I will supply him with
enough stuff,59 ready at hand, in the way of adventures and other happen-
ings, to make not only one second part but a hundred of them. The good
man thinks, no doubt, that we are asleep here in the straw, but let him
hold up our hoofs to be shod and he will see which foot is the lame one.
All I have to say is that if my master would take my advice, we would be
in the field this minute, avenging outrages and righting wrongs as is the
use and custom of good knights-errant."

No sooner had Sancho said this than they heard the whinnying of
Rocinante, which Don Quixote took to be a very good omen; and he
resolved then and there that they would sally forth again within the
next three or four days. Announcing his intention to Carrasco, he asked
the bachelor to advise him as to what direction he should take; where-
upon Sanson replied that in his opinion the knight ought to head for the
kingdom of Aragon and the city of Saragossa, as they were to have some
ceremonious joustings there very shortly, in honor of the feast of St.
George,60 in which tournament Don Quixote might win a renown above
that of all the knights of Aragon, who in turn would be sure to vanquish
all others in the world. Sanson went on to praise his host's highly praise-
worthy and valiant undertaking, but warned him to be a little more care-
ful in confronting dangers, since his life was not his own but belonged
to all those who had need of his succor and protection in the misfortunes
that befell them.

"That is what I don't like about it, Senor Sanson," said Sancho. "My
master will attack a hundred armed men just like a greedy boy falling on
a half-dozen melons. Body of the world,61 Senor Bachelor, but there is a
time to attack and a time to retreat! Everything is not 'Santiago, and close
in upon them, Spain!'62 For I have heard it said--and I think my master
himself was the one who said it--that true bravery lies somewhere in
between being a coward and being foolhardy; and, for this reason, I
would not have him run away when there is not good reason for it, nor
have him attack when the odds are all against him. But, above everything
else, I want to warn him that if he is going to take me with him, it will
have to be on condition that he does all the fighting, it being understood
that all I am to do is to look after his person and see to keeping him clean
and comfortable. When it comes to that, I will be at his beck and call;
but to look for me to lay hand to sword, even against the most rascally
villains of hatchet and hood, is a waste of thinking.

"I do not expect, Senor Sanson," he continued, "to win fame as a fight-
ing man, but only as the best and most loyal squire that ever served a
knight-errant; and if my master Don Quixote, as a reward for my many
faithful services, secs fit to give me some island of all those that his Grace
says are to be had, I will accept it as a great favor; but if he does not give it
to me, well, I was born like everyone else, and a man should depend on
no one but God, and what is more, my bread will taste as good, and it
may be even better, without a governorship than if I was a governor.
How do I know that in connection with governments the devil has not
prepared some trap for me where I may stumble and fall and knock my
grinders out--Sancho was born and Sancho expects to die; but, for all of
that, if without much risk or trouble on my part Heaven should provide
me with an island, fair and square, I am not such a fool as to refuse it. For
they also have a saying, 'When they offer you a heifer, come running
with a halter,' and, 'When good luck comes along, open the door and
let it in.' "63

"Spoken like a professor, brother Sancho," said Carrasco. "Put your
trust in God and in Senor Don Quixote, and your master will see to it
that you are provided with a kingdom and no mere island."

"More or less, it is all the same to me," replied Sancho. "I may tell you,
Senor Carrasco, that my master would not be tossing that kingdom he
is going to give me into a sack that was full of holes. I have taken my own
pulse, and I find that I am man enough to rule over realms and govern
islands, and I have already told him as much any number of times."

"But see here, Sancho," said the bachelor, "manners change when
honors come,64 and it may be that when you get to be governor you
will not know the mother who bore you."

"That may be true of those that were born in the mallows,65 but not
of one like me with the fat of an old Christian four fingers deep on his
soul. Do I look to you like the kind of man who would be ungrateful to
anyone?"

"God's will be done," said Don Quixote. "We can tell better when the
governorship comes, and it seems to me I can see it already."

Having said this, he turned to the bachelor and inquired if that gentle-
man was a poet. If so, would he do him the favor of composing some fare-
well verses for my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, each line to begin with a
letter of her name, so that when the poem was complete those letters
would spell out the name. Carrasco replied that, although he was not one
of the famous poets of Spain--of whom, he said, there were but three and
a half altogether66--he would not fail to do as Don Quixote had re-
quested, although he found the task rather difficult, seeing that there were
seventeen letters to be accounted for; if he made four stanzas of four
lines each, there would be one letter left over, while if he employed one
of those five-line stanzas known as decmias or redondillas, he would be
three letters short.67 Nevertheless, he would try, some way or other, to
drop a letter in order that he might get the name Dulcinea del Toboso
into a set of four-line stanzas.

"You must manage it somehow," said Don Quixote; "for if the name is
not plainly to be made out, no woman would believe that the verses were
written expressly for her."

This point having been settled, it was decided that the knight's de-
parture should be one week from that day. The bachelor was charged
to keep it secret, especially from the curate and Master Nicholas, and
from the niece and housekeeper as well, in order that they might not
prevent the carrying out of this commendable and valorous undertaking.
Carrasco gave his promise and took his leave, and as he did so he urged
Don Quixote to keep him informed, whenever the opportunity pre-
sented itself, of any good or ill fortune that might come to master and
man. Thus they parted, and Sancho went away to make the necessary
preparations for the expedition.



CHAPTER V.

Of the shrewd and droll remarks that passed between Sancho Panza
and his wife, Teresa Panza, with other matters of a pleasant nature that
deserve to be recorded.



AS HE comes to set down this fifth chapter of our history, the trans-
lator desires to make it plain that he looks upon it as apocryphal, since in
it Sancho Panza speaks in a manner that does not appear to go with his
limited intelligence and indulges in such subtle observations that it is quite
impossible to conceive of his saying the things attributed to him. How-
ever, the translator in question did not wish to leave his task unfinished;
and the narrative is accordingly herewith resumed.

As Sancho approached his house, he was feeling so happy and so gay
that his wife could tell it at the distance of a crossbow shot.

"What do you bring with you, friend Sancho," she asked, "that makes
you so merry?"

"Wife," he replied, "if it was God's will, I'd be glad not to be as happy
as I am."

"I don't understand you, husband," said she. "I don't know what you
mean by wishing you were not as happy as you are. I may be a fool, but I
fail to see how you can find pleasure in not having it."

"Look here, Teresa," said Sancho, "I am happy because I have made up
my mind to go back to serving my master Don Quixote, who wants to
go out a third time in search of adventures, and I mean to go with him.
It is necessity that leads me to do this, and then, too, I like to think that
I may be able to come upon another hundred crowns to take the place
of those we've spent, although, naturally, it makes me sad to have to
leave you and the young ones. If God would only let me eat my bread
at home, dryshod, without dragging me through the byways and cross-
roads--and it would not cost Him anything, all He has to do is will it--
it goes without saying that my happiness would be more solid and lasting
than it is, whereas now it is mixed up with my sorrow at leaving you.
That is what I meant when I said that I'd be glad if, God willing, I was
not so happy."

"Listen to me, Sancho," his wife replied. "Ever since you joined up
with a knight-errant, you've been talking in such a roundabout way that
there's no understanding you."

"It is enough, wife, if God understands me; for He understands every-
thing, and that is good enough for me. And I want to warn you, sister,
that you are to keep an eye on the gray these next few days so that
he will be in condition to take up arms. Give him double rations, and look
after the packsaddle and the other harness, for it's not to a wedding that
we're bound; we're out to roam the world and play give and take with
giants, dragons, and other monsters. We'll be hearing hissings and roar-
ings and bellowings and howlings. But all that would be lavender if we
didn't have to count upon meeting with Yanguesans and enchanted
Moors."

"I know well, my husband," said Teresa, "that the squires of knights-
errant have to earn the bread they eat, and so I will keep on praying to
Our Lord to get you out of all this hard luck."

"I can tell you one thing, wife," said Sancho, "that if I did not expect
to see myself the governor of an island before long, I would die right here
and now."

"No, not that, my husband," Teresa protested. "Let the hen live even
though she may have the pip,68 and in the same way you should go on
living and to the devil with all the governorships in the world. Without
a governorship you came out of your mother's belly, without a governor-
ship you've lived up to now, and without a governorship you will go,
or they will carry you, to your grave when God so wills. There are
plenty of folk in this world who manage to get along without being
governors, yet they do not for that reason give up but are still numbered
among the living. The best sauce in the world is hunger,69 and since this is
something they never lack, the poor always have an appetite. But look,
Sancho, if by any chance you do fall in with a governorship, don't forget
me and your children. Remember that little Sancho is already turned
fifteen, and it is only right that he should go to school, if his uncle, the
abbot, means to have him trained for the Church. Remember, too, that
your daughter, Mari-Sancha, would not drop dead if we married her off;
for I have my suspicions that she is as anxious for a husband as you are
to be a governor, and, when all is said and done, a daughter badly married
is better than one well kept outside of marriage."

"I promise you, wife," replied Sancho, "that if God only sees to it
that I get hold of any kind of an island at all, I will get Mari-Sancha a
husband so high up in the world that no one will be able to come near
her without calling her l my Ladyship "

"No, Sancho," said his wife. "Marry her to someone who is her equal;
that's the best way. If you take her out of wooden shoes and put her into
pattens, if you take her out of her gray flannel petticoat and put her into
silken hoop skirts, if you stop saying 'thou' to her and change her from
'Marica' into 'Dona So-and-So' and 'my lady,' then the poor girl will not
know where she is and every step she takes she will be making a thousand
blunders and showing the thread of the coarse homespun stuff she's made
of."

"Be quiet, foolish woman," said Sancho. "All she will need is two or
three years to get used to it, and, after that, dignity and fine manners will
fit her like a glove; and if not, what does it matter--Let her be 'your Lady-
ship' and come what may."

"Better keep to your own station, Sancho," Teresa admonished him,
"and not be trying to lift yourself up to a higher one. Remember the old
saying, 'Wipe the nose of your neighbor's son and take him into your
house.'70 It would be a fine thing, wouldn't it, to have our Maria married
to some great count or high and mighty gentleman who every time he
happened to feel like it would call her an upstart, a clodhopper's daughter,
a country wench who ought to be at the spinning wheel. No, as I live,
my husband, it was not for this that I brought up my daughter! You
bring home the money, Sancho, and leave the marrying of her to me.
There is Lope Tocho, Juan Tocho's boy. He's a strong, healthy lad and
we know him well, and I can see he rather likes our lass. He's our kind,
and she'll be making no mistake in marrying him. That way, we'll be
able to keep an eye on her, and we'll all be together, parents and children,
grandchildren, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law, and peace and God's
blessing will be upon us. So don't go marrying her off in those courts and
grand palaces where she will be a stranger to others and to herself."

"Why, you stupid creature!" exclaimed Sancho. "You wife of Barab-
bas!71 What do you mean by trying to keep me from marrying my
daughter to someone who will give me grandchildren that will be called
'your Lordship' and 'your Ladyship'--Look, Teresa, I have always heard
the old folks say that the one that doesn't know how to make the most
of luck when it comes his way has no business complaining if it passes
him by. And now that luck is knocking at our door, we don't want to
shut it out. Let us go with the favoring breeze that fills our sail." (It was
this way of speaking, and what Sancho has to say a little further on, that
led the translator of the history to remark that he looked upon this chapter
as apocryphal.)

"Can't you see, you ninny," Sancho went on, "what a fine thing it will
be for me to fall into some nice governorship or other that will help us
get our feet out of the mud--Just let me find the husband I choose for
Mari-Sancha, and you'll see how they'll be calling you 'Dona Teresa
Panza,' and you will sit in church on a rug and cushions and fancy drapes
in spite of the highborn ladies of the village. But no, you'd better stay
the way you are, neither bigger nor smaller, like a figure on a tapestry, and
we'll say no more about it. Little Sancha is going to be a countess, no
matter what you think."72

"Husband," said Teresa, "are you sure you know what you are talking
about--For I am very much afraid that if my daughter becomes a countess
it will be?her ruination. You can do what you like, you can make a duchess
or a princess of her, but I want to tell you it will be without my will or
consent. I always did believe in equality, brother, and I can't bear to see
people put on airs without any reason for it. Teresa was the name they
gave me when I was baptized, without any tags, or strings, or trimmings;
there were no 'Dons' or 'Donas' in my family. My father's name was
Cascajo. As your wife, I am now called Teresa Panza, though by rights
I should be known as Teresa Cascajo. But kings go where the laws would
have them go,73 and the name I have is good enough for me without their
putting a 'Dona' on top of it and making it so heavy I can't carry it. I
don't want to give people a chance to talk when they see me dressed like
a countess or a governor's wife and have them saying, 'Just see the airs
that hog-feeder74 puts on, will you--Only yesterday she was spinning
flax and went to mass with the tail of her petticoat over her head in place
of a mantle, and today she goes in hoops, with her brooches and her
nose in the air, as if we didn't know her!'

"If God lets me keep my six or seven senses, or whatever number it
is that I have, I don't propose to give them a chance to see me in such a
predicament. You, brother, go ahead and govern your island and strut
all you like, but I tell you in the name of my sainted mother that neither
my daughter nor I is going to stir one step from our village. The respect-
able woman has a broken leg and stays at home, and to be busy at some-
thing is a feast day for the maid that is virtuous.75 Go, then, to look for
adventures with that Don Quixote of yours, and leave us to our misad-
ventures; for God will make things better for us if we deserve it. I'm sure
I don't know," she added, "who made him a 'Don,' for neither his father
nor his grandfather was one before him."

"I do declare," said Sancho, "you must have a devil in you. God help
you, wife, but what a lot of things you have strung together so that
there's no making head nor tail of any of them! What do the name Cascajo
and brooches and proverbs and haughty airs have to do with what I'm
saying--Look here, you foolish, ignorant woman--for I have a right to
call you that, seeing you won't listen to reason but run away from good
fortune. If I had said that my daughter was to throw herself from a tower
or go wandering about the world as the Infanta Dona Uracca threatened
to do,76 you would be right in not agreeing with me; but when I want to
put a 'Dona' or a 'ladyship' on her back and in the blink of an eye take
her out of the stubble and seat her on a dais under a canopy or on a divan
with more velvet cushions77 than the Almohades of Morocco had Moors
in their family tree, why won't you give your consent and let me have
it my way?"

"Do you want to know why, husband?" Teresa asked him. "It's on ac-
count of the proverb that says, 'He who covers you discovers you.' To
the poor, people give only a passing glance, but the rich man holds their
gaze; and if he was poor once upon a time, then it is that the whispering
and the evil gossip and the spitework begin, for the slanderers in these
streets are as thick as a swarm of bees."

"Pay attention, Teresa," said Sancho, "and listen to what I am about
to tell you. It may be that you have never heard it in all the days of your
life. I am not speaking for myself but am giving you the opinions of the
reverend father who preached in this village during Lent, the last time.
If I remember rightly, he said that all present things which our eyes be-
hold make much more of an impression on us and remain better fixed
in our memories than things that are past." (These remarks of Sancho's
are another reason for the translator's saying what he did about the
apocryphal character of this chapter, since they are beyond the mental
capacity of the squire.) "Hence it is that when we see some person richly
dressed and making a fine appearance, accompanied by a retinue of serv-
ants, we feel compelled to respect him, even though our memory at the
moment may remind us of some lowly condition in which we had pre-
viously seen him. That condition, whether due to poverty or humble
birth, being a thing of the past, does not exist, since the only thing that
is real to us is what we have before our eyes. And--these were the padre's
very words--if the one that fortune has thus raised up out of the depths
to the height of prosperity is well bred, generous, and courteous toward
all and does not seek to vie with those that come of an old and noble
line, then you may depend upon it, Teresa, there will be no one to re-
member what he was, but instead they will respect him for what he is,
unless it be the envious, for no good fortune is safe against them."

"I do not understand you, husband," replied Teresa. "Do as you like
and don't be addling my brains with your flowery speeches. If you have
revolved to do what you say--"

"You mean resolved, wife, not revolved."

"Don't dispute my word," said Teresa. "I talk the way God would
have me talk without beating around the bush. What I say is, if you are
determined to be a governor, take your son Sancho with you so that you
can teach him how to govern also; for it is a good thing for sons to learn
and follow their father's trade."

"As soon as I have a government," said Sancho, "I will send for him
posthaste. I will send you some money too; for there are always plenty
of people to lend it to governors that do not have it. And I want you to
dress him up in such a way as to hide what he is and make him look like
what he is not."

"You send the money," Teresa replied, "and I'll see to that."78

"So, then, it's understood, is it, that our daughter is to be a countess?"

"The day that I see her a countess," was Teresa's answer, "I'll feel that
I am laying her in her grave. But I tell you again: do as you like; for we
women are born with the obligation of obeying our husbands, however
stupid they may be."

Saying this, she began weeping in earnest, as though she already saw her
Sanchica dead and buried. Sancho consoled her by assuring her that,
while he might have to make his daughter a countess, he would put off
doing so as long as he could. Thus ended the conversation, and Sancho
went back to see Don Quixote to make arrangements for their departure.



CHAPTER VI .

Of what took place between Don Quixote and his niece and housekeeper,
which is one of the most important chapters in the entire history.



While Sancho Panza and his wife, Teresa Cascajo, were engaged
in the irrelevant conversation that has just been reported, Don Quixote's
niece and housekeeper were by no means idle, for they could tell by any
number of signs that their uncle and master was about to slip away a
third time and return to what they looked upon as being his ill-errant
conception of knighthood. They accordingly strove in every way pos-
sible to get so evil a thought out of his mind, but all this was like preach-
ing in the desert or hammering cold iron.

"In truth, my master," the housekeeper said to him in the course of
their many talks on the subject, "if you do not make up your mind to
stay quietly at home and stop wandering over mountains and valleys like
a lost soul, seeking what I am told are called adventures but which I call
misfortunes, there will be nothing for me to do but raise my voice to
God and the king, as loud as I can, so that they may do something about
it."

"My good woman," replied Don Quixote, "what answer God will
make to your complaints, or his Majesty either, for that matter, I am sure
I do not know. But I do know that if I were king, I would not trouble to
reply to all the innumerable and foolish petitions presented to me every
day. One of the greatest of the many trials kings have to endure is that of
being obliged to listen to everybody and give everyone some kind of
answer, and I do not care to add my troubles to the burden that his
Majesty has to bear."

"Tell us one thing," said the housekeeper, "are there no knights at his
Majesty's court?"

"There are, and many of them; and it is right and proper that there
should be, to set off the greatness of princes and show forth the majesty
of royal power."

"Well, then," persisted the housekeeper, "could not your Grace be one
of those who, without stirring a foot, serve their lord and king at court?"

"Look, my friend," said Don Quixote ,"not all knights can be courtiers,
nor can all courtiers be, nor should they be, knights-errant. There have
to be all kinds in this world, and even though we may all be knights, there
is a great deal of difference between us. For the courtiers, without leav-
ing their rooms or the threshold of the court, may travel all over the
earth merely by looking at a map; it does not cost them anything and
they do not suffer heat or cold, hunger or thirst. But those of us who are
real knights-errant, we take the measure of the entire globe with our
feet, beneath the sun of day and in the cold of night, out in the open
and exposed to all the inclemencies of the weather. We know our enemies
not from pictures but as they really are, and we attack them on every
occasion and under no matter what conditions of combat. We pay no
attention to the childish rules that are supposed to govern knightly duels;
we are not concerned as to whether one has a longer lance or sword than
the other or may carry upon him holy relics or some secret contrivance;
we do not worry about the proper placing of the combatants with regard
to the sun79 nor any of the other ceremonious usages of this sort that
commonly prevail in man-to-man encounters, with which you are un-
familiar but which I know well.

"And let me tell you something else. The good knight-errant, even
though he may behold ten giants with heads that not merely touch but
rise above the clouds; and even though each of these giants may have
two tallest towers for legs while his arms resemble the masts of huge and
powerful ships; even though each may have eyes that are like great mill
wheels and that glow more brightly than any glass furnace--in spite of
all this, he is not to be in the least frightened but with highborn mien
and intrepid heart is to give them battle and if possible vanquish and
destroy them in a moment's time. And this, though they bear armor made
of the shells of a certain fish that are said to be harder than diamonds,
and in place of swords carry keen-edged blades of Damascus steel or
clubs studded with spikes of the same material such as I have more than
once seen. I tell you all this, my good woman, in order that you may
perceive what a difference there is between knights; and it would be
well if there were no prince who did not more esteem this second, or,
rather, first, variety of knight-errant. For the history books tell us that
some of the latter have been the salvation not of one kingdom alone but
of many."

"Ah, sir!" cried the niece at this point, "your Grace must remember
that all this you are saying about knights-errant is a fable and a lie. And
as for those history books, if they are not to be burned, they ought all to
wear the sambenito 80 or some other sign to show how infamous they
are and how they corrupt good manners."

"By the God who sustains me!" exclaimed Don Quixote, "if you were
not my flesh-and-blood niece, being the daughter of my own sister, I
would so punish you for the blasphemy you have uttered that all the
world would hear about it. How comes it that a lass who barely knows
how to handle a dozen lace bobbins should set her tongue to wagging and
presume to criticize these knightly histories--What would my lord
Amadis say if he could hear such a thing--To be sure, he would pardon
you, since he was the most humble and courteous knight of his age, and
was, moreover, a great protector of damsels. But there are others who
might have heard you, and in that case it would not have gone so well with
you. For they were not all courteous and circumspect; some of them
were the most unmannerly of rascals.

"By no means all of those that call themselves knights, or gentlemen,81
are what they pretend to be. Some are of pure gold, others are a base
alloy. They all look the part, but not all can stand the touchstone of
truth. Some there are of low degree who split themselves trying to appear
gentlemanly. On the other hand, there are those of high station who,
one would wager, were dying to be mistaken for their inferiors. The
former pull themselves up through ambition or by reason of their merits,
while the latter debase themselves by slothfulness or vice. And a good
deal of wisdom is required to distinguish between these two kinds of
gentlemen who are alike in name but whose conduct is so different."

"So help me God, uncle," said the niece, "your Grace knows so much
that in a pinch you could get right up in the pulpit or go out and start
preaching in the streets. And yet, to think that you could be so blind
and foolish as to try to make out that you are a hero when you are really
an old man, that you are strong when you are sick, that you are able to
straighten out the wrongs of the world when you yourself are bent with
age, and, above all, that you are a knight; for, while the real gentry82 may
become knights, the poor never can."

"There is much in what you say, my niece," replied Don Quixote.
"I could tell you things having to do with family trees that would astonish
you; but since I do not wish to mix the human with the divine, I shall
not mention them. You see, my friends--and pay attention to what I
say--so far as family is concerned, all the people in this world may be
divided into four classes: those who from humble beginnings have grown
and expanded until they have attained a pinnacle of greatness; those
who were great to begin with and who have since consistently main-
tained their original state; those who have arrived at a pyramidal point,
having progressively diminished and consumed the greatness that was
theirs at the start until, like the point of the pyramid with respect to its
base or foundation, they have come to be nothing at all; and, finally, there
is the vast majority who had neither a good start nor a subsequent history
that was in any way out of the ordinary and who accordingly will have a
nameless end, like the ordinary plebeian stock.

"Of the first group, who rose from humble origins to a greatness which
they continue to maintain, the House of Ottoman may serve as an ex-
ample; for it was founded by a lowly shepherd and later attained the
heights which we now see it occupying. Of the second class, those who
have maintained their original greatness without adding to or detracting
from it, I may cite the case of many princes who have been content to
remain peacefully within the confines of their kingdoms. As for those that
began great only to taper away in a point, there are thousands of ex-
amples. For all the Pharaohs and Ptolemies of Egypt, the Caesars of Rome,
and the countless drove (if I may employ that word) of princes, mon-
archs, and lords, of Medes, Persians, Greeks, and barbarians--all these
royal and noble lines have ended in the point of nothingness, both they
and their founders, and today it would be impossible to find a single one
of their descendants, or if one did come upon any of them, they would be
in some low and humble station. Of the plebeians I have nothing to say,
except that they serve to increase the number of the living without any
other claim to fame, since they have achieved no form of greatness that
entitles them to praise.

"My reason for telling you all this, my innocent ones, is that you may
see how much confusion exists with regard to the subject of family
descent. They alone impress us as being great and illustrious that show
themselves to be virtuous, rich, and generous. I say this for the reason
that the great man who was also vicious would be no more than an out-
standing example of vice, and the rich man who was not generous would
be but a miserly beggar. What brings happiness to the possessor of wealth
is not the having but the spending of it, and by that I mean, spending it
well and not simply to gratify his own whims. The gentleman who
is poor, however, has no other means of proving that he is a gentleman
than by following the path of virtue, by being affable, well bred, cour-
teous and polite, and prompt to do favors for others; he will not be proud
and haughty or a backbiter, and, above all, he will be charitable. With
the two maravedis that he gives with a cheerful heart to the poor he will
show himself to be as generous as the one who distributes alms to the
ringing of a bell, and no one who sees him adorned with the virtues that
I have mentioned, even though he may not know him, will fail to regard
him as coming of good stock. It would be a wonder if it were not so, for
praise has ever been the reward of virtue, and those who are virtuous
are bound to be commended.

"There are two paths, my daughters, by which men may succeed in
becoming rich and honored. One is that of letters, the other that of arms.
For my part, I am more inclined to the latter than to the former. Indeed,
so strong is my inclination that it would seem that I must have been born
under the influence of the planet Mars. And so I am practically compelled
to follow that path, and I shall keep to it in spite of all the world. It is
useless for you to wear yourselves out trying to persuade me not to do
what Heaven wills, fate ordains, reason asks, and, above all, my own will
desires. Knowing as I do all the innumerable hardships that go with
knight-errantry, I also know the infinite number of good things that
are to be attained by it. I am aware that the path of virtue is a straight and
narrow one, while that of vice is a broad and spacious highway. I realize
that the ends and goals are different in the two cases, the highroad of
vice leading to death, while virtue's narrow, thorny trail conducts us to
life, and not a life that has a mortal close, but life everlasting. As our
great Castilian poet has put it:

　　　　　　This is the rugged path, the toilsome way
　　　　　　That leads to immortality's fair heights,
　　　　　　Which none e'er reach who from that path do stray."83

"Oh, dear me!" said the niece, "my master is a poet, too. He knows
everything and can do everything. I'll bet that if he chose to turn mason
he could build a house as easily as he could a birdcage."

"I can tell you one thing, niece," replied Don Quixote, "that if my
mind were not so wholly occupied with thoughts of chivalry, there is
nothing that I could not do, no trinket that I could not turn out with my
own hands, especially birdcages and toothpicks."

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and when they asked
who was there, Sane ho replied that it was he. No sooner did the house-
keeper hear this than she ran and hid herself, so great was her abhorrence
of the squire. The niece opened the door and Don Quixote came forward
to meet the visitor with open arms, after which the two of them shut
themselves up in the knight's room where they had another conversation
that was in no way surpassed by their previous one.



CHAPTER VII.

Of what passed between Don Quixote and his
squire, with other very famous incidents.



SEEING her master and Sancho Panza closeted together, the house-
keeper at once suspected what they were up to. Feeling certain that as
a result of their consultation they would resolve to sally forth a third
time, she snatched up her mantle and, full of anxiety and deeply dis-
tressed, went out to look for the bachelor Sanson Carrasco; for it seemed
to her that, being a well-spoken young man and a new acquaintance of
Don Quixote's, he might be able to persuade the knight to give up so
insane an undertaking. She found the bachelor walking up and down
the patio of his house, and the moment she caught sight of him she ran
up to him and fell on her knees in front of him, sweating all over and
giving every evidence of affliction. Carrasco was surprised to see her
so upset and grief-stricken.

"What is the meaning of this, Mistress Housekeeper?" he asked. "What
has happened to cause you to appear so heartbroken?"

"It is nothing, Senor Sanson," she replied, "except that my master is
breaking out again, there's no doubt of that."

"Breaking out where, Senora--Has he burst any part of his body?"

"No," said she, "it's through the door of his madness that he's bursting.
I mean to say, my dear Senor Bachelor, that he wants to leave home again,
which will be the third time, to go roaming the world and looking for
what he calls ventures, though for the life of me I can't see why he gives
them that name.84 The first time he came home to us slung over the back
of an ass and nearly clubbed to death. The second time it was in an ox-
cart, locked in a cage, where he said he had been put through some magic
spell or other, and such a sorry-looking sight he was that the mother who
bore him would not have recognized him. He was lean and yellow and
his eyes were deep-sunken in his head, and in order to bring him around
again to something of his old self I had to use more than six hundred eggs,
as God knows, and all the world and my hens as well, for they wouldn't
let me lie."

"I can well believe," the bachelor assured her, "that those hens of
yours are so good, so fat, and so well brought up that they would not
say one thing in place of another even if they burst. In short, Mistress
Housekeeper, nothing has happened except what you fear that Senor
Don Quixote may do?"

"Nothing else," she said.

"Well, then," he told her, "don't worry, but go on home and prepare
me a warm breakfast, and on the way you might repeat St. Apollonia's
prayer, if you happen to know it. I will be with you shortly, and you
shall see miracles."

"Ah, poor me!" said the housekeeper, "so it's St. Apollonia's prayer
that I should be saying, is it--That would be all right if my master had the
toothache,85 but his trouble is not in his teeth but in his brains."

"I know what I am talking about, Mistress Housekeeper; so run along
and do not dispute my word, for, as you know, I am a bachelor of Sala-
manca and that means the best there is."86

With this, the housekeeper returned home and Carrasco went to hunt
up the curate and make certain arrangements with him which will be
duly narrated when the time comes.

When they were shut up together, Don Quixote and Sancho had a
conversation which the historian has very minutely and truthfully re-
ported.

"Sir," began Sancho, "I have reduced my wife to let me go with your
Grace wherever you choose to take me."

"Induced, you mean to say, Sancho, not reduced."

"Once or twice before, if I remember rightly," said Sancho, "I have
begged your Grace not to correct my words so long as you understand
what I mean by them. When you don't understand, all you have to do
is to say, 'Sancho, I don't know what the devil you mean'; and then, if I
don't make myself plain, you can go ahead and correct me all you want
to. You know how focile I am."

"I fail to understand you right now, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for
I'm sure I don't know what you mean when you say, 'I am so focile.' "

"So focile " replied Sancho, "means, 'I am so much that way.' "

"I understand you less than ever," said his master.

"Well, if you can't make it out," answered the squire, "I don't know
what to say to you. That's the best I can do, so help me God."

"Ah! I get it. What you mean to say is that you are so docile, easygoing,
and tractable that you will accept whatever I say to you and follow my
teachings."

"I will bet you," said Sancho, "that you understood what I meant all
the time and just wanted to mix me up so that you could hear me make a
lot more blunders."

"You may be right," replied Don Quixote, "but tell me, exactly what
was it that Teresa said?"

"She said that I should get everything down in black and white with
your Grace, to let papers talk and beards be still,87 since he who binds
does not wrangle,88 and one 'take' is worth a couple of i'll give you's.'89
And I can tell you that a woman's advice is of little worth and he who
won't take it is a fool."90

"And so say I," observed Don Quixote. "Go on, friend Sancho, you
are in rare form today."91

"The fact of the matter is, as your Grace well knows," continued
Sancho, "we are all of us subject to death, we are here today and gone
tomorrow, and the lamb goes as soon as the sheep,92 and no one can
promise himself more hours of life in this world than God may see fit
to give him, for death is deaf, and when it comes to knock at the door of
our life it is always in a hurry, and neither prayers nor force nor scepters
nor miters can hold it back, all of which is a matter of common talk and
knowledge and we hear it from the pulpit right along."

"That is all very true," said Don Quixote, "but I can't see what you
are getting at."

"What I am getting at," replied Sancho, "is that your Grace ought
to give me a fixed wage to be paid to me every month during the time
that I am in your service, out of your estate. I don't like to depend on
favors that come late or never and may not be what you expect--God
help me where those that I am expecting are concerned. The short of
it is, I'd like to know what I am earning, however much or little it may
be; for a hen will set on one egg, and many littles make a much, and so
long as something's gained nothing's lost.93 If it should turn out to be
true--which I heither believe nor expect--that your Grace is going to
give me that island you promised me, I am not so ungrateful nor would I
go so far as to say that you shouldn't take what the income from the
island amounts to out of my wages on a pro cata basis."

"Friend Sancho," remarked Don Quixote, "a cat may sometimes be
as good as a rat."

"I get you," was Sancho's answer. "I'll bet you that what I should have
said was pro rata and not pro cata, but it makes no difference, since your
Grace understood me anyway."

"I understand you so well," said Don Quixote, "that I can read you
like a book. I know what the bull's-eye is you're shooting at with all those
proverbs of yours. Look, Sancho, I should be glad to give you a fixed
wage if I could find in the histories of knights-crrant any instance that
would afford me the slightest hint as to what their squires used to receive
by the month or by the year. I have read all or most of those histories,
and I cannot recall any knight who paid his squire such a wage. Rather,
they all served for the favors that came to them; and when they least
expected it, if things had gone well with their masters, they would find
themselves rewarded with an island or something else that amounted to
the same thing, or at the least they would have a title and a seigniory.

"If for the sake of these hopes and inducements, Sancho," the knight
went on, "you choose to return to my service, well and good; but you are
wasting your time if you think that I am going to violate and unhinge
the ancient customs of chivalry. And so, my good Sancho, go back home
and tell your Teresa how I feel about it, and if she and you are willing to
depend upon my favors, bene quidem, and if not, we will be as good
friends as we were before; for if there is no lack of food in the pigeon
house, it will not lack pigeons.94 And remember, my son, a good hope
is better than a bad holding,95 and a good complaint better than bad pay.96
If I speak in this manner, Sancho, it is to show you that I, too, can scatter
proverbs like showers. In conclusion, I would say to you that if you do
not choose to come with me on these terms and take the same chance that
I do, may God keep you and make you a saint, for I shall not fail to find
other squires who will be more obedient, more diligent, and not so stupid
or so talkative as you."

When Sancho saw how firmly resolved his master was on this point,
the heavens darkened over for him and the wings of his heart drooped; for
he had felt certain that Don Quixote would not go without him for any-
thing in the world. He was very much astonished and was still lost in
thought when Sanson Carrasco, accompanied by the housekeeper and
the niece,97 entered the room; for the womenfolk wished to hear the argu-
ments which the bachelor would employ in persuading their master not
to go back to seeking adventures. Sanson, that famous wag, now came
forward and embraced Don Quixote as he had done on the previous
occasion, and, raising his voice, he addressed him as follows:

"O flower of knight-errantry, O shining light of the profession of
arms, O honor and mirror of the Spanish nation! May it please Almighty
God in His infinite power that the person or persons who would prevent
or impede your third sally never find their way out of the labyrinth of
their schemings nor ever succeed in accomplishing what they most de-
sire."

Turning then to the housekeeper, he went on, "Mistress Housekeeper,
you may just as well leave off saying St. Apollonia's prayer; for I now
realize that it has been definitely determined by the spheres that Don
Quixote shall carry out his new and lofty undertakings, and I should
be laying a great burden upon my conscience if I did not urge and entreat
this knight to keep his good right arm and valiant spirit curbed and con-
fined no longer, since by his tarrying here he is cheating the wronged of
their rights, orphans of his protection, damsels of the honor he might
save for them, widows of the favors he might bestow upon them, and
wives of the support with which he might provide them, along with
other things of the sort that have to do with, appertain to, and are the
proper appurtenances of, the order of knight-errantry. Come, then, my
dear Senor Don Quixote, so handsome and so brave, let it be today rather
than tomorrow that your Grace and Highness takes the road, and if any-
thing be lacking for the carrying out of your plan, here am I to supply the
need. My person and my fortune are at your disposal, and, if needs be,
I will even serve your Magnificence as squire. Indeed, I should count
myself most fortunate in being allowed to do so."

At this point Don Quixote spoke up. "Did not I tell you, Sancho," he
said, "that I would have no trouble in finding squires--Look who is now
offering to serve me. None other than the distinguished bachelor, Sanson
Carrasco, the darling and perpetual delight of the Salamancan schools. I le
is sound in body, agilc-1 imbed, and discreet, and can stand heat as well
as cold, hunger as well as thirst. In brief, he has all the qualifications that
are required of a squire to a knight-errant. But Heaven forbid that, to
gratify my own inclinations, I should shatter this pillar of letters and vase
of learning and cut down this towering palm of the fine and liberal arts.
Let this new Samson remain in his own country, bringing honor to it and
at the same time to the gray hairs of his aged parents. As for me, I shall
make out with any squire that comes along, seeing that Sancho does not
deign to come with me."

"I do deign to come," Sancho protested. He was deeply moved and
his eyes were filled with tears. "It shall not be said of me, my master," he
went on, "that 'once the bread is eaten, the company breaks up.'98 I do
not come of ungrateful stock; for all the world, and especially my village,
knows who the Panzas were, and I am descended from them. What's
more, I know from the many kind things you have done and the kind
words you have spoken how much your Grace desires to show me favor.
If I seem to have haggled a bit over my wages, that was to please my wife.
When she undertakes to get you to do something, there's no mallet that
drives in the hoops of a cask the way she drives you until you've done it.
But, after all, a man has to be a man and a woman a woman; and, seeing
that I'm a man wherever I am, which there's no denying, I mean to be
one in my own house as well, whatever anybody says. So, then, there is
nothing more to be done except for your Grace to draw up your will,
with a codicil that can't be provoked, and we will set out at once. That
way, Senor Sanson will not have to suffer any more, for he says his con-
science is nagging at him to persuade your Grace to sally out into the
world a third time. And I offer to serve your Grace faithfully and
loyally, as well and better than all the squires that have served knights-
errant in times past or present."

The bachelor was amazed at Sancho Panza's way of talking; for, al-
though he had read the First Part of the history, he never would have
believed that the squire was as droll as he was depicted there. But as he
now heard him speaking of a will and codicil that could not be provoked
(in place of revoked), he was convinced of the truth of it all and came to
the conclusion that this was one of the greatest simpletons of the age.
Never before in the world, he told himself, had the like been seen of such
a pair of madmen as this master and his servant.

In the end, Don Quixote and Sancho embraced and were friends once
more; and with the advice and approval of the great Carrasco, who for
the present was their oracle, they set the date for their departure at three
days from then, which would give them time enough to make the neces-
sary preparations and look for a closed helmet, as Don Quixote insisted
that he must by all means have one to take with him. Sanson offered to
see to this, saying a friend of his had such a piece and would not refuse
it to him, although, to be sure, it was not bright and clean as polished steel
ought to be but was covered with rust and mildew.

The curses which the two women, the housekeeper and the niece,
heaped upon the bachelor's head were innumerable. They tore their hair,
clawed their faces, and, like the hired mourners of old, set up such a wail-
ing over their master's departure that one would have thought it was his
death they were lamenting. In thus persuading the knight to sally forth
again, Sans6n had a plan in mind which the history relates further on.
All that he did was on the advice of the curate and the barber, with whom
he had previously discussed the matter.

The short of it is, in the course of those three days Don Quixote and
Sancho provided themselves with what they thought was necessary, and,
die squire having pacified his wife and the knight having calmed his
niece and housekeeper, the two of them set out at nightfall for El Toboso,
without being seen by anyone except the bachelor, who expressed a de-
sire to accompany them for a distance of half a league from the village.
Don Quixote was mounted upon his good Rocinante and Sancho upon
his ancient gray, his saddlebags stuffed with certain victuals and his
pocket with money which his master had given him for whatever might
come up. Sanson gave the knight a farewell embrace, urging him to send
back word of the good or ill fortune that the pair met with, in order that
he, Carrasco, as the laws of friendship demanded, might rejoice over the
former or grieve over the latter. Don Quixote promised that he would do
so, and the bachelor thereupon returned to the village while the other two
took the highway for the great city of El Toboso.



CHAPTER VIII.

Wherein is related what happened to Don Quixote as he
went to see his lady, Dulcinea del Toboso .



"Blessed be the mighty Allah!" exclaims Hamete Benengeli at the
beginning of this eighth chapter; and he repeats it three times: "Blessed
be Allah!" He goes on to tell us that the reason for the benediction is his
thankfulness at seeing Don Quixote and Sancho together once more, and
he wishes the readers of this pleasant chronicle to feel that the exploits
and the drolleries of the knight and his squire really start at this point.
Let them forget, he says, the chivalrous deeds which the Ingenious
Gentleman has performed in the past and fix their eyes, rather, on those
that are to come and that have their beginning here and now on the El
Toboso highway just as the others began on the plains of Montiel. It
surely is not much to ask in return for all he promises, and so he con-
tinues as follows:

No sooner had Sanson left Don Quixote and Sancho alone than
Rocinante began neighing and the gray started sighing, which both
knight and squire took to be a very good sign and most fortunate omen,
even though, if the truth must be told, the sighings and brayings of the
ass exceeded the whinnyings of the hack, which led Sancho to infer that
his own good fortune was destined to surpass and overtop that of his
master, in making which assumption it may be that he was relying upon
some system of judicial astrology with which he chanced to be familiar,
though the history is silent on this point. All that is known is that, when
he stumbled or fell, he was heard to say that he wished he had not come
out of the house, since nothing was to be had from it but a torn shoe or
a set of broken ribs, and in this, fool that he was, he was not far wrong.

"Friend Sancho," remarked Don Quixote, "night is descending upon
us and it is becoming so dark that we shall not be able to reach El Toboso
while it is yet daylight; but I am determined to go there before embark-
ing upon another adventure, for there it is that I shall receive the bless-
ing and kind consent of my peerless Dulcinea, with whose favor I feel
assured of bringing to a happy conclusion every dangerous undertaking,
since nothing in this life inspires more valor in knights-errant than the
knowledge that they are favored by their ladies."

"I can believe that," replied Sancho, "but if I am not mistaken, your
Grace may have a hard time seeing or talking to her, at least in any place
where she could give you her blessing, unless she was to toss it over the
wall of the stable yard where I saw her the last time, when I took her the
letter with the news about the mad and foolish things your Grace was
doing in the heart of the Sierra Morena."

"And did you fancy that was a stable-yard wall," said Don Quixote,
"where or at which you beheld that grace and beauty that never can be
praised enough--It must have been in the gallery, corridor, or portico,
or whatever you call it, of some rich and royal palace."

"That may all be true," said Sancho, "but it looked like a wall to me,
if my memory serves me right."

"Nevertheless, Sancho, we are going there," Don Quixote insisted;
"for so long as I see her, it is all the same to me whether it be over a wall,
at a window, or through the chinks in a door or the railing of a garden.
Let but one ray of the sun of her beauty fall upon these eyes and it shall
illuminate my understanding and fortify my heart to such a degree that
I shall be matchless and without an equal in wisdom and in valor."

"To tell you the truth," said Sancho, "when I saw the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso's sun, it was not bright enough to shed rays of any kind. This
must have been due to the fact that, as I told you, she was winnowing
wheat at the time, and this raised a lot of dust which came before her
face like a cloud and darkened it."

"What!" cried Don Quixote, "do you still persist, Sancho, in saying,
thinking, and believing that my lady Dulcinea was winnowing wheat,
when you know that this is a task and occupation that is at variance with
everything that persons of high distinction do and are supposed to do,
seeing that they are constituted and reserved for other employments
and avocations such as make manifest their rank at the distance of a bow-
shot--I can see, O Sancho, that you have forgotten those verses of our
poet in which he describes for us the labors performed, up there in their
crystal dwellings, by the four nymphs that rose from their beloved Tagus
and set themselves down in a verdant meadow to embroider those rich
tapestries, of which the bard tells us, that were all worked and woven of
gold and silk and pearls.99

"My lady, when you saw her, must have been busied at a similar task.
The only thing is that some evil enchanter must be envious of me, since
all things that give me pleasure he at once changes into shapes that are
not their own. This leads me to fear that the history of my exploits, which
they tell me has been printed, may be the work of some magician who
is my enemy, in which case he would have set down one thing in place
of another and, mingling a thousand lies with a little truth, would doubt-
less have amused himself by relating many things that have nothing to
do with the true sequence of events. O envy, thou root of endless evils,
thou cankerworm of the virtues! All the other vices, Sancho, have in
them some element of pleasure, but envy brings with it only vexation,
bitterness, and rage."

"That is what I say too," replied Sancho, "and I think that in this
legend or history of our deeds which the bachelor Carrasco says he has
seen, my honor must have been knocked around and dragged up and
down in the mud;100 they must have swept the streets with it. And yet,
I give you my word as an honest man, I have never spoken ill of any en-
chanter, nor do I have so many worldly goods that anybody would envy
me. It is true, I am somewhat sly, and I have certain marks of the rogue,
but it is all covered over with the great cloak of my simplicity, which
is always natural and never artificial; and if I had no other virtue than
that of believing, as I always have believed, firmly and truly in God and
in all that the holy Roman Catholic Church holds and believes, as well
as that of being, as I am, a mortal enemy of the Jews, the historians ought
to have mercy on me and treat me well in their writings. But let them say
what they will, naked was I born and naked I find myself, and so I neither
lose nor gain; and although I see myself being put into a book and going
through the world from hand to hand, I still don't care a fig; let them
say anything about me that they like."

"That reminds me, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "of what happened to
a famous poet of these days who, having composed a malicious satire
against all the court ladies,101 failed to mention in it a particular lady as
to whose standing there was some question. When she saw that she was
not on the list with the others, she complained to the poet, demanding
to know what he had seen in her that had caused him to leave her out.
She further insisted that he add a sequel to his satire and put her in it, or,
otherwise, let him beware of the consequences. The poet did so, making
her out to be the kind of woman of whom duennas do not speak, and
she was satisfied with the fame he bestowed upon her even though it was
infamy. Then there is the story they tell of the shepherd who set fire
and burned down the famous temple of Diana, accounted one of the
seven wonders of the world, simply in order that his name might be re-
membered for centuries to come. And although it was commanded that
no one should mention his name either by word of mouth or in writing,
so that his ambition might not be fulfilled, it is nevertheless known that he
was called Erostratus.

"Much the same thing happened in the case of the great emperor,
Charles V, and a certain gentleman in Rome. The emperor was desirous
of seeing the famous temple of the Rotunda, which in antiquity was
known as the temple of all the gods102 and today is more appropriately
named All Saints'. Of all the pagan edifices in Rome, this is the one that
comes nearest to being preserved in its entirety, and it constitutes a fitting
tribute to the grandeur and magnificence of those who built it. It is con-
structed in the shape of a half-orange and is very large and well lighted,
the only illumination being afforded by a window, or, better, a rounded
skylight at the top, and it was from this point of vantage that the emperor
surveyed the building. At his side was a Roman gentleman who explained
to him all the beauties and fine points of the huge and intricate structure
with its memorable architecture.

"As they made their way down from the skylight, the gentleman
turned to the emperor and said, 'A thousand times, your Sacred Majesty,
I had a desire to throw my arms about your Majesty and cast myself
down from that dome in order that my fame might be eternal in this
world.'

"I thank you,' the emperor replied, 'for not having yielded to so
wicked an impulse. From now on, I shall see to it that you have no further
opportunity to put your loyalty to the test. I accordingly command you
not to speak to me or enter my presence again.' And with these words he
made him a handsome gift.

"What I mean to say, Sancho, is that the desire of achieving fame is
a powerful incentive. What do you think it was that threw Horatius
down from the bridge, clad in full armor, into the depths of the Tiber--
What was it burned Mutius's arm and hand--What was it that im-
pelled Curtius to hurl himself into the deep and flaming abyss that
yawned in the middle of the city of Rome--What was it led Julius Caesar
to cross the Rubicon in spite of all the auguries which had warned against
it--To come down to more modern times, what was it, in the New
World, that scuttled and beached the ships and cut off those valiant
Spaniards led by the most courtier-like Cortes?103 All these and other
great deeds of various sorts are, were, and shall continue to be a mani-
festation of the mortal desire for fame as a reward for notable achieve-
ments that confer upon man a portion of immortality. We Christians,
Catholics, and knights-errant, on the other hand, are more concerned
with the glory that, in ages to come, shall be eternal in the ethereal and
celestial regions than we are with the vanity of that fame that is to be
won in this present and finite time; for however long such fame may
endure, it needs must finally end with the world itself, the close of which
has been foreordained.

"And so, Sancho, our deeds should not exceed those limits set by the
Christian religion which we profess. In confronting giants, it is the sin of
pride that we slay, even as we combat envy with generosity and good-
ness of heart; anger, with equanimity and a calm bearing; gluttony and
an overfondness for sleep, by eating little when we do eat and by keeping
long vigils; lust and lewdness, with the loyalty that we show to those
whom we have made the mistresses of our affections; and sloth, by going
everywhere in the world in search of opportunities that may and do make
of us famous knights as well as better Christians.104 You behold here,
Sancho, the means by which one may attain the highest praise that the
right sort of fame brings with it."

"I have understood very well," Sancho told him, "all that your Grace
has said up to now; but still there is one doubtful point I happened to
think of that I wish your Grace would dissolve for me."

"Solve is what you mean to say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote. "Speak
out, and I will answer you as best I can."

"Tell me, then, sir," Sancho went on, "those Julys105 or Augusts, and
all those knights you mentioned that were always up and doing, seeing
that they are dead, where are they now?"

"The heathen ones," said Don Quixote, "are undoubtedly in Hell; the
Christians, if they were good Christians, are either in purgatory or in
Heaven."

"That is all very well," said Sancho, "but what I want to know is this:
do the tombs where the bodies of those great lords are preserved have
silver lamps in front of them, and are the walls of their chapels decorated
with crutches, shrouds, locks of hair, legs, and eyes made of wax--Or,
if not, what kind of decorations do they have?"

"The pagan sepulchers," Don Quixote answered him, "were for the
most part sumptuous temples. Julius Caesar's ashes, for example, were
placed upon a stone pyramid of enormous size which in the Rome of to-
day is known as St. Peter's Needle. The Emperor Hadrian's burial place
was a castle as big as a good-sized town and was called the Moles Adriani,
which at the present time is St. Angelo's Castle. The Queen Artemisia
buried her husband in a tomb that was reckoned one of the seven wonders
of the world. But none of the many pagan tombs was adorned with
shrouds or offerings and tokens such as you commonly see where saints
are buried."

"I am coming to that," said Sancho. "And now, tell me, which is the
greater thing, to bring a dead man to life or to kill a giant?"

"The answer to that question is easy," replied Don Quixote. "To bring
the dead to life, of course."

"Ah," said Sancho, "that is where I have you. Then the fame of those
who resurrect the dead, who give sight to the blind, who heal cripples
and bring health to the sick, and who have burning lamps in front of their
tombs while their chapels are filled with kneeling worshipers who have
come to adore their relics--will not their fame, both in this world and
in the world to come, be a better one than that which all the heathen
emperors and knights-errant that ever were have left or shall ever leave
behind them?"

"I am willing to grant you that also," Don Quixote admitted.

"Well, then," continued Sancho, "seeing that this fame, these favors,
these privileges, or whatever you call them, belong to the bodies and
relics of the saints, who, with the approval and permission of our Holy
Mother Church, have lamps, candles, shrouds, crutches, paintings, locks
of hair, eyes, legs, and what not, to spread their Christian fame and make
the worshipers more devout; and seeing that kings are in the habit of
taking the bodies of saints, or saints' relics, upon their backs, while they
kiss the bits of bone and use them to decorate and enrich their chapels and
their favorite altars--"

"What are you getting at, Sancho, with all this you are saying?" Don
Quixote asked,

"What I mean," said Sancho, "is that we ought to become saints, and
that way we'd have the fame we are after all the sooner. You may know,
sir, that yesterday or day before yesterday--in a manner of speaking,
for it was only a short while ago--they canonized or beatified two little
barefoot friars,106 and it is now considered a great piece of luck to be able
to kiss and touch the iron chains with which they girt and tormented
their bodies. Those chains, so it is said, are more venerated than is Or-
lando's sword in the armory of our lord the king, God save him. And
so, my dear sir, it is better to be a humble little barefoot friar, whatever
the order he belongs to, than a brave knight-errant. With God, a couple
of dozen penances will get you more than two thousand lance thrusts,
whether they be given to giants, dragons, or other monsters."

"I agree with all that," said Don Quixote, "but we cannot all be friars,
and there are many paths by which God takes His own to Heaven.
Chivalry is a religion in itself, and there are sainted knights in glory."

"Yes," said Sancho, "but I have heard that there are more friars in
Heaven than there are knights-errant."

"That," Don Quixote explained, "is for the reason that the number of
religious is greater than the number of knights."

"There are many errant ones," observed Sancho.

"Many," his master assented, "but few that deserve the name of
knight."

In talk of this kind they spent that night and the following day, with-
out anything happening to them worthy of note, at which Don Quixote
was not a little put out. On the day after that, at sunset, they sighted the
great city of El Toboso. The knight was elated, but Sancho was down-
cast, for he did not know where Dulcinea lived nor had he ever in his
life laid eyes upon her any more than his master had. As a result, each of
them was uneasy in his mind, the one being anxious to behold her while
the other was worried because he had not already seen her. Sancho could
not imagine what he was going to do when his master should send him into
the town; but Don Quixote finally decided that they would wait until
nightfall to make their entrance, and in the meanwhile they tarried amid
some oak trees that grew round about. When the time came, they made
their way into the streets of El Toboso, where the things that happened
to them were really something.107



CHAPTER IX.

A chapter in which is related what will be found set forth in it.



　　　　　　　　　It was midnight on the hour,108

a little more or less, when Don Quixote and Sancho left the wood109 and
entered the city of El Toboso. The town was wrapped in a peaceful
silence, for all the good people were asleep, or were stretching a leg, as
the saying goes.110 The night was not wholly dark, though Sancho wished
it had been, as that might have provided an excuse for his inability to
find his way. Nothing was to be heard anywhere but the barking of dogs,
which deafened Don Quixote's ears and troubled his squire's heart. Now
and then an ass would bray, pigs would grunt, a cat would miaul, and
these various noises grew in volume with the silence. All of which the
lovelorn knight took to be an ill omen, but he nonetheless adhered to
his purpose.

"Sancho, my son," he cried, "lead the way to Dulcinea's palace; it may
be that we shall find her awake."

"Body of the sun!" cried Sancho, "to what palace should I lead you--
When I saw her Highness, she was in a very small house."

"Then," replied Don Quixote, "she must merely have retired to some
small apartment of her castle, to amuse herself in solitude with her
damsels, as is the custom of highborn ladies and princesses."

"Sir," said Sancho, "seeing that, in spite of anything I say, your Grace
will have it that my lady Dulcinea's house is a castle, are we likely at this
hour to find the gate open--And would it be right for us to go knocking
at the gate in order to arouse them so that they can let us in, thus creating
an uproar and disturbing everybody--Do you think, by any chance, that
we are going to the house where our concubines live, as those who keep
such women do, who come and call out and go in at any time, however
late it may be?"

"First of all," said Don Quixote, "let us find out where the palace is,
and then, Sancho, I will tell you what we should do. Look you, either my
eyes deceive me or that huge dark bulk that we see yonder must be it."

"Then lead the way, your Grace, for it may be you are right. But,
though I see it with my eyes and touch it with my hands, I will believe it
is a palace just as soon as I would that it is now day."

Don Quixote accordingly led on, and when they had gone some two
hundred paces they came up to the dark object and saw that it was a
great tower, and then they realized that this was not a palace but the
principal church of the town. "It's the church we've lighted on," the
knight remarked to Sancho.

"So I see," replied the squire, "and please God we don't light upon our
graves as well. It's not a good sign to be wandering in cemeteries at this
hour of the night; and what's more, I told your Grace, if I remember
rightly, that this lady's house would be up a blind alley."

"May God curse you, you fool!" cried his master, "and when did you
ever hear of castles and royal palaces being built in blind alleys?"

"Sir," was Sancho 's answer, "every land has its own customs,111 and it
may be that the custom here in El Toboso is to put up their palaces and
other great buildings in alleyways. And so I beg your Grace to let me
look through these streets and lanes, and in some nook or corner I may
come upon this palace, though I'd like to see it eaten by dogs right now
for leading us on such a wild goose chase."

"I wish, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that you would show some re-
spect in speaking of those things that pertain to my lady. Let us keep the
feast and be merry and not throw the rope after the bucket."112

"I will control myself," said Sancho, "but how can I be patient when
your Grace expects me, though I only saw our mistress's house once, to
remember it always, and to find her in the middle of the night when your
Grace, who must have seen her thousands of times, is unable to do so?"

"Sancho," said Don Quixote, "you will drive me to despair. Look, you
heretic, have I not told you any number of times that I have never in all
the days of my life laid eyes upon the peerless Dulcinea, that I have never
crossed the threshold of her palace but am enamored of her only by
hearsay, as she is famous far and wide for her beauty and her wit--

"I hear you say it now," replied Sancho, "and I may tell you that if
your Grace has never seen her, neither have I."

"But that cannot be," said Don Quixote, "or at any rate you have told
me that you saw her winnowing wheat, that time you brought me back
the answer to the letter that I sent to her by you."

"Pay no attention to that, sir, for I would have you know that it was
also by hearsay that I saw her and brought her answer to you. I could
no more tell you who the lady Dulcinea is than I could strike the sky with
my fist."

"Sancho, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there is a time for jesting and
a time when jests are out of place. Just because I tell you that I have
never seen nor spoken to the lady of my heart is no reason why you
should say the same thing when you know it is not true."

As they were engaged in this conversation, they saw a man coming
toward them with a team of mules hitched to a plow, which made a loud
noise as it scraped along the ground. They assumed that he must be some
farmer up before daybreak and on his way to the field, and this proved to
be the case. The farmer was singing the ballad that runs:


　　　　　　The day of Roncesvalles was a dismal day for you,
　　　　　　Ye men of France . . . 113


"May they slay me, Sancho," said Don Quixote when he heard it, "if
anything good is going to come of this night. Do you hear what that rustic
is singing?"

"Yes, I hear it," replied Sancho, "but what has the pursuit of Ronces-
valles to do with the business that we have in hand--It would be all the
same if it was the ballad of Calainos."114

At this point the farmer came up to them, and Don Quixote proceeded
to question him. "Can you tell me, my good friend," he asked, "and may
God prosper you, where in this vicinity is the palace of the peerless
princess Dona Dulcinea del Toboso?"

"Senor," the lad answered, "I am a stranger here. I have been in this
town only a few days, in the service of a rich farmer whose fields I plow.
In that house across the way the curate and the sacristan live, and either
one of them can tell your Grace what you wish to know about this
princess, for they have a list of all the good folk of El Toboso. But, for
my part, I never saw any princess whatever anywhere in the entire city.
There are many ladies of high rank, it is true, and each may be a princess
in her own house."

"Then the one that I am inquiring about must be among them, my
friend," said Don Quixote.

"It may be so," replied the lad, "and God be with you, for there comes
the dawn. And, lashing his mules, he did not wait to be questioned any
further.

Seeing the unhappy state of mind his master was in, Sancho now spoke
to him. "Sir," he said, "it will soon be daylight, and it will not do for the
sun to find us here in the street. It would be better for us to go outside
the town and for your Grace to hide yourself in some near-by forest.
I will then come back and look in every corner for my lady's house,
castle, or palace. It will be too bad if I do not find it, and when I do I
will speak to her Grace and tell her how your Worship is waiting for
her to arrange for you to come and see her without damage to her honor
and good name."

"Sancho," said Don Quixote, "you have uttered a thousand sentences
within the compass of a few words. I thank you for the advice you have
given me and I accept it with right good grace. Come, my son, let us go
look for a place where I may hide; after which, as you say, you will come
back to look for and to see and talk with my lady, from whose discretion
and courtesy I expect favors that will be more than miraculous."

Sancho was in furious haste to get his master out of the town so that
the knight would not discover the lie that had been told him regarding
Dulcinea's answer which his squire had brought back to the Sierra
Morena. They set out at once, and at a distance of two miles from the
city they found a forest or wood where Don Quixote might hide him-
self while Sancho returned to talk to Dulcinea, in the course of which
embassy things happened to the messenger that call for fresh attention
and belief.



CHAPTER X.

Wherein is related the ingenuity that Sancho displayed by laying
a spell upon the lady Dulcinea, with other events as outlandish
as they are true.



WHEN the author of this great history comes to relate the events set
forth in the present chapter, he remarks that he would prefer to pass
over them in silence, as he fears that he will not be believed. For Don
Quixote's madness here reaches a point beyond which the imagination
cannot go, and even exceeds that point by a couple of bowshots. Never-
theless, in spite of such fear and misgiving, the historian has written down
the events in question just as they happened, without adding to the
chronicle in any way or holding back one particle of the truth, being in
the end wholly unconcerned with the objections that might be raised
by those who would make him out to be a liar. And in doing so he was
right; for while the truth may run thin, it never breaks, and always rises
above falsehood as oil does above water.115

The history, then, goes on to state that, after he had hidden himself
in the wood, forest, or oak grove near El Toboso, Don Quixote ordered
Sancho to return to the city and not to appear in his master's presence
again until he should first have spoken in person to the lady Dulcinea
and begged her to be pleased to grant her captive knight a glimpse of
her, that she might bestow her blessing upon him, which would enable
him to hope for a most fortunate conclusion to all his difficult enter-
prises and undertakings. Taking upon himself this task that had been
assigned him, the squire promised to bring back as fair a reply as he had
on the previous occasion.

"Go, my son," Don Quixote said to him, "and do not let yourself be
dazed by the light from that sun of beauty that you go to seek. Ah, happy
are you above all the squires in the world! Be sure to remember, and do
not let it slip your mind, just how she receives you. Note whether she
changes color while you are giving her my message and if she is restless
and perturbed upon hearing my name. It may be that you will find her
seated in sumptuous and royal state, in which case she will perhaps fall
back upon a cushion; or if she be standing, see if she rests first upon one
foot and then upon the other. Observe if she repeats two or three times
the answer she gives you and if her mood varies from mildness to auster-
ity, from the harsh to the amorous. She may raise a hand to her hair to
smooth it back, though it be not disordered.

"In short, my son, note her every action and movement. If you report
to me faithfully all these things, I shall be able to make out the hidden
secret of her heart and discover how she feels with regard to my love;
for I may tell you, Sancho, if you do not know it already, that among
lovers exterior signs of this sort are the most reliable couriers that there
are, bringing news of what goes on inside the heart. Go, then, my friend
and may a better fortune than mine be your guide. May you be more
successful than I dare hope in this fearful and bitter solitude in which
you leave me."

"I go," said Sancho, "and I will return shortly. In the meantime, my
master, cheer up that little heart of yours; for right now you must have
one no bigger than a hazelnut. Remember what they say, that a stout
heart breaks bad luck, and where there is no bacon there are no pegs.
And they also say that when you least expect it the hare leaps out.116 I
tell you this for the reason that, if we did not find my lady's palace or
castle last night, now that it is day I expect to come upon it when I'm
not looking for it; and once I've found it, leave it to me to deal with
her."

"I must say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that your proverbs al-
ways come in very pat no matter what it is we are talking about. May
God give me luck and grant me that which I desire."

With this, Sancho turned his back on his master and, lashing his
donkey, rode off, leaving the knight seated in the saddle, his feet in the
stirrups, and leaning on his lance. We, too, shall leave Don Quixote there,
full of sad and troubled thoughts, as we accompany his squire, who was
quite as pensive and troubled as he. As soon as he was out of the wood,
Sancho turned his head and looked back, and, perceiving that he was
by this time out of sight, he dismounted from his ass and sat down at the
foot of a tree, where he began talking to himself, as follows:

"Look here, brother Sancho, supposing that you tell us where your
Grace is going. Is it to hunt for some ass that has strayed--No, certainly
not. Then, what are you hunting for--I am going to hunt for a princess,
nothing more nor less than that, and in her I am to find the sun of beauty
and all the heavens combined. And where do you think you are going
to find all this, Sancho--Where--In the great city of El Toboso. Well and
good; and who sent you to look for her--The famous knight, Don
Quixote de la Mancha, who rights wrongs and gives food to the thirsty
and drink to the hungry. That is all very well; but do you know where
her house is, Sancho--My master says it will be some royal palace or
proud castle. And have you ever laid eyes upon her by any chance--
Neither I nor my master has ever seen her. And supposing the people
of El Toboso knew that you were here luring their princesses and dis-
turbing their ladies, don't you think it would be only right and proper if
they came and clubbed your ribs without leaving a whole bone in your
body--And, to tell the truth, they would be right, if you did not take
into account that I am sent here under orders and that

　　　　　　　　　A messenger you are, my friend,
　　　　　　　　　No blame belongs to you.117

But don't put your trust in that, Sancho, for the Manchegan folks are
as hot-tempered as they are honest and will not put up with anything
from anybody. God help you if they get wind of you, for it will mean
bad luck. Out with you, villain! Let the bolt fall!118 Am I to go looking
for a cat with three feet just to please another--119 Hunting for Dulcinea
in El Toboso is like trying to find Marica in Ravena or a bachelor in
Salamanca.120 It was the devil, it was the devil himself and nobody else,
that got me into this."

Such was Sancho's soliloquy. It had led him to no conclusion thus far,
and so he continued:

"Well, there is a remedy for everything except death, beneath whose
yoke we all have to pass, however heavy it may weigh upon us, when
life draws to a close. I have seen by a thousand signs that this master of
mine is a madman who ought to be in a cell, yet I am not behind him in
that respect, seeing that I am foolish enough to follow and serve him.
That is certainly the case if there's any truth in the old saying, Tell me
what company you keep and I'll tell you who you are,' or that other one,
'Not with whom you are bred but with whom you are fed.'121 And seeing
that he is a madman, and that he is there can be no doubt--so mad that
he takes one thing for another, white for black and black for white, like
the time when he insisted the windmills were giants and the monks mules
were dromedaries, and the flocks of sheep were enemy armies, and other
things of the same sort--seeing that this is so, it will not be hard to make
him believe that the first farm girl I fall in with around here is the lady
Dulcinea. If he doesn't believe it, I'll swear to it; and if he swears that it
isn't so, I'll swear right back at him; and if he insists, I'll insist more than
he does, so that, come what may, I'll always have my quoit on the peg.
If I keep it up like that, I'll bring him around to the point where he won't
be sending me on any more such errands as this, when he sees how little
comes of it. Or maybe, and I imagine that this will more likely be the
case, he will think that one of those wicked enchanters, who, he says,
have it in for him, has changed her form just to spite and harm him."

These reflections greatly calmed Sancho Panza's mind and led him to
look upon his business as already accomplished. He accordingly remained
where he was until the afternoon, in order that Don Quixote might think
he had had time to go to El Toboso and return. Everything went off so
well with him that when he arose to mount his gray again, he saw coming
toward him from the direction of the city three peasant lasses astride
three ass-colts or fillies--the author is not specific on this point, but it
seems more likely that they were she-asses, on which village girls com-
monly ride. However, it is of no great importance and there is no reason
why we should stop to verify so trifling a detail.

The short of the matter is, as soon as Sancho saw the lasses he hastened
to where Don Quixote was, only to find the knight sighing and uttering
a thousand amorous laments.

"What is it, Sancho, my friend--Am I to be able to mark this day with
a white stone or a black one?"

"It would be better," replied Sancho, "if your Grace marked it with
red ocher like the lists on the professors' chairs,122 so that all could see it
very plainly."

"That means, I take it," said Don Quixote, "that you bring good news."

"Good news it is," replied Sancho. "All your Grace has to do is to
put spur to Rocinante and ride out into the open, and there you will
see the lady Dulcinea del Tohoso in person, who with two of her damsels
has come to pay her respects to your Grace."

"Good Lord, Sancho my friend, what is this you are telling me--Take
care that you do not deceive me or try to relieve with false joy my very
real sadness."

"And what would I get by deceiving your Grace," Sancho wanted to
know, "when you will soon enough discover for yourself whether I am
speaking the truth or not--Come quickly, sir, and you will see the
princess, our mistress, clad and adorned as befits one of her quality. She
and her damsels are all one blaze of gold, pearls, diamonds, rubies, and
brocade cloth with more than ten borders.123 Their hair falling loose over
their shoulders are so many sunbeams playing with the wind. And, what
is more, they come mounted upon three piebald cackneys,124 the finest
you ever saw."

"Hackneys, you mean to say, Sancho."

"Hackneys or cackneys, it makes very little difference," replied
Sancho. "No matter what their mounts, they are the finest ladies you
could wish for, especially the Princess Dulcinea, my lady, who stuns
your senses."

"Come, Sancho, my son," said Don Quixote, "let us go. As a reward
for the news you bring me, as good as it is unexpected, I promise you the
best spoils that I win in my first adventure; and in case this is not enough
to satisfy you, I will send you the colts which my three mares will give
me this year--as you know, they are now out on the village common
and are about to foal."

"I will take the colts," said Sancho, "for the spoils from that first ad-
venture are rather uncertain."

At this point they emerged from the wood close to where the three
village lasses were. Gazing up and down the highway that led to El
Toboso, Don Quixote was completely bewildered, since all he could
see was these country maidens. He then asked Sancho if the princess and
her damsels had left the city or were, perhaps, waiting there.

"What do you mean?" said Sancho. "Are your Grace's eyes in the
back of your head that you cannot see that those are the ones coming
there, as bright and shining as the sun itself at midday?"

"I see nothing," declared Don Quixote, "except three farm girls on
three jackasses."

"Then God deliver me from the devil!" exclaimed Sancho. "Is it pos-
sible that those three hackneys, or whatever you call them, white as the
driven snow, look like jackasses to your Grace--By the living God, I
would tear out this beard of mine if that were true!"

"But I tell you, friend Sancho, it is as true that those are jackasses, or
she-asses, as it is that I am Don Quixote and you Sancho Panza. At least,
that is the way they look to me."

"Be quiet, sir," Sancho admonished him, "you must not say such a
thing as that. Open those eyes of yours and come do reverence to the
lady of your affections, for she draws near."

Saying this, he rode on to meet the village maids and, slipping down off
his donkey, seized one of their beasts by the halter and fell on his knees
in front of its rider.

"O queen and princess and duchess of beauty," he said, "may your
Highness and Majesty be pleased to receive and show favor to your
captive knight, who stands there as if turned to marble, overwhelmed
and breathless at finding himself in your magnificent presence. I am
Sancho Panza, his squire, and he is the world-weary knight Don Quixote,
otherwise known as the Knight of the Mournful Countenance."

By this time Don Quixote was down on his knees beside Sancho. His
eyes were fairly starting from their sockets and there was a deeply
troubled look in them as he stared up at the one whom Sancho had called
queen and lady; all that he could see in her was a village wench, and not
a very pretty one at that, for she was round-faced and snub-nosed. He
was astounded and perplexed and did not dare open his mouth. The
girls were also very much astonished to behold these two men, so differ-
ent in appearance, kneeling in front of one of them so that she could not
pass. It was this one who most ungraciously broke the silence.

"Get out of my way," she said peevishly, "and let me pass. And bad
luck go with you. For we are in a hurry."

"O princess and universal lady of El Toboso!" cried Sancho. "How
can your magnanimous heart fail to melt as you behold kneeling before
your sublimated presence the one who is the very pillar and support of
knight-errantry?"125

Hearing this, one of the others spoke up. "Whoa, there, she-ass of my
father!" she said. "Wait until I curry you down.126 Just look at the small-
fry gentry, will you, who've come to make sport of us country girls!
Just as if we couldn't give them tit for tat. Be on your way and get out
of ours, if you know what's good for you."

"Arise, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for I perceive that fortune has not
had her fill of evil done to me but has taken possession of all the roads
by which some happiness may come to what little soul is left within me.
And thou, who art all that could be desired, the sum of human gentle-
ness and sole remedy for this afflicted heart that doth adore thee! The
malign enchanter who doth persecute me hath placed clouds and cata-
racts upon my eyes, and for them and them alone hath transformed
thy peerless beauty into the face of a lowly peasant maid; and I can only
hope that he has not likewise changed my face into that of some monster
by way of rendering it abhorrent in thy sight. But for all of that, hesitate
not to gaze upon me tenderly and lovingly, beholding in this act of sub-
mission as I kneel before thee a tribute to thy metamorphosed beauty
from this humbly worshiping heart of mine."

"Just listen to him run on, will you--My grandmother!" cried the
lass. "Enough of such gibberish. We'll thank you to let us go our way."

Sancho fell back and let her pass, being very thankful to get out of
it so easily.

No sooner did she find herself free than the girl who was supposed to
have Dulcinea's face began spurring her "cackney" with a spike on the
end of a long stick that she carried with her, whereupon the beast set
off at top speed across the meadow. Feeling the prick, which appeared
to annoy it more than was ordinarily the case, the ass started cutting
such capers that the lady Dulcinca was thrown to the ground. When he
saw this, Don Quixote hastened to lift her up while Sancho busied him-
self with tightening the girths and adjusting the packsaddle, which had
slipped down under the animal's belly. This having been accomplished,
Don Quixote was about to take his enchanted lady in his arms to place
her upon the she-ass when the girl saved him the trouble by jumping
up from the ground, stepping back a few paces, and taking a run for
it. Placing both hands upon the crupper of the ass, she landed more
lightly than a falcon upon the packsaddle and remained sitting there
astride it like a man.

"In the name of Roque!"127 exclaimed Sancho, "our lady is like a lan-
ner, only lighter, and can teach the cleverest Cordovan or Mexican how
to mount. She cleared the back of the saddle in one jump, and without
any spurs she makes her hackney run like a zebra, and her damsels are
not far behind, for they all of them go like the wind."

This was the truth. Seeing Dulcinea in the saddle, the other two
prodded their beasts and followed her on the run, without so much as
turning their heads to look back for a distance of half a league. Don
Quixote stood gazing after them, and when they were no longer visible
he turned to Sancho and spoke.

"Sancho," he said, "you can see now, can you not, how the enchanters
hate me--And just see how far they carry their malice and the grudge
they bear me, since they would deprive me of the happiness I might
derive from a sight of my mistress. The truth of the matter is, I was born
to be an example of misfortune and to be the target and mark at which
the arrows of ill luck are aimed and directed. I would further call your
attention, Sancho, to the fact that, not content with merely transforming
my Dulcinea, they must change her into a figure as low and repulsive as
that village girl, robbing her at the same time of that which is so charac-
teristic of highborn ladies, namely, their pleasing scent, which comes
from always being among amber and flowers. For I would have you
know, Sancho, that when Dulcinea leaped upon her hackney as you
call it (though I must say, it seemed to me more like a she-ass), the odor
that she gave off was one of raw garlic that made my head swim and
poisoned my heart."

"O you scum!" cried Sancho. "O wretched and evil-minded en-
chanters! If I could but see you strung up by the gills like sardines on a
reed! Great is your wisdom, great is your power, and greater yet the
harm you do!128 Was it not enough, O villainous ones, to have changed
the pearls of my lady's eyes into cork galls129 and her hair of purest gold
into the bristles of a red ox's tail--No, you had to change all of her features
from good to ill, and even alter her smell, since had you not done so we
might have discovered what lay concealed beneath that ugly bark. And
yet, to tell the truth, I never noticed her ugliness but only her beauty,
which was set off to perfection by a mole that she had on her right lip--
it resembled a mustache, being surrounded by seven or eight red hairs
of more than a palm in length."

"As a rule," observed Don Quixote, "moles on the face correspond to
those on the body, and Dulcinea must accordingly have one of the same
sort on the flat of her thigh, on the same side as the other. But hairs of the
length you mentioned are very long for moles."

"Well, all I can tell you," answered Sancho, "is that there they were as
big as life."

"I believe you, friend," said Don Quixote, "for everything pertaining
to Dulcinea is by nature perfect and well finished, and so, if she had a
hundred moles of the kind you have described, upon her they would not
be moles but resplendent moons and stars. But tell me one thing, Sancho:
that thing that looked to me like a packsaddle which you were adjusting,
was it a flat saddle or a sidesaddle?"

"It was neither one nor the other," replied Sancho, "but a jineta,130 with
a field-covering so rich that it must have been worth half a kingdom."

"Oh, if I could but have seen all that, Sancho! I tell you again, and
I will tell you a thousand times, that I am the most unfortunate of men."

It was all that the rogue of a Sancho could do to keep from laughing
as he listened to this foolish talk on the part of his master, who had been
so ingeniously deceived. Finally, after much other talk had passed be-
tween them, they mounted their beasts once more and took the road for
Saragossa, hoping to arrive there in time for a certain important feast that
is celebrated in that illustrious city every year. Before they reached their
destination, however, many strange and noteworthy things were to hap-
pen to them that deserve to be set down and read, as will be seen further
on.



CHAPTER XI.

Of the strange adventure that befell the valiant Don Quixote
in connection with the cart or wagon of the Parliament of Death.



Continuing on his way, Don Quixote was deeply dejected as he
thought of the cruel joke which the enchanters had played upon him
by transforming his lady Dulcinea into the ugly form of the village girl,
nor could he imagine any means of restoring her to her original shape.
He was so absorbed in these reflections that, without noticing it, he let
go Rocinante's rein, and that animal, taking advantage of the freedom
granted him, now paused at every step to feed upon the abundant green
grass that covered the plain. It was Sancho who awakened the knight
from his daydreams.

"Sir," he said, "sorrows are made not for beasts but for men, but if
men feel them too much they become beasts. Your Grace ought to pull
yourself together and pick up Rocinante's rcinj you ought to wake up
and cheer up and show that gallant spirit that knights-errant are supposed
to have. What the devil is this, anyway--What kind of weakness is it--
Are we here or in France--Let Satan carry off all the Dulcineas in the
world; the welfare of a single knight means more than all the spells and
transformations on this earth."

"Hush, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, in not too wan a voice,131 "hush,
I say, and do not be uttering blasphemies against that enchanted lady,
seeing that I alone am to blame for her misfortunes, which are due to
the envy that the wicked ones bear me."

"That is what I say," agreed Sancho. "Who saw her once and saw her
now, his heart would surely weep, I vow."132

"You, Sancho, may well say that," was Don Quixote's response, "for
you beheld her in all the fullness of her beauty; the spell did not go so far
as to disturb your sight or conceal her loveliness from you; it was solely
against me and these eyes of mine that the force of its venom was
directed. And yet, Sancho, there is one thing that occurs to me. It would
seem that you have not well described her; for, unless my memory serves
me wrong, you said that she had eyes like pearls, and eyes of that sort
are more characteristic of the sea bream than they are of a lady. Dul-
cinea's eyes must be green emeralds, large and luscious, with two rain-
bows for brows. Take those pearls from her eyes and bestow them upon
her teeth, for undoubtedly, Sancho, you must have mistaken the former
for the latter."

"That may be," said Sancho, "for her beauty disturbed me as much
as her ugliness did your Grace. But let us leave it to God, for he knows
all that is to happen in this vale of tears, in this evil world of ours, where
you scarcely find anything that does not have in it some mixture of
wickedness, deceit, and villainy. But there is one thing, my master, that
worries me most of all: what is your Grace going to do when you have
overcome some giant or knight and wish to send him to present himself
before the beautiful Dulcinea--Where is that poor giant or wretched
knight going to find her--I can see them now, wandering like a lot of nit-
wits through the streets of El Toboso looking for my lady. Even if they
were to meet her in the middle of the street, they wouldn't know her
from my father."

"It may be, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the spell will not prevent
them from recognizing her as it does me. But we shall see as to that after
we shall have dispatched one or two of them to seek her out; for I shall
command them to return and give me an account of what happened."

"I must say," replied Sancho, "that your Grace has spoken very much
to the point, and by this means we shall be able to find out what we wish
to know. And since it is only to your Grace that her beauty is hidden,
the misfortune is more yours than hers. So long as the lady Dulcinea has
health and happiness, we will make the best of it and go on seeking ad-
ventures, leaving it to time to work a cure, for he is the best doctor for
this and other greater ills."

Don Quixote was about to make a reply but was interrupted by the
sight of a cart crossing the highway, filled with the most varied and
weird assortment of persons and figures that could be imagined. He who
drove the mules and served as carter was an ugly demon, and the vehicle
was open to the heavens and had neither awning nor framework of
branches on which to stretch it.133 The first figure that Don Quixote beheld
was that of Death himself, with a human countenance. Next came an
angel with large and painted wings. At one side was an emperor with
what appeared to be a gold crown on his head, and at Death's feet was the
god called Cupid, without a bandage over his eyes but with his bow, his
quiver, and his arrows. There was also a knight in full armor, except that
he had no morion or helmet but instead wore a hat decked with vari-
colored plumes.

Such a sight as this, coming as it did so unexpectedly, somewhat
startled Don Quixote and struck fear in Sancho's heart, but the knight
was at once cheered by the thought that this must be some new and
perilous adventure, and with a mind disposed to confront any danger
he stepped in front of the cart and called out in a loud and threatening
voice, "O carter, coachman, demon, or whoever you may be! Tell me
at once who you are and whither you are bound and who the persons
are whom you carry with you in that wagonette, which looks more to
me like Charon's bark than the kind of conveyance in common use."

Stopping the wagon, the demon gave him a most civil reply. "Sir," he
said, "we are strolling players of Angulo el Malo's company.134 This morn-
ing, which marks the octave of Corpus Christi, we have performed a
theatrical piece in the village which lies beyond that hill yonder. It was
a play called The Parliament of Death,135 and we have to give it this after-
noon in another village which you can see from here. Since the distance
is so short, and in order to save ourselves the trouble of undressing and
dressing again, we are traveling in the garments that we wear on the
stage. That youth there is Death, the other is an Angel. That woman,
who is the author's wife, takes the part of a Queen. This one is a Soldier,
that one an Emperor, and I am a Devil--in fact, I am one of the principal
characters in the play, for I take the leading roles in this company. If
there is any thing else your Grace would like to know concerning us, you
have but to ask me and I will answer you very precisely; for, being a
demon, I am capable of anything."

"Upon the word of a knight-errant," said Don Quixote, when I first
saw this wagon, I thought that some great adventure must be awaiting
me, but I perceive now that one must actually touch with his hands what
appears to the eye if he is to avoid being deceived. God go with you, my
good people; be off to your festival; and if I can serve you in any way,
I will gladly do so, for as a lad I was very fond of masks and in my youth
my eyes were fixed upon the stage."

Now, fate would have it that as they were engaged in this conversa-
tion one of the company should come up, dressed in a mummer's costume,
with many bells and with three cow's bladders on the end of a stick.
Approaching Don Quixote, the clown began brandishing his stick, beat-
ing the ground with the bladders, and leaping high in the air to the
jingling accompaniment of his bells. This terrifying apparition so
frightened Rocinante that, without his master's being able to restrain him,
the hack took the bit in his teeth and started off on a run across the plain,
more swiftly than one would ever have thought possible, viewing the
bones of his anatomy. Perceiving that his master was in danger of being
thrown, Sancho leaped from his gray and ran with all haste to help him;
but by the time he reached the spot both horse and rider were on the
ground, which was the way it usually ended whenever Rocinante showed
any signs of life.

No sooner had Sancho quitted his mount to go to Don Quixote's
assistance than the dancing demon of the bladders jumped upon the
gray's back and began beating it with them. Frightened by the sound
rather than pained by the blows, the animal promptly started off at full
speed over the countryside, in the direction of the village where the
festival was to be held. As he witnessed his donkey's flight and his master's
fall, Sancho was at a loss as to which case merited his attention first; but
inasmuch as he was a good squire and a good servant, love of his master
prevailed in the end over affection for his beast. Nevertheless, as he saw
the bladders rising in the air and coming down on the donkey's flanks,
he experienced all the throes and terrors of death; he would rather have
had those blows fall upon his eyeballs than upon the least hair of his
gray's tail. He was still troubled and perplexed as he reached the spot
where Don Quixote lay, in a good deal worse plight than was to his lik-
ing.

"Sir," he said as he helped his master up on Rocinante's back, "the
Devil's run off with the gray."

"What devil?" asked Don Quixote.

"The one with the bladders."

"Then I will recover it for you," said the knight, "though it be shut up
with him in the deepest and darkest dungeons of Hell. Follow me,
Sancho, for the wagon proceeds at a slow pace and its mules will make up
for the loss of your gray."

"There is no need to go to all that trouble, sir," replied Sancho. "Your
Grace may calm himself; for if I am not mistaken, the Devil has turned
the gray loose and the beast is coming back to its old haunts."

This proved to be the truth; for, having taken a fall with the donkey
in imitation of Don Quixote and Rocinante, the Devil had made off on
foot toward the village, leaving the ass free to return to its owner.

"But I still think," said Don Quixote, "that it would be well to punish
the discourtesy of that demon by taking it out on one of those in the
wagon, even though it be the Emperor himself."

"Put that out of your mind, your Grace," Sancho urged him. "You
had best take my advice, which is never to meddle with players, for they
are a favored lot. I knew one of them who was up for two murders, yet
he went scot free. Your Grace must be aware that, being merry folk
whose business it is to amuse, they are liked by everybody and everyone
protects, aids, and esteems them. This is especially true when they happen
to belong to a royal company with a king's patent.136 In that case, you
might think that all or most of them were lords, from the clothes they
wear and the manners they affect."

"Nonetheless," said Don Quixote, "I am not going to let that player
demon go away boasting, even if the whole human race is on his side."
Saying this, he returned to the wagon, which by this time was very near
the town- "Stop!" he cried. "Wait, you merry, clowning crew! I'll teach
you how to behave toward the beasts that serve as mounts to the squires
of knights-errant."

Don Quixote was shouting so loudly that those in the wagon were able
to hear and make out what he said; and, judging from the knight's words
what his intentions were, the figure of Death leaped down, followed by
the Emperor, the carter-Devil, and the Angel, nor did the Queen or the
god Cupid stay behind. Arming themselves with pebbles, they formed
in line and waited to receive Don Quixote with their missiles. The latter,
seeing them drawn up in this gallant formation, their arms uplifted and
ready to let fly a powerful volley, drew in Rocinante's rein and fell to
thinking what would be the best way of attacking them with the least
danger to his person. At this point Sancho came up and, perceiving that
his master was about to fail upon the well-formed squadron, began
remonstrating with him.

"It would be the height of madness," he said, "to undertake such a
thing. Bear in mind, your Grace, that against brook-sop,137 and plenty of
it in this case, there is no defensive armor in the world except to hide
yourself under a brass bell. Remember, too, that it is foolhardiness rather
than valor for one man singlchanded to attack an army when Death is
on the other side, when emperors are fighting there in person, and when
the enemy has both good and fallen angels to aid him. And if this cannot
lead you to be calm, it should interest you to know that, for a certainty,
that among all those facing you, though they appear to be kings, princes,
and emperors, there is not one knight-errant ."

"Ah," said Don Quixote, "you have hit upon something there, Sancho,
something that can and should sway me from my resolve. For, as I have
told you many times, I ought not to draw sword against one who has
not been dubbed a knight. It is for you, Sancho, if you so desire, to avenge
the wrong that has been done to your gray, and I will cheer you on and
help you with sound advice."

"There is no reason," replied Sancho, "why I should take vengeance
on anyone; for it is not for good Christians to avenge the wrongs that
are done them. I will arrange with my ass to leave everything to me, and
my advice to him will be to live out peaceably the days that Heaven has
allotted to him."

"Since that is your resolve, my good Sancho, my wise Sancho, my
sincere and Christian Sancho, let us leave these phantoms and go back to
seeking better and more legitimate adventures; for I can see this country
is such that we cannot fail to meet with many most miraculous ones."

With this the knight turned his steed, Sancho made for his own mount,
and Death with the whole of his flying squadron returned to the wagon,
after which they continued on their way.

Such was the happy ending of this bold adventure of the wagon of
Death, thanks to the wise counsel which Sancho Panza gave his master,
who the very next day fell in with another enamored and erring knight,
an episode quite as thrilling as the one that has just been related.



CHAPTER XII.

Of the strange adventure that befell the valiant Don Quixote
with the fearless Knight of the Mirrors.



THE night following the encounter with Death was spent by Don
Quixote and his squire beneath some tall and shady trees, the knight hav-
ing been persuaded to eat a little from the stock of provisions carried by
the gray.

"Sir," said Sancho, in the course of their repast, "how foolish I'd have
been if I had chosen the spoils from your Grace's first adventure rather
than the foals from the three mares. Truly, truly, a sparrow in the hand
is worth more than a vulture on the wing."138

"And yet, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "if you had but let me
attack them as I wished to do, you would at least have had as spoils the
Empress's gold crown and Cupid's painted wings; for I should have taken
them whether or no and placed them in your hands."

"The crowns and scepters of stage emperors," remarked Sancho, "were
never known to be of pure gold; they are always of tinsel or tinplate."

"That is the truth," said Don Quixote, "for it is only right that the ac-
cessories of a drama should be fictitious and not real, like the play itself.
Speaking of that, Sancho, I would have you look kindly upon the art
of the theater and, as a consequence, upon those who write the pieces
and perform in them, for they all render a service of great value to the
State by holding up a mirror for us at each step that we take, wherein
we may observe, vividly depicted, all the varied aspects of human life;
and I may add that there is nothing that shows us more clearly, by simili-
tude, what we are and what we ought to be than do plays and players.

"Tell me, have you not seen some comedy in which kings, emperors,
pontiffs, knights, ladies, and numerous other characters are introduced--
One plays the ruffian, another the cheat, this one a merchant and that
one a soldier, while yet another is the fool who is not so foolish as he
appears, and still another the one of whom love has made a fool. Yet when
the play is over and they have taken off their players' garments, all the
actors are once more equal."

"Yes," replied Sancho, "I have seen all that."

'Well," continued Don Quixote, "the same thing happens in the comedy
that we call life,139 where some play the part of emperors, others that
of pontiffs--in short, all the characters that a drama may have--but
when it is all over, that is to say, when life is done, death takes from each
the garb that differentiates him, and all at last are equal in the grave."

"It is a fine comparison," Sancho admitted, "though not so new but
that I have heard it many times before. It reminds me of that other one,
about the game of chess. So long as the game lasts, each piece has its
special qualities, but when it is over they are all mixed and jumbled to-
gether and put into a bag, which is to the chess pieces what the grave is
to life."140

"Every day, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "you are becoming less stupid
and more sensible."141

"It must be that some of your Grace's good sense is sticking to me,"
was Sancho's answer. "I am like a piece of land that of itself is dry and
barren, but if you scatter manure over it and cultivate it, it will bear
good fruit. By this I mean to say that your Grace's conversation is the
manure that has been cast upon the barren land of my dry wit; the time
that I spend in your service, associating with you, does the cultivating;
and as a result of it all, I hope to bring forth blessed fruits by not depart-
ing, slipping, or sliding, from those paths of good breeding which your
Grace has marked out for me in my parched understanding."

Don Quixote had to laugh at this affected speech of Sancho's, but he
could not help perceiving that what the squire had said about his im-
provement was true enough; for every now and then the servant would
speak in a manner that astonished his master. It must be admitted, how-
ever, that most of the time when he tried to use fine language, he would
tumble from the mountain of his simple-mindedness into the abyss of
his ignorance. It was when he was quoting old saws and sayings, whether
or not they had anything to do with the subject under discussion, that
he was at his best, displaying upon such occasions a prodigious memory,
as will already have been seen and noted in the course of this history.

With such talk as this they spent a good part of the night. Then Sancho
felt a desire to draw down the curtains of his eyes, as he was in the habit
of saying when he wished to sleep, and, unsaddling his mount, he turned
him loose to graze at will on the abundant grass. If he did not remove
Rocinante's saddle, this was due to his master's express command; for
when they had taken the field and were not sleeping under a roof, the
hack was under no circumstances to be stripped. This was in accordance
with an old and established custom which knights-errant faithfully ob-
served: the bridle and saddlebow might be removed, but beware of
touching the saddle itself! Guided by this precept, Sancho now gave
Rocinante the same freedom that the ass enjoyed.

The close friendship that existed between the two animals was a most
unusual one, so remarkable indeed that it has become a tradition handed
down from father to son, and the author of this veracious chronicle even
wrote a number of special chapters on the subject, although, in order
to preserve the decency and decorum that are fitting in so heroic an ac-
count, he chose to omit them in the final version. But he forgets himself
once in a while and goes on to tell us how the two beasts when they were
together would hasten to scratch each other, and how, when they were
tired and their bellies were full, Rocinante would lay his long neck over
that of the ass--it extended more than half a yard on the other side--and
the pair would then stand there gazing pensively at the ground for as
much as three whole days at a time, or at least until someone came for
them or hunger compelled them to seek nourishment.

I may tell you that I have heard it said that the author of this history,
in one of his writings, has compared the friendship of Rocinante and the
gray to that of Nisus and Euryalus and that of Pylades and Orestes;142
and if this be true, it shows for the edification of all what great friends
these two peace-loving animals were, and should be enough to make
men ashamed, who are so inept at preserving friendship with one another.
For this reason it has been said:

　　　　　　There is no friend for friend,
　　　　　　Reeds to lances turn . . .143

And there was the other poet who sang:

　　　　　　Between friend and friend the bug . . .144

Let no one think that the author has gone out of his way in comparing
the friendship of animals with that of men; for human beings have re-
ceived valuable lessons from the beasts and have learned many important
things from them. From the stork they have learned the use of clysters;
the dog has taught them the salutary effects of vomiting as well as a les-
son in gratitude; the cranes have taught them vigilance, the ants fore-
sight, the elephants modesty, and the horse loyalty.145

Sancho had at last fallen asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don
Quixote was slumbering beneath a sturdy oak. Very little time had passed
when the knight was awakened by a noise behind him, and, starting up,
he began looking about him and listening to see if he could make out
where it came from. Then he caught sight of two men on horseback, one
of whom, slipping down from the saddle, said to the other, Dismount,
my friend, and unbridle the horses; for there seems to be plenty of grass
around here for them and sufficient silence and solitude for my amorous
thoughts."

Saying this, he stretched himself out on the ground, and as he flung
himself down the armor that he wore made such a noise that Don Quixote
knew at once, for a certainty, that he must be a knight-errant. Going over
to Sancho, who was still sleeping, he shook him by the arm and with no
little effort managed to get him awake.

"Brother Sancho," he said to him in a low voice, "we have an adventure
on our hands."

"God give us a good one," said Sancho. "And where, my master, may
her Ladyship, Mistress Adventure, be?"

"Where, Sancho?" replied Don Quixote. "Turn your eyes and look,
and you will see stretched out over there a knight-errant who, so far as
I can make out, is not any too happy; for I saw him fling himself from his
horse to the ground with a certain show of despondency, and as he fell
his armor rattled."

"Well," said Sancho, "and how does your Grace make this out to be
an adventure?"

"I would not say," the knight answered him, "that this is an adventure
in itself, but rather the beginning of one, for that is the way they start.
But listen; he seems to be tuning a lute or guitar, and from the way he is
spitting and clearing his throat he must be getting ready to sing some-
thing."

"Faith, so he is," said Sancho. "He must be some lovesick knight "

"There are no knights-errant that are not lovesick," Don Quixote in-
formed him. "Let us listen to him, and the thread of his song will lead us
to the yarn-ball of his thoughts;146 for out of the abundance of the heart
the mouth speaketh."147

Sancho would have liked to reply to his master, but the voice of the
Knight of the Wood, which was neither very good nor very bad, kept
him from it; and as the two of them listened attentively,148 they heard
the following:


　　　　　　　　　　　　　SONNET

　　　　　Show me, O lady, the pattern of thy will,
　　　　　That mine may take that very form and shape;
　　　　　For my will in thine own I fain would drape,
　　　　　Each slightest wish of thine l would fulfill.
　　　　　If thou wouldst have me silence this dread ill
　　　　　Of which Vm dying now, prepare the crape !
　　　　　Or if I must another manner ape,
　　　　　Then let Love's self display his rhyming skill .
　　　　　Of opposites l am made, that's manifest:
　　　　　In part soft wax, in part hard-diamond fire;
　　　　　Yet to Love's laws my heart I do adjust.
　　　　　And, hard or soft, l offer thee this breast:
　　　　　Print or engrave there what thou may'st desire,
　　　　　And I'll preserve it in eternal trust,149

With an Ay! that appeared to be wrung from the very depths of his
heart, the Knight of the Wood brought his song to a close, and then
after a brief pause began speaking in a grief-stricken voice that was
piteous to hear.

"O most beautiful and most ungrateful woman in all the world!" he
cried, "how is it possible, O most serene Casildea de Vandalia, for you to
permit this captive knight of yours to waste away and perish in constant
wanderings, amid rude toils and bitter hardships--Is it not enough that I
have compelled all the knights of Navarre, all those of Le6n, all the
Tartessians 150 and Castilians, and, finally, all those of La Mancha, to con-
fess that there is no beauty anywhere that can rival yours?"

"That is not so!" cried Don Quixote at this point. "I am of La Mancha,
and I have never confessed, I never could nor would confess a thing so
prejudicial to the beauty of my lady.151 The knight whom you see there,
Sancho, is raving; but let us listen and perhaps he will tell us more."

"That he will," replied Sancho, "for at the rate he is carrying on, he
is good for a month at a stretch."

This did not prove to be the case, however; for when the Knight of
the Wood heard voices near him, he cut short his lamentations and rose
to his feet.

"Who goes there?" he called in a loud but courteous tone. "What kind
of people are you--Are you, perchance, numbered among the happy
or among the afflicted?"

"Among the afflicted," was Don Quixote's response.

"Then come to me," said the one of the Wood, "and, in doing so, know
that you come to sorrow's self and the very essence of affliction."

Upon receiving so gentle and courteous an answer, Don Quixote and
Sancho as well went over to him, whereupon the sorrowing one took the
Manchegan's arm.

"Sit down here, Sir Knight," he continued, "for in order to know that
you are one of those who follow the profession of knight-errantry, it is
enough for　me to have found you in this place where solitude and serenity
keep you company, such a spot being the natural bed and proper dwell-
ing of wandering men of arms. "

"A knight I am," replied Don Quixote, "and of the profession that
you mention; and though sorrows, troubles, and misfortunes have made
my heart their abode, this does not mean that compassion for the woes
of others has been banished from it. From your song a while ago I gather
that your misfortunes are due to love--the love you bear that ungrateful
fair one whom you named in your lamentations."

As they conversed in this manner, they sat together upon the hard
earth, very peaceably and companionably, as if at daybreak they were
not going to break each other's heads.

"Sir Knight," inquired the one of the Wood, "are you by any chance
in love?"

"By mischance I am," said Don Quixote, "although the ills that come
from well-placed affection should be looked upon as favors rather than
as misfortunes."

"That is the truth," the Knight of the Wood agreed, "if it were not
that the loved one's scorn disturbs our reason and understanding; for
when it is excessive scorn appears as vengeance."

"I was never scorned by my lady," said Don Quixote.

"No, certainly not," said Sancho, who was standing near by, "for my
lady is gentle as a ewe Iamb and soft as butter."

"Is he your squire?" asked the one of the Wood.

"He is," replied Don Quixote.

"I never saw a squire," said the one of the Wood, "who dared to speak
while his master was talking. At least, there is mine over there; he is as
big as your father, and it cannot be proved that he has ever opened his
lips while I was conversing."

"Well, upon my word," said Sancho, "I have spoken, and I will speak
in front of any other as good--but never mind; it only makes it worse
to stir it."152

The Knight of the Wood's squire now seized Sancho's arm. "Come
along," he said, "let the two of us go where we can talk all we like, squire
fashion, and leave these gentlemen our masters to come to lance blows
as they tell each other the story of their loves; for you may rest assured,
daybreak will find them still at it."

"Let us, by all means," said Sancho, "and I will tell your Grace who
I am, so that you may be able to see for yourself whether or not I am to
be numbered among the dozen most talkative squires."

With this, the pair went off to one side, and there then took place be-
tween them a conversation that was as droll as the one between their
masters was solemn.



CHAPTER XIII .

In which is continued, the adventure of the Knight of the Wood,153
together with the shrewd, highly original, and amicable conversation
that took place between the two squires.



THE knights and the squires had now separated, the latter to tell their
life stories, the former to talk of their loves; but the history first relates
the conversation of the servants and then goes on to report that of the
masters. We are told that, after they had gone some little distance from
where the others were, the one who served the Knight of the Wood
began speaking to Sancho as follows:

"It is a hard life that we lead and live, Senor mio, those of us who are
squires to knights-errant. It is certainly true that we eat our bread in
the sweat of our faces,154 which is one of the curses that God put upon our
first parents."

"It might also be said," added Sancho, "that we eat it in the chill of
our bodies, for who endures more heat and cold than we wretched ones
who wait upon these wandering men of arms--It would not be so bad if
we did eat once in a while, for troubles are less where there is bread;155
but as it is, we sometimes go for a day or two without breaking our fast,
unless we feed on the wind that blows."

"But all this," said the other, "may very well be put up with, by reason
of the hope we have of being rewarded; for if a knight is not too unlucky,
his squire after a little while will find himself the governor of some fine
island or prosperous earldom."

"I," replied Sancho, "have told my master that I would be satisfied with
the governorship of an island, and he is so noble and so generous that
he has promised it to me on many different occasions."

"In return for my services," said the Squire of the Wood, "I'd be con-
tent with a canonry. My master has already appointed me to one--and
what a canonry!"

"Then he must be a churchly knight," said Sancho, "and in a position
to grant favors of that sort to his faithful squire; but mine is a layman,
pure and simple, although, as I recall, certain shrewd and, as I see it,
scheming persons did advise him to try to become an archbishop. How-
ever, he did not want to be anything but an emperor. And there I was,
all the time trembling for fear he would take it into his head to enter
the Church, since I was not educated enough to hold any benefices. For
I may as well tell your Grace that, though I look like a man, I am no
more than a beast where holy orders are concerned."

"That is where you are making a mistake," the Squire of the Wood
assured him. "Not all island governments are desirable. Some of them
are misshapen bits of land, some are poor, others are gloomy, and, in
short, the best of them lays a heavy burden of care and trouble upon the
shoulders of the unfortunate one to whose lot it falls. It would be far bet-
ter if we who follow this cursed trade were to go back to our homes and
there engage in pleasanter occupations, such as hunting or fishing, for
example; for where is there in this world a squire so poor that he does
not have a hack, a couple of greyhounds, and a fishing rod to provide
him with sport in his own village?"

"I don't lack any of those," replied Sancho. "It is true, I have no hack,
but I do have an ass that is worth twice as much as my master's horse.
God send me a bad Easter, and let it be the next one that comes, if I would
make a trade, even though he gave me four fanegas156 of barley to boot.
Your Grace will laugh at the price I put on my gray--for that is the
color of the beast. As to greyhounds, I shan't want for them, as there
are plenty and to spare in my village. And, anyway, there is more pleasure
in hunting when someone else pays for it."

"Really and truly, Sir Squire," said the one of the Wood, "I have made
up my mind and resolved to have no more to do with the mad whims
of these knights; I intend to retire to my village and bring up my little
ones--I have three of them, and they are like oriental pearls."

"I have two of them," said Sancho, "that might be presented to the
Pope in person, especially one of my girls that I am bringing up to be
a countess, God willing, in spite of what her mother says."

"And how old is this young lady that is destined to be a countess?"

"Fifteen," replied Sancho, "or a couple of years more or less. But she
is tall as a lance, fresh as an April morning, and strong as a porter."

"Those," remarked the one of the Wood, "are qualifications that fit
her to be not merely a countess but a nymph of the verdant wildwood.
0 whore's daughter of a whore! What strength the she-rogue must
have!"

Sancho was a bit put out by this. "She is not a whore," he said, "nor
was her mother before her, nor will either of them ever be, please God,
so long as I live. And you might speak more courteously. For one who
has been brought up among knights-errant, who are the soul of courtesy,
those words are not very becoming."

"Oh, how little your Grace knows about compliments, Sir Squire!"
the one of the Wood exclaimed. "Are you not aware that when some
knight gives a good lance thrust to the bull in the plaza, or when a person
does anything remarkably well, it is the custom for the crowd to cry
out, 'Well done, whoreson rascal!' and that what appears to be vitupera-
tion in such a case is in reality high praise--Sir, I would bid you disown
those sons or daughters who do nothing to cause such praise to be be-
stowed upon their parents."

"I would indeed disown them if they didn't," replied Sancho, "and so
your Grace may go ahead and call me, my children, and my wife all the
whores in the world if you like, for everything that they say and do
deserves the very highest praise. And in order that I may see them all
again, I pray God to deliver me from mortal sin, or, what amounts to the
same thing, from this dangerous calling of squire, seeing that I have fallen
into it a second time, decoyed and deceived by a purse of a hundred
ducats that I found one day in the heart of the Sierra Morcna. The devil
is always holding up a bag full of doubloons in front of my eyes, here,
there--no, not here, but there--everywhere, until it seems to me at every
step I take that I am touching it with my hand, hugging it, carrying it
off home with me, investing it, drawing an income from it, and living on
it like a prince. And while I am thinking such thoughts, all the hardships
I have to put up with serving this crackbrained master of mine, who is
more of a madman than a knight, seem to me light and easy to bear."

"That," observed the Squire of the Wood, "is why it is they say that
avarice bursts the bag.157 But, speaking of madmen, there is no greater one
in all this world than my master; for he is one of those of whom it is said,
The cares of others kill the ass.'158 Because another knight has lost his
senses, he has to play mad too and go hunting for that which, when he
finds it, may fly up in his snout."

"Is he in love, maybe?"

"Yes, with a certain Casildea de Vandalia, the rawest159 and best-roasted
lady to be found anywhere on earth; but her rawness is not the foot he
limps on, for he has other and greater schemes rumbling in his bowels, as
you will hear tell before many hours have gone by."

"There is no road so smooth," said Sancho, "that it does not have some
hole or rut to make you stumble. In other houses they cook horse beans,
in mine they boil them by the kettleful.160 Madness has more companions
and attendants than good sense does. But if it is true what they say, that
company in trouble brings relief, I may take comfort from your Grace,
since you serve a master as foolish as my own."

"Foolish but brave," the one of the Wood corrected him, "and more
of a rogue than anything else."

"That is not true of my master," replied Sancho. "I can assure you
there is nothing of the rogue about him; he is as open and aboveboard as
a wine pitcher and would not harm anyone but does good to all. There
is no malice in his make-up, and a child could make him believe it was
night at midday. For that very reason I love him with all my heart and
cannot bring myself to leave him, no matter how many foolish things
he does."161

"But, nevertheless, good sir and brother," said the Squire of the Wood,
"with the blind leading the blind, both are in danger of falling into the
pit. It would be better for us to get out of all this as quickly as we can
and return to our old haunts; for those that go seeking adventures do
not always find good ones."

Sancho kept clearing his throat from time to time, and his saliva seemed
rather viscous and dry; seeing which, the woodland squire said to him,
"It looks to me as if we have been talking so much that our tongues are
cleaving to our palates, but I have a loosener over there, hanging from the
bow of my saddle, and a pretty good one it is." With this, he got up and
went over to his horse and came back a moment later with a big flask of
wine and a meat pie half a yard in diameter. This is no exaggeration, for
the pasty in question was made of a hutch-rabbit of such a size that
Sancho took it to be a goat, or at the very least a kid.

"And are you in the habit of carrying this with you, Senor?" he asked.

"What do you think?" replied the other. "Am I by any chance one of
your wool-and-water squires--162 I carry better rations on the flanks
of my horse than a general does when he takes the field."

Sancho ate without any urging, gulping down mouthfuls that were
like the knots on a tether,163 as they sat there in the dark.

"You are a squire of the right sort," he said, "loyal and true, and you
live in grand style as shown by this feast, which I would almost say was
produced by magic. You are not like me, poor wretch, who have in my
saddlebags only a morsel of cheese so hard you could crack a giant's skull
with it, three or four dozen carob beans, and a few nuts. For this I have
my master to thank, who believes in observing the rule that knights-
errant should nourish and sustain themselves on nothing but dried fruits
and the herbs of the field."

"Upon my word, brother," said the other squire, "my stomach was not
made for thistles, wild pears, and woodland herbs. Let our masters ob-
serve those knightly laws and traditions and eat what their rules pre-
scribe; I carry a hamper of food and a flask on my saddlebow, whether
they like it or not. And speaking of that flask, how I love it! There is
scarcely a minute in the day that I'm not hugging and kissing it, over and
over again."

As he said this, he placed the wine bag in Sancho's hands, who put it to
his mouth, threw his head back, and sat there gazing up at the stars for a
quarter of an hour.164 Then, when he had finished drinking, he let his head
loll on one side and heaved a deep sigh.

"The whoreson rascal!" he exclaimed, "that's a fine vintage for you!"

"There!" cried the Squire of the Wood, as he heard the epithet Sancho
had used, "do you see how you have praised this wine by calling it
'whoreson'?"

"I grant you," replied Sancho, "that it is no insult to call anyone a son
of a whore so long as you really do mean to praise him. But tell me, sir,
in the name of what you love most, is this the wine of Ciudad Real?"165

"What a winetaster you are! It comes from nowhere else, and it's a
few years old, at that."

"Leave it to me," said Sancho, "and never fear, I'll show you how much
I know about it. Would you believe me, Sir Squire, I have such a great
natural instinct in this matter of wines that I have but to smell a vintage
and I will tell you the country where it was grown, from what kind of
grapes, what it tastes like, and how good it is, and everything that has to
do with it. There is nothing so unusual about this, however, seeing that
on my father's side were two of the best winetasters La Mancha has
known in many a year, in proof of which, listen to the story of what
happened to them.

"The two were given a sample of wine from a certain vat and asked
to state its condition and quality and determine whether it was good or
bad. One of them tasted it with the tip of his tongue while the other
inertly brought it up to his nose. The first man said that it tasted of iron,
the second that it smelled of Cordovan leather. The owner insisted that
the vat was clean and that there could be nothing in the wine to give it
a flavor of leather or of iron, but, nevertheless, the two famous wine-
tasters stood their ground. Time went by, and when they came to clean
out the vat they found in it a small key attached to a leather strap.166 And
so your Grace may see for yourself whether or not one who comes of
that kind of stock has a right to give his opinion in such cases."

"And for that very reason" said the Squire of the Wood, "I maintain
that we ought to stop going about in search of adventures. Seeing that
we have loaves, let us not go looking for cakes, but return to our cottages,
for God will find us there if He so wills."

"I mean to stay with my master," Sancho replied, "until he reaches
Saragossa, but after that we will come to an understanding."

The short of the matter is, the two worthy squires talked so much and
drank so much that sleep had to tie their tongues and moderate their
thirst, since to quench the latter was impossible. Clinging to the wine
flask, which was almost empty by now, and with half-chewed morsels
of food in their mouths, they both slept peacefully; and we shall leave
them there as we go on to relate what took place between the Knight
of the Wood and the Knight of the Mournful Countenance.



CHAPTER XIV.

Wherein is continued the adventure of the Knight of the Wood.



IN THE course of the long conversation that took place between Don
Quixote and the Knight of the Wood, the history informs us that the
latter addressed the following remarks to the Manchegan:

"In short, Sir Knight, I would have you know that my destiny, or,
more properly speaking, my own free choice, has led me to fall in love
with the peerless Casildea de Vandalia. I call her peerless for the reason
that she has no equal as regards cither her bodily proportions or her
very great beauty. This Casildea, then, of whom I am telling you, repaid
my worthy affections and honorable intentions by forcing me, as
Hercules was forced by his stepmother, to incur many and diverse perils;
and each time as I overcame one of them she would promise me that with
the next one I should have that which I desired; but instead my labors
have continued, forming a chain w hose links I am no longer able to count,
nor can I say which will be the last one, that shall mark the beginning of
the realization of my hopes.

"One time she sent me forth to challenge that famous giantess of Se-
ville, known as La Giralda, who is as strong and brave as if made of brass,
and who without moving from the spot where she stands is the most
changeable and fickle woman in the world.167 I came, I saw, I conquered
her. I made her stand still and point in one direction only, and for more
than a week nothing but north winds blew. Then, there was that other
time when Casildea sent me to lift those ancient stones, the mighty Bulls
of Guisando,168 an enterprise that had better have been entrusted to porters
than to knights. On another occasion she commanded me to hurl myself
down into the Cabra chasm169--an unheard-of and terribly dangerous
undertaking--and bring her back a detailed account of what lay con-
cealed in that deep and gloomy pit. I rendered La Giralda motionless, I
lifted the Bulls of Guisando, and I threw myself into the abyss and
brought to light what was hidden in its depths; yet my hopes are dead-
how dead!--while her commands and her scorn are as lively as can be.

"Finally, she commanded me to ride through all the provinces of Spain
and compel all the knights-errant whom I met with to confess that she
is the most beautiful woman now living and that I am the most enamored
man of arms that is to be found anywhere in the world. In fulfillment of
this behest I have already traveled over the greater part of these realms
and have vanquished many knights who have dared to contradict me.
But the one whom I am proudest to have overcome in single combat is
that famous gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha; for I made him con-
fess that my Casildea is more beautiful than his Dulcinea, and by achiev-
ing such a conquest I reckon that I have conquered all the others on the
face of the earth, seeing that this same Don Quixote had himself routed
them. Accordingly, when I vanquished him, his fame, glory, and honor
passed over and were transferred to my person.

　　　　　The brighter is the conquered one's lost crown,
　　　　　The greater is the conqueror's renown.170

Thus, the innumerable exploits of the said Don Quixote are now set
down to my account and are indeed my own."

Don Quixote was astounded as he listened to the Knight of the Wood,
and was about to tell him any number of times that he lied; the words
were on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back as best he could,
thinking that he would bring the other to confess with his own lips that
what he had said was a lie. And so it was quite calmly that he now re-
plied to him.

"Sir Knight," he began, "as to the assertion that your Grace has con-
quered most of the knights-errant in Spain and even in all the world, I
have nothing to say, but that you have vanquished Don Quixote de la
Mancha, I am inclined to doubt. It may be that it was someone else who
resembled him, although there are very few that do."

"What do you mean?" replied the one of the Wood. "I swear by the
heavens above that I did fight with Don Quixote and that I overcame
him and forced him to yield. He is a tall man, with a dried-up face, long,
lean legs, graying hair, an eagle-like nose somewhat hooked, and a big,
black, drooping mustache. He takes the field under the name of the
Knight of the Mournful Countenance, he has for squire a peasant named
Sancho Panza, and he rides a famous steed called Rocinante. Lastly, the
lady of his heart is a certain Dulcinea del Toboso, once upon a time
known as Aldonza Lorenzo, just as my own lady, whose name is Casildea
and who is an Andalusian by birth, is called by me Casildea de Vandalia.
If all this is not sufficient to show that I speak the truth, here is my sword
which shall make incredulity itself believe."

"Calm yourself, Sir Knight," replied Don Quixote, "and listen to what
I have to say to you. You must know that this Don Quixote of whom
you speak is the best friend that I have in the world, so great a friend
that I may say that I feel toward him as I do toward my own self; and
from all that you have told me, the very definite and accurate details that
you have given me, I cannot doubt that he is the one whom you have
conquered. On the other hand, the sight of my eyes and the touch of
my hands assure me that he could not possibly be the one, unless some
enchanter who is his enemy--for he has many, and one in particular who
delights in persecuting him--may have assumed the knight's form and
then permitted himself to be routed, by way of defrauding Don Quixote
of the fame which his high deeds of chivalry have earned for him
throughout the known world. To show you how true this may be, I
will inform you that not more than a couple of days ago those same
enemy magicians transformed the figure and person of the beauteous
Dulcinea del Toboso into a low and mean village lass, and it is possible
that they have done something of the same sort to the knight who is her
lover. And if all this does not suffice to convince you of the truth of what
I say, here is Don Quixote himself who will maintain it by force of arms,
on foot or on horseback, or in any way you like."

Saying this, he rose and laid hold of his sword, and waited to see what
the Knight of the Wood's decision would be. That worthy now replied
in a voice as calm as the one Don Quixote had used.

"Pledges," he said, "do not distress one who is sure of his ability to
pay.171 He who was able to overcome you when you were transformed,
Senor Don Quixote, may hope to bring you to your knees when you are
your own proper self. But inasmuch as it is not fitting that knights should
perform their feats of arms in the darkness, like ruffians and highway-
men, let us wait until it is day in order that the sun may behold what we
do. And the condition governing our encounter shall be that the one
who is vanquished must submit to the will of his conqueror and perform
all those things that are commanded of him, provided they are such as are
in keeping with the state of knighthood."

"With that condition and understanding," said Don Quixote, "I shall
be satisfied."

With this, they went off to where their squires were, only to find them
snoring away as hard as when sleep had first overtaken them. Awakening
the pair, they ordered them to look to the horses; for as soon as the sun
was up the two knights meant to stage an arduous and bloody single-
handed combat. At this news Sancho was astonished and terrified, since,
as a result of what the other squire had told him of the Knight of the
Wood's prowess, he was led to fear for his master's safety. Nevertheless,
he and his friend now went to seek the mounts without saying a word,
and they found the animals all together, for by this time the two horses
and the ass had smelled one another out. On the way the Squire of the
Wood turned to Sancho and addressed him as follows:

"I must inform you, brother, that it is the custom of the fighters of
Andalusia, when they are godfathers in any combat, not to remain idly
by, with folded hands, while their godsons fight it out. I tell you this by
way of warning you that while our masters are settling matters, we, too,
shall have to come to blows and hack each other to bits."

"That custom, Sir Squire," replied Sancho, "may be all very well among
the fighters and ruffians that you mention, but with the squires of
knights-errant it is not to be thought of. At least, I have never heard my
master speak of any such custom, and he knows all the laws of chivalry
by heart. But granting that it is true and that there is a law which states
in so many words that squires must fight while their masters do, I have
no intention of obeying it but rather will pay whatever penalty is laid on
peaceable-minded ones like myself, for I am sure it cannot be more than
a couple of pounds of wax,172 and that would be less expensive than the
lint which it would take to heal my head--I can already see it split in
two. What's more, it's out of the question for me to fight since I have
no sword nor did I ever in my life carry one."

"That," said the one of the Wood, "is something that is easily remedied.
I have here two linen bags of the same size. You take one and I'll take the
other and we will fight that way, on equal terms."

"So be it, by all means," said Sancho, "for that will simply knock the
dust out of us without wounding us."

"But that's not the way it's to be," said the other squire. "Inside the
bags, to keep the wind from blowing them away, we will put a half-dozen
nice smooth pebbles of the same weight, and so we'll be able to give each
other a good pounding without doing ourselves any real harm or damage."

"Body of my father!" cried Sancho, "just look, will you, at the marten
and sable and wads of carded cotton that he's stuffing into those bags so
that we won't get our heads cracked or our bones crushed to a pulp. But
I am telling you, Senor mio, that even though you fill them with silken
pellets, I don't mean to fight. Let our masters fight and make the best of
it, but as for us, let us drink and live; for time will see to ending our lives
without any help on our part by way of bringing them to a close before
they have reached their proper season and fall from ripeness."

"Nevertheless," replied the Squire of the Wood, "fight we must, if
only for half an hour."

"No," Sancho insisted, "that I will not do. I will not be so impolite or
so ungrateful as to pick any quarrel however slight with one whose food
and drink I've shared. And, moreover, who in the devil could bring him-
self to fight in cold blood, when he's not angry or vexed in any way?"

"I can take care of that, right enough," said the one of the Wood. "Be-
fore we begin, I will come up to your Grace as nicely as you please and
give you three or four punches that will stretch you out at my feet; and
that will surely be enough to awaken your anger, even though it's sleep-
ing sounder than a dormouse."

"And I," said Sancho, "have another idea that's every bit as good as
yours. I will take a big club, and before your Grace has had a chance to
awaken my anger I will put yours to sleep with such mighty whacks that
if it wakes at all it will be in the other world; for it is known there that
I am not the man to let my face be mussed by anyone, and let each look
out for the arrow.173 But the best thing to do would be to leave each one's
anger to its slumbers, for no one knows the heart of any other, he who
comes for wool may go back shorn,174 and God bless peace and curse all
strife. If a hunted cat when surrounded and cornered turns into a lion,175
God knows what I who am a man might not become. And so from this
time forth I am warning you, Sir Squire, that all the harm and damage
that may result from our quarrel will be upon your head."

"Very well," the one of the Wood replied, "God will send the dawn
and we shall make out somehow."

At that moment gay-colored birds of all sorts began warbling in the
trees and with their merry and varied songs appeared to be greeting and
welcoming the fresh-dawning day, which already at the gates and on the
balconies of the east was revealing its beautiful face as it shook out from
its hair an infinite number of liquid pearls. Bathed in this gentle moisture,
the grass seemed to shed a pearly spray, the willows distilled a savory
manna, the fountains laughed, the brooks murmured, the woods were
glad, and the meadows put on their finest raiment. The first thing that
Sancho Panza beheld, as soon as it was light enough to tell one object
from another, was the Squire of the Wood's nose, which was so big as
to cast into the shade all the rest of his body. In addition to being of
enormous size, it is said to have been hooked in the middle and all covered
with warts of a mulberry hue, like eggplant; it hung down for a couple of
inches below his mouth, and the size, color, warts, and shape of this
organ gave his face so ugly an appearance that Sancho began trembling
hand and foot like a child with convulsions and made up his mind then
and there that he would take a couple of hundred punches before he
would let his anger be awakened to the point where he would fight with
this monster.

Don Quixote in the meanwhile was surveying his opponent, who had
already adjusted and closed his helmet so that it was impossible to make
out what he looked like. It was apparent, however, that he was not very
tall and was stockily built. Over his armor he w ore a coat of some kind
or other made of what appeared to be the finest cloth of gold, all be-
spangled with glittering mirrors that resembled little moons and that
gave him a most gallant and festive air, w'hile above his helmet were a
large number of waving plumes, green, white, and yellow in color. His
lance, which was leaning against a tree, was very long and stout and had
a steel point of more than a palm in length. Don Quixote took all this
in, and from what he observed concluded that his opponent must be of
tremendous strength, but he was not for this reason filled with fear as
Sancho Pinza was. Rather, he proceeded to address the Knight of the
Mirrors, quite boldly and in a highbred manner.

"Sir Knight," he said, "if in your eagerness to fight you have not lost
your courtesy, I would beg you to be so good as to raise your visor a
little in order that I may see if your face is as handsome as your trap-
pings"

"Whether you come out of this emprise the victor or the vanquished,
Sir Knight," he of the Mirrors replied, "there will be ample time and
opportunity for you to have a sight of me. If I do not now gratify your
desire, it is because it seems to me that I should be doing a very great
wrong to the beauteous Casildea de Vandalia by wasting the time it would
take me to raise my visor before having forced you to confess that I am
right in my contention, with which you are well acquainted."

"Well, then," said Don Quixote, "while we are mounting our steeds
you might at least inform me if I am that knight of La Mancha whom
you say you conquered."

"To that our answer,"176 said he of the Mirrors, "is that you are as
like the knight I overcame as one egg is like another; but since you assert
that you are persecuted by enchanters, I should not venture to state
positively that you are the one in question."

"All of which," said Don Quixote, "is sufficient to convince me that
you are laboring under a misapprehension; but in order to relieve you
of it once and for all, let them bring our steeds, and in less time than you
would spend in lifting your visor, if God, my lady, and my arm give me
strength, I will see your face and you shall see that I am not the van-
quished knight you take me to be."

With this, they cut short their conversation and mounted, and, turn-
ing Rocinante around, Don Quixote began measuring off the proper
length of field for a run against his opponent as he of the Mirrors did the
same. But the Knight of La Mancha had not gone twenty paces when he
heard his adversary calling to him, whereupon each of them turned half-
way and he of the Mirrors spoke.

"I must remind you, Sir Knight," he said, "of the condition under
which we fight, which is that the vanquished, as I have said before, shall
place himself wholly at the disposition of the victor."

"I am aware of that," replied Don Quixote, "not forgetting the pro-
vision that the behest laid upon the vanquished shall not exceed the
bounds of chivalry."

"Agreed," said the Knight of the Mirrors.

At that moment Don Quixote caught sight of the other squire's weird
nose and was as greatly astonished by it as Sancho had been. Indeed, he
took the fellow for some monster, or some new kind of human being
wholly unlike those that people this world. As he saw his master riding
away down the field preparatory to the tilt, Sancho was alarmed; for he
did not like to be left alone with the big-nosed individual, fearing that
one powerful swipe of that protuberance against his own nose would
end the battle so far as he was concerned and he would be lying stretch-
ed out on the ground, from fear if not from the force of the blow.

He accordingly ran after the knight, clinging to one of Rocinante's
stirrup straps, and when he thought it was time for Don Quixote to whirl
about and bear down upon his opponent, he called to him and said,
"Senor mio, I beg your Grace, before you turn for the charge, to help
me up into that cork tree yonder where I can watch the encounter which
your Grace is going to have with this knight better than I can from the
ground and in a way that is much more to my liking."

"I rather think, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that what you wish to
do is to mount a platform where you can see the bulls without any danger
to yourself."

"The truth of the matter is," Sancho admitted, "the monstrous nose
on that squire has given me such a fright that I don't dare stay near him."

"It is indeed of such a sort," his master assured him, "that if I were not
the person I am, I myself should be frightened. And so, come, I will help
you up."

While Don Quixote tarried to see Sancho ensconced in the cork tree,
the Knight of the Mirrors measured as much ground as seemed to him
necessary and then, assuming that his adversary had done the same, with-
out waiting for sound of trumpet or any other signal, he wheeled his
horse, which was no swifter nor any more impressive-looking than
Rocinante, and bore down upon his enemy at a mild trot; but when he
saw that the Manchegan was busy helping his squire, he reined in his
mount and came to a stop midway in his course, for which his horse was
extremely grateful, being no longer able to stir a single step, lo Don
Quixote, on the other hand, it seemed as if his enemy was flying, and
digging his spurs with all his might into Rocinante's lean flanks he caused
that animal to run a bit for the first and only time, according to the
history, for on all other occasions a simple trot had represented his ut-
most speed. And so it was that, with an unheard-of fury, the Knight of
the Mournful Countenance came down upon the Knight of the Mirrors
as the latter sat there sinking his spurs all the way up to the buttons177
without being able to persuade his horse to budge a single inch from the
spot where he had come to a sudden standstill.

It was at this fortunate moment, while his adversary was in such a
predicament, that Don Quixote fell upon him, quite unmindful of the
fact that the other knight was having trouble with his mount and either
was unable or did not have time to put his lance at rest. The upshot of it
was, he encountered him with such force that, much against his will, the
Knight of the Mirrors went rolling over his horse's flanks and tumbled
to the ground, where as a result of his terrific fall he lay as if dead, with-
out moving hand or foot.

No sooner did Sancho perceive what had happened than he slipped
down from the cork tree and ran up as fast as he could to where his
master was. Dismounting from Rocinante, Don Quixote now stood over
the Knight of the Mirrors, and undoing the helmet straps to see if the man
was dead, or to give him air in case he was alive, he beheld--who can say
what he beheld without creating astonishment, wonder, and amazement
in those who hear the tale--The history tells us that it was the very
countenance, form, aspect, physiognomy, effigy, and image of the
bachelor Sansdn Carrasco!

"Come, Sancho," he cried in a loud voice, "and see what is to be seen
but is not to be believed. Hasten, my son, and learn what magic can do
and how great is the power of wizards and enchanters."

Sancho came, and the moment his eyes fell on the bachelor Carrasco's
face he began crossing and blessing himself a countless number of times.
Meanwhile, the overthrown knight gave no signs of life.

"If you ask me, master," said Sancho, "I would say that the best thing
for your Grace to do is to run his sword down the mouth of this one
who appears to be the bachelor Carrasco; maybe by so doing you would
be killing one of your enemies, the enchanters."

"That is not a bad idea," replied Don Quixote, "for the fewer enemies
the better."178 And, drawing his sword, he was about to act upon Sancho's
advice and counsel when the Knight of the Mirrors' squire came up to
them, now minus the nose which had made him so ugly.

"Look well what you are doing, Don Quixote!" he cried. "The one who
lies there at your feet is your Grace's friend, the bachelor Sanson
Carrasco, and I am his squire."

"And where is your nose?" inquired Sancho, who was surprised to
see him without that deformity.

"Here in my pocket," was the reply. And, thrusting his hand into his
coat, he drew out a nose of varnished pasteboard of the make that has
been described. Studying him more and more closely, Sancho finally ex-
claimed, in a voice that was filled with amazement, "Holy Mary preserve
me! And is this not my neighbor and crony, Tome Cecial?"

"That is who I am!" replied the de-nosed squire, "your good friend
Tome Cecial, Sancho Panza. I will tell you presently of the means and
snares and falsehoods that brought me here. But, for the present, I beg
and entreat your master not to lay hands on, mistreat, wound, or slay
the Knight of the Mirrors whom he now has at his feet; for without any
doubt it is the rash and ill-advised bachelor Sanson Carrasco, our fellow
villager."179

The Knight of the Mirrors now recovered consciousness, and, seeing
this, Don Quixote at once placed the naked point of his sword above
the face of the vanquished one.

"Dead you are, knight," he said, "unless you confess that the peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso is more beautiful than your Casildea dc Vandalia.
And what is more, you will have to promise that, should you survive this
encounter and the fall you have had, you will go to the city of El Toboso
and present yourself to her in my behalf, that she may do with you as
she may see fit. And in case she leaves you free to follow your own will,
you are to return to seek me out--the trail of my exploits will serve as
a guide to bring you wherever I may be--and tell me all that has taken
place between you and her. These conditions are in conformity with
those that we arranged before our combat and they do not go beyond the
bounds of knight-errantry."

"I confess," said the fallen knight, "that the tattered and filthy shoe of
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso is of greater worth than the badly combed
if clean beard of Casildea, and I promise to go to her presence and return
to yours and to give you a complete and detailed account concerning
anything you may wish to know."

"Another thing," added Don Quixote, "that you will have to confess
and believe is that the knight you conquered was not and could not have
been Don Quixote de la Mancha, but was some other that resembled him,
just as I am convinced that you, though you appear to be the bachelor
Sanson Carrasco, are another person in his form and likeness who has
been put here by my enemies to induce me to restrain and moderate the
impetuosity of my wrath and make a gentle use of my glorious victory."

"I confess, think, and feel as you feel, think, and believe," replied the
lamed knight. "Permit me to rise, I beg of you, if the jolt I received in
my fall will let me do so, for I am in very bad shape."

Don Quixote and Tome Cecial the squire now helped him to his feet
As for Sancho, he could not take his eyes off Tome but kept asking him
one question after another, and although the answers he received afforded
clear enough proof that the man was really his fellow townsman, the fear
that had been aroused in him by his master's words--about the enchant-
ers' having transformed the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor
Sans6n Carrasco--prevented him from believing the truth that was ap-
parent to his eyes. The short of it is, both master and servant were left
with this delusion as the other ill-errant knight and his squire, in no
pleasant state of mind, took their departure with the object of looking
for some village where they might be able to apply poultices and splints
to the bachelor's battered ribs.

Don Quixote and Sancho then resumed their journey along the road
to Saragossa, and here for the time being the history leaves them in order
to give an account of who the Knight of the Mirrors and his long-nosed
squire really were.



CHAPTER XV.

Wherein is told and revealed who the Knight of t
he Mirrors and his squire were.



DON QUIXOTE went off very happy, self-satisfied, and vainglori-
ous at having achieved a victory over so valiant a knight as he imagined
the one of the Mirrors to be, from whose knightly word he hoped to
learn whether or not the spell which had been put upon his lady was still
in effect; for, unless he chose to forfeit his honor, the vanquished con-
tender must of necessity return and give an account of what had hap-
pened in the course of his interview with her. But Don Quixote was of
one mind, the Knight of the Mirrors of another,180 for, as has been stated,
the latter's only thought at the moment was to find some village where
plasters were available.

The history goes on to state that when the bachelor Sanson Carrasco
advised Don Quixote to resume his feats of chivalry, after having de-
sisted from them for a while, this action was taken as the result of a con-
ference which he had held with the curate and the barber as to the
means to be adopted in persuading the knight to remain quietly at home
and cease agitating himself over his unfortunate adventures. It had been
Carrasco's suggestion, to which they had unanimously agreed, that they
let Don Quixote sally forth, since it appeared to be impossible to prevent
his doing so, and that Sanson should then take to the road as a knight-
errant and pick a quarrel and do battle with him. There would be no
difficulty about finding a pretext, and then the bachelor knight would
overcome him (which was looked upon as easy of accomplishment),
having first entered into a pact to the effect that the vanquished should
remain at the mercy and bidding of his conqueror. The behest in this
case was to be that the fallen one should return to his village and home
and not leave it for the space of two years or until further orders were
given him, it being a certainty that, once having been overcome, Don
Quixote would fulfill the agreement, in order not to contravene or fail
to obey the laws of chivalry. And it was possible that in the course of
his seclusion he would forget his fancies, or they would at least have an
opportunity to seek some suitable cure for his madness.

Sanson agreed to undertake this, and Tome Cecial, Sancho's friend
and neighbor, a merry but featherbrained chap, offered to go along as
squire. Sanson then proceeded to arm himself in the manner that has been
described, while Tome disguised his nose with the aforementioned mask
so that his crony would not recognize him when they met. Thus
equipped, they followed the same route as Don Quixote and had almost
caught up with him by the time he had the adventure with the Cart of
Death. They finally overtook him in the wood, where those events oc-
curred with which the attentive reader is already familiar; and if it had
not been for the knight's extraordinary fancies, which led him to believe
that the bachelor was not the bachelor, the said bachelor might have
been prevented from ever attaining his degree of licentiate, as a result
of having found no nests where he thought to find birds.181

Seeing how ill they had succeeded in their undertaking and what an
end they had reached, Tome Cecial now addressed his master.

"Surely, Senor Sanson Carrasco," he said, "we have had our deserts.
It is easy enough to plan and embark upon an enterprise, but most of
the time it's hard to get out of it. Don Quixote is a madman and we are
sane, yet he goes away sound and laughing while your Grace is left here,
battered and sorrowful. I wish you would tell me now who is the crazier:
the one who is so because he cannot help it, or he who turns crazy of his
own free will?"

"The difference between the two, " replied Sanson, "lies in this: that
the one who cannot help being crazy will be so always, whereas the
one who is a madman by choice can leave off being one whenever he
so desires."

"Well," said Tome Cecial, "since that is the way it is, and since I chose
to be crazy when I became your Grace's squire, by the same reasoning
I now choose to stop being insane and to return to my home."

"That is your affair," said Sanson, "but to imagine that I am going back
before I have given Don Quixote a good thrashing is senseless; and what
will urge me on now is not any desire to see him recover his wits, but
rather a thirst for vengeance; for with the terrible pain that I have in my
ribs, you can't expect me to feel very charitable."

Conversing in this manner they kept on until they reached a village
where it was their luck to find a bonesetter to take care of poor Sanson.
Tome Cecial then left him and returned home, while the bachelor medi-
tated plans for revenge. The history has more to say of him in due time,
but for the present it goes on to make merry with Don Quixote.



CHAPTER XVI.

Of what happened to Don Quixote upon his meeting
with a prudent gentleman of La Mancha.



WITH that feeling of happiness and vainglorious self-satisfaction that
has been mentioned, Don Quixote continued on his way, imagining him-
self to be, as a result of the victory he had just achieved, the most valiant
knight-errant of the age. Whatever adventures might befall him from
then on he regarded as already accomplished and brought to a fortunate
conclusion. He thought little now of enchanters and enchantments and
was unmindful of the innumerable beatings he had received in the course
of his knightly wanderings, of the volley of pebbles that had knocked out
half his teeth, of the ungratefulness of the galley slaves and the audacity
of the Yanguesans whose poles had fallen upon his body like rain. In
short, he told himself, if he could but find the means, manner, or way
of freeing his lady Dulcinea of the spell that had been put upon her, he
would not envy the greatest good fortune that the most fortunate of
knights-errant in ages past had ever by any possibility attained.

He was still wholly wrapped up in these thoughts when Sancho spoke
to him,

"Isn't it strange, sir, that I can still see in front of my eyes the huge
and monstrous nose of my old crony, Tome Cecial?"

"And do you by any chance believe, Sancho, that the Knight of the
Mirrors was the bachelor Sanson Carrasco and that his squire was your
friend Tome?"

"I don't know what to say to that,'' replied Sancho. "All I know is that
the things he told me about my home, my wife and young ones, could
not have come from anybody else; and the face, too, once you took the
nose away, was the same as Tome Cecial's, which I have seen many times
in our village, right next door to my own house, and the tone of voice
was the same also."

"Let us reason the matter out, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Look at
it this way: how can it be thought that the bachelor Sanson Carrasco
would come as a knight-errant, equipped with offensive and defensive
armor, to contend with me--Am I, perchance, his enemy--Have I given
him any occasion to cherish a grudge against me--Am I a rival of his--
Or can it be jealousy of the fame I have acquired that has led him to take
up the profession of arms?"

"Well, then, sir," Sancho answered him, "how are we to explain the
fact that the knight was so like the bachelor and his squire like my friend--
And if this was a magic spell, as your Grace has said, was there no other
pair in the world whose likeness they might have taken?"

"It is all a scheme and a plot," replied Don Quixote, "on the part of
those wicked magicians who are persecuting me and who, foreseeing that
I would be the victor in the combat, saw to it that the conquered knight
should display the face of my friend the bachelor, so that the affection
which I bear him would come between my fallen enemy and the edge
of my sword and might of my arm, to temper the righteous indignation
of my heart. In that way, he who had sought by falsehood and deceits
to take my life, would be left to go on living. As proof of all this, Sancho,
experience, which neither lies nor deceives, has already taught you how
easy it is for enchanters to change one countenance into another, making
the beautiful ugly and the ugly beautiful. It was not two days ago that
you beheld the peerless Dulcinea's beauty and elegance in its entirety and
natural form, while I saw only the repulsive features of a low and igno-
rant peasant girl with cataracts over her eyes and a foul smell in her
mouth.182 And if the perverse enchanter was bold enough to effect so
vile a transformation as this, there is certainly no cause for wonderment
at what he has done in the case of Sanson Carrasco and your friend, all
by way of snatching my glorious victory out of my hands. But in spite of
it all, I find consolation in the fact that, whatever the shape he may have
chosen to assume, I have laid my enemy low."

"God knows what the truth of it all may be," was Sancho's comment.
Knowing as he did that Dulcinea's transformation had been due to his
own scheming and plotting, he was not taken in by his master's delusions.
He was at a loss for a reply, however, lest he say something that would
reveal his own trickery.

As they were carrying on this conversation, they were overtaken by a
man who, following the same road, was coming along behind them. He
was mounted on a handsome flea-bitten mare and wore a hooded great-
coat of fine green cloth trimmed in tawny velvet and a cap of the same
material,183 while the trappings of his steed, which was accoutered for
the field, were green and mulberry in hue, his saddle being of the jineta
mode.184 From his broad green and gold shoulder strap there dangled a
Moorish cutlass, and his half-boots were of the same make as the baldric.
His spurs were not gilded but were covered with highly polished green
lacquer, so that, harmonizing as they did with the rest of his apparel, they
seemed more appropriate than if they had been of purest gold. As he
came up, he greeted the pair courteously and, spurring his mare, was
about to ride on past when Don Quixote called to him.

"Gallant sir," he said, "if your Grace is going our way and is not in
a hurry, it would be a favor to us if we might travel together."

"The truth is," replied the stranger," I should not have ridden past
you if I had not been afraid that the company of my mare would excite
your horse."

"In that case, sir," Sancho spoke up, "you may as well rein in, for this
horse of ours is the most virtuous and well mannered of any that there is.
Never on such an occasion has he done anything that was not right--the
only time he did misbehave, my master and I suffered for it aplenty.
And so, I say again, your Grace may slow up if you like; for even if you
offered him your mare on a couple of platters, he'd never try to mount
her."

With this, the other traveler drew rein, being greatly astonished at Don
Quixote's face and figure. For the knight was now riding along without
his helmet, which was carried by Sancho like a piece of luggage on the
back of his gray, in front of the packsaddle. If the green-clad gentleman
stared hard at his new-found companion, the latter returned his gaze with
an even greater intensity. He impressed Don Quixote as being a man of
good judgment, around fifty years of age, with hair that was slightly
graying and an aquiline nose, while the expression of his countenance
was half humorous, half serious. In short, both his person and his ac-
couterments indicated that he was an individual of some worth.

As for the man in green's impression of Don Quixote de la Mancha,
he was thinking that he had never before seen any human being that
resembled this one. He could not but marvel at the knight's long neck,185
his tall frame, and the leanness and the sallowness of his face, as well as
his armor and his grave bearing, the whole constituting a sight such as had
not been seen for many a day in those parts. Don Quixote in turn was
quite conscious of the attentiveness with which the traveler was studying
hinxand could tell from the man's astonished look how curious he was;
and so, being very courteous and fond of pleasing everyone, he proceeded
to anticipate any questions that might be asked him.

"I am aware," he said, "that my appearance must strike your Grace
as being very strange and out of the ordinary, and for that reason I am
not surprised at your wonderment. But your Grace will cease to wonder
when I tell you, as I am telling you now, that I am a knight, one of those

　　　　　　Of whom it is folks say,
　　　　　　They to adventures go.186

I have left my native heath, mortgaged my estate, given up my comfort-
able life, and cast myself into fortune's arms for her to do with me what
she will. It has been my desire to revive a knight-errantry that is now
dead, and for some time past, stumbling here and falling there, now
throwing myself down headlong and then rising up once more, I have
been able in good part to carry out my design by succoring widows,
protecting damsels, and aiding the fallen, the orphans, and the young,
all of which is the proper and natural duty of knights-errant. As a result,
owing to mv many valiant and Christian exploits, I have been deemed
worthy of visiting in printed form nearly all the nations of the world.
Thirty thousand copies of my history have been published, and, unless
Heaven forbid, they will print thirty million of them.187

"In short, to put it all into a few words, or even one, I will tell you
that I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherw ise known as the Knight of
the Mournful Countenance. Granted that self-praise is degrading, there
still are times when I must praise myself, that is to say, when there is
no one else present to speak in my behalf. And so, good sir, neither this
teed nor this lance nor this buckler nor this squire of mine, nor all the
armor that I wear and arms I carry, nor the sallowness of my complexion,
lor my leanness and gauntness,188 should any longer astonish you, now
hat you know who I am and what the profession is that I follow."

Having thus spoken, Don Quixote fell silent, and the man in green was
so slow in replying that it seemed as if he was at a loss for words. Finally,
however, after a considerable while, he brought himself to the point of
speaking.

"You were correct, Sir Knight," he said, "about my astonishment and
my curiosity, but you have not succeeded in removing the wonderment
that the sight of you has aroused in me. You say that, knowing who you
are, I should not wonder any more, but such is not the case, for I am now
more amazed than ever. How can it be that there are knights-errant in
the world today and that histories of them are actually printed? I find it
hard to convince myself that at the present time there is anyone on earth
who goes about aiding widows, protecting damsels, defending the honor
of wives, and succoring orphans, and I should never have believed it had
I not beheld your Grace with my own eyes. Thank Heaven for that book
that your Grace tells me has been published concerning your true and
exalted deeds of chivalry, as it should cast into oblivion all the innumer-
ible stories of fictitious knights-errant with which the world is filled,
greatly to the detriment of good morals and the prejudice and discredit
of legitimate histories."

"As to whether the stories of knights-errant are fictitious or not," ob-
served Don Quixote, "there is much that remains to be said."

"Why," replied the gentleman in green, "is there anyone who can
doubt that such tales are false?"

"I doubt it," was the knight's answer, "but let the matter rest there,
of our journey lasts long enough, I trust with God's help to be able to
show your Grace that you are wrong in going along with those who
hold it to be a certainty that they are not true."

From this last remark the traveler was led to suspect that Don Quixote
must be some kind of crackbrain, and he was waiting for him to confirm
the impression by further observations of the same sort; but before they
could get off on another subject, the knight, seeing that he had given an
account of his own station in life, turned to the stranger and politely in-
quired who his companion might be.

"I, Sir Knight of the Mournful Countenance," replied the one in the
green-colored greatcoat, "am a gentleman, and a native of the village
where, please God, we are going to dine today. I am more than mod-
erately rich, and my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I spend my life with
my wife and children and with my friends. My occupations are hunting
and fishing, though I keep neither falcon nor hounds but only a tame
partridge189 and a bold ferret or two. I am the owner of about six dozen
books, some of them in Spanish, others in Latin, including both histories
and devotional works. As for books of chivalry, they have not as yet
crossed the threshold of my door. My own preference is for profane
rather than devotional writings, such as afford an innocent amusement,
charming us by their style and arousing and holding our interest by
their inventiveness, although I must say there are very few of that sort
to be found in Spain.

"Sometimes," the man in green continued, "I dine with my friends
and neighbors, and I often invite them to my house. My meals are whole-
some and well prepared and there is always plenty to eat. I do not care
for gossip, nor will I permit it in my presence. I am not lynx-eyed and
do not pry into the lives and doings of others. I hear mass every day and
share my substance with the poor, but make no parade of my good works
lest hypocrisy and vainglory, those enemies that so imperceptibly take
possession of the most modest heart, should find their way into mine. I
try to make peace between those who are at strife. I am the devoted
servant of Our Lady, and my trust is in the infinite mercy of God Our
Savior."

Sancho had listened most attentively to the gentleman's account of his
mode of life, and inasmuch as it seemed to him that this was a good and
holy way to live and that the one who followed such a pattern ought
to be able to work miracles, he now jumped down from his gray's back
and, running over to seize the stranger's right stirrup, began kissing the
feet of the man in green with a show of devotion that bordered on tears.

"Why are you doing that, brother?" the gentleman asked him. "What
is the meaning of these kisses?"

"Let me kiss your feet," Sancho insisted, "for if I am not mistaken,
your Grace is the first saint riding jineta fashion190 that I have seen in all
the days of my life."

"I am not a saint," the gentleman assured him, "but a great sinner. It
is you, brother, who are the saint; for you must be a good man, judging
by the simplicity of heart that you show."

Sancho then went back to his packsaddle, having evoked a laugh from
the depths of his master's melancholy and given Don Diego fresh cause
for astonishment.

Don Quixote thereupon inquired of the newcomer how many children
he had, remarking as he did so that the ancient philosophers, who were
without a true knowledge of God, believed that mankind's greatest good
lay in the gifts of nature, in those of fortune, and in having many friends
and many and worthy sons.

"I, Senor Don Quixote," replied the gentleman, "have a son without
whom I should, perhaps, be happier than I am. It is not that he is bad,
but rather that he is not as good as I should like him to be. He is eighteen
years old, and for six of those years he has been at Salamanca studying
the Greek and Latin languages. When I desired him to pass on to other
branches of learning, I found him so immersed in the science of Poetry
(if it can be called such) that it was not possible to interest him in the
Law, which I wanted him to study, nor in Theology, the queen of them
all. My wish was that he might be an honor to his family; for in this age
in which we are living our monarchs are in the habit of highly rewarding
those forms of learning that are good and virtuous, since learning without
virtue is like pearls on a dunghill. But he spends the whole day trying to
decide whether such and such a verse of Homer's Iliad is well conceived
or not, whether or not Martial is immodest in a certain epigram, whether
certain lines of Vergil are to be understood in this way or in that. In short,
he spends all his time with the books written by those poets whom I
have mentioned and with those of Horace, Persius, Juvenal, and Tibullus.
As for our own moderns,191 he sets little store by them, and yet, for all
his disdain of Spanish poetry, he is at this moment racking his brains in
an effort to compose a gloss on a quatrain that was sent him from Sala-
manca and which, I fancy, is for some literary tournament."192

To all this Don Quixote made the following answer:

"Children, sir, are out of their parents' bowels and so are to be loved
whether they be good or bad, just as we love those that gave us life. It
is for parents to bring up their offspring, from the time they are infants,
in the paths of virtue, good breeding, proper conduct, and Christian
morality, in order that, when they are grown, they may be a staff to the
old age of the ones that bore them and an honor to their own posterity.
As to compelling them to study a particular branch of learning, I am not
so sure as to that, though there may be no harm in trying to persuade
them to do so. But where there is no need to study pane lucrando--where
Heaven has provided them with parents that can supply their daily bread
--I should be in favor of permitting them to follow that course to which
they are most inclined; and although poetry may be more pleasurable
than useful, it is not one of those pursuits that bring dishonor upon those
who engage in them.

"Poetry in my opinion, my dear sir," he went on, "is a young and
tender maid of surpassing beauty, who has many other damsels (that is
to say, the other disciplines) whose duty it is to bedeck, embellish, and
adorn her. She may call upon all of them for service, and all of them in
turn depend upon her nod. She is not one to be rudely handled, nor
dragged through the streets, nor exposed at street corners, in the market
place, or in the private nooks of palaces. She is fashioned through an
alchemy of such power that he who knows how to make use of it will be
able to convert her into the purest gold of inestimable price. Possessing
her, he must keep her within bounds and not permit her to run wild in
bawdy satires or soulless sonnets. She is not to be put up for sale in any
manner, unless it be in the form of heroic poems, pity-inspiring tragedies,
or pleasing and ingenious comedies. Let mountebanks keep hands off her,
and the ignorant mob as well, which is incapable of recognizing or ap-
preciating the treasures that are locked within her. And do not think,
sir, that I apply that term 'mob' solely to plebeians and those of low
estate; for anyone who is ignorant, whether he be lord or prince, may,
and should, be included in the vulgar herd.

"But," Don Quixote continued, "he who possesses the gift of poetry
and who makes the use of it that I have indicated, shall become famous
and his name shall be honored among all the civilized nations of the
world. You have stated, sir, that your son does not greatly care for poetry
written in our Spanish tongue, and in that I am inclined to think he is
somewhat mistaken. My reason for saying so is this: the great Homer
did not write in Latin, for the reason that he was a Greek, and Vergil did
not write in Greek since he was a Latin. In a word, all the poets of antiq-
uity wrote in the language which they had imbibed with their mother's
milk and did not go searching after foreign ones to express their loftiest
conceptions. This being so, it would be well if the same custom were
to be adopted by all nations, the German poet being no longer looked
down upon because he writes in German, nor the Castilian or the Basque
for employing his native speech.

"As for your son, I fancy, sir, that his quarrel is not so much with
Spanish poetry as with those poets who have no other tongue or discipline
at their command such as would help to awaken their natural gift; and
yet, here, too, he may be wrong. There is an opinion, and a true one,
to the effect that 'the poet is born,'193 that is to say, it is as a poet that
he comes forth from his mother's womb, and with the propensity that has
been bestowed upon him by Heaven, without study or artifice, he pro-
duces those compositions that attest the truth of the line: 'Est dens in
nobis, ' etc.194 I further maintain that the born poet who is aided by art will
have a great advantage over the one who by art alone would become
a poet, the reason being that art does not go beyond, but merely perfects,
nature; and so it is that, by combining nature with art and art with nature,
the finished poet is produced.

"In conclusion, then, my dear sir, my advice to you would be to let
your son go where his star beckons him; for being a good student as he
must be, and having already successfully mounted the first step on the
stairway of learning, which is that of languages, he will be able to con-
tinue of his own accord to the very peak of humane letters, an accom-
plishment that is altogether becoming in a gentleman, one that adorns,
honors, and distinguishes him as much as the miter does the bishop or
his flowing robe the learned jurisconsult. Your Grace well may reprove
your son, should he compose satires that reflect upon the honor of other
persons; in that case, punish him and tear them up. But should he compose
discourses in the manner of Horace, in which he reprehends vice in
general as that poet so elegantly does, then praise him by all means; for
it is permitted the poet to write verses in which he inveighs against envy
and the other vices as well, and to lash out at the vicious without, how-
ever, designating any particular individual. On the other hand, there are
poets who for the sake of uttering something malicious would run the
risk of being banished to the shores of Pontus.195

If the poet be chaste where his own manners are concerned, he will
likewise be modest in his verses, for the pen is the tongue of the mind,
and whatever thoughts are engendered there are bound to appear in his
writings. When kings and princes behold the marvelous art of poetry as
practiced by prudent, virtuous, and serious-minded subjects of their
realm, they honor, esteem, and reward those persons and crown them
with the leaves of the tree that is never struck by lightning196--as if to
show that those who are crowned and adorned with such wreaths are not
to be assailed by anyone."

The gentleman in the green-colored greatcoat was vastly astonished
by this speech of Don Quixote's and was rapidly altering the opinion he
had previously held, to the effect that his companion was but a crack-
brain. In the middle of the long discourse, which was not greatly to his
liking, Sancho had left the highway to go seek a little milk from some
shepherds who were draining the udders of their ewes near by. Extremely
well pleased with the knight's sound sense and excellent reasoning, the
gentleman was about to resume the conversation when, raising his head,
Don Quixote caught sight of a cart flying royal flags that was coming
toward them down the road and, thinking it must be a fresh adventure,
began calling to Sancho in a loud voice to bring him his helmet. Where-
upon Sancho hastily left the shepherds and spurred his gray until he was
once more alongside his master, who was now about to encounter a
dreadful and bewildering ordeal.



CHAPTER XVII.

Wherein Don Quixote's unimaginable courage reaches its highest point,
together with the adventure of the lions and its happy ending.



THE history relates that, when Don Quixote called to Sancho to bring
him his helmet,197 the squire was busy buying some curds from the shep-
herds and, flustered by his master's great haste, did not know what to
do with them or how to carry them. Having already paid for the curds,
he did not care to lose them, and so he decided to put them into the head-
piece, and, acting upon this happy inspiration, he returned to see what
was wanted of him.

"Give me that helmet," said the knight; "for cither I know little about
adventures or here is one where I am going to need my armor."

Upon hearing this, the gentleman in the green-colored greatcoat
looked around in all directions but could see nothing except the cart that
was approaching them, decked out with two or three flags which indi-
cated that the vehicle in question must be conveying his Majesty's
property. He remarked as much to Don Quixote, but the latter paid no
attention, for he was always convinced that whatever happened to him
meant adventures and more adventures.

"Forewarned is forearmed,"198 he said. "I lose nothing by being pre-
pared, knowing as I do that I have enemies both visible and invisible and
cannot tell when or where or in what form they will attack me."

Turning to Sancho, he asked for his helmet again, and as there was
no time to shake out the curds, the squire had to hand it to him as it was.
Don Quixote took it and, without noticing what was in it, hastily clapped
it on his head; and forthwith, as a result of the pressure on the curds, the
whey began running down all over his face and beard, at which he was
very much startled.

"What is this, Sancho?" he cried. "I think my head must be softening
or my brains melting, or else I am sweating from head to foot. If sweat
it be, I assure you it is not from fear, though I can well believe that the
adventure which now awaits me is a terrible one indeed. Give me some-
thing with which to wipe my face, if you have anything, for this perspira-
tion is so abundant that it blinds me."

Sancho said nothing but gave him a cloth and at the same time gave
thanks to God that his master had not discovered what the trouble was.
Don Quixote wiped his face and then took off his helmet to see what
it was that made his head feel so cool. Catching sight of that watery white
mass, he lifted it to his nose and smelled it.

"By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso!" he exclaimed. "Those
are curds that you have put there, you treacherous, brazen, ill-mannered
squire!"

To this Sancho replied, very calmly and with a straight face, "If they
are curds, give them to me, your Grace, so that I can eat them. But no,
let the devil eat them, for he must be the one who did it. Do you think
I would be so bold as to soil your Grace's helmet--Upon my word, master,
by the understanding that God has given me, I, too, must have enchanters
who are persecuting me as your Grace's creature and one of his members,
and they are the ones who put that filthy mess there to make you lose
your patience and your temper and cause you to whack my ribs as you
are in the habit of doing. Well, this time, I must say, they have missed the
mark; for I trust my master's good sense to tell him that I have neither
curds nor milk nor anything of the kind, and if I did have, I'd put it in
my stomach and not in that helmet."

"That may very well be," said Don Quixote.

Don Diego was observing all this and was more astonished than ever,
especially when, after he had wiped his head, face, beard, and helmet,
Don Quixote once more donned the piece of armor and, settling himself
in the stirrups, proceeded to adjust his sword and fix his lance.

"Come what may, here I stand, ready to take on Satan himself in per-
son!" shouted the knight.

The cart with the flags had come up to them by this time, accompanied
only by a driver riding one of the mules and a man seated up in front.
don Quixote's unimaginable courage

"Where are you going, brothers?" Don Quixote called out as he placed
himself in the path of the cart. "What conveyance is this, what do you
carry in it, and what is the meaning of those flags?"

"The cart is mine," replied the driver, "and in it are two fierce lions
in cages which the governor of Oran is sending to court as a present for
his Majesty. The flags are those of our lord the King, as a sign that his
property goes here."199

"And are the lions large?" inquired Don Quixote.

It was the man sitting at the door of the cage who answered him. "The
largest," he said, "that ever were sent from Africa to Spain. I am the
lionkeeper and I have brought back others, but never any like these. They
are male and female. The male is in this first cage, the female in the one
behind. They are hungry right now, for they have had nothing to eat
today; and so we'd be obliged if your Grace would get out of the way,
for we must hasten on to the place where we are to feed them."

"Lion whelps against me?" said Don Quixote with a slight smile. "Lion
whelps against me--And at such an hour--Then, by God, those gentlemen
who sent them shall see whether I am the man to be frightened by lions.
Get down, my good fellow, and since you are the lionkeeper, open the
cages and turn those beasts out for me; and in the middle of this plain
I will teach them who Don Quixote de la Mancha is, notwithstand-
ing and in spite of the enchanters who are responsible for their being
here."

"So," said the gentleman to himself as he heard this, "our worthy
knight has revealed himself. It must indeed be true that the curds have
softened his skull and mellowed his brains."

At this point Sancho approached him. "For God's sake, sir," he said,
"do something to keep my master from fighting those lions. For if he
does, they're going to tear us all to bits."

"Is your master, then, so insane," the gentleman asked, "that you fear
and believe he means to tackle those fierce animals?"

"It is not that he is insane," replied Sancho, "but, rather, foolhardy."

"Very well," said the gentleman, "I will put a stop to it." And going
up to Don Quixote, who was still urging the lionkeeper to open the cages,
he said, "Sir Knight, knights-errant should undertake only those adven-
tures that afford some hope of a successful outcome, not those that are
utterly hopeless to begin with; for valor when it turns to temerity has in
it more of madness than of bravery. Moreover, these lions have no
thought of attacking your Grace but are a present to his Majesty, and it
would not be well to detain them or interfere with their journey."

"My dear sir," answered Don Quixote, "you had best go mind your
tame partridge and that bold ferret of yours and let each one attend to
his own business. This is my affair, and I know whether these gentlemen,
the lions, have come to attack me or not." He then turned to the lion-
keeper. "I swear, Sir Rascal, if you do not open those cages at once, I'll
pin you to the cart with this lance!"

Perceiving how determined the armed phantom was, the driver now
spoke up. "Good sir," he said, "will your Grace please be so kind as to let
me unhitch the mules and take them to a safe place before you turn those
lions loose--For if they kill them for me, I am ruined for life, since the
mules and cart are all the property I own."

"O man of little faith!" said Don Quixote. "Get down and unhitch your
mules if you like, but you will soon see that it was quite unnecessary
and that you might have spared yourself the trouble."

The driver did so, in great haste, as the lionkeeper began shouting,
"I want you all to witness that I am being compelled against my will to
open the cages and turn the lions out, and I further warn this gentleman
that he will be responsible for all the harm and damage the beasts may do,
plus my wages and my fees. You other gentlemen take cover before I
open the doors; I am sure they will not do any harm to me."

Once more Don Diego sought to persuade his companion not to com-
mit such an act of madness, as it was tempting God to undertake any-
thing so foolish as that; but Don Quixote's only answer was that he knew
what he was doing. And when the gentleman in green insisted that he was
sure the knight was laboring under a delusion and ought to consider the
matter well, the latter cut him short.

"Well, then, sir," he said, "if your Grace does not care to be a spec-
tator at what you believe is going to turn out to be a tragedy, all you have
to do is to spur your flea-bitten mare and seek safety."

Hearing this, Sancho with tears in his eyes again begged him to give up
the undertaking, in comparison with which the adventure of the wind-
mills and the dreadful one at the fulling mills--indeed, all the exploits his
master had ever in the course of his life undertaken--were but bread
and cakes.

"Look, sir," Sancho went on, "there is no enchantment here nor any-
thing of the sort. Through the bars and chinks of that cage I have seen
a real lion's claw, and judging by the size of it, the lion that it belongs
to is bigger than a mountain."

"Fear, at any rate," said Don Quixote, "will make him look bigger to
you than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me, and if I die here,
you know our ancient pact: you are to repair to Duicinea--I say no
more."

To this he added other remarks that took away any hope they had
that he might not go through with his insane plan. The gentleman in
the green-colored greatcoat was of a mind to resist him but saw that he
was no match for the knight in the matter of arms. Then, too, it did not
seem to him the part of wisdom to fight it out with a madman; for Don
Quixote now impressed him as being quite mad in every way. Ac-
cordingly, while the knight was repeating his threats to the lionkeeper,
Don Diego spurred his mare, Sancho his gray, and the driver his mules,
all of them seeking to put as great a distance as possible between them-
selves and the cart before the lions broke loose.

Sancho already was bewailing his master's death, which he was con-
vinced was bound to come from the lions' claws, and at the same time
he cursed his fate and called it an unlucky hour in which he had taken
it into his head to serve such a one. But despite his tears and lamentations,
he did not leave off thrashing his gray in an effort to leave the cart be-
hind them. When the lionkeeper saw that those who had fled were a good
distance away, he once more entreated and warned Don Quixote as he
had warned and entreated him before, but the answer he received was
that he might save his breath as it would do him no good and he had
best hurry and obey. In the space of time that it took the keeper to open
the first cage, Don Quixote considered the question as to whether it
would be well to give battle on foot or on horseback. He finally decided
that he would do better on foot, as he feared that Rocinante would be-
come frightened at sight of the lions; and so, leaping down from his horse,
he fixed his lance, braced his buckler, and drew his sword, and then ad-
vanced with marvelous daring and great resoluteness until he stood di-
rectly in front of the cart, meanwhile commending himself to God with
all his heart and then to his lady Duicinea.

Upon reaching this point, the reader should know, the author of our
veracious history indulges in the following exclamatory passage:

"O great-souled Don Quixote de la Mancha, thou whose courage is
beyond all praise, mirror wherein all the valiant of the world may be-
hold themselves, a new and second Don Manuel de Leon,200 once the glory
and the honor of Spanish knighthood! With what words shall I relate thy
terrifying exploit, how render it credible to the ages that are to come--
What eulogies do not belong to thee of right, even though they consist of
hyperbole piled upon hyperbole--On foot and singlehanded, intrepid and
with greathearted valor, armed but with a sword, and not one of the
keen-edged Little Dog make,201 and with a shield that was not of gleaming
and polished steel, thou didst stand and wait for the two fiercest lions that
ever the African forests bred! Thy deeds shall be thy praise, O valorous
Manchegan; I leave them to speak for thee, since words fail me with
which to extol them."

Here the author leaves off his exclamations and resumes the thread of
the story.

Seeing Don Quixote posed there before him and perceiving that, unless
he wished to incur the bold knight's indignation there was nothing for
him to do but release the male lion, the keeper now opened the first cage,
and it could be seen at once how extraordinarily big and horribly ugly
the beast was. The first thing the recumbent animal did was to turn round,
put out a claw, and stretch himself all over. Then he opened his mouth
and yawned very slowly, after which he put out a tongue that was nearly
two palms in length and with it licked the dust out of his eyes and washed
his face. Having done this, he stuck his head outside the cage and gazed
about him in all directions. His eyes were now like live coals and his
appearance and demeanor were such as to strike terror in temerity it-
self. But Don Quixote merely stared at him attentively, waiting for him
to descend from the cart so that they could come to grips, for the knight
was determined to hack the brute to pieces, such was the extent of his
unheard-of madness.

The lion, however, proved to be courteous rather than arrogant and
was in no mood for childish bravado. After having gazed first in one
direction and then in another, as has been said, he turned his back and
presented his hind parts to Don Quixote and then very calmly and peace-
ably lay down and stretched himself out once more in his cage. At this,
Don Quixote ordered the keeper to stir him up with a stick in order to
irritate him and drive him out.

"That I will not do," the keeper replied, "for if I stir him, I will be the
first one he will tear to bits. Be satisfied with what you have already ac-
complished, Sir Knight, which leaves nothing more to be said on the
score of valor, and do not go tempting your fortune a second time. The
door was open and the lion could have gone out if he had chosen; since
he has not done so up to now, that means he will stay where he is all day
long. Your Grace's stoutheartedness has been well established; for no
brave fighter, as I see it, is obliged to do more than challenge his enemy
and wait for him in the field; his adversary, if he does not come, is the
one who is disgraced and the one who awaits him gains the crown of
victory."

"That is the truth," said Don Quixote. "Shut the door, my friend, and
bear me witness as best you can with regard to what you have seen me
do here. I would have you certify: that you opened the door for the lion,
that I waited for him and he did not come out, that I continued to wait
and still he stayed there, and finally went back and lav down. I am under
no further obligation. Away with enchantments, and God uphold the
right, the truth, and true chivalry! So close the door, as l have told you,
while I signal to the fugitives in order that they who were not present
may hear of this exploit from your lips."202

The keeper did as he was commanded, and Don Quixote, taking the
cloth with which he had dried his face after the rain of curds, fastened it
to the point of his lance and began summoning the runaways, who, all
in a body with the gentleman in green bringing up the rear,203 were
still fleeing and turning around to look back at every step. Sancho was
the first to see the white cloth.

"May they slay me," he said, "if my master hasn't conquered those
fierce beasts, for he's calling to us."

They all stopped and made sure that the one who was doing the sig-
naling was indeed Don Quixote, and then, losing some of their fear,
they little by little made their way back to a point where they could dis-
tinctly hear what the knight was saying. At last they returned to the
cart, and as they drew near Don Quixote spoke to the driver.

"You may come back, brother, hitch your mules, and continue your
journey. And you, Sancho, may give each of them two gold crowns to
recompense them for the delay they have suffered on my account."

"That I will, right enough," said Sancho. "But what has become of
the lions--Are they dead or alive?"

The keeper thereupon, in leisurely fashion and in full detail, proceeded
to tell them how the encounter had ended, taking pains to stress to the
best of his ability the valor displayed by Don Quixote, at sight of whom
the lion had been so cowed that he was unwilling to leave his cage, though
the door had been left open quite a while. The fellow went on to state
that the knight had wanted him to stir the lion up and force him out, but
had finally been convinced that this would be tempting God and so,
much to his displeasure and against his will, had permitted the door to
be closed.

"What do you think of that, Sancho?" asked Don Quixote. "Are there
any spells that can withstand true gallantry--The enchanters may take
my luck away, but to deprive me of my strength and courage is an im-
possibility."

Sancho then bestowed the crowns, the driver hitched his mules, and
the lionkeeper kissed Don Quixote's hands for the favor received, promis-
ing that, when he reached the court, he would relate this brave exploit
to the king himself.

"In that case," replied Don Quixote, "if his Majesty by any chance
should inquire who it was that performed it, you are to say that it was the
Knight of the Lions; for that is the name by which I wish to be known
from now on, thus changing, exchanging, altering, and converting the
one I have previously borne, that of Knight of the Mournful Counte-
nance; in which respect I am but following the old custom of knights-
errant, who changed their names whenever they liked or found it con-
venient to do so."204

With this, the cart continued on its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho,
and the gentleman in the green-colored greatcoat likewise resumed their
journey. During all this time Don Diego de Miranda had not uttered a
word but was wholly taken up with observing what Don Quixote did
and listening to what he had to say. The knight impressed him as being
a crazy sane man and an insane one on the verge of sanity. The gentle-
man did not happen to be familiar with the first part of our history, but
if he had read it he would have ceased to wonder at such talk and con-
duct, for he would then have known what kind of madness this was. Re-
maining as he did in ignorance of his companion's malady, he took him
now for a sensible individual and now for a madman, since what Don
Quixote said was coherent, elegantly phrased, and to the point, whereas
his actions were nonsensical, foolhardy, and downright silly. What
greater madness could there be, Don Diego asked himself, than to don
a helmet filled with curds and then persuade oneself that enchanters were
softening one's cranium--What could be more rashly absurd than to wish
to fight lions by sheer strength alone--He was roused from these
thoughts, this inward soliloquy, by the sound of Don Quixote's voice.

"Undoubtedly, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, your Grace must take
me for a fool and a madman, am I not right--And it would be small
wonder if such were the case, seeing that my deeds give evidence of
nothing else. But, nevertheless, I would advise your Grace that I am
neither so mad nor so lacking in wit as I must appear to you to be. A
gaily caparisoned knight giving a fortunate lance thrust to a fierce bull
in the middle of a great square makes a pleasing appearance in the eyes
of his king. The same is true of a knight clad in shining armor as he paces
the lists in front of the ladies in some joyous tournament. It is true of
all those knights who, by means of military exercises or what appear to
be such, divert and entertain and, if one may say so, honor the courts of
princes. But the best showing of all is made by a knight-errant who,
traversing deserts and solitudes, crossroads, forests, and mountains, goes
seeking dangerous adventures with the intention of bringing them to
a happy and successful conclusion, and solely for the purpose of winning
a glorious and enduring renown.

"More impressive, I repeat, is the knight-errant succoring a widow in
some unpopulated place than a courtly man of arms making love to a
damsel in the city. All knights have their special callings: let the courtier
wait upon the ladies and lend luster by his liveries to his sovereign's
palace; let him nourish impoverished gentlemen with the splendid fare
of his table; let him give tourneys and show himself truly great, generous,
and magnificent and a good Christian above all, thus fulfilling his particu-
lar obligations. But the knight-errant's case is different.

"Let the latter seek out the nooks and corners of the world; let him
enter into the most intricate of labyrinths; let him attempt the impossible
at every step; let him endure on desolate highlands the burning rays of
the midsummer sun and in winter the harsh inclemencies of wind and
frost; let no lions inspire him with fear, no monsters frighten him, no
dragons terrify him, for to seek them out, attack them, and conquer them
all is his chief and legitimate occupation. Accordingly, I whose lot it
is to be numbered among the knights-errant cannot fail to attempt any-
thing that appears to me to fall within the scope of my duties, just as I
attacked those lions a while ago even though I knew it to be an exceed-
ingly rash thing to do, for that was a matter that directly concerned me.

"For I well know the meaning of valor: namely, a virtue that lies be-
tween the two extremes of cowardice on the one hand and temerity on
the other. It is, nonetheless, better for the brave man to carry his bravery
to the point of rashness than for him to sink into cowardice. Even as it
is easier for the prodigal to become a generous man than it is for the
miser, so is it easier for the foolhardy to become truly brave than it is
for the coward to attain valor. And in this matter of adventures, you may
believe me, Senor Don Diego, it is better to lose by a card too many
than a card too few,205 and 'Such and such a knight is temerarious and
overbold' sounds better to the ear than 'That knight is timid and a
coward.' "

"I must assure you, Senor Don Quixote," replied Don Diego, "that
everything your Grace has said and done will stand the test of reason; and
it is my opinion that if the laws and ordinances of knight-errantry were
to be lost, they would be found again in your Grace's bosom, which is
their depository and storehouse. But it is growing late; let us hasten to
my village and my home, where your Grace shall rest from your recent
exertions; for if the body is not tired the spirit may be, and that some-
times results in bodily fatigue."

"I accept your offer as a great favor and an honor, Senor Don Diego,"
was the knight's reply. And, by spurring their mounts more than they
had up to then, they arrived at the village around two in the afternoon
and came to the house that was occupied by Don Diego, whom Don
Quixote had dubbed the Knight of the Green-colored Greatcoat.



CHAPTER XVIII.

Of what happened to Don Quixote in the castle or house of the Knight
of the Green-colored Greatcoat, along with other extraordinary things.



DON QUIXOTE found Don Diego de Miranda's house to be a ramb-
ling one of the village type, with the gentleman's coat of arms in
rough-hewn stone over the street door and with the storehouse in the
patio and the cellar under the entryway. In the cellar were many wine
jars, which, by reason of the fact that they came from El Toboso, served
to revive the knight's memories of his enchanted and transformed Dul-
cinea; and without regard to what he was saying or the others present,
he exclaimed:

　　　　"O treasures sweet, now saddening to the sight,
　　　　　Ye once were pleasing when God willed it so.206

O ye Tobosan jars that have brought to mind my sweetest treasure and
my greatest grief!"

Among those who heard this was the student poet, Don Diego's son,
who with his mother had come out to welcome the guest. Both mother
and son were astonished at the knight's strange appearance as he dis-
mounted from Rocinante and, with a great show of courtesy, asked to
kiss the lady's hands.

"Senora," said Don Diego, "I would have you receive with your cus-
tomary kindness Senor Don Quixote de la Mancha, who stands before
you here, a knight-errant and the bravest and wisest that there is in all the
world."

The lady, whose name was Dona Cristina, was most courteous and
affable in her greetings, and Don Quixote at once, with many polite and
suitable protestations of regard, put himself at her service. Practically the
same exchange of courtesies occurred between Don Quixote and the
student, who, upon hearing the knight speak, took him for a sensible and
sharp-witted person.

Here, the author goes on to give a minute description of Don Diego's
house, describing everything which such an abode, that of a rich gentle-
man farmer, might be expected to contain. But the translator of the
history appears to have passed over these and other similar details in
silence, since they did not fit in with the chief purpose of the chronicle,
the value of which lies in its truthfulness rather than in wearisome
digressions.

They conducted Don Quixote into one of the rooms, and there Sancho
proceeded to remove his master's armor, leaving him in his Walloon
breeches and chamois-skin doublet, which was all stained with rust. He
wore a failing-band collar after the student fashion, without starch or
lace, his half-boots207 were date-colored and his shoes waxed.208 His trusty
sword hung from a shoulder strap made of sea-wolf's hide, for it is said
that he had suffered for many years from a kidney ailment.209 He then
donned a cloak of good gray cloth, but not before he had doused his
head and face with five or six buckets of water (there is some difference
of opinion as to the exact number)--yet the w ater still remained whey-
colored, thanks to Sancho's greediness in purchasing those damnable
curds that had made his master's face so white.210

Attired in the manner described and with a gallant and sprightly air,
Don Quixote now entered another room, where the student was waiting
to entertain him while the table was being laid; for Dona Cristina wished
to show that she possessed the means and the ability to set a proper board
for those who came to her house, and especially so distinguished a guest
as this one. While Don Quixote was taking off his armor, Don Lorenzo
(for that was the name of Don Diego's son) had put a question to his
father.

"Sir," he had asked, "what are we to make of this gentleman whom you
have brought home with you--My mother and I are quite astonished by
his name, his appearance, and his calling himself a knight-errant."

"I do not know what to say in answer to that, my son," Don Diego
replied. "I can only tell you that I have seen him do things that lead one
to believe he is the greatest madman in the world, yet his conversation
is so sensible that it belies and causes one to forget his actions. But speak
to him yourself and sound him out.211 You are a discerning young man;
form your own opinion, then, as to how wise or foolish he may be; al-
though, to tell you the truth, I am inclined to regard him as insane rather
than sane."

Don Lorenzo had then gone in to converse with Don Quixote, as we
have said, and in the course of their talk the knight remarked to him,
"Your Grace's father, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, has told me of your
rare ability and intellectual capacity, and, what interests me most of all,
has informed me that you are a great poet."

"A poet I may be," replied Don Lorenzo, "but by no means a great
one. The truth is, I am rather fond of poetry and of reading the good
poets, but I do not deserve the title which my father has given me."

"I like your humility," said Don Quixote, "for there is no poet who is
not arrogant and who does not think he is the greatest there is."

"There is no rule without an exception," Don Lorenzo reminded him.
"There may be some who are poets without knowing it."

"Very few," was Don Quixote's answer. "But tell me, what are those
verses that your Grace is working on at the present time, and which,
according to your father, have rendered you rather restless and dis-
tracted--If it is a matter of glosses, I know something about that sort of
thing and should enjoy hearing them. If by chance they are for some
literary tournament, your Grace should strive to carry off the second
prize, for the first is always awarded as a favor to someone of high rank,
the second goes to the one who merits first place, and thus the third is
in reality second, while the first, by this reckoning, would be third, after
the manner of the licentiate degrees that are conferred in the universities.
But for all of that, the first prize carries with it a great distinction."212

"Up to now," Don Lorenzo thought to himself, "I cannot take you
for a madman; but let's go on." And, speaking aloud, he said, "It would
appear that your Grace has attended the schools; what branches have
you studied?"

"Knight-errantry," said Don Quixote, "which is the equal of poetry
and even a fraction of an inch or so above it."

"That," said the young man, "is a branch of learning with which I
am unfamiliar. This is the first time I have heard of it."

"It is a discipline," the knight went on to explain, "that comprises
within itself all or most of the others in existence. For the one who pro-
esses it has to be skilled in jurisprudence; he must be versed in the laws
of justice and equity in order to be able to give each that which is his
by right. He must be a theologian in order that, whenever it is asked of
him, he may give a clear and logical reason for his Christian faith. He
must be a physician, and above all a herbalist, so that when he finds him-
self in a desert or some desolate spot he will know what plants possess
the property of healing wounds, for a knight-errant cannot be looking
at every step for someone to treat his injuries. He must be an astronomer
in order that he may know from the stars how far the night has advanced,
what part of the world he is in, and in what clime. He must have a
knowledge of mathematics, for he will have need of it at every turn.

"But," continued Don Quixote, "leaving aside the fact that he should
be adorned with all the theological and cardinal virtues, and coming
down to details, I would say that he must be able to swim like Nicolao
the Fish, as the story has it.213 He must know how to shoe a horse and
repair his saddle and his bridle. And to return to higher matters, he must
keep faith with God and with his lady. He must be chaste in his thoughts,
decorous in words, and must show himself generous in good works,
valiant in his deeds, long-suffering under hardships, charitable toward
the needy. And, lastly, he must uphold the truth though it cost him his
life to defend it.

"All these qualities, great and small," he concluded, "go to make up a
good knight-errant. Judge, then, Senor Don Lorenzo, as to whether this
be a contemptible science which the knight-errant has to study, learn,
and practice, or whether it may not rather be compared to the most
elevated branches that are taught in the schools."

"If that is so," replied Don Lorenzo, "I would say that this science
excels all the others."

"If what is so?" inquired Don Quixote.

"What I mean," Don Lorenzo continued, "is that I doubt that there
have been or are today any knights-errant, and adorned with all those
virtues."

"What I am about to say now," remarked Don Quixote, "I have said
many times before. The majority of people in this world are of the
opinion that knights-errant never existed; and it is my belief that if
Heaven does not miraculously reveal the truth to them, by showing them
that there once were such knights and that they are still to be met with
today, then all one's labors are in vain, as experience has many times
taught me. I do not care to take the time here to disabuse your Grace
of this error which you share with so many others. Rather, I mean to
pray Heaven to deliver you from it and to make clear to you how profit-
able and necessary to the world knights-errant have been in ages past,
and how useful they would be at the present time if the custom were still
maintained. But today, owing to the state of sin in which we live, idle-
ness and sloth, gluttony and luxury, rule triumphant."

"Now our guest is breaking out on us," thought Don Lorenzo; "but all
the same, he is a most unusual kind of madman, and I'd be a dull-witted
fool myself if I did not admit it."

At this point they were called to dinner and their conversation came to
an end. Don Diego took occasion to ask his son what he had made out
regarding their guest's state of mind.

"His madness," replied the young man, "is a scrawl, and all the doctors
and clever scribes in the world would not be able to decipher it. He is
a streaked madman, full of lucid intervals."

They then sat down at the table, and the meal fully bore out what
Diego had said upon the highway concerning his manner of entertaining
those whom he invited to his home. It was well served, abundant, and
appetizing; but what pleased Don Quixote more than anything else was
the marvelous silence that prevailed throughout the house, a silence which
was like that of a Carthusian monastery. When the cloth had finally been
removed and grace had been said and they had washed their hands, Don
Quixote earnestly requested Don Lorenzo to recite the verses that were
intended for the literary tournament. To this the youth replied that,
inasmuch as he did not wish to appear to be one of those poets who when
asked to read their verses refuse to do so but who vomit them forth when
they are not asked,214 he would consent.

"I will let you hear my gloss," he said; "but I do not expect it to win
any prize, for I composed it solely to exercise my ingenuity."

"A friend of mine," observed Don Quixote, "a man of intelligence, is
of the opinion that the writing of poetic glosses is a waste of energy, and
the reason he gave me was this: that the gloss almost never can come up to
the text but very often or most of the time goes beyond the meaning and
intention of the original lines. And, moreover, he added, the rules govern-
ing this form of composition are too strict; they do not permit of inter-
rogations or any 'said he' or 'I will say'; they do not allow verbs to be
turned into nouns or the general sense and construction of the passage
to be altered, along with other restrictions by which those who write
glosses are bound, as your Grace must know."

"Really, Senor Don Quixote," said Don Lorenzo, "I wish I could trip
your Grace up now and then, but I cannot, for you slip through my
fingers like an eel."

"I do not understand," said Don Quixote, "what your Grace means by
that."

"I will explain myself later," replied the young man, "but for the pre-
sent I would have your Grace listen attentively to the original verses
and the gloss.215 They run like this:


　　　　Oh, could my 'was ' an 'is' become,
　　　　I'd wait no more for 'it shall be ';
　　　　or could I the future now but see,
　　　　and not this present, dour and glum.

　　　　　　　　 GLOSS

　　　　All things must pass away at last,
　　　　and so, the blessing that was mine,
　　　　fair Fortune's gift, it also pass'd,
　　　　ne'er to return, though l repine;
　　　　my skies are wholly overcast .
　　　　Long hast thou seen me at thy feet,
　　　　O Fortune fickle, Fortune fleet;
　　　　but make me happy once again
　　　　and I'd forget my present pain,
　　　　could but my 'was' and 'is' now meet.

　　　　No other pleasure do l crave,
　　　　no other palm or warrior's prize,
　　　　such triumph as befits the brave;
　　　　all that l ask: those happier skies
　　　　to which my memory is a slave.
　　　　Would' st thou but give this gift to me,
　　　　O Fortune, then perchance I'd see
　　　　this fire of mine--O priceless boon !--
　　　　consume me less, and if 'twere soon,
　　　　I'd wait no more for 'it shall be.'

　　　　Impossible the thing I ask,
　　　　since Time, once gone, none can recall;
　　　　for to accomplish such a task,
　　　　no power on earth but is too small .
　　　　No more beneath those skies I'll bask.
　　　　Swift doth he come and swiftly flee,
　　　　nor doth return, light-footed he!
　　　　and well I know it is not right
　　　　to seek to stay Time in his flight;
　　　　turn past to present--futile plea!

　　　　My life is anxious, filled with gloom;
　　　　and living thus 'twixt hope and fear,
　　　　is naught but death's familiar doom;
　　　　better to lie upon my bier
　　　　and seek the door to pain's dark room.
　　　　It seemeth me, it would be sweet
　　　　to end it now, thus life to cheat;
　　　　but living long and living longer,
　　　　the fear within grows ever stronger
　　　　of that dread 'shall be' I must greet."

As Don Lorenzo finished reading his gloss, Don Quixote rose to his
feet and seized the young man's right hand. Raising his voice until he was
almost shouting, he said, "By the highest heavens, O noble youth, you
are the best poet on the face of the earth and ought to be crowned with
laurel, not by Cyprus or by Gaeta, as a certain rhymester--Heaven for-
give him!--said,216 but by the Academies of Athens, if they were still in
existence, and by those that now flourish at Paris, Bologna, and Sala-
manca. If the judges rob you of the first prize, may Phoebus, please
Heaven, pierce them with his arrows, and may the Muses never cross the
thresholds of their houses! Read me, sir, if you will, some of your verses
in other forms, for I desire to have a complete impression of your ad-
mirable talent."

Is there any need to say that Don Lorenzo enjoyed hearing himself
praised by Don Quixote even though he looked upon him as a madman--
O power of flattery, how broad and far-reaching are the bounds of your
pleasant jurisdiction! The youth proved the truth of this and acceded to
the knight's request by reading the following sonnet, based upon the
story or fable of Py ramus and Thisbe:

　　　　　　　　　　　　SONNET

　　　　"The beauteous maiden now bursts through the wall,
　　　　she who in Py ramus's gallant breast
　　　　hath left a gaping wound. Love cannot rest
　　　　but, leaving Cyprus, comes to see it all.
　　　　Silence there speaks, there is no word or call;
　　　　the language of the heart alone is best
　　　　for the fulfillment of Love's fond behest }
　　　　and he all obstacles doth soon forestall.
　　　　Desire grows, rashly the amorous maid,
　　　　seeking her pleasure, hastens to her death.
　　　　Ah, what a tale is here for hearts that strive!
　　　　Two lovers dying by a single blade
　　　　to find a common grave, and yet the breath
　　　　of memory doth keep them still alive." 217

"Blessed be God!" cried Don Quixote when he had heard this compo-
sition. "Thank Him that among the infinite number of consumed poets218
I have found one consummate bard, in your person, my dear sir; for the
skill you display in the sonnet you have just read is enough to convince
me of that."

For four days Don Quixote was entertained most royally in Don
Diego's house, at the end of which time he asked permission to take his
departure, saying that while he was deeply grateful for the kind and
courteous treatment he had received, he did not think it a good thing for
a knight-errant to spend many hours taking his case and being entertained
if he meant to fulfill the duties of his calling by seeking adventures, which
he had been told were plentiful around there. He added that he intended
to pass the time in those parts until the day came for the tournament at
Saragossa, which was really his destination. Meanwhile, he planned to
make his way into the Cave of Montesinos219 of which so many marvelous
stories had been told in that region, and he also meant to look into the
true source and headwaters of the seven lakes that are commonly known
as the Lakes of Ruidera.

Don Diego and his son assured their guest that this was a highly laud-
able enterprise, and they urged that he take with him out of their house
and possessions anything that he might desire, as they could do no less
in view of his personal worth and the honorable profession that he fol-
lowed. The day set for his departure came at last, a happy one for Don
Quixote but sad and bitter for Sancho Panza, who was making out very
nicely with all the good things that Don Diego's household afforded and
was loath to go back to the hunger of forest and desert and the short
rations of his ill-stocked saddlebag, which he now proceeded to fill and
stuff with whatever seemed to him most necessary.

As they went to leave, Don Quixote turned to Don Lorenzo. "I do not
know," he said, "if I have told you this before or not, but, if so, I will
tell you again: that if you wish to spare yourself toil and trouble in attain-
ing the inaccessible summit of the temple of fame, you have but to turn
aside from the somewhat narrow path of poetry and take the still nar-
rower one of knight-errantry, but wide enough for all of that to make
you an emperor in the twinkling of an eye."

With these words Don Quixote closed the case so far as convicting
himself of madness was concerned, and this impression was still further
confirmed when he went on to say, "God knows, Senor Don Lorenzo,
I should like to have taken you along with me,220 in order to teach you
how to spare the humble and trample the proud under foot,221 these being
virtues that go with my profession; but since neither your youth nor
your praiseworthy pursuits will admit of this, I shall content myself with
advising your Grace that you may become a famous poet provided you
are guided more by the opinion of others than by your own; for there is
no father or mother whose children look ugly to them, and this illusion
is even more common with respect to the children of our brain."

Once more father and son marveled at the mixture of nonsense and
wisdom that Don Quixote talked, as well as at the pertinacity he dis-
played in going through with his unfortunate adventures in spite of
everything, for such was the end and aim of his desires. And so, with a
fresh exchange of courtesies and offers of service and with the kind per-
mission of the lady of the castle,222 Don Quixote and Sancho took their
leave, the one mounted on Rocinante, the other on his donkey.




CHAPTER XIX.

Wherein is related the adventure of the enamored shepherd,
with other truly amusing incidents.



DON QUIXOTE had gone some little way from Don Diego's village
when he encountered what appeared to be a couple of priests or
students accompanied by a couple of peasants, the party being mounted
upon four animals of the ass variety. One of the students carried, wrapped
up in a piece of buckram that served as a portmanteau, a small supply
of linen223 and two pairs of coarse ribbed stockings,224 as nearly as could
be made out. The other had only a pair of fencing foils with their buttons.
As for the peasants, they were laden down with other things and were
apparently taking them back to their village from some large city where
they had purchased them.

Both the students and the peasants were as astonished as all persons
were when they beheld Don Quixote for the first time, and were con-
sumed with curiosity to know who this man was who looked so different
from other men. The knight greeted them and, upon learning that they
were going in the same direction as himself, offered them his company,
begging them, however, to slacken their pace a bit as their young she-
asses traveled faster than his horse. And then, to oblige them, he told them
in a few words who he was and acquainted them with his calling and
profession, that of a knight-errant who went seeking adventures in all
parts of the world. He informed them that his right name was Don
Quixote de la Mancha but that he was known as the Knight of the Lions.
All of which was Greek, or at any rate gibberish, to the peasants but not
to the students, who at once realized that Don Quixote must be weak in
the head but who nonetheless looked upon him with admiration and
respect.

"If, Sir Knight," one of them said to him, "your Grace is not bound
for any place in particular, seeing that such is not the custom of knights-
errant, you would do well to come with us and see one of the finest and
richest weddings that up to this day has ever been celebrated in La
Mancha or for many miles around."

Don Quixote thereupon inquired if it was the marriage of some prince
that he was describing in such terms as these.

"No," replied the student, "it is that of a farmer and a farmer's daugh-
ter. He is the richest man in all this region, and she the fairest maid that
ever was seen; and the ceremony, which is to be held in a meadow ad-
joining the town where the bride lives, is to be marked by a pomp that
is out of the ordinary. By reason of her surpassing beauty, the bride is
known as Quitcria the Fair, and the bridegroom as Camacho the Rich.
She is eighteen years of age and he is twenty-two, and they are well
matched, although certain prying ones, who know all the pedigrees in
the world by heart, will tell you that the beauteous Quiteria's family tree
is better than Camacho's. That, however, is something that is readily
overlooked these days, for wealth can solder many a crack.

"However this may be,'' the student continued, "this man Camacho is
one who spares no expense, and he has taken it into his head to screen and
roof the entire meadow with branches, in such a manner that the sun, if
it wishes to visit the green grass with which the ground is covered, will
have a hard time doing so. There are also to be dances, not only sword-
dances but bell-dances as well; for in his town there are some who are
very adept at ringing and jingling the chimes. I shall not speak of the
clog-dancers,225 except to say that they will be there in large numbers.
But none of the things I have mentioned nor many others I have neglected
to mention will do more to make this a memorable occasion than will
the actions of the despairing Basilio, if he behaves as I expect him to. This
Basilio is a youth of the same village as Quiteria and lives next door to
her parents. Love accordingly took advantage of this fact to revive for
the world the forgotten romance of Pyramus and Thisbe; for Basilio
became enamored of Quiteria from his earliest years, and she in turn gave
him innumerable signs of affection, until the relationship between the
two of them came to be the talk of the town.

"As the pair grew up, Quiteria's father decided to forbid Basilio the
run of the house which the lad had previously enjoyed, and by way of
relieving himself of fear and suspicion, he ordered his daughter to marry
the wealthy Camacho, since it did not seem well for her to wed Basilio,
whose fortune did not equal his native gifts; for to tell the truth with-
out prejudice, he is the cleverest young fellow that we have, expert
at throwing the bar, the finest of wrestlers, and a great ball player; he
runs like a deer, leaps better than a goat, and bowls over the ninepins
as if by magic; he sings like a lark and can make a guitar speak, and,
above all, he handles a sword with the best of them."

"By reason of those accomplishments alone," remarked Don Quixote,
"the lad deserves to wed not merely the fair Quiteria, but Queen Guine-
vere herself, if she were alive today, and this in spite of Lancelot and all
those who might try to prevent it."

"Tell that to my wife," said Sancho Panza, who up to then had been
listening in silence, "for she insists that each one should marry his equal,
according to the old saying, 'Every ewe to her mate.'226 I'd like to see the
good Basilio--for I'm taking a liking to him already--marry this lady
Quiteria, and eternal blessings--no, I mean just the opposite--on all
those that would keep true lovers apart."

"If all those who love each other were to marry," said Don Quixote,
"that would deprive parents of the right to decide with whom and when
their children should wed.227 If it were left to daughters to choose their
husbands, one would take her father's servant and another some stranger
she had seen going down the street who had impressed her as being gal-
lant and haughty, even though he might in reality be nothing more than
a rake and a bully. For love and natural inclination readily blind those
eyes of the mind that are so necessary in making life's important de-
cisions; and when it comes to choosing a mate there is an especial danger
of going astray, and great caution and the grace of Heaven are needed
if one is to be guided aright. Before one sets out upon a long journey, he
will, if he is prudent, seek some dependable and agreeable companion to
accompany him. Why, then, should he not do the same who must travel
all his life long toward the destination of death and whose companion
must be ever with him, in the bed, at table, wherever he may go, which
is the relation of wife to husband--

"The companionship of one's own wife," Don Quixote went on, "is
not an article of merchandise that, once bought, may be returned,
bartered, or exchanged; for this is an unbreakable bond that lasts as long
as life endures, a noose that, once placed upon the neck, turns into a
Gordian knot which cannot be undone until death comes to cut it. I
could say much more upon this subject if I were not so anxious to hear
whether or not the Senor Licentiate has more to tell us regarding the
story of Basilio."

To this, the student, bachelor, or, as Don Quixote had called him, the
licentiate made the following reply:

"I have told you all there is, except that from the moment Basilio
learned that the fair Quiteria was to wed Camacho the Rich, he was never
again seen to smile or heard to utter a rational word but has remained sad
and pensive and goes about talking to himself in a way that clearly shows
he has lost his senses. He eats little and sleeps little. His diet is fruits, and
as for sleep, if he sleeps at all, it is in the open, upon the hard earth like
a brute beast. From time to time he will look up at the heavens, and again
he will fasten his gaze upon the ground, with such an air of abstraction
that he appears to be no more than a clothed statue whose draperies are
stirred by the wind. In short, he gives evidence of being so heart-stricken
that all of us who know him fear that when the fair Quiteria says yes
tomorrow, it will be his death sentence.

"God will do better than that," said Sancho. "God gives the wound
and He will give the medicine.228 No one knows what is to come; from now
until tomorrow is a long time, and at any hour or minute the house may
fall. I have seen it rain while the sun was shining. Many a one goes to bed
healthy at night and the next day cannot move. Tell me one thing: can
anyone boast that he has driven a spoke into fortune's wheel--No, cer-
tainly not; and between a woman's 'yes' and her 'no' I wouldn't venture
to put a pinpoint, for it couldn't be done. Tell me that Quiteria loves
Basilio with all her heart, and I'll give him a bag of good luck; for love,
so I've heard folks say, looks through spectacles that make copper seem
gold, poverty riches, and a pair of bleary eyes like a couple of pearls."

"What are you trying to get at, Sancho, curses on you?" said Don
Quixote. "When you start stringing together proverbs and sayings,
Judas himself couldn't stop you, and I wish he would carry you off. Tell
me, stupid creature, what do you know of spokes or wheels or anything
else?"

"Oh," replied Sancho, "if you don't understand me, then it's no wonder
that my sayings are taken for nonsense. But no matter; I understand my-
self, and I know there is not much foolishness in what I've just said. The
trouble is, my master, your Grace is too crickety of everything I say and
do."

"Critical, you mean," said Don Quixote, "not crickety, you corrupter
of good language, may God confound you!"

"Don't be cross with me, your Grace. You know that I was not brought
up at court, nor have I studied at Salamanca, that I should know whether
I am adding or dropping a letter now and then. Why, God help me, it's
not fair to expect a man from Sayago to speak like one from Toledo,229
and there are Toledans who do not make so good a job of it when it
comes to polished talk."

"That is true," said the licentiate; "those that are brought up in the
Tanneries and the Zocodover230 cannot talk as well as those that spend
practically the entire day in the Cathedral cloisters,231 yet they are all Tole-
dans. For language that is pure, correct, clear, and refined one must look
to men of courtly taste, even though they may have been born in Majada-
honda.232 I speak of taste, for there are many who do not possess that
quality, yet it is the grammar of good speech when accompanied by prac-
tice. I, gentlemen, for my sins,233 have studied canon law at Salamanca and
pride myself somewhat on being able to express my meaning plainly and
intelligibly."

"If you did not pride yourself more on being able to handle those foils
you carry than you do on skill with your tongue," the other student put
in, "you would have been first among the licentiates instead of at the tail
end as you were."

"See here, bachelor," replied the licentiate, "you are as mistaken as can
be if you think that dexterity with the sword is a vain accomplishment."

"It is no mere opinion on my part," said Corchuelo (for that was the
other student's name),234 "but the established truth. If you would have
me prove it to you by experience, this is your opportunity. You have
swords w ith you, and I have a steady hand and a strong right arm; and
aided by my courage, of which I have not a little, they will force you
to confess that I am in the right. Get down and look to your stance, your
circles, and your angles; make the most of your science, for l hope to
make you see stars at midday with my rude and recently acquired
swordsmanship, in which, next to God, I put my trust that the man is
yet to be born who can compel me to turn my back and whom I cannot
make give ground."

"As to whether you turn your back or not is no concern of mine,"235
replied the one who prided himself on his skill, "for it well may be that
where you set your foot down for the first time, there they will dig your
grave; that is to say, you will be lying there dead as a result of your con-
tempt for the art of fencing."

"We shall see as to that," said Corchuelo. And, dismounting with great
alacrity and in a towering rage, he drew one of the swords which the
licentiate carried.

At that instant Don Quixote spoke up. "No," he said, "that is not the
way it is to be. I propose to act as fencing master here and judge this
much debated question." With these words he too dismounted and, lance
in hand, took up his position in the middle of the road just as the licentiate
with easy grace of feet and body bore down upon Corchuelo, who
similarly advanced to meet his adversary with fire darting from his eyes,
as the saying goes. Meanwhile, the two peasants who accompanied the
students, sitting there upon their donkeys, provided the audience for the
tragedy. The slashes, thrusts, down-strokes, back-strokes, and double-
handed blows that Corchuelo dealt came thicker than liver236 or hail. He
attacked like a lion whose temper has been roused, but only to meet with
a tap on the mouth from the button of the licentiate's sword that stopped
him short in the middle of his furious onslaught and forced him to kiss
the blade as if it had been a relic, though not with that degree of devotion
that ought to be, and commonly is, shown to relics.

To make a long story short, the licentiate tore off, one by one, all the
buttons of a short cassock which Corchuelo wore and ripped the skirt into
shreds until it looked like a cuttlefish's tail. Twice he knocked off his ad-
versary's hat and wore him out to such an extent that at last, in despair,
anger, and rage, the bachelor seized his sword by the hilt and sent it sail-
ing through the air with such force that one of the peasants, who hap-
pened to be a notary and who went after it, later made a deposition to the
effect that it had landed nearly three quarters of a league away,237 a state-
ment which serves, and has served, to show how very true it is that brute
strength is overcome by skill.

Corchuelo now sat down, for he was exhausted, and at this point Sancho
came up to him.

"Upon my word, Senor Bachelor," he said, "if your Grace will take my
advice, you won't challenge anyone to a fencing match from now on but
will only wrestle or toss the bar. You are young and have the strength
for that sort of thing, but I have heard it said that these experts,238
as they call them, can run the point of a sword though the eye of a
needle."

"I am satisfied," replied Corchuelo, "to have fallen off my donkey,239
and am glad that experience has shown me how far I was from the truth."

Getting to his feet, he embraced the licentiate, and they were as good
friends as they had been before. Not caring to wait for the notary who
had gone after the sword, since it appeared that it would take him some
little while, they then decided to ride on in order that they might arrive
in good time at the village where Quiteria lived, of which they all were
natives.240 For the balance of their journey the licentiate held forth on
the advantages of the art of swordsmanship, so convincingly and with so
many mathematical proofs and demonstrations that every man of them
was persuaded of the excellence of this science and Corchuelo gave up
the opinion he had so stubbornly held.

Night had fallen, but before they reached the town it appeared to all
of them as though the sky were filled with numberless gleaming stars.
At the same time they could hear the mingled and pleasing notes that
came from various musical instruments such as flutes, tabors, psalteries,
rustic pipes, tambourines, and timbrels. And as they came nearer they
perceived that the trees of an arcade of branches that had been erected
at the entrance to the village241 were all filled with lights which were mo-
tionless in the gentle breeze then blowing that did not even stir the leaves.
It was the musicians who were providing the merriment for the wedding
party as they went in little groups through the pleasant grounds, some
of them dancing, others singing, and all of them playing upon one or
another of the instruments mentioned. In brief, it seemed as if mirth
were running wild over the meadow and happiness were gamboling
there.

Many other persons were occupied in raising platforms from which
people might watch the performances and dances that were to be given
there the following day by way of solemnizing the marriage of the rich
Camacho and the obsequies of Basilio. Don Quixote was unwilling to
enter the village, although the peasant242 and the bachelor urged him to
do so. The excuse he gave, an all-sufficient one as he saw it, was that it
was the custom of knights-errant to sleep in the fields and forests rather
than in towns, even though the shelter offered them might be a gilded
roof. He accordingly turned off the road a little way, much to the dis-
pleasure of Sancho, who remembered the good lodgings he had had in
Don Diego's castle or house.




Chapter XX.

Wherein is contained an account of the wedding of Camacho
the Rich 243 and of what happened to Basilio the Poor.



Scarcely had the fair Aurora given the glowing Phoebus an oppor-
tunity to dry the liquid pearls upon her golden locks with the warmth
of his rays when Don Quixote, shaking off all sloth from his limbs, rose
to his feet and called to his squire Sancho, who was still snoring. As he
stood gazing down upon him and before aw akening him, the knight ut-
tered the following soliloquy:

"Blessed art thou above all those upon the face of the earth, seeing
that, without envying or being envied by any person, thou canst sleep
so calmly, with no enchanters or spells to trouble or alarm thee! Thou
sleepest,244 I repeat, and I will say it a hundred times, without any jealous
thoughts of thy lady to keep thee awake, with no concern as to how thou
art going to pay the debts thou owest or provide food on the morrow for
thyself and thy needy little family. Ambition doth not disturb thee nor
this world's empty show; thou thinkest only of that beast of thine, having
placed upon my shoulders the burden of thine own support, that
counterweight that nature and custom have decreed masters should bear.
The servant sleeps and the master keeps watch, thinking how he is to
feed him, improve his lot, and do him favors. When the sky turns brazen
and withholds from the earth its fitting dew, it is the master not the
servant who is distressed, it is he who suffers, since he it is who must
support amid sterility and hunger the one who hath served him faith-
fully in fertility and abundance."

To all this Sancho made no reply, for the very good reason that he was
asleep, nor would he have awaked as quickly as he did if Don Quixote
had not prodded him with the butt of his lance. He finally did rouse
himself, however, sleepy-eyed and lazy, and turned his face around in
all directions.

"If I am not mistaken," he said, "there is a steam and smell coming
from around that arcade that is more like that of broiled rashers than it
is like jonquils245 or thyme. Faith, and a wedding that begins with such
a smell ought to be all right; there should be plenty to eat."

"That will be enough from you, glutton," said Don Quixote. "Come, we
are going to those nuptials to see what the rejected suitor, Basilio, will
do."

"Let him do what he likes," replied Sancho. "He's a poor man, and
yet he is bent on marrying Quiteria. He hasn't a cuarto246 to his name,
and yet he'd put his head in the clouds to look for a bride. Is that all
he wants--My word, master, but I think the poor should be content with
what comes their way and not go looking for tidbits at the bottom of the
sea!247 I will bet you an arm that Camacho could bury Basilio under the
reales that he has; and if this is so, as it must be, then Quiteria would be a
fool to give up the jewels and finery that Camacho must have given her
(for he is well able to give them to her) and choose instead Basilio's bar-
throwing and sword-juggling. For a good toss of the bar or a neat feint
with the sword they won't give you a pint of wine at the tavern. Let
Count Dirlos248 have those graces and accomplishments that are not
salable,249 but when the same graces go with someone who has plenty
of money, then so help me if they're not as pretty as can be. Upon a good
foundation you can raise a good building, and the best foundation in the
world is cash."

"For God's sake, Sancho," Don Quixote broke in, "have done with
your harangue; for I am of the opinion that if you were to be permitted
to finish what you are every minute beginning, you would never have
time for sleeping but would waste it all in talking."

"If your Grace had a good memory," said Sancho, "you would recall
that one of the articles of our agreement before we left home this last
time was that I was to be allowed to say whatever I wanted to, so long
as it was not against my neighbor or disrespectful to you, and it seems to
me I've kept my part of the bargain so far as that article is concerned."

"I do not recall any such article as that," said Don Quixote, "and even
if what you say is true, I want you to be quiet and come along; for those
instruments that we heard last night are beginning to make the valleys
ring with merriment once more, and the nuptials will undoubtedly be
celebrated in the cool of the morning and not in the heat of the day."

Sancho did as his master had commanded, and when he had saddled
Rocinante and placed the saddlebag upon his gray, the two of them
mounted and, at a slow pace, made their way into the arcade. The first
thing that met Sancho's gaze was a steer spitted entire upon an elm tree,
and upon the fire for roasting it was a small mountain of logs, while round
about were six stew-pots, but not fashioned like ordinary ones, for they
were in reality half-sized wine jars and each of them big enough to hold
a slaughterhouse. These pots swallowed up and concealed in their insides
whole sheep as if they had been pigeons; and there was a countless
number of hares, already skinned, and plucked hens, which had been
hung up on the trees until the time came for burying them in the pots,
and a multitude of birds and much game of various sorts had similarly
been suspended from the boughs so that the air might keep them cool.

Sancho counted more than sixty wine bags, each holding more than
two arrobas250 and all of them, as later became evident, filled with the best
of vintages. There were stacks of the whitest bread, resembling piles of
wheat on the threshing floor, and a wall of cheeses arranged like a lat-
ticed brickwork. The oil was contained in two caldrons larger than those
in a dyer's shop and was used for frying fritters, which when done were
taken out with two powerful shovels and dropped into another caldron,
of prepared honey, that stood near by." There were more than fifty cooks
altogether, male and female, and all were neat-appearing, busy, and cheer-
ful. Sewed inside the steer's big belly, twelve delicate little suckling pigs
gave it flavor and tenderness. The various kinds of spices seemed to have
been bought not by the pound but by the arroba, and all of them were
open to view in a huge chest. In a few words, it was a country-style
wedding but with enough provisions to feed an army.

Sancho Panza looked everything over, studied it closely, and was de-
lighted with what he saw. It was the stew-pots first of all that completely
won his affections, and he would most gladly have helped himself to a
fair-sized dish of their contents. Then the wine bags claimed his atten-
tion, and, lastly, the fruit of the frying pan, if such pompous caldrons
as those could be termed frying pans. Finally, unable to bear it or to
control himself any longer, he went up to one of the bustling cooks and
politely but hungrily begged permission to dip a piece of bread in one
of the pots.

"Brother," the cook replied, "this is not a day when hunger has any
rights here, thanks to the rich Camacho. Get down and look about for a
ladle and skim off a hen or two, and much good may it do you."

"I don't see any," said Sancho.

"Wait a minute," said the cook. "Sinner that I am, how helpless you
are!" And taking a pail he dipped it into one of the jars and brought up
three hens and a couple of geese. "Eat my friend, and break your fast
on these skimmings until dinnertime comes."

"But I have no place to put it," said Sancho.

"Then," replied the cook, "take spoon and all and thank Camacho and
his happiness for it."

While Sancho was thus engaged, Don Quixote was watching a group
of about a dozen peasants who had entered the enclosure from one end.
They were mounted upon very handsome mares fitted out with rich and
showy field trappings and many bells, and all of them were attired in
their holiday best. In regular file, they ran their mounts up and down
the meadow, not once but a number of times, shouting jubilantly, "Long
live Camacho and Quiteria, he as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest in
the world!"

"Quite evidently," thought Don Quixote, "they have not seen my Dul-
cinea del Toboso, or they would be a little more restrained in their praise
of that Quiteria of theirs."

Shortly afterward many and varied sets of dancers made their entrance
from different sides of the arcade. Among them was a band of sword-
dancers, made up of some twenty-four lads of gallant and dashing mien,
all of them clad in the finest and whitest of linen and wearing fine silk
kerchiefs embroidered in various hues. One of those upon the mares in-
quired of the sprightly youth who led the group if any of the dancers
had been wounded.

"Not as yet, thank God," was the reply. "We are all sound and whole."
And with this he and his companions began to execute any number of
complicated maneuvers, with so many evolutions and such skill that,
although Don Quixote was used to witnessing such dances, he thought
he had never seen any to equal this. He also was pleased by another group
that came in, consisting of very beautiful young girls, apparently be-
tween the ages of fourteen and eighteen. They had on dresses of palm-
leaf green, and some of them had their hair braided while others wore it
loose-flowing, but their locks in every case were of a golden shade that
rivaled the sun, and their heads were decked with garlands of jessamine,
roses, amaranth, and honeysuckle. They were led by a venerable old man
and an aged matron who, however, were more active and nimble than
might have been expected of them, considering their years. The maidens
were accompanied by the notes of a Zamora bagpipe, and, with modest
gaze and light-treading feet, they proved to be the very best of dancers.

The next dance was an artistic one, of the sort known as "talking
dances." It was performed by eight nymphs. There were two rows of
them, one being headed by Cupid, the other by Worldly Wealth.251 The
winged god of love carried his bow and arrows and his quiver, while the
other figure was richly attired in gold and silk of many colors. On the
back of each of Cupid's followers was a white parchment with the bear-
er's name written upon it in large letters. Poetry was the first one's name,
the second was Wit, the third one Birth, and the fourth Valor. Worldly
Wealth's attendants were similarly identified, the first being Liberality,
the second Bounty, the third Treasure, and the fourth Pacific Possession.
The nymphs were preceded by a wooden castle drawn by four savages
appareled in ivy and green-dyed hemp252 and looking so lifelike that
Sancho was almost frightened by them. On the front and each of the
other sides of the structure was the inscription: "Castle of Wise Discre-
tion." Accompanying this group were four skillful musicians playing
upon the tabor and the flute, and Cupid thereupon began his dance. Hav-
ing executed a couple of turns, he raised his eyes and drew his bow against
a maiden who stood upon the battlements of the castle, addressing her
in this manner:

　　　　　　　　"The God of love behold in me,
　　　　　　mighty on land and in the air,
　　　　　　and on the broad and tossing sea;
　　　　　　great is my pouer everywhere,
　　　　　　e'en though in Hell's dread pit it be.
　　　　　　　　Fear is a thing l never knew,
　　　　　　all that l wish must needs come true,
　　　　　　howe'er impossible it seem ;
　　　　　　for my will and word are still supreme,
　　　　　　I command, enjoin, forbid, subdue."

Having recited the foregoing stanza, he let fly an arrow at the top of
the castle and retired. Worldly Wealth then performed a figure or two
and, when the tabors had ceased, spoke as follows:

　　　　　　　　"More powerful I than Love's fair face,
　　　　　　though Love himself is now my guide,
　　　　　　for I am of the finest race
　　　　　　that on this earth did e'er abide,
　　　　　　far famed and great in every place.
　　　　　　Wealth is my name, I bring delight,
　　　　　　but few know how to use me right,
　　　　　　and to do without me is harder still .
　　　　　　Such as l am, I bend my will
　　　　　　To serve you ever, day and night."

As Worldly Wealth stepped back, Poetry came forward and, having done
the customary figures, gazed up at the maid on the battlements and
recited these verses:

　　　　　　　　"With many a fancy and conceit,
　　　　　　that charming goddess, Poesy,
　　　　　　in measures lofty and discreet,
　　　　　　lady, her soul doth send to thee,
　　　　　　wrapped in a myriad sonnets neat.
　　　　　　Oh, do not let me importune;
　　　　　　but accept my homage, and thou right soon,
　　　　　　the envy of a host of eyes,
　　　　　　shalt be borne upward to the skies,
　　　　　　beyond the very rim of the moon."

Poetry then withdrew and, from the side of Worldly Wealth, Liberal-
ity advanced and proceeded to declaim:

　　　　　　　　"What men call liberality
　　　　　　consists in giving without excess:
　　　　　　no weak-willed prodigality;
　　　　　　no grudging hand or miserliness:
　　　　　　such the giver's law in totality.
　　　　　　Howe'er, by way of enriching thee,
　　　　　　I today shall more prodigal be;
　　　　　　for though 'tis a vice, 'tis a goodly one
　　　　　　when from loving heart 'tis done,
　　　　　　which in the giving itself doth see."

In this manner all the figures from the two groups came forward and
retired, each executing her steps and repeating her verses, some of which
were polished while others were mere burlesque; but although Don
Quixote had an exceptional memory, the stanzas quoted are all that he
was able to recall. The dancers now mingled together, weaving in and
out with an easy and pleasing grace. As Cupid went past the castle he
let fly his darts, and Worldly Wealth broke gilded pellets against it.

Finally, after they had danced a good while. Worldly Wealth took out
a large purse, made of the skin of a striped cat and seemingly full of
money, and hurled it at the castle with such force that the w alls fell apart
and came tumbling down, leaving the maiden exposed and with no pro-
tection whatsoever; following which, he and his followers advanced and
cast a huge gold chain about the damsel's neck as if to subdue her and
take her captive. Seeing this, Cupid and his band made a show of freeing
her, all to the accompaniment of tabors and in the form of a dance. It
was the savages who made peace between them and with great dexterity
set the walls of the castle up once more. The maiden then took her place
in it as before, and thus the dance ended to the great satisfaction of the
spectators.

Don Quixote inquired of one of the nymphs who it was that had com-
posed and arranged the performance and was told that a certain cleric of
the town who had a neat gift for that sort of thing was responsible for it.

"I will wager," said the knight, "that the bachelor or cleric in question
is a better friend of Camacho's than he is of Basilio's and that he must
have more of the satirist in him than he has of the vesper spirit, for in
this dance he has well portrayed the youth's accomplishments and the
other's wealth."

Sancho Panza, who was listening, now spoke up. "The king is my
cock,"253 he said. "I stick to Camacho."

"It is plain to be seen, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that you are one
of the rabble who cry 'Long live the conqueror!' "

"I don't know what I am," replied Sancho. "All I know is that from
Basilio's stew-pots I'll never get such elegant skimmings as I have had
from Camacho's." With this, he showed his master the pail filled with
geese and hens, and, taking one of the fowls, he began to devour it with
a hearty zest and great good humor.

"Basilio," he exclaimed, "is out of luck with his accomplishments!254
A man is worth as much as he has and has as much as he is worth.255
There are two kinds of people in this world, my grandmother used to say:
the Have's and the Have-not's,256 and she stuck to the Have's. And today,
Senor Don Quixote, people are more interested in having than in know-
ing.257 An ass covered with gold makes a better impression than a horse
with a packsaddle. And so I tell you again, I'm sticking to Camacho,
whose pots hold plenty of geese and hens, hares and rabbits ; but if any-
thing of Basilio's comes to hand, or even to foot, it will be no better than
wine slop."

"Have you finished your speech, Sancho?" asked Don Quixote.

"I'll have to finish it, seeing that your Grace takes offense at it; but if
it wasn't for that, I'd have my work cut out for me for three days to
come."

"I hope to God," said Don Quixote, "that I see you struck dumb before
I die."

"At the rate we're going," replied Sancho, "I'll be chewing clay before
your Grace dies, and then maybe I'll be so dumb that I'll not have a word
to say until the end of the world, or at least not until Judgment Day."

"Even if that should happen, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "you could
never make up with your silence for all the talking you have done, are
doing, and will do in the course of your life. It stands to reason that I
shall die before you do, and so I never hope to see you dumb, not even
when you are drinking or sleeping, which is the most I can say."

"In good faith, sir," said Sancho, "there's no trusting that one with no
flesh on her bones who eats lamb as well as mutton, for I've heard our
curate say that she treads both the tall towers of kings and the humble
cottages of the poor.258 The lady is powerful but not finical or squeamish;
she devours everything that comes her way and fills her saddlebags with
people of every sort, of every age and station. She is not one of those
reapers who take a siesta; she works at all hours and mows down the
withered grass and the green alike. She doesn't seem to chew her food but
gulps down anything that is set in front of her, for she is as hungry as a
dog that never has its fill; and although she has no belly, you would
think she had the dropsy, so thirsty is she to drink the lives of all who
live as one might drink from a jug of cold water."

"Stop where you are, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and don't risk a fall.
For, really, what you have said about death, in your own rustic way,
might have come from the mouth of a good preacher. I tell you, Sancho,
if you had259 as much judgment as you have mother wit, you might take
a pulpit in hand and go through this world delivering fine sermons."

"He preaches well who lives well," was Sancho's answer. "That's all
the theology I know."

"And all you need to know," said his master. "But what I cannot make
out is this: the fear of God, they tell us, is the beginning of wisdom, yet
you are more afraid of a lizard than you are of Him."

"Sir," replied Sancho, "your Grace would do well to judge your own
deeds of chivalry and not go meddling with the fears or bravery of other
people. I'm as God-fearing a man as any neighbor's son; so will your
Grace please let me finish these skimmings, for all the rest is idle talk and
we'll have to answer for it in the life to come."

Saying this, he once more attacked his pail with so hearty an appetite
as to awaken Don Quixote's, who no doubt would have helped him out
had he not been prevented from doing so by a circumstance which must
be related further on.



CHAPTER XXI.

In which Camacho's wedding is continued,
with other delightful incidents.



As Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the conversation that
has been related in the preceding chapter, they heard loud shouts and a
great din created by those on the mares, who now rode forward with
welcoming cries to receive the bride and groom. The bridal pair were
accompanied by a large number of musical instruments and pageants
of various kinds, as well as by the priest, the relatives of both parties,
and all the most distinguished gentry of the neighboring villages, in
holiday garb.

"My word!" exclaimed Sancho when he caught sight of the bride.
"She's not dressed like any farmer's daughter but rather like some fine
lady of the court. Damn me if those medals260 she's wearing aren't of
rich coral, and that palm-green cloth of Cuenca is thirty-pile velvet!261
And look at that white linen trimming--I'll swear it's satin! and those
jet rings that she has on her hands, may I never have any luck if they're
not gold, and fine gold at that, and set with pearls white as a milk curd,
every one of them worth an eye of your head! Oh, the whoreson wench!
What hair she has, if it's her own; I never in all my life saw any that
was longer or brighter colored. Just see her shape and the way she car-
ries herself and then try to tell me that she doesn t remind you of a
palm tree loaded down with clusters of dates, for that is just what those
trinkets are like that she has hanging from her hair and neck. Upon my
soul, she's an up-and-coming lass and fit to pass the banks of Flanders."262

Don Quixote had to laugh at these rustic praises which Sancho was
bestowing upon the bride; but it nonetheless seemed to him that, with
the exception of his own lady, Dulcinea del Toboso, he had never be-
held so fair a creature.263 The beauteous Quiteria was a trifle pale, how-
ever, owing no doubt to the bad night she had spent, as is always the
case with brides busied with preparations on the eve of their wedding
day. The members of the bridal party made their way to a theater on
one side of the meadow, decked out with carpets and boughs, where
they were to plight their troth and watch the dances and the pageants;
but just as they reached the place they heard someone behind them shout-
ing in a loud voice, "Wait a moment, you who are as inconsiderate as
you are hasty!"

At the sound of these words, all turned their heads and saw that the
speaker was a man attired in what appeared to be a large loose-fitting
black coat with flame-colored patches. Upon his head, as they presently
perceived, was a wreath of funereal cypress, and in his hands he carried
a long staff. As he drew nearer they all recognized him as the gallant
Basilio and waited anxiously to see what would come of his words and
cries, for they feared that some misfortune would result from his ap-
pearance there at such a time. He was exhausted and breathless as he
arrived; and, taking his staff, which had a steel point on the end of it,
he planted it in the ground in front of the betrothed pair. His face was
pale and his eyes were fixed on the bride as he addressed her in a hoarse
and trembling voice.

"Well do you know, O heartless Quiteria," he said, "that in accord-
ance with the holy law which we acknowledge you cannot take a hus-
band so long as I am alive; nor are you ignorant of the fact that, hop-
ing time and diligence would improve my fortune, I never failed to
observe that respect that was due your honor. But you, turning your
back on all that you owe to my true love, would surrender what is
rightfully mine to another, whose riches serve to bring him not merely
prosperity but the greatest happiness there is. And now, to crown his
happiness--not that I think he deserves it, but because Heaven has seen
fit to bestow it upon him--I with my own hands will do away with the
obstacle that might interfere with it, by removing myself from be-
tween you. Long live the rich Camacho! May he spend many long
and happy years with the heartless Quiteria! As for the poor Basilio,
let him die, seeing that his poverty has clipped the wings of his own hap-
piness and has brought him to the grave!"

Saying this, he seized the staff which he had driven into the ground,
and they could then see that it served as a sheath to a fairly long rapier
that had been hidden in it. With what might be termed the hilt still
planted in the earth, he swiftly, coolly, and resolutely threw himself
upon it, and a moment later the crimson point and half the steel blade
could be seen protruding from his back, as he lay there transfixed by
his own weapon and bathed in blood.

His friends at once came running up to aid him, for they were grief-
stricken at his sad fate. Dismounting from Rocinante, Don Quixote took
him in his arms and found that he had not yet expired. They were
about to withdraw the rapier, but the priest who was present was of
the opinion that they should not do so until the dying man had con-
fessed, since the removal of the blade would mean his immediate death.
At this point Basilio revived somewhat.

"O cruel Quiteria," he said in a weak and sorrowing voice, "if in this
last and fatal moment you would but give me your hand in marriage, I
then might hope that my rash act would find pardon, since through it
I had achieved the blessing of being yours."

Upon hearing this, the priest told Basilio that he should be thinking
of the welfare of his soul rather than of his bodily pleasures and should
beg God in all earnestness to forgive him his sins and the rash act he
had committed. Basilio's reply was that he would by no manner of
means confess himself unless Quiteria first became his bride as only
that happiness would give him the will and strength to do it. Don
Quixote then took a hand by loudly declaring that the wounded man's
request was only just and reasonable and, moreover, very easy to com-
ply with, and that Senor Camacho would be as much honored by marry-
ing the brave Basilio's widow as he would be if he were to receive
Scnora Quiteria directly from her father.

"In this case," he explained, "it is merely a matter of saying 'yes' and
no consequence will follow, for the marriage bed will be the grave."

Camacho was listening to it all and was very much bewildered and
confused, not knowing what to say or do; but Basilio s friends were so
insistent that he give his consent for Quiteria to marry his rival, in
order that the latter's soul might not be lost as it quitted this life in
desperation, that he was moved and even compelled to say that she might
do so if she wished, adding that he would be satisfied since it only meant
putting off for a moment the fulfillment of his desires. All then crowded
around Quiteria and with tears, prayers, and convincing reasons en-
deavored to persuade her to give her hand to poor Basilio; but she, harder
than marble and more imperturbable than any statue, appeared unable
or unwilling to utter a single word in reply, nor would she have an-
swered at all had not the priest told her that she must make up her mind
quickly, as Basilio was at the point of death264 and this was no time for
hesitation.

Then the fair Quiteria, speechless still but now deeply disturbed and,
as it seemed, sad and regretful, came up to where Basilio lay with eyes
upturned, his breath coming in short, quick gasps as he muttered his
loved one's name--to all appearances he was dying like a heathen and
not like a Christian. Kneeling beside him, she indicated by signs, not
by words, that she wished to take his hand, and at this Basilio opened
his eyes and gazed at her with a fixed stare.

"O Quiteria," he said, "you have relented at last when your pity
can serve only as a dagger to deprive me of life, since I have not the
strength to enjoy the supreme happiness you bestow by choosing me
as yours, nor am I able to mitigate this pain which is so rapidly clos-
ing my eyes in the dread shadow of death. What I ask of you, O fatal
star of mine! is that this handclasp you offer be no mere act of com-
pliance on your part nor intended to deceive me afresh; instead, I
would have you state and confess that it is of your own free will and
without coercion that you take me to be your lawful husband; for
there is no reason why, at such a time as this, you should trifle with
me or lie to one who has always dealt so honestly with you."

As he uttered these words he grew weaker and weaker, and all the
bystanders feared that each sinking spell would be his last. Overcome
with shame, the modest Quiteria now took his right hand in hers.

"Nothing," she assured him, "could force me to do a thing that was
against my will; and so, as freely as possible, I give you my hand as
your lawfully wedded wife and take your own in return, providing
that you too are acting in accordance with your own free choice and
not merely because your mind has been deranged as a result of this
calamity which your rash deed has brought upon you."

"My mind," replied Basilio, "is not deranged, nor is my thinking con-
fused, and so, with that power of lucid reasoning with which Heaven
has seen fit to endow me, I do hereby give myself to be your husband."

"And I," said Quiteria, "will be your wife, whether you live many
years or they carry you now from my arms to the grave."

"That young fellow," remarked Sancho Panza at this point, "talks a
lot to be so badly wounded. They should make him stop this love-
making and attend to his soul; for so far as I can make out, if it is
leaving his body, it has got no farther than his tongue."265

As the pair continued to hold hands, the priest, moved to tears, gave
them his benediction; and no sooner had he done so than Basilio nimbly
leaped to his feet and, with an unheard-of brazenness, drew the rapier
from his body which had served as its sheath. The bystanders were
dumfounded, and some of the more simple-minded and less inquisitive
among them began shouting at the top of their voices, "A miracle! A
miracle!"

"No miracle," said Basilio, "but a trick."266

Astounded and bewildered, the priest ran up and, putting out both
hands to examine the wound, discovered that the blade had passed, not
through Basilio's flesh and ribs, but through a hollow iron tube filled
with blood which he had placed there, the blood, as was afterward
learned, having been especially prepared so that it would not congeal.

The short of it was, the priest, Camacho, and all the others found
that they had been tricked and made sport of. As for the bride, she did
not appear to be resentful. Indeed, when some were heard to say that,
having been accomplished through fraud, the marriage would not be
valid, she promptly spoke up and stated that she confirmed it anew; from
which all present derived the impression that the whole thing had been
arranged between the two of them. Camacho and his supporters, on the
other hand, were so angry that they proceeded to take vengeance into
their own hands. Unsheathing their swords, and there were many of
them, they fell upon Basilio, but nearly as many blades were drawn
with equal promptness in his defense.

Taking the lead on horseback, with his lance braced upon his arm
and well protected by his shield, Don Quixote then made them all give
way, while Sancho, who never did care for such doings, retired to the
pots from which he had had such pleasant skimmings, this being for
him a sacred place and one for which a proper respect was to be shown.

"Hold, gentlemen, hold!" cried Don Quixote. "It is not reasonable
to take vengeance for the wrongs done us by love. Remember that love
and war are one and the same thing; and just as in war it is permissible
to use wiles and stratagems to overcome the enemy, so in amorous
contests those deceptions that are employed in order to attain the de-
sired object are looked upon as proper, providing they are not to the
detriment or dishonor of the lady who is sought. Basilio and Quiteria
belong to each other by favorable and just decree of Heaven. Camacho
is rich and may buy his pleasure when, where, and as it suits him.
Basilio has but this ewe lamb, and no one, however powerful he may
be, is going to take it away from him. What therefore God hath joined
together, let not man put asunder;267 and whoever shall attempt it will
first have to pass the point of this lance."

As he said this, he brandished his weapon with such strength and
skill as to frighten all those that did not know him. The effect upon
Camacho was to fasten his thoughts intently upon the scorn that Quiteria
had shown him, and he accordingly determined to efface her at once
from his memory and was ready to listen to the persuasions of the priest,
who was a prudent, well-meaning individual. The upshot of it all was,
Camacho and his followers became calm and peaceful and put their
swords back in their scabbards; for all were now inclined to place
the blame upon Quiteria's fickleness rather than Basilio's wiles, the
spurned bridegroom reasoning that if she had loved his rival before
marriage, she would go on loving him after she was wed, and he would
do better to thank Heaven for having taken her from him than for
giving her to him.

Camacho and those in his train being thus pacified and consoled,
Basilio and his friends likewise quieted down; and by way of showing
that he harbored no ill will for the trick that had been played on him,
the host expressed a desire that the festivities should continue just as
if the marriage were to take place. This, however, proved inacceptable
to Basilio, his bride, and their attendants, and they now went off to the
village where the groom lived. For the poor, if they be virtuous and
discreet, have those who follow, honor, and defend them, just as the
rich have those who accompany and flatter them.268 They took Don
Quixote along, for they regarded him as a man of valor, with hair
on his chest.269 Sancho alone was heartsick when he saw that he would
not be able to wait for Camacho's splendid feast and entertainment,
which lasted until nightfall; and thus, it was in deep dejection that he
followed his master and Basilio's party, leaving behind him the flesh-
pots of Egypt though he bore them with him in his soul, the few skim-
mings that remained in his pail representing for him the glory and
abundance of the good cheer he had lost. In this manner, grief-stricken
and pensive though for once not hungry, he plodded along in Rocinante's
foot-tracks without dismounting from his gray.



Chapter XXII.

Wherein is related the great adventure of the Cave of Montesinos
in the heart of La Mancha, which the valiant Don Quixote brought to
a triumphant conclusion.



MANY and great were the attentions that the newly married pair
showered upon Don Quixote, for they felt under obligations to him
for having shown his readiness to defend their cause. They were as
much pleased by his wisdom as by his bravery and looked upon him
as a Cid in the matter of arms and a Cicero in eloquence. The worthy
Sancho enjoyed himself for three whole days at their expense, and in
the course of that time it was learned that Basilio's pretense at wound-
ing himself had been a scheme of his own and not a plot between him
and the fair Quiteria, and he had expected it to turn out precisely as
it did. He admitted, however, that he had confided his plan in part to
a few of his friends who might assist him in carrying out the deception.

"Deception," observed Don Quixote, "is not the word where aims
are virtuous." And he went on to point out that the marriage of lovers
is an excellent purpose to be achieved, reminding them, however, that
love has no greater enemy than hunger and constant want; for love is all
joy, happiness, and contentment when the lover is in possession of the
object of his affections, and want and poverty thereby become his open
and relentless foes. All this was said in an effort to induce Senor Basilio
to give up the practice of his accomplishments, since even though
they brought him fame they would bring in no money, and to devote
his attention instead to the acquisition of a fortune by legitimate means
and his own industry; for those who are prudent and persevering always
find a way.

The poor man who is a man of honor (if such a thing is possible) has
a jewel when he has a beautiful wife, and when she leaves him, his
honor at the same time departs and is slain. The woman who is beautiful
and virtuous and whose husband is pure deserves to be crowned with
laurels and garlands of victory. Her beauty in itself attracts the de-
sires of all who look upon and know it, and royal eagles and birds
of lofty flight swoop down on it as if it were an alluring bait; and
when such loveliness is accompanied by want and straitened cir-
cumstances, it is then assailed by ravens, kites, and other birds of prey,
and she who can stand firm against such an onslaught may well be
called her husband's crown.270

Let me remind you, prudent Basilio," Don Quixote continued, "of
something which some wise man or other has said. It was his opinion
that there was only one good woman in all the world, and his advice
was for each man to bring himself to believe that this woman was his
wife, and in that way he might live happily. I myself am not married,
nor have I ever thought of marrying up to now,271 but for all that, I
should not hesitate to advise anyone who might ask me as to the proper
method of looking for a woman of the sort one would want to have
as his wife. First of all, he should look at her reputation rather than
at her dowry, for a good name is something to be won, not alone by
being good, but by appearing good in the eyes of others, and loose
manners in public do more harm to a woman's honor than secret sins.
If you bring a good woman into your house, it should be an easy
matter to keep her so and even to improve her virtue, but if you bring
a bad one, you will have a hard time of it correcting her, since it is
not very feasible to pass from one extreme to another. I do not say
that it is impossible, but I hold it to be difficult."

Listening to all this, Sancho was talking to himself. "This master of
mine, when I say something that has some pith and body to it, is in
the habit of telling me that I ought to take a pulpit in hand and go
through this world preaching fine sermons; and I will say of him that
when he begins stringing sayings together and giving advice, he not
only could take a pulpit in hand, but two of them by each finger and
go through the market places talking his head off.272 The devil take
you for a knight-errant, what a lot of things you know! I thought in
my heart that he knew only those things that had to do with chivalry,
but he has a finger in everything and is always putting in his spoonful."

He had muttered this loud enough273 for his master to hear.

"What are you mumbling about, Sancho?" Don Quixote asked him.

"I am not mumbling anything," Sancho replied. "I was only telling
myself that I wish I had heard what your Grace said just now before
I was married. In that case I might be saying, 'The ox that's loose licks
himself well.'"274

"Is your Teresa so bad as all that?"

"She's not bad, but she's not good, at least not as good as I could
wish."

"It is wrong of you, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "to be speaking ill
of your wife, who after all is the mother of your children."

"We're even, then," was the answer, "for she also speaks ill of me
whenever she happens to feel like it, especially when she is jealous.
Satan himself couldn't put up with her then."

At length, when three days had gone by, during which time they
had been feasted and entertained like royalty, Don Quixote asked the
swordsman-licentiate to provide him with a guide who would conduct
him to the Cave of Montesinos, as he had a great desire to enter it and
see with his own eyes if the marvelous tales they told of it throughout
that region were true or not. The bachelor replied that he would ac-
quaint him with a first cousin of his, a notable student and very fond
of reading books of chivalry, who would be delighted to conduct him
to the mouth of the said cave and show him the Lakes of Ruidera, which
were famous throughout La Mancha and all Spain as well. He assured
the knight that the youth would be found to be entertaining company,
since he knew enough to write books of his own, books that were
printed and dedicated to princes.

The cousin finally arrived leading an ass in foal, with a pack-saddle
covered by a striped carpet or sackcloth; and Sancho thereupon
proceeded to saddle Rocinante and get his gray ready, taking care
to stuff his saddlebags to keep company with those the newcomer had
brought with him. Being thus well provisioned, they commended them-
selves to God and, taking leave of all present, set out along the road
that led to the celebrated cave.

On the way, Don Quixote inquired of the cousin what his pursuits
were, his profession, and his studies. To this their companion replied
that his profession was that of humanist, adding that his pursuits and
studies had to do with composing books for the printers, all of them
of great public utility and very entertaining. One of them, he stated,
was entitled The Book of Liveries, in which were depicted seven hun-
dred and three different liveries with their colors, mottoes, and ciphers,
from which the gentlemen of the court might pick and choose the
ones that suited them best for their feasts and revels without having
to go begging for them from anyone or, as the saying has it, straining
their wits to procure the costumes adapted to their purpose.

"For," he went on to say, "I provide the jealous, the scorned, the
forgotten, the far-absent, with the garb that they should have and that
becomes them very well. I have another book which I am going to
call Metamorphoses, or the Spanish Ovid, an original and extraordinary
work, for in it, imitating Ovid in burlesque style, I show who Giralda
of Seville and the Angel of the Magdalena were, and I further identify
the Vecinguerra Conduit of Cordova, the Bulls of Guisando, the Sierra
Morena, and the Legitanos and Lavapies Fountains of Madrid, not for-
getting El Piojo, the Cano Dorado, and La Priora,275 together with the
allegories, metaphors, and versions associated with them, and all in
such a manner as to interest, amuse, and instruct the reader at one and
the same time.

"I have another book which I call Supplement to Virgilius Polydorus.276
It treats of the invention of things and is a very scholarly work and one
that cost me much study. In it I set forth in a pleasing style, with due
proof and explanation, certain things of great moment that Polydorus
neglected to mention. He forgot to tell us who was the first man in
the world to have a cold in the head, or the first to take unctions for
the French disease,277 all of which I bring out most accurately, citing
the authority of more than twenty-five authors. From this your Grace
may see how well I have labored and may judge for yourself as to
whether or not such a work should be useful to everyone."

Sancho, who had been listening very attentively to what the cousin
had to say, now put in his word. "Tell me, sir, and may God guide your
hand well in the printing of your books, tell me if you can, seeing that
you know everything, who was the first man that ever scratched his
head--For my part, I believe it must have been Father Adam."

"So it would have been," replied the cousin, "seeing there is no doubt
that Adam had a head with hair on it, and being the first man, he would
have scratched it some time or other."

"That is what I think," said Sancho. "But tell me something else:
who was the first tumbler278 in the world?"

"Really, brother," said the cousin, "I cannot determine that just now,
not until I have given it some study. I will look into it as soon as I go
back to where I keep my books and will let you know the next time
we see each other again; for this is not going to be the last time."

"Then look here, sir," said Sancho, "you needn't go to the trouble,
for I have hit upon the answer to my question. I can tell you that the
first tumbler was Lucifer when they cast him out of Heaven and he
came tumbling down into Hell."

"Right you are, friend," said the cousin.

"Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that question and answer are not your
own; you've heard them somewhere."

"Hush, master," replied Sancho. "Upon my word, if I started asking
foolish questions and giving silly answers. I'd be at it from now until
tomorrow morning. When it comes to that, I don't need any help
from my neighbors."

"You have spoken more wisely than you know, Sancho," declared
Don Quixote; "for there are some who wear themselves out in learning
and verifying things which, after they have been mastered, are not
worth a rap so far as mind or memory goes."

With this and other pleasing talk they spent the day, and when
night came found lodgings in a little village which, as the cousin in-
formed Don Quixote, was not more than a couple of leagues from the
Cave of Montesinos; and their guide took occasion to remind the knight
that if he was resolved to make the descent, he would have to find
ropes with which to low er himself into the depths. To this Don Quix-
ote's answer was that even if it was as deep as Hell, he proposed to see
the bottom of it; and so they bought nearly a hundred fathoms of rope,
and the following day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, they reached
the cave, the mouth of which is broad and spacious, but clogged with
boxthorn, wild fig trees, shrubs, and brambles, so dense and tangled an
undergrowth as wholly to cover over and conceal the entrance. All
three of them then dismounted, and Sancho and the cousin bound Don
Quixote very stoutly with the ropes.

"Look well what you do, master," said Sancho as they were girdling
him. "Don't go burying yourself alive or get yourself caught so you
will hang there like a bottle that has been let down into the well to
cool. If you ask me, I would say it is none of your Grace's affair to be
prying into this cave, which must be worse than a dungeon."

"Keep on tying and keep still," Don Quixote admonished him. "It
is just such an undertaking as this, Sancho, that is reserved for me."279

The guide then addressed him. "Senor Don Quixote," he said, "I beg
your Grace to view thoroughly and inspect with a hundred eyes what
you find down there; who knows, maybe it will be something that I
can put in my book on Transformations."

"Leave the tambourine," Sancho advised him, "to the one who knows
how to play it."280

By this time they had finished tying Don Quixote, passing the rope
over his doublet, not over his battle harness.

"It was careless of us," said the knight, ' not to have provided our-
selves with a cattle bell to attach to the rope at my side so that you
might be able to tell from the sound of it whether I was still descending
and still alive. However, there is nothing for it now. I am in God's
hands and may He be my guide."

He knelt and prayed to Heaven in a low voice, imploring God to
aid him and grant him success in this adventure, which impressed him
as being a rare and dangerous one. Then he raised his voice:

"O lady who dost inspire my every deed and action, O most illus-
trious and peerless Dulcinea del Toboso! If it be possible for the prayers
and entreaties of this thy fortunate lover to reach thine ears, I do be-
seech thee to hear them. What I ask of thee is nothing other than thy
favor and protection, of which I so greatly stand in need at this moment.
I am now about to sink, to hurl and plunge myself into the abyss that
yawns before me here, simply in order that the world may know that
there is nothing, however impossible it may seem, that I will not under-
take and accomplish, provided only I have thy favor."

Having said this, he went up to the chasm281 and perceived that if
he was to make a descent he would first have to clear an entrance by
force of arm or by hacking away the underbrush; and accordingly,
taking his sword, he began cutting and felling the brambles at the mouth
of the cave, the noise of which caused a very great number of crows
and jackdaws to fly out. There were so many of these birds and such
was their velocity that they knocked Don Quixote down, and had
he been as much of a believer in augury as he was a good Catholic
Christian, he would have taken this as an ill omen and would have
declined to bury himself in such a place as that. Finally, he arose and,
seeing that no more crows or other night birds were emerging, such
as the bats that flew out with the crows, he allowed himself to be
lowered into the depths of the horrendous cavern, with Sancho and
the cousin letting out the rope as the squire bestowed his benediction
and crossed himself an endless number of times.

"May God be your guide," exclaimed Sancho, "and the Rock of
France,282 along with the Trinity of Gaeta,283 O flower, cream, and skim-
ming of knights-errant! There you go, daredevil of the earth,284 heart
of steel, arms of brass! Once more, may God be your guide and bring
you back safe, sound, and without a scratch to the light of this world
which you are leaving to bury yourself in that darkness that you go
to seek!"

The cousin, meanwhile, was offering up practically the same prayers.
Don Quixote then went on down, calling for them to give him rope
and more rope, and they let it out for him little by little. By the time
they could no longer hear his voice, which came out of the cave as
through a pipe, they had let him have the entire hundred fathoms, all
the rope there was, and were of a mind to pull him up again. They de-
cided, however, to wait for half an hour, and then they once more be-
gan hauling in the line, with no effort whatever, for they could feel
no weight on the other end, which led them to think that Don Quixote
must have remained behind. Believing this to be the case, Sancho be-
gan weeping bitterly and started pulling with all his might in order
to learn the truth of the matter; but when they had come to a little
more than eighty fathoms, as it seemed to them, they once more felt
a tug, which made them very happy indeed. Finally, at ten fathoms,
they could see Don Quixote quite distinctly, and as he caught sight
of him, Sancho cried out, "Welcome, master, we are glad to see you
again. We thought you had stayed down there to found a family."

But Don Quixote said not a word in reply, and when they had him all
the way up they saw that his eyes were closed and that, to all appear-
ances, he was sound asleep. They laid him on the ground and untied
him, but even this did not wake him. It was not until they had turned
him over first on one side and then on the other and had given him
a thorough shaking and mauling that, after a considerable length of
time, he at last regained consciousness, stretching himself as if he had
been roused from a profound slumber and gazing about him with a
bewildered look.

"God forgive you, friends," he said, "you have taken me away from
the most delightful existence mortal ever knew and the pleasantest sight
human eyes ever rested upon. Now truly do I begin to understand how
it is that all the pleasures of this life pass away like a shadow or a dream
or wither like the flower of the field.285 O unfortunate Montesinos! O
sorely wounded Durandarte! O unhappy Belerma! O tearful Guadiana!
And you, hapless daughters of Ruidera, who in your waters display the
tears your eyes once wept!"286

The cousin and Sancho listened attentively to Don Quixote's words,
which appeared to have been uttered in great pain, as though drawn
from his entrails. They thereupon begged him to tell them the meaning
of it all and what it was he had seen in that Hell he had visited.

"Hell do you call it?" said Don Quixote. "Do not call it that, for
it does not deserve the name, as you shall see."

He then asked them to give him something to eat, as he was exceed-
ingly hungry; and so they spread the cousin's sackcloth upon the green
grass and laid out what fare the saddlebags could afford, and, sitting
down together like the three good friends and companions that they
were, they proceeded to make a meal of it, combining lunch and supper.
When the sackcloth had been removed, Don Quixote de la Mancha
spoke.

"Let no one arise," he said, "but both of you listen most attentively
to what I have to say."



CHAPTER XXIII.

Of the amazing things which the incomparable Don Quixote told of
having seen in the deep Cave of Montesinos, an adventure the grandeur
and impossible nature of which have caused it to be regarded as apo-
cryphal.



IT WAS around four in the afternoon when the subdued light and
tempered rays of the sun, which was now covered over with clouds,
afforded Don Quixote an opportunity to tell his two illustrious listeners,
without undue heat or weariness, what it was he had seen in the Cave
of Montesinos. He began in the following manner:

"At a depth corresponding to the height of twelve or fourteen men,
on the right-hand side of this dungeon, there is a concave recess cap-
able of containing a large cart with its mules. A small light filters into it
through distant chinks or crevices in the surface of the earth; and I
caught sight of this nook just at a time when I was feeling tired and
vexed at finding myself dangling from a rope in that manner as I de-
scended into those dark regions without any certain knowledge as to
where I was going. And so I decided to enter the recess and rest a little.
I called to you, asking you not to give out any more rope until I told you
to do so, but you must not have heard me. Accordingly, I gathered it in
as you sent it to me and, making a coil or pile of it, I seated myself
upon it, meanwhile thinking what I should have to do in order to let
myself all the way down to the bottom, as I now had no one to hold
me up.

"As I sat there lost in thought and deeply perplexed, suddenly and
without my doing anything to bring it about a profound sleep fell
upon me; and then, all unexpectedly and not knowing how it hap-
pened, I awoke and found myself in the midst of the most beautiful,
pleasant, and delightful meadow that nature could create or the most
fertile imagination could conceive. Opening my eyes, I rubbed them
and discovered that I was not sleeping but really awake. Nevertheless,
I felt my head and bosom to make sure it was I who was there and not
some empty and deceptive phantom. And my sense of touch and feeling
and the coherence of my thoughts were sufficient to assure me that I
was the same then and there that I am here and now.

"It was at that moment that my eyes fell upon a sumptuous royal
palace or castle, the walls and battlements of which appeared to be
built of clear, transparent crystal. The two wings of the main gate were
suddenly thrown open, and there emerged and came toward me a
venerable old man clad in a hooded cloak of mulberry-colored stuff
that swept the ground. Around his head and his bosom was a collegiate
green satin sash, and on his head a black Milanese bonnet. His beard was
snow-white and fell below his waist, and he carried no arms whatever,
nothing but a rosary which he held in his hand, a string on which
the beads were larger than fair-sized walnuts, every tenth one being
as big as an ordinary ostrich egg. His bearing, his stride, the gravity
of his demeanor, and his stately presence, each in itself and all of them
together, filled me with wonder and astonishment. Upon reaching
my side, the first thing he did was to give me a close embrace.

"'It is a long time,' he said, 'O valiant knight, Don Quixote de la
Mancha, that we in these enchanted solitudes have been waiting for
a sight of you, that you might go back and inform the world of what
lies locked and concealed in the depths of this cave which you have
entered, the so-called Cave of Montesinos, an exploit solely reserved
for your invincible heart and stupendous courage. Come with me, most
illustrious sir, and I will show you the hidden marvels of this trans-
parent castle of which I am the governor and perpetual guardian; for
I am Montesinos himself, after whom the cave is named.'

"No sooner had he informed me that he was Montesinos than I
asked him if the story was true that was told in the world above, to
the effect that with a small dagger he had cut out the heart of his great
friend Durandarte and had borne it to the lady Belerma as his friend
at the point of death had requested him to do. He replied that it was
all true except the part about the dagger, for it was not a dagger, nor
was it small, but a burnished poniard sharper than an awl."

"It must have been such a poniard," said Sancho at this point, "as
that of Ram6n de Hoces of Seville."287

"I cannot say as to that," replied Don Quixote, "for Ramon de Hoces
lived only yesterday and the battle of Roncesvalles, where this unfor-
tunate affair occurred, was many years ago; and, in any case, it does
not alter in any way the truth and substance of the tale."

"That is right," said the cousin. "Continue, Senor Don Quixote, for
I am listening to your Grace with the greatest of pleasure."

"And mine in relating the story is no less," Don Quixote assured him.
"And so, as I am saying, the venerable Montesinos took me into the
crystal palace, where, in a low room that was made entirely of alabaster
and very cool, I beheld a tomb fashioned out of marble with masterly
craftsmanship, and upon it lay a knight stretched at full length. He
was not a bronze knight, nor one of marble or of jasper, as you see on
other tombs; he was of actual flesh and bone. His right hand, which
seemed to me somewhat hairy and sinewy, a sign that its owner had
been possessed of great strength--his right hand lay upon his heart;
and before I could ask any questions, Montesinos, seeing how amazed I
was, went on to explain.

'This,' he said, 'is my friend Durandarte, flower and mirror of the
brave and enamored knights of his age. Merlin, that French enchanter,
who they say was the devil's own son,288 holds him here under a spell
as he does me and many other knights and ladies. How or why he did
it to us, no one knows; but time will tell, and it is my belief that the
time is not far off. What astonishes me is the fact that it is as certain
that Durandarte died in my arms as it is that it is now day; and there is
likewise no doubt that after his death I took out his heart with my own
hands. It weighed all of two pounds; for according to the naturalists
he who has a large heart is endowed with greater valor than he who
has a small one.289 And if it is true, then, that this knight really died,
how is it that he still sighs and laments from time to time as though
he were alive?'

"As Montesinos said this, the wretched Durandarte cried out in a loud
voice:

　　　　　　'O my cousin Montesinos!
　　　　　　the last request I made of thee
　　　　　　was that when I should be lying
　　　　　　cold in death, thou wouldst favor me
　　　　　　by bearing this my captive heart
　　　　　　to fair Belerma where'er she be,
　　　　　　and ripping it from out my bosom
　　　　　　with knife or dagger, set it free.'290

"Hearing these words, the venerable Montesinos knelt before the
unfortunate knight and addressed him with tears in his eyes. 'Long
since, O dearest cousin, Senor Durandarte, I did what you requested
of me on that bitter day when we lost you. I took out your heart as well
as I could, without leaving the smallest particle of it in your breast. I
cleaned it with a lace handkerchief and set out for France with it, having
first laid you in the bosom of the earth with enough tears to wash my
hands of the blood that stained them after they had been in your en-
trails. What is more, beloved cousin, at the first village I came to after
leaving Roncesvalles I put a little salt upon your heart so that it would
not have an unpleasant odor but would remain, if not fresh, at least
well preserved when I came to present it to the lady Belerma.

"'That lady, like you and me and Guadiana your squire and the
duenna Ruidera and her seven daughters and two nieces and many
others among your friends and acquaintances, has been held here many
a year through Merlin's magic art; and although more than five hundred
years have passed, not a one of us has died. The only ones that are miss-
ing are Ruidera, her daughters and her nieces, for Merlin would seem
to have taken pity on their tears and has transformed them into an
equal number of lakes which today, in the world of the living and the
province of La Mancha, are known as the Lakes of Ruidera.291 Seven
of them belong to the King of Spain, and the two nieces to the knights
of a very holy order called the Order of St. John.292

"'As for Guadiana, your squire, weeping for your sad fate, he was
transformed into a river of the same name. When he came to the sur-
face and beheld the sun of that other heaven, he was so grieved at
thought of leaving you that he plunged down into the bowels of the
earth once more; but inasmuch as he must needs yield to his natural
current, he rises again from time to time where men and the sun may
see him.293 The said lakes supply him with their waters, and with these
and many others that reach him he enters Portugal with great pomp.
But, for all of that, wherever he goes he is still sad and melancholy and
does not pride himself upon breeding dainty fish of the kind that are
sought after, but only coarse ones lacking in flavor, quite different from
those of the Tagus with its golden sands.

'All this, O cousin, I have told you many times; and since you do
not answer me, I am led to think that you do not believe me, or it may
be you do not hear, all of which pains me, God only knows how much.
But now I have some news to give you which, if it does not assuage
your grief, will not add to it in any way. Know that here in your
presence--you have but to open your eyes and you will see him--is
that great knight of whom the wise Merlin prophesied so many things,
I mean the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, who once again and
to better advantage than in past ages has undertaken to revive in this
present age the long-forgotten profession of knight-errantry. It may
be that, thanks to his favor and mediation, we shall be disenchanted; for
great exploits are reserved for great men.'294

"'And even if it be not so,' replied the wretched Durandarte in a low,
faint voice, 'and even if it be not so, O cousin, I say to you: patience,
and shuffle.'295 And, turning on his side, he relapsed into his accustomed
silence without uttering another word.

"At that moment a great outcry was heard, accompanied by the
sound of weeping, profound sighs, and anguished sobs; and I turned
my head and saw, through the crystal walls, a procession of exceed-
ingly lovely damsels passing through another chamber. There were
two rows of them, and they were all clad in mourning with white tur-
bans on their heads after the Turkish fashion. At the end of the pro-
cession came a lady, as was to be seen from her dignified appearance,
who wore a flowing white veil so long that it touched the ground. Her
turban was twice as large as the largest of the others, her eyebrows
were so close together that they met, her nose was somewhat flat and
her mouth wide, but her lips were red; her teeth, when she displayed
them, were seen to be few and uneven but white as peeled almonds.
In her hands she carried a fine piece of cloth, and wrapped in it, so far
as could be made out, was a mummified heart, all dried and withered.

"Montesinos informed me that all these people in the procession were
the attendants of Durandarte and Belerma who had been enchanted
along with their master and mistress, and that the last one, with the
heart in her hands, was the lady Belerma herself, who with her damsels
was accustomed to parade like this four days a week, singing, or
rather weeping, dirges over the heart and body of his unfortunate
cousin. He added that in case she impressed me as being somewhat ugly,
or at any rate not as beautiful as report would have it, this was due
to the bad nights and worse days that she spent as an enchanted being,
as I could see for myself from the circles under her eyes and her sickly
hue.

"'And do not think,' continued Montesinos, 'that her sallowness and
those circles are due to an affliction that is common to women at a cer-
tain period of the month, for it has been many months and even years
since she has had that experience. It is, rather, the grief that she feels
in her heart for that other heart she holds in her hands, which but
serves to bring back to memory and revive the misfortune that befell
her ill-starred lover. If it were not for that, even the great Dulcinea del
Toboso, so famous in these parts and throughout the world, would
scarcely equal her in beauty, grace, and dashing manner.'

"'Hold there, Schor Don Montesinos!' said I at this point. 'Your
Grace should tell your story in the proper way for, as you know, all
comparisons are odious.296 There is no reason for comparing anybody
with anybody. The peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is who she is and has
been, and let the matter rest there.'

"'Senor Don Quixote,' he replied to me, 'forgive me, your Grace. I
confess that I was wrong in saying that Senora Dulcinea could scarcely
equal Senora Belcrma; for by some means or other I have learned that
your Grace is her knight, and that is enough to make me bite my tongue
out before comparing her with anything but Heaven itself.'

"And so the great Montesinos having given me this satisfaction, my
heart recovered from the shock it had received when I heard my lady
mentioned in the same breath with his."

"But," said Sancho, "I still can't help wondering why your Grace
didn't jump on the old fellow and kick his bones to a pulp and pull his
beard until there wasn't a hair left in it."

"No, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "it would not have been
right for me to do that, for we are all of us obliged to respect the
aged, even though they be knights, and especially when they are
under a magic spell. But I can tell you that we came off even in all
the other questions and answers that passed between us."

The cousin now put in a word. "I do not understand, Senor Don
Quixote," he said, "how your Grace in the short time you were down
there could have seen so many things and done so much talking.

"How long has it been since I went down?" asked Don Quixote.

"A little more than an hour," Sancho told him.

"That cannot be," said the knight, "for night fell and day dawned,
and it was day and night three times altogether; so that, according to my
count, it was three whole days that I spent in those remote regions that
are hidden from our sight."

"My master," averred Sancho, "must be speaking the truth; for since
all the things that happened to him came about through magic, who
knows--what seemed to us an hour may have been three days and nights
for him."

"That is right," said Don Quixote.

"And did your Grace eat in all that time?" the cousin inquired.

"Not a mouthful," replied Don Quixote, "nor did I feel the least bit
hungry."

"Then, those that are enchanted do not eat?" the student persisted.

"They neither eat nor are they subject to the major excretions," was
Don Quixote's answer, "although it is believed that their nails, beard,
and hair continue to grow."

"And do they sleep by any chance?" asked Sancho.

"No, certainly not," said Don Quixote, "or, at least, during the three
days I was with them, none of them shut an eye, and the same was true
of me."

"The proverb, 'Tell me what company you keep and I'll tell you
what you are,'297 fits in here," observed Sancho. "Seeing your Grace
has been keeping company with the bewitched, who fast and stay
awake, it is small wonder if you didn't sleep either while you were
with them. But forgive me, master, if I tell you that God--I was about
to say the devil--may take me if I believe a word of your Grace's story."

"How is that?" asked the cousin. "Do you mean to say that Senor
Don Quixote is lying--Why, even if he wished to, he had no oppor-
tunity to imagine and invent such a lot of falsehoods."

"I do not think that my master is lying," said Sancho.

"Well, then, what do you think?" Don Quixote wanted to know.

"I think," replied Sancho, "that Merlin or those enchanters that laid
a spell on the whole crew you say you saw and talked with down there
have put into your noddle or your memory all this rigmarole that
you've been telling us, and all that remains to be told."

"Such a thing could be," said Don Quixote, "but it is not so in this
case; for I have simply told you what I saw with my own eyes and
felt with my own hands. Montesinos showed me countless other mar-
velous things which I will relate to you in due time and at leisure in the
course of our journey, for this is not the place to speak of them. But
what will you say when I tell you he pointed out to me three peasant
lasses who were gamboling and disporting themselves like goats in those
lovely meadows; and no sooner did I see them than I recognized one
of them as being the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso and the other two
as the same girls who had come with her and with whom we spoke
upon the El Toboso road.

"I asked Montesinos if he knew them and he replied that he did not,
but that he thought they must be some highborn ladies with a spell upon
them. He added that they had arrived but a few days ago, which to
me was not surprising in view of the fact that many other ladies of the
present time as well as of past ages were to be found there in various
strange and enchanted shapes, among whom he said he recognized
Queen Guinevere and her duenna Quintanona, she who poured the wine
for Lancelot 'when from Britain he came.'"298

As he heard his master say this, Sancho Panza thought he would lose
his mind or die of laughing. Knowing as he did the truth respecting
Dulcinea's supposed enchantment, since he himself had been the en-
chanter and the concoctor of the evidence, he now was convinced be-
yond a doubt that the knight was out of his senses and wholly mad.

"It was an evil hour, my dear master," he said, "a worse season, and
a sad day when your Grace went down into the other world, and an
unlucky moment when you met that Senor Montesinos, who has sent
you back to us like this. You would have been better off if you had
stayed up here, with all your wits about you as God gave them to you,
speaking in proverbs and giving advice at every step of the way, in
place of telling us the most foolish stories that could be imagined."

"Knowing you as I do, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I take no ac-
count of your words."

"Nor I of your Grace's," was the reply, "even though you beat me
or kill me for those I have already spoken or those that I mean to speak,
unless you correct and mend your own. But tell me, seeing that we are
now at peace: how or by what sign did you recognize the lady who is
our mistress--Did you speak to her, and if so, what did you say and
what did she answer you?"

"I recognized her," said Don Quixote, "by the fact that she wore the
same clothes that she did when you first made me acquainted with her.
I spoke to her, but she did not answer a word; she merely turned her
back on me and fled so swiftly that a bolt from a crossbow would not
have overtaken her. I was for following her and should have done so
had not Montesinos advised me not to waste my strength as it would
be in vain; and, moreover, the hour had come for me to leave the
cavern. He further assured me that, in the course of time, he would let
me know how he and Belerma and Durandarte and all the others who
were there had been disenchanted. What gave me the most pain, how-
ever, of all the things that I saw and observed, was this. Even as Monte-
sinos was speaking, one of the damsels who accompanied the hapless
Dulcinea came up to me from one side, without my having noticed her,
and, her eyes brimming with tears, addressed me in a low and troubled
voice.

"'My lady Dulcinea del Toboso,' she said, 'kisses your Grace's hand
and implores your Grace to do her the favor of informing her how
you are; and being in great want, she also begs your Grace in all
earnestness to be so good as to lend her, upon this new dimity petticoat
that I am wearing, half a dozen reales or whatever your Grace may
have upon you, and she gives you her word that she will pay them
back just as soon as she can.'

"I was astonished to receive such a message as this, and, turning to
Senor Montesinos, I asked him, 'Is it possible, sir, for the highborn
who have been enchanted to suffer want?' To which he made the fol-
lowing reply:

"'Believe me, your Grace, Senor Don Quixote de la Mancha, this
thing that is called want is to be found everywhere; it extends to and
reaches all persons and does not even spare the enchanted; and since the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso has sent you a request for those six reales and
has offered you good security, there is nothing to be done, as I see it,
but to give them to her, for she must undoubtedly be hard pressed.'

"'Security I will not take,' I told him, 'nor can I give her what she
asks, for I have only four reales on me.'

"With this, I handed the coins to the damsel--they were the ones that
you let me have the other day to bestow as alms upon the poor that I
might meet with along the road.

"'Tell your lady, my dear,' I said, 'that her sufferings weigh upon
my heart, and that I only wish I were a Fugger299 that I might cure
them. And you may inform her, further, that there can be no such thing
as health for me so long as I am deprived of the pleasure of seeing her
and enjoying her discreet conversation. Tell her, also, that I most
earnestly beg her Grace to permit herself to be seen and addressed by
her captive servant and world-weary knight, and that when she least ex-
pects it she will hear that I have taken an oath and made a vow similar
to that of the Marquis of Mantua, who swore to avenge his nephew,
Baldwin, that time he found him expiring in the heart of the moun-
tains,300 his vow being not to eat bread off a cloth, along with other
trifling stipulations which he added, until vengeance had been had.
For I mean to take no rest but to roam the seven parts of the world
more faithfully than did the prince Dom Pedro of Portugal301 until I
shall have freed her from this spell.'

"'All this and more you owe my lady,' was the damsel's answer; and,
taking the four reales, in place of dropping a curtsy she cut a caper,
leaping more than two yards into the air."

"Holy God!" cried Sancho as Don Quixote reached this point of his
story. "Can it be that there are in this world enchanters of such power
that they have changed my master's good sense into such madness as
this--O master, master! in God's name, think what you are doing, look
to your Grace's honor, and do not go believing all this nonsense that
has turned your head and left you short of wit."

"It is because you love me, Sancho, that you talk that way," said
Don Quixote. "Since you are not experienced in worldly matters, every-
thing that is a little difficult seems to you impossible; but, as I said be-
fore, I will tell you more later on of what I saw down there, and you
shall hear things that will compel you to believe that what I have already
told you is the truth and admits of neither question nor reply."



CHAPTER XXIV.

Wherein are related a thousand trifling matters as inconsequential
as they are necessary to the proper understanding of this great history.



He who translated this great history from the original manuscript
left by its author, Cid Hamete Benengeli, states that when he came to
the chapter dealing with the adventure in the Cave of Montesinos, he
found in the margin, in Hamete's own handwriting, these words:

"I cannot bring myself to believe that everything set down in the
preceding chapter actually happened to the valiant Don Quixote. The
reason is that all the adventures that have taken place up to now have
been both possible and likely seeming, but as for this one of the cave,
I see no way in which I can accept it as true, as it is so far beyond the
bounds of reason. On the other hand, it is impossible for me to believe
that Don Quixote lied, since he is the truest gentleman and noblest
knight of his age and would not utter a falsehood if he were to be shot
through with arrows; and, furthermore, I must take into account that
he related the story in great detail and that in so brief a space of time
as that he could not have fabricated such a farrago of nonsense. Ac-
cordingly, I would state that if the episode has the appearance of being
apocryphal, the fault is not mine, and so, without asserting that it is
either false or true, I write it down. You, wise reader, may decide for
yourself; for I cannot, nor am I obliged, to do any more. It is definitely
reported, however, that at the time of his death he retracted what he
had said, confessing that he had invented the incident because it seemed
to him to fit in well with those adventures that he had read of in his
storybooks.'*

After that, the chronicle continues.

The cousin was astonished at Sancho's boldness and his master's pa-
tience and concluded that the good humor which the knight displayed
on that occasion came from the happiness he felt at having seen his
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, even though she was enchanted. Otherwise,
Sancho deserved a clubbing for the things he had said, for he had cer-
tainly been rather impudent. It was to the knight that the student now
addressed himself.

"I, Senor Don Quixote de la Mancha," he said, "look upon this jour-
ney I have made with you as having been exceedingly worth while,
since from it I have gained four things. In the first place, I have made
your Grace's acquaintance, which I hold to be a great good fortune.
In the second place, I have learned what lies hidden in this Cave of
Montesinos and have heard of the mutations of Guadiana and of the
Lakes of Ruidera, all of which will stand me in good stead in connec-
tion with my Spanish Ovid which I now have under way.

"Thirdly, I have discovered something about the antiquity of play-
ing cards;302 for so far as I was able to gather from Durandarte's words
as your Grace quoted them, they must have been in use in the time
of the Emperor Charlemagne, After Montesinos had been talking to
him for some time, Durandarte awoke and said, 'Patience, and shuffle.'
He could not have learned to speak in that manner after he had been
enchanted, but only before the spell had been put upon him, that is
to say, in France and in Charlemagne's time. And the verification of
this point will come in very pat in another book which I am composing,
called Supplement to Virgilius Polydorus on the Invention of Antiqui-
ties; for I believe that in his book he forgot to say anything about
cards, and so, if I put it in mine, it will be of very great importance, espe-
cially when I am able to cite so distinguished and unimpeachable an
authority as Senor Durandarte.

"And fourthly," he concluded, "I have established for a certainty
what the source of the Guadiana River is, which up to now has not
been known."

"Your Grace is right," said Don Quixote, "but what I should like
to know is, if by God's favor they grant you a license to print those
books, which I doubt, to whom do you propose to dedicate them?"

"There are lords and grandees in Spain," replied the cousin, "to whom
they can be dedicated."

"Not many of them," said Don Quixote. "Not that they do not de-
serve, such a tribute, but because they do not care to accept it, as they
do not wish to feel obliged to give the authors the reward that is ob-
viously due them for their courtesy and their pains. But I know a prince
who could more than make up for the others--by how much more I
should not venture to say, lest perchance I should arouse envy in more
than one noble bosom.303 But let us leave this subject for a more con-
venient time and see what we can do about finding a lodging for the
night."

"Not far from here," said the cousin, "is a hermitage, and the hermit
who makes his dwelling there is said to have been a soldier and is re-
puted to be a good Christian, and, moreover, he is very wise and charita-
ble. Adjoining the hermitage is a little house which he has put up at
his own expense, and, although small, it is large enough to accommodate
guests."

"Does that hermit you are speaking of by any chance keep hens?"
Sancho asked.

"Few hermits are without them," said Don Quixote; "for those of
today are not like the ones that dwelt in the deserts of Egypt, who
clothed themselves in palm leaves and lived on the roots of the earth.
And do not think that by praising the latter I am disparaging the
former. What I mean to say is that the penances they do now cannot
compare in rigor and harshness with those performed in olden times.
This is not to say that they are not all of them good men, for I look
upon them as such; and if worst comes to worst, the hypocrite who pre-
tends to be good does less harm than the flagrant sinner.

While they were engaged in this conversation, they saw approach-
ing them a man on foot, walking along swiftly and beating a mule that
was laden down with lances and halberds. As he came up to them, he
greeted them and was about to pass on when Don Quixote spoke to him.

"Hold, my good man," said the knight. "You seem to be in more of
a hurry than your mule."

"I cannot stop, sir," the man replied, "for the arms that you see here
are to be used tomorrow and I cannot afford to lose any time. Adios.
But in case you would like to know more about the matter, I intend
to put up tonight at the inn that is just beyond the hermitage, and
if you happen to be going the same way you will find me there, where
I will tell you marvels. And so, once more, adios."

With this he prodded his mule so hard that Don Quixote did not
have a chance to ask him what kind of marvels he meant. Being more
than a little curious and never able to rest when there was something
new to be learned, the knight decided that they would set out at once
and spend the night at the inn without stopping at the hermitage which
the cousin had suggested as their lodging; and, mounting once more,
they all three made straight for the hostelry (where they arrived a
little before nightfall). The cousin, on the way,304 had proposed to Don
Quixote that they go up to the hermitage and have a drink, and no
sooner did Sancho Panza hear this than he turned his gray's head in
that direction, followed by Don Quixote and the student. But Sancho's
bad luck would seem to have ordained that the hermit should not be
at home, as they were informed by a feminine sub-hermit.305 When
they asked her for a little of the best, she replied that her master did
not have any, but if they cared for some of the cheap water306 she would
give it to them with great pleasure.

"If I found any pleasure in water," replied Sancho, "there are wells
along the road where I could have satisfied my thirst. Ah, that wedding
of Camacho's and all the good things they had in Don Diego's house,
how I miss you!"

They then left the hermitage and spurred toward the inn, and had
gone but a short distance when they overtook a youth who was walk-
ing along leisurely in front of them. He had a sword over his shoulder,
and attached to it was a bundle, consisting apparently of his clothes,
in all likelihood his trousers or breeches, a cloak, and a shirt or two.
He was dressed in a short velvet jacket that was shiny as satin in spots,
his shirt was showing, his stockings were of silk, and his shoes were
of the square-toed variety in use at court.307 He was around eighteen or
nineteen years of age, with a merry countenance and a seemingly agile
body, and he was singing short-meter ballads308 as he went along, to
while away the tedium of his journey. He had just finished a song
which the cousin proceeded to memorize and which went like this:

　　　　　　My purse is lean, so to war I go;
　　　　　　If I had money, more sense I'd show.

Don Quixote was the first to address the youth. "Your Grace is
traveling very lightly, gallant sir," he said. "Whither are you bound,
may we ask, if it be your pleasure to tell us?"

"My traveling so lightly," the young fellow answered him, "is to be
explained by the heat and by my poverty, and as to where I am going,
I am off to war."

"What do you mean by poverty?" asked Don Quixote. "The heat I
.can understand."

"Sir," the youth replied, "I carry in this bundle a few pairs of velvet
breeches to go with this jacket. If I wear them out along the way, I'll
have no decent clothes when I reach the city, and I have no money
with which to buy others. For that reason, as well as to keep myself
cool, I am traveling in this manner until I overtake some companies of
infantry that are not twelve leagues from here. I intend to enlist, and
there will be no lack of baggage trains in which to travel from then
on until we reach the port of embarkation, which they say is to be
Cartagena. I would rather have the king for a master and serve him in
war than wait on some pauper at court."

"And does not your Grace have any allowance?" inquired the cousin.

"If I had served some grandee of Spain or other highly placed per-
sonage," said the youth, "you may be sure that I'd have one. That is
what comes of having a good master: from the servants' hall you may
rise to be a lieutenant or a captain or get a good pension; but it was
always my luck to be attached to some upstart or fortune-hunter where
the keep and wages were so wretchedly slim that by the time you paid
for the starching of a collar, half of it would be gone, and it would be
a miracle indeed if a luckless page was ever able to lay by anything."

"But tell me, friend, upon your life," said Don Quixote, "is it possible
that during all the years of your service you have not been able to
acquire a livery?"

"Yes," replied the page, "they gave me two suits of livery; but just
as they take away the habit from a novice who leaves an order before
making his vows, and give him back his own clothes, so did my masters
return mine to me; for as soon as their business at court was finished,
they went home, taking with them the liveries which they had given
their servants merely for purposes of show."

"What spilorceria!309 as the Italians would say," exclaimed Don Quix-
ote. "But for all that, you are to be congratulated on having left the
court with so worthy an object in view; for there is nothing on earth
more honorable or useful than, first of all, to serve God, and, after that,
one's king and rightful lord. This is especially true of the profession
of arms, by which more honor if not more wealth is to be attained
than by following that of letters, as I have said many times.310 Granting
it is true that letters have founded more great houses than have arms,
nevertheless, arms have somewhat of an advantage over letters, being
accompanied by a certain splendor with which nothing else can com-
pare. Be sure that you remember what I am about to say to you now,
as it will be of great profit and comfort to you under hardship: do not
let your mind dwell upon the adversities that may befall you, for the
worst of them is death, and if it be a good death, the best fate of all
is to die.

"When they asked Julius Caesar, that valiant Roman emperor, what
the best death was, he replied: that which comes unexpectedly, sud-
denly, without having been foreseen; and although he spoke as a pagan
who did not know the true God, yet from the point of view of human
feeling he was right. Supposing that they kill you in the first skirmish
or encounter, or that you are struck down by a cannon ball, blown up
by a mine, what does it matter--You die, and that is the end of it. Ac-
cording to Terence, the soldier who dies in battle is more to be admired
than the one who lives and seeks safety in flight,311 and the good soldier
achieves fame through obedience to his captain and others in command.

"Remember, my son, that to a soldier the smell of gunpowder is more
pleasing than that of civet, and if old age comes upon you while you
are still engaged in that honorable calling, even though you be full of
wounds and maimed and crippled, at least it will not find you bereft
of honor of a kind that poverty cannot diminish. What is more, pro-
visions are now being made for giving aid and relief to old and disabled
soldiers; for it is not right to treat them after the manner of certain
persons who, when their aged blacks can be of no further use to them,
turn the poor creatures out of the house under pretense of freeing them,
only to make them the slaves of hunger from which death alone can
liberate them. For the present, I do not care to say anything more to
you, except that you should get up on the crupper of my steed and
accompany me to the inn where you will sup with me; and tomorrow
you shall go your way and may God speed you in accordance with the
worthiness of your intentions."

The page did not accept the invitation to mount behind Don Quixote,
but he did consent to have supper with him; all of which led Sancho
to indulge in a few reflections.

"God help you, what a master!" he thought to himself. "Is it pos-
sible that a man who can say as many wise things as you have just
said could have told the nonsensical and impossible tale that you did
of the Cave of Montesinos--Well, well, we shall see."

They had reached the inn by now, just as night was falling, and San-
cho was pleased to see that his master took it for a real inn this time
and not for a castle as was his wont. As soon as they entered, Don
Quixote inquired of the landlord if the man with the lances and halberds
was there and was informed that the fellow was in the stable looking
after his mule. The cousin312 and Sancho therefore proceeded to follow
his example, seeing to it that Rocinante had the best stall and manger
in the place.



CHAPTER XXV.

Wherein is set down the braying adventure and the droll one of the
puppet master, along with the memorable divinations of the divining ape.



DON QUIXOTE'S bread would not bake,313 as the saying goes, un-
til he had heard the marvels which the man conveying the arms had
promised to relate to him, and he accordingly went out to look for the
fellow where the innkeeper had said that he was to be found. Coming
upon him there, the knight urged him by all means to give him an im-
mediate answer to the question which he had asked of him upon the
highway.

"Not so fast," said the man. "My tale of wonders is not one that can
be told standing up; but if you will wait, my good sir, until I have fin-
ished bedding down my beast, you shall hear things that will astonish
you."

"Don't let that detain you," said Don Quixote. "I'll lend you a hand."
And so he did, by sifting out the barley and cleaning the manger, an
act of humility which made the man feel obliged to tell the knight with
good grace all that he wished to know. And so, seating himself upon
a bench with Don Quixote beside him and with the cousin, the page,
Sancho Panza, and the innkeeper as senate and audience, the one of
the lances and halberds began his story in the following manner:

"Your Worships must know that in a village four leagues and a half
from this inn there lives an alderman314 who, through the scheming
and trickery of a servant girl of his, came to lose an ass, and although
he searched everywhere for it he was unable to find it. A couple of
weeks or so, according to report, had gone by when, as he was standing
one day in the public square, another alderman accosted him. 'Reward
me for bringing you good news,315 friend,' the other man said, 'your
ass has shown up.'

"That I will, and gladly,' replied the owner of the ass, 'but tell me,
where was he found?'

"'In the woods,' was the answer. 'I saw him this morning, without
a packsaddle or harness of any kind and so lean-looking that it was
really pitiful. I wanted to drive him home for you, but he is already
so wild and shy that everytime I went up to him he would run away
into the thickest part of the forest. If you like, we will both go back
and hunt for him. Just let me put this she-ass in the stable and I'll be
with you in a moment.'

"'You will be doing me a great favor,' said the owner of the ass that
was lost, 'and I will try to pay you back in the same coin.'

"All those that know the truth of the matter," the man who was
conveying the weapons went on, "tell the story in the same way that
I am telling it to you, with all these details. In short, the two aldermen
set out for the forest, on foot and arm in arm, but when they came to
the place where they thought the ass would be, they discovered no
trace of him, nor were they able, however much they searched, to
find him anywhere around.

"Whereupon the alderman who had had a glimpse of the beast said
to the other one, 'See here, my friend, I've just thought of a plan that
will undoubtedly enable us to discover this animal even though he has
hidden himself in the bowels of the earth, not to speak of the forest.
As it happens, I know how to bray marvelously well, and if you are at
all good at it, then regard the thing as accomplished.'

"'Do I know how to bray?' said the other. 'By God, when it comes
to that, I won't take second place to anybody, not even to the asses
themselves.'

"'We shall see as to that presently,' said the second alderman. 'It is
my plan for you to take one side of the woods and I the other in such
a way as to make a complete circuit; and every so often you will bray
and I will bray, and the ass cannot fail to hear and answer us if he is
in this forest at all.'

"'I assure you, my friend,' replied the owner of the beast, 'your
plan is an excellent one and worthy of your great intellect.'

"They then separated as they had agreed to do, and as it happened,
they both brayed at practically the same moment, and each deceived
by the other came running up, thinking that the ass had put in an ap-
pearance.

"'Is it possible, my friend,' said the one who had lost the animal, 'that
it was not my ass that brayed?'

"'No,' said the other, 'it was I.'

"'Well, in that case,' said the owner, 'there is not the slightest differ-
ence between you and an ass so far as braying is concerned, for I never
in my life heard anything that sounded more like it.'

"'That compliment,' replied the one who had thought up the plot,
'is one that is better suited to you than to me, my friend, for by the
God that made me, you can give a couple of brays by way of odds
to the best and most skillful brayer in the world. Your voice is deep, the
tone sustained, the time and pitch are excellent, and the cadenzas are
magnificent.316 The short of it is, I yield you the palm and banner for
this rare accomplishment.'

"'In that case,' said the owner of the ass, 'I am going to have a little
higher opinion of myself from now on, in the belief that I know some-
thing, seeing that I possess at least one talent. Although I thought that
I brayed very well, I never knew I was as good as all that.'

"'And I will further assert,' said the second alderman, 'that there are
rare gifts going to waste in this world for the reason that those who
possess them do not know how to make proper use of them.'

"'Ours,' replied his friend, 'cannot be of much use save in cases like
the present one; but please God it may aid us here.'

"Following this conversation, they parted once more and went back
to their braying, but they continued to mistake each other for the ass
and meet again. Finally, they hit upon a countersign to distinguish
themselves from the donkey: it was agreed that each should bray twice
in succession; and in this manner, repeating their calls at every step
they took, they made the circuit of the entire wood, but the ass did not
answer them or give any sign of his presence. Indeed, how could the
poor unfortunate beast have done so--For at last they found him in
the thick of the forest, devoured by wolves.

"'I wondered why he did not answer,' said his owner, 'for if he had
not been dead, he would surely have brayed when he heard us, or he
would not have been an ass. However, in exchange for having heard
you bray so prettily, my friend, I count all the trouble I have had in
looking for him as worth my while, even though I find him like this.'

"'After you, my friend,'317 the other replied. 'If the abbot sings well,
the acolyte is not far behind.'318

"Hoarse and disappointed, they then returned to their village, where
they told their friends, neighbors, and acquaintances all that had hap-
pened as they were searching for the ass, each one extolling the other's
skill at braying; all of which was rumored about and discussed in the
neighboring hamlets. Now, the devil as you know never sleeps but
is fond of sowing and spreading discord and resentments everywhere,
carrying gossip on the wind and creating quarrels out of nothing; and
the devil it was who ordained and saw to it that the people of the other
villages, when they met someone from ours, should promptly start bray-
ing, as if they were throwing up to us the accomplishment of our aider-
men. Then the small lads took to it, and that was worse than all Hell
itself. Thus the braying spread from one town to another, until now
the natives of our village are well known and stand out as much as
blacks do from whites; and the sorry joke has been carried so far that
the victims have on many occasions sallied forth in an armed band
and well-formed squadron to give battle to the ones who mock them,
and neither king nor rook, fear nor shame, can remedy matters.

"Tomorrow or the day after," the speaker concluded, "I think the
people of my village--that is to say, the brayers--mean to take the field
against another town which is two leagues from ours and which is one
of those that persecute us most. And in order that they may go forth
well prepared, I am taking them those lances and halberds that you
saw. These are the marvelous things I was going to tell you about,
and if you do not think they are wonderful, I don't know any others."

With these words the good man finished his story, and at that mo-
ment there came through the gate of the inn a man all clad in chamois
skin, hose, breeches, and a doublet.

"Have you a lodging, mine host?" he asked. "Here comes the di-
vining ape and the spectacle of the freeing of Melisendra."

"Body of so-and-so,' exclaimed the innkeeper, "if it isn't Master
Pedro! We're going to have a fine night of it."

(I neglected to mention that the said Master Pedro had a patch of
green taffeta over one eye and the whole side of his face, showing that
something ailed it.)

"Your Grace is very welcome, Senor Master Pedro," said the land-
lord, "but where are the ape and the show--I don't see them."

"They are near at hand," replied the chamois-clad arrival. "I came
on ahead to find out if you could put us up."

"I'd turn out the Duke of Alva himself to make room for you,"
the innkeeper assured him. "Bring on the show, for there are those
in the inn tonight that will pay to see it and to watch that ape's clever
tricks."

"Very well," said the one with the patch. "I will lower my price
and will consider myself well paid if I make expenses. I'll go back now
and bring on the cart." And, with this, he left the inn.

Don Quixote then inquired of the innkeeper who Master Pedro was
and asked, also, concerning the show and the ape.

"This man," replied the landlord, "is a puppet master319 who for a
long time now has been roaming this Mancha de Aragon region,320 giv-
ing a performance that shows the freeing of Melisendra by the famous
Don Gaiferos,321 which is one of the most interesting and best-staged
stories that has been seen in this part of the kingdom for many a year.
In addition, he carries with him one of the cleverest apes that you
ever saw; indeed, you cannot imagine his like among men, for if you
ask him anything, after listening carefully to what you say, he will
jump up on his master's shoulder and whisper the answer in his ear,
and then Master Pedro will announce it. He can tell you a good deal
more about past events than he can about those that are to come, and
although he does not always hit the truth, in most cases he does not
miss it, until we are forced to think that he has the devil in him.

"He gets two reales for every question if the ape answers it--I mean,
if his master does after the ape has whispered it to him. And, as a result,
it is believed that Master Pedro is a very rich man. He is a 'gallant
man,' as they say in Italy, and a 'good companion,'322 and leads the finest
kind of life; he talks more than six men, and drinks more than a dozen,
all at the expense of his tongue, his ape, and his puppet show."

At this point Master Pedro returned, bringing with him in a cart
his puppet theater and a big tailless ape with hindquarters that were as
bare as a piece of felt. It was not a vicious-looking animal, however.

"Sir Diviner," said Don Quixote the moment he caught sight of the
beast, "can your Grace tell me what fish we are going to catch323 and
how we are going to make out--See, here are my two reales." And he
ordered Sancho to give the coins to Master Pedro, who replied in the
ape's behalf.

"Senor," he said, "this animal does not answer any questions con-
cerning things that are to come, but he knows something concerning
the past and more or less about the present."

"Pshaw!"324 exclaimed Sancho. "I wouldn't give a penny to be told
my past, since who can know it better than I--It would be foolish to
pay you for that. But since he knows the present also, here are my
two reales, and let this Sir Ape of Apes325 tell me what my wife, Teresa
Panza, is doing right now and how she is amusing herself."

Master Pedro, however, declined to take the money. "I accept no
fees in advance," he said; "you can pay me when the service has been
rendered." Saying this, he slapped his left shoulder a couple of times,
and with a single bound the ape was there and with his mouth close
to his master's ear began chattering his teeth very rapidly. Having kept
this up for the time it takes to say a Credo, he gave another leap and
was back on the ground once more. In great haste Pedro then ran over
and threw himself upon his knees before Don Quixote, embracing
the knight's legs.

"I embrace these legs as I would the columns of Hercules, O illus-
trious reviver of the now-forgotten profession of knight-errantry, O
Don Quixote de la Mancha, thou who canst never be praised enough,
bringer of courage to the faint of heart, support of those that are about
to fall, arm of the fallen, staff and counsel of all the unfortunate!"

Upon hearing these words, Don Quixote was astounded, Sancho was
amazed, the cousin was staggered, the page was astonished, the man
from the braying town was dumfounded, the landlord was bewildered,
and all present were filled with wonder.

"And thou, O worthy Sancho Panza," the puppet master went on,
"the best squire to the best knight in the world, be of good cheer, for
your good wife Teresa is well and at this moment is engaged in hackling
a pound of flax. What is more, she has at her left hand a jug with a
broken spout that holds a good sip of wine to cheer her at her work."

"That I can very well believe," said Sancho, "and if it wasn't that
she is so jealous, I wouldn't change her for the giantess Andandona,326
who, according to my master, was all you could ask for in the way of a
woman. My Teresa is one of those that won't deprive themselves of
anything though their heirs may have to pay for it."

"Well, all I have to say," observed Don Quixote, "is that he who reads
much and travels far, sees much and learns a great deal. For what could
ever have led me to believe that there are apes in this world that can
divine things as I have seen this one do with my own eyes--I am that
same Don Quixote de la Mancha this animal has mentioned, though
he has gone a bit too far in his praise of me. But whatever sort of man
I may be, I thank Heaven that it has endowed me with a tender and
compassionate heart, always inclined to do good to all and evil to
none."

"If I had money," said the page, "I would ask Senor Ape what is
going to happen to me in the course of my wanderings.

Master Pedro by this time had risen from his position at Don Quixote's
feet. "I have told you," he said to the page, "that this little beast does
not answer questions about the future; if he did, it would make no
difference whether you had money or not. In order to be of service to
Don Quixote here present, I am willing to sacrifice all profits; and now,
because I have promised to do so327 and in order to afford him pleasure,
I should like to set up my show and provide amusement for all those
that are in the house, at no cost whatsoever."

Delighted at this, the landlord pointed out a place where the puppet
theater might be erected, and Master Pedro at once began his prepara-
tions. Don Quixote, meanwhile, was not wholly satisfied with the per-
formance that had just been given; for it did not seem to him quite
proper that an ape should be able to divine either past or present things.
And so, while the puppet master was getting his show ready, the knight
retired with Sancho to a corner of the stable where no one could hear
them.

"Look, Sancho," he said, "I have given considerable thought to the
extraordinary ability this ape displays, and it is my personal opinion
that Master Pedro, his owner, must have a pact with the devil, either
tacit or express."

"If the pack is express328 and from the devil," said Sancho, "then
it must undoubtedly be a dirty one; but of what use are such packs as
that to Master Pedro?"

"You don't understand me, Sancho. What I mean to say is, he must
have made some bargain with the devil for Satan to put this power into
the ape so that he, Master Pedro, can earn a living by it; and then,
when he is rich, he will give the devil his soul, which is the thing that
this enemy of mankind is after. I was led to believe this when I learned
that the animal answers only questions about the past or the present,
for that is as far as the devil's knowledge extends; he does not know
what is to be, but can only guess at it and not always rightly, since it
is for God alone to know all times and seasons, and for Him there is
no past or future but only the present.

"This being true, and true it is," the knight continued, "I wonder
that they have not denounced him to the Holy Office so that he might
be questioned and forced to confess from whom it is he derives that
power of divination. For it is certain that this ape is no astrologer;
neither he nor his master set up, nor do they know how to set up, those
figures that are known as judiciary,329 now so popular in Spain that
there is not a wench or a page or a cobbler that does not presume to
try his or her hand at them just as readily as one would pick up from
the ground a knave from a deck of cards, thus bringing to nought with
their lies and ignorance the marvelous truths of science. I know a lady
who asked one of these figure-makers if a little lap dog she had was going
to have pups and how many of them and what color they would be;
to which Sir Astrologer, after he had made his calculations, replied that
the bitch would have a litter of three, one green, one flesh-colored, and
one striped, provided she was covered between ten and eleven o'clock,
in the morning or at night, and on a Monday or a Saturday. But what
happened was, the bitch died of overeating two days later, and as a re-
sult, Sir Horoscope-caster, like most of his kind, continued to be looked
upon as being most expert in the matter of planetary science."

"But, nevertheless," said Sancho, "I wish you would have Master
Pedro ask his ape if what happened to your Grace in the Cave of
Montesinos is true or not; for, begging your Grace's pardon, it is my
opinion that it was all humbug and lies, or else it was something that you
dreamed."

"That may be," admitted Don Quixote. "In any event, I will act upon
your advice, though I have my scruples about doing so."

Master Pedro now came up to look for Don Quixote and tell him
that everything was in order for the show and that his Grace should
come see it as it was worth his while. The knight thereupon told the
puppet master what was on his mind and requested him to ask the ape
if certain things that had taken place in the Cave of Montesinos were
true or if they were but dreams, as it seemed to him they were partly
true and partly imaginary. Without a word in reply, Master Pedro
went back and got his ape and put it down in front of Don Quixote
and Sancho.

"Look, Sir Ape," he said, "this gentleman would like to know if certain
things that happened in a cave known as the Cave of Montesinos are
true or false." He then gave the accustomed signal, and the animal
jumped up on his left shoulder and to all appearances began speaking
in his ear.

"The ape," announced Master Pedro, "says that the things your Grace
saw or experienced down there are in part false and in part credible,
and that is all he can tell you. He says that if your Grace wishes to know
more, he will answer any questions you have to ask him next Friday,
as his power has left him for the present and will not return until
then."

"Didn't I tell you, my master," said Sancho, "that I couldn't believe
all those happenings in the cave that your Grace told us about were true,
or even the half of them?"

"Time will tell, Sancho," was Don Quixote's reply; "for time, the
discoverer of all things, never fails to bring them to the light of the sun
even though they be hidden in the bosom of the earth. But enough of
this. Let us go see the good Master Pedro's show, for I fancy there is go-
ing to be something novel about it "

"What do you mean, something?" said the puppet master. "This
spectacle of mine has sixty thousand novelties to offer. I assure you,
Senor Don Quixote, it is one of the things best worth seeing that are to
be found in the world today; but operibus credite, et non verbis,330 and
now, fall to! for it is growing late and we have much to do and say and
show."

Don Quixote and Sancho did as they had been requested and went to
the place where the puppet theater had been set up. It was uncovered and
surrounded on all sides by lighted wax tapers, which made it look very
bright and gay. Since he was the one who had to manipulate the puppets,
Master Pedro took his place in the rear, while out in front, to act as in-
terpreter, stood a lad who was his servant. It was the interpreter s busi-
ness to explain the mysteries of the performance, and he had a rod with
which he pointed to the figures as they came out. When all those in the
house had taken their places in front of the stage, some of them standing,
and with Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and the cousin in the best seats,
the interpreter began speaking. As to what he had to say, that will be
heard and seen by the one who reads or listens to the chapter that is to
follow.



CHAPTER XXVI.

Wherein is continued the droll adventure of the puppet master,
with other things that are truly quite good.



　　　　　　The Tyrians and Trojans were silent all,331
by which I mean to say that all those watching the show were hanging
on the lips of the one who announced its marvels, when of a sudden,
from behind the scene, there came the sound of drums and trumpets with
much artillery firing. This lasted but a short while, and then the lad
raised his voice and spoke.

"This true story,"332 he said, "which your Worships are about to wit-
ness, is taken word for word from the French chronicles and Spanish
ballads that you hear in the mouths of people everywhere, even the
young ones in the street. It tells how Senor Don Gaiferos freed his wife,
Melisendra, who was held captive by the Moors in Spain, in the city of
Sansuena, for that was the name then given to what is now known as
Saragossa. Here your Worships may see Don Gaiferos playing at back-
gammon, as in the song:

　　　　　　At backgammon playing is Don Gaiferos,
　　　　　　Melisendra' s already forgotten now.333

And that personage whom you see there, with a crown on his head and
a scepter in his hand, is the Emperor Charlemagne, Melisendra's supposed
father, who, angered by his son-in-law's idleness and unconcern, comes
to chide him. Observe how vehemently and earnestly he does it. You
would think he was going to give him half a dozen raps with his scepter,
and there are some authors who say that he did let him have it, and
properly.

"After making a long speech on how his son-in-law is imperiling his
honor by not endeavoring to procure his wife's release, Charlemagne,
according to the ballad, addresses these words to him:

　　　　　　Enough l have said; see to it.334

Your Worships will observe how the emperor turns his back on Don
Gaiferos and leaves him fretting and fuming. Impatiently and in a
towering rage, Gaiferos flings the draughtboard far from him; he hastily
asks for his armor and begs his cousin, Don Orlando, to lend him his
sword, Durindana.335 Orlando refuses to do this but offers his company in
the difficult undertaking. The valiant Gaiferos, however, in his anger
will not accept it, saying that he is well able to save his wife single-
handed though she were hidden away at the center of the earth. He then
goes to don his armor and set out on his journey.

"Notice, your Worships, the eyes on the bull you see there, which is
supposed to be one of those of the palace at Saragossa, today known as
the Aljaferia. That lady who appears upon the balcony, dressed in the
Moorish fashion, is the peerless Melisendra, who from that vantage point
often gazes out upon the road that leads from France, for this is the
way she consoles herself in her captivity, by thinking of Paris and of her
husband. Note, also, the strange thing that is about to happen now, the
like of which has never been seen before, it may be. Behold that Moor
who silently and stealthily, a finger on his mouth, creeps up behind her.
Next, he gives her a kiss full on the lips, and she cannot wait to spit it
out as she wipes her mouth with the white sleeve of her smock. Hear her
moans; watch her as she tears her hair, as if it were to blame for the
wrong that has been done her.

"That stately looking Moor you see in that corridor is King Marsilio of
Sansucna.336 He has witnessed the other Moor's insolence, and although
the man is a kinsman and a great favorite of his, he has him arrested at
once and orders that he be given two hundred lashes as he is borne
through the streets in accordance with the custom of the city,

　　　　　　　　　　　　with criers in front
　　　　　　　　　　　　and rods of justice behind.337

You will note how quickly they carry out the sentence, though the
offense has barely been committed; for with the Moors there are no in-
dictments, warrants, and similar processes as there are with us."

"Child, child," said Don Quixote in a loud voice at this point, "keep
to the straight line of your story and do not go off on curves and tan-
gents; for a great deal of proof is required in such cases."

From behind the scenes Master Pedro also spoke up. "Boy," he said,
"don't try any flourishes but do as this gentleman says, that is the safest
way. Stick to your plain song and don't try any counterpoint melodies,
for they are likely to break down from being overfine."

"I will do so," replied the lad; and then he went on, "This figure on
horseback, wearing a Gascon cloak, is Don Gaiferos himself, and this is
his wife, who has now been avenged for the enamored Moor's bold
affront. With calmer mien she has taken her place on the balcony of the
tower, from which she speaks to her husband, believing him to be some
traveler, and holds a long conversation with him:

　　　　　　　　　　　　If to France you go, Sir Knight,
　　　　　　　　　　　　Ask for Gaiferos,338

as the ballad has it. I will not repeat it all, since prolixity begets disgust.
It is enough for you to observe how Don Gaiferos makes himself known,
and how Melisendra by her happy manner shows that she has recognized
him. We now see her lowering herself from the balcony to take her
place upon the crupper of her worthy consort's steed--but ah! the un-
fortunate one! The edge of her petticoat has caught on one of the iron
railings and she is left hanging in the air, unable to reach the ground.

"But see how merciful Heaven sends aid when it is needed most. Don
Gaiferos now comes up and, without minding whether or not he tears
the rich petticoat, he brings her down by main force and then in a trice
lifts her onto his horse, seating her astride like a man and bidding her put
her arms around him so that she will not fall, for the Senora Melisendra
is not used to riding in that manner.339 See, too, how the steed neighs,
as a sign that he is proud to bear such a burden of valor and beauty in
the persons of his master and mistress. See how they wheel and leave
the city behind them and joyfully take the road for Paris. Go in peace,
O true and peerless lovers; may you find safety in your beloved father-
land, and may fortune place no obstacle in the way of your happy jour-
ney. May the eyes of your friends and kinsfolk rest upon you as you
spend in peace and tranquillity the remaining days of your life--and let
them be as many as those of Nestor!"

Here, once again, Master Pedro raised his voice. "Speak plainly, lad,
and don't indulge in any flights. All affectation is bad."

The interpreter made no reply to this, but continued as follows:

"There was no want of idle eyes of the kind that see everything; and,
seeing Melisendra descend from the balcony and mount her husband's
horse, these persons notified King Marsilio, who at once ordered the
call to arms to be sounded. Observe with what haste they go about it.
The entire city is now drowned in the sound of bells, pealing from the
towers of all the mosques."

At this point Don Quixote interrupted him. "No," he said, "that won't
do. In this matter of the bells Master Pedro is far from accurate, for bells
are not in use among the Moors; instead, they employ kettledrums and
a kind of flute somewhat like our flageolet. So, you can see that this busi-
ness of bells ringing in Sansuena is beyond a doubt a great piece of
nonsense."

Hearing this, Master Pedro stopped ringing the bells. "Don't be look-
ing for trifles, Senor Don Quixote," he said, "or expect things to be
impossibly perfect. Are not a thousand comedies performed almost
every day that are full of inaccuracies and absurdities, yet they run their
course and are received not only with applause but with admiration and
all the rest--Go on, boy, and let him talk; for so long as I fill my wallet,
it makes no difference if there are as many inaccuracies in my show as
there are motes in the sun."340

"You have spoken the truth," was Don Quixote's reply.

With this, the lad resumed his commentary. "And now, just see the
glittering cavalcade that is leaving the city in pursuit of the Catholic
lovers;341 listen to all the trumpets and flutes, the drums and tabors. I
fear me they are going to overtake them and bring them back tied to the
tail of their own horse, which would be a dreadful sight to behold."

Upon seeing such a lot of Moors and hearing such a din, Don Quixote
thought that it would be a good thing for him to aid the fugitives; and,
rising to his feet, he cried out, "Never as long as I live and in my presence
will I permit such violence to be done to so famous a knight and so bold
a lover as Don Gaiferos. Halt, lowborn rabble; cease your pursuit and
persecution, or otherwise ye shall do battle with me!"

With these words he drew his sword, and in one bound was beside
the stage; and then with accelerated and unheard-of fury he began
slashing at the Moorish puppets, knocking some of them over, behead-
ing others, crippling this one, mangling that one. Among the many
blows he dealt was one downward stroke that, if Master Pedro had not
ducked and crouched, would have sliced off his head more easily than
if it had been made of almond paste.

"Stop, Senor Don Quixote!" cried Master Pedro. "Those are not
real Moors that your Grace is knocking over, maiming, and killing, but
pasteboard figures. Sinner that I am, if you haven t destroyed and ruined
all the property I own!"

But this was not sufficient to halt the rain of cuts and slashes, down-
strokes, back-strokes, and doublehanded blows that Don Quixote was
dealing. The short of the matter is, in less time than it takes to say two
Credos he had knocked the entire theater to the ground and had slashed
to bits all its fixtures and its puppets, King Marsilio being badly wounded
while the Emperor Charlemagne had both his head and his crown split
in two. The audience, meanwhile, had been thrown into confusion; the
ape fled over the roof of the inn, the cousin was frightened, the page
was intimidated, and even Sancho Panza was terrified, for, as he swore
upon his word when the tempest was over, he had never seen his master
in such a towering passion.

When the destruction of the theater had been completed, Don Quix-
ote calmed down a bit. "I only wish," he said, "that I had here before
me right now those who do not or will not see how useful knights-errant
are to the world. Just think, if I had not been present, what would have
become of the worthy Don Gaiferos and the beauteous Melisendra--
You may be sure that those dogs would have overtaken them by this
time and would have committed some outrage upon them. And so I
say to you: Long live knight-errantry over all living things on the face
of this earth!"

"Let it live, and welcome," said Master Pedro in a sickly voice, "and
let me die, since I am so unfortunate that I can say with the king, Don
Rodrigo:

　　　　　　　　　　　　Yesterday l was lord of Spain,
　　　　　　　　　　　　And today I do not have a tower left
　　　　　　　　　　　　That I can call my own.342

Not half an hour ago, nay, not half a minute ago, I was lord of kings
and emperors; my stables were filled with countless horses and my
trunks and bags with any number of gala costumes; and now I am but
a poor beggar, ruined and destitute. Above all, I have lost my ape; for
I give you my word, my teeth will sweat before I get him back, and all
owing to the ill-advised wrath of this Sir Knight. I have heard it said of
him that he protects orphans, sets wrongs to right, and performs other
acts of charity; but in my case alone he has failed to manifest his gen-
erous intentions, blessed be the highest heavens! I can well believe that
he is the Knight of the Mournful Countenance, seeing he has so dis-
figured mine!"

Sancho Panza was quite touched by the puppet master's words.
"Don't cry, Master Pedro," he begged him; "don't carry on like that,
you break my heart. For I can tell you that my master, Don Quixote,
is so Catholic and scrupulous a Christian that if he can be brought to see
he has done you any wrong, he will own up to it, and what's more, he
will want to pay you for all the damage he has caused you and a good
deal over and above it."

"If Senor Don Quixote," replied the puppet master, "will but pay me
for some small part of my fixtures which he has destroyed, I will be
satisfied and his Grace will have a clear conscience; for one cannot be
saved who holds the property of another against its owner's will with-
out making restitution."

"That is true enough," said Don Quixote, "hut up to now I am not
aware that I hold anything of yours, Master Pedro."

"How is that?" replied the showman. "Those remains lying there
on the hard and barren ground, what was it scattered and annihilated
them if not the invincible strength of that mighty arm--Whose pup-
pets were those if not mine--And how else did I make my living?"

"I am now coming to believe," said Don Quixote, "that I was right
in thinking, as I often have, that the enchanters who persecute me merely
place figures like these in front of my eyes and then change and trans-
form them as they like. In all earnestness, gentlemen, I can assure you
that everything that took place here seemed to me very real indeed,
and Melisendra, Don Gaifcros, Marsilio, and Charlemagne were all their
flesh-and-blood selves. That was why I became so angry. In order to
fulfill the duties of my profession as knight-errant, I wished to aid and
favor the fugitives, and with this in mind I did what you saw me do. If
it came out wrong, it is not my fault but that of my wicked perse-
cutors; but, nevertheless, I willingly sentence myself to pay the costs of
my error, even though it did not proceed from malice. Reckon up
what I owe you, Master Pedro, for those figures I have destroyed, and
I will reimburse you in good Castilian currency."

Master Pedro bowed. "I expected no less," he said, "of so rare a Chris-
tian as the valiant Don Quixote de la Mancha, the true friend and pro-
tector of all needy vagabonds. Mine host here and the great Sancho
shall act as arbiters between your Grace and me and they shall ap-
praise the value, or likely value, of the properties destroyed."

Both the landlord and Sancho agreed to act in this capacity, and
Master Pedro then picked up off the ground King Marsilio of Sara-
gossa, minus his head.

"You can see," he said, "how impossible it is to restore this king to
his former state; and so, it seems to me, saving your better judgment,
that for his death, demise, and final end I should have four and a half
reales."

"Proceed," said Don Quixote.

"As for this one who is split open from top to bottom," Master Pedro
went on, taking in his hands the late Emperor Charlemagne, "it would
not be too much if I were to ask five reales and a quarter."

"That's no small sum," said Sancho.

"Nor is it very much," replied the innkeeper.

"Give him the whole five and a quarter," said Don Quixote. "The sum
total of this memorable disaster does not hang on a quarter more or
less. And please be quick about it, Master Pedro, for it is suppertime and
I feel the stirrings of hunger."

"This figure," continued Master Pedro, "without a nose and with
one eye missing, is that of the beauteous Melisendra; and for it I ask,
and I think I am right in doing so, two reales and twelve maravedis."

"The devil," said Don Quixote, "must have a hand in it if Melisendra
and her husband have not reached the French border, at the very least,
by this time, for the horse they rode on seemed to me to fly rather
than gallop; and so there is no need to try to sell me the cat for the
hare343 by showing me here a Melisendra without any nose when she
is now, if things went right, stretched out at her ease and enjoying
herself with her husband in France. God help everyone to his own,
Master Pedro. Let us deal plainly and with honest intent. You may
continue."

Master Pedro perceived that Don Quixote's wits were wandering and
that he was beginning to harp on the old chord again, but he was not
disposed to let him off so easily.

"This cannot be Melisendra after all," he said; "it must be one of
the damsels that waited upon her; and if you will give me sixty maravedis
for her, I will consider myself well paid."

In this manner he went on putting a price on each of the puppets
that had been destroyed, and after these estimates had been adjusted by
the two arbiters to the satisfacion of both parties, it was found that the
total came to forty reales and three quarters, and Sancho promptly
handed over this sum; whereupon Master Pedro asked for two reales
more for the trouble of catching the ape.

"Give them to him, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "not for catching
the ape, but for getting the she-ape by the tail.344 And I would further
give two hundred right now to anyone who could assure me that
Melisendra and Don Gaiferos are safe in France with their own people."

"No one can tell you that better than my ape," said Master Pedro,
"but there's no devil that could catch him now, although I fancy
lonesomeness and hunger will force him to come looking for me to-
night, and God will bring another day, and we shall see what we shall
see."

The storm centering around the puppet theater having finally sub-
sided, they all sat down to eat their supper in peace and good com-
panionship, and all at Don Quixote's expense, for he was extremely
generous. Before daybreak the one who was conveying the lances
and halberds took his departure, and shortly after sunup the cousin
and the page came to bid Don Quixote good-by, as the former was re-
turning home, while the latter wished to be upon his way; and to help
the soldier out the knight made him a present of twelve reales. Not car-
ing to engage in any further arguments with the one of the Mournful
Countenance, whom he knew very well, Master Pedro was up before
the sun, and, having caught his ape and gathered up what was left of
his show, he too was off to seek adventures.

As for the innkeeper, to whom Don Quixote was a stranger, he was
equally astonished at his guest's madness and his liberality. Sancho,
upon his master's orders, paid very generously for their lodgings, and,
having said farewell, they left the inn around eight in the morning and
took to the road once more. Here we shall leave them, as it is necessary
to do so in order to clear up certain other matters that are pertinent to
this famous history.



CHAPTER XXVII.

Wherein is set forth who Master Pedro and his ape were, with the
misfortune that befell Don Quixote in the braying adventure, which
did not end as he had hoped and expected it would.



ClD HAMETE, the chronicler of this great history, begins the
present chapter with these words: "I swear as a Catholic Christian";
which leads his translator to remark that, being a Moor as he undoubt-
edly was, the author merely meant that, just as a Catholic Christian
when he takes an oath swears, or is supposed to swear, to tell the truth
in all that he says, so in what he himself has to set down about Don
Quixote he will adhere to the truth just as if he were taking such a
Christian oath, especially when it comes to explaining who Master
Pedro was, as well as that ape of his whose divinations had astonished
all the towns and villages in those parts.

He then goes on to say that whoever has read the first part of this
story will very well remember Gines de Pasamonte, who was one of
the galley slaves that Don Quixote freed in the Sierra Morena,345 a favor
for which he received poor thanks and worse payment at the hands
of that vicious, low-life crew. This Gines de Pasamonte, whom Don
Quixote insisted upon calling Ginesillo de Parapilla, was the one who
stole Sancho's ass, although, through a fault of the printers, there was
no explanation as to how or when the theft was committed,346 a circum-
stance which has led many to attribute a typographical blunder to bad
memory on the part of the author. But the short of the matter is,
Gines did steal the gray by creeping up on the sleeping Sancho Panza
and making use of the stratagem that Brunello employed when he
stole the horse from between Sacripante's legs at Albraca,347 and Sancho
afterward recovered his beast as has been related.348

This fellow Gines, then, fearful of being brought to justice for his
innumerable crimes and villainies, which were so many and so great
that he himself composed a big book about them, had made up his mind
to go over into the kingdom of Aragon;349 and there, covering his left
eye with a patch, he had taken to the trade of puppet master, for he was
exceedingly skillful at this, and at the art of juggling as well. He ac-
cordingly had purchased the ape of some freed Christians coming from
Barbary and had taught it to jump on his shoulder when he made a
certain sign, and whisper, or pretend to whisper, in his ear. Before
entering a village with his show he would make inquiries in the neigh-
boring one, or of the person who could best give him the information,
as to what special events had occurred there and which individuals were
involved, and he would then commit to memory the facts he had thus
gathered.

Upon arrival, he would first put on his puppet show, which now
had to do with one story and now with another, but all of them lively,
merry, and familiar to his audience. When the performance was over,
he would introduce his ape and extol the cleverness of the animal,
which was able to divine anything past or present but which possessed
no skill so far as the future was concerned. For each question answered
he charged two reales, but he would sometimes make a reduction, de-
pending upon the attitude which he sensed in his listeners. Occasionally
he would come to a house where people lived that he knew something
about, and even though they asked him nothing, not caring to pay for
it, he would signal to his ape and assert that the beast had told him such
and such things that fitted in perfectly with the facts of the case. By
this means he acquired an extraordinary reputation and everyone ran
after him. At other times he would give so crafty an answer that it was
bound to suit the question; and inasmuch as no one pressed him to ex-
plain how his ape did it, he made monkeys of them all and filled his
pouch.

Thus, the moment he entered the inn he recognized Don Quixote
and Sancho, and so it was easy to astonish them both and all those
present. But it would have cost him dearly had the knight dropped his
hand a little more that time he cut off King Marsilio's head and de-
stroyed all his cavalry, as told in the preceding chapter.

So much for Master Pedro and his ape. Returning now to Don
Quixote de la Mancha, I may state that after having sallied forth from
the inn, he resolved to take a look at the banks of the Ebro and the
surrounding region before entering the city of Saragossa, for there was
still plenty of time to spare between then and the day of the tourna-
ment. With this purpose in mind he continued his journey for a couple
of days without anything happening to him that is worthy of being set
down in writing. On the third day, as he was ascending a hill, he heard
a great din of drums, trumpets, and musket fire. At first he thought it
must be some regiment of soldiers that was passing that way, and in
order to have a sight of them he spurred Rocinante and hastened to the
top of the hill, at the foot of which on the other side he could see what
appeared to be more than two hundred men armed with various kinds
of weapons, such as lances, crossbows, truncheons, halberds, pikes, a
few muskets, and many bucklers.

Coming down the slope, he drew near enough to see their banners
plainly and make out their colors and devices. He noted in particular
one of white satin, mounted upon a standard, upon which was painted
a very lifelike ass, resembling a Sardinian pony,350 with its head reared,
its mouth open, and its tongue out, in the posture and seeming act of
braying, while round about it in large letters were these verses:

　　　　　　　　　　　　They did not bray in vain,
　　　　　　　　　　　　Those judges twain.

From which Don Quixote surmised that these must be the people from
the braying town, and he remarked as much to Sancho, informing him
at the same time what was inscribed on the banner. He further observed
that the one who had told them of this affair in the first place had been
wrong in stating that it was a couple of aldermen who had done the
braying, since according to those verses they were officers of justice.351

"Sir," said Sancho Panza in reply, "you need not let that trouble you,
for it may be that the aldermen who did the braying in the course of
time have come to be justices of the peace of their village, and so it is
all right to call them by either title, especially since it makes no differ-
ence so far as the truth of the story is concerned whether the brayers
were one or the other, so long as bray they did, and a judge can bray
just as well as an alderman."

In short, they perceived that one town had come out to do battle
with the other which had jeered at it more than was right or neighborly.
Don Quixote now went up to them, not without some misgivings on
the part of Sancho, who never liked to get mixed up in such affrays.
Those who were drawn up in squadron formation opened ranks to re-
ceive him, for they thought he was someone on their side, and with
considerable dash and self-composure the knight rode up to where the
standard was. There, all the leaders of the army gathered around to stare
at him, for they were as astonished as everyone was when they beheld
him for the first time. Seeing them gazing at him so attentively, before
anyone had spoken or asked him a single question, he chose to be the
first to break the silence by raising his voice and addressing them in this
manner:

"Good sirs, I would beg you as earnestly as I can not to interrupt
what I am about to say to you unless you disagree with it or find that
it wearies you. If that should happen, you have but to raise a hand and
I will put a seal upon my mouth and a gag upon my tongue."

They all thereupon informed him that he might say whatever he
liked and they would be very glad to listen to it; and with this permis-
sion, he continued.

"I, my dear sirs, am a knight-errant, whose profession is that of arms
and whose business it is to lend aid and favor to all those that stand in
need of it. Some days ago I learned of your unfortunate plight and am
aware of the reason that has led you to take up arms and avenge your-
selves upon your enemies. Having thought the matter over a great
many times, I find that according to the rules of honor you are mis-
taken in thinking that you have been insulted, for no one individual can
insult an entire community unless, not knowing who is guilty of some
act of treason, he defies it as a body. Of this we have an example in Don
Diego Ordonez de Lara, who, ignorant of the fact that Vellido Dolfos
alone was guilty of slaying his king, challenged them all, laying upon
them all the burden of answering for the crime and exacting vengeance
accordingly.352 It is true that Don Diego went a little too far, indeed he
went very much beyond the rules governing a challenge; it was not
proper for him to defy the dead, nor the waters, nor the loaves of
bread,353 nor those as yet unborn, with all the other details that he set
forth. But let that pass; for when anger is spawned, the tongue has no
father, governor, or bridle to control it.

"This being true, that no single person can insult a kingdom, prov-
ince, city, state, or entire town, it plainly follows that there is no excuse
for seeking to avenge such an insult since it really is not one. A fine
thing it would be if the inhabitants of the Clocktown354 were to be
constantly falling out with everyone who called them by that name;
and the same goes for those known as the Scullions, Eggplant-growers,
Whalers, and Soapmen,355 and those to whom other appellations are ap-
plied such as are prevalent in the mouths of children and the common
people! It would be a pretty state of affairs, surely, if these distinguished
communities were all the time to go about seeking vengeance and mak-
ing sackbuts of their swords over every misunderstanding however
slight a one it might be!

"No, no, God forbid! There are four conditions under which prudent
men and well-ordered states may take up arms, draw their swords, and
risk their persons, lives, and fortunes.356 The first is in order to defend
the Catholic faith; the second, to defend their lives, which is in accord-
ance with natural and divine law; the third, to defend their family honor
and possessions; the fourth, to serve their king in a just war; and if we
care to add a fifth, which may be included under the second, to defend
their native land.357

"To these five justifications for war, which may be looked upon as
the principal ones, other causes may be added that are right and rea-
sonable and that make it a duty to resort to arms. But to go to war over
trifles and things that, in place of constituting an insult, are in reality
laughable and amusing, would appear to be the act of one who is lack-
ing in sound sense. Moreover, to take an unjust revenge--and there can
be no just vengeance--runs directly counter to the holy law that we
observe, which teaches us to do good to our enemies and love those
that hate us,358 a commandment which may seem to be rather a difficult
one to keep but which is so only for those that think less of God than
they do of the world and more of the flesh than of the spirit. For Jesus
Christ, who is God and true man and our legislator, who neither lies
nor could lie, has said that His yoke is easy and His burden light.359 and
He would not lay upon us any commandment that was impossible to
fulfill. And so, my dear sirs, your Worships are bound by human and
divine laws to desist."

"May the devil take me," said Sancho to himself, "if my master's not
a tologian, and if not, he's as like one as one egg is like another."

Don Quixote took a breath and, seeing that they were all keeping
silent, was about to continue with his sermon, and would have done so
had not Sancho taken advantage of the pause to display his own wit.

"My master, Don Quixote de la Mancha," he began, "who formerly
was known as the Knight of the Mournful Countenance and who now
is called the Knight of the Lions, is a very learned gentleman who knows
both Latin and his mother tongue like a bachelor and in everything
that he does and advises others to do acts like the best kind of soldier.
He has all the laws and ordinances of what they call combat at his
fingertips; and so there is nothing to do but be guided by what he says,
and let it be on my head if you make any mistake in doing that. He has
told you that it is foolish to lose your temper just because you hear
someone braying. Why, I can remember that when I was a lad I brayed
every time I happened to feel like it without anyone's trying to stop
me, and I did it so nicely and properly that all the asses in the village
answered me; yet I did not for that reason cease to be the son of my
parents, who were most respectable folks. And though I was envied for
this accomplishment by a number of the gentry, I didn't give two cents
for it myself.360 And so that you can see that it's the truth I'm telling you,
just wait and listen. It's like swimming, once you learn it you never
forget it."

And, with this, putting his hands to his nose, he began braying so
lustily that all the neighboring valleys echoed with the sound. One of
those who was standing near him, thinking that he was making sport
of them, raised a staff that he held in his hand and brought it down with
such force that Sancho dropped helplessly to the ground. Seeing his
squire thus mishandled, Don Quixote, lance in hand, then attacked the
one who had dealt the blow; but so many thrust themselves in his way
that he was unable to chastise the aggressor, and since a rain of stones
was falling upon him and innumerable crossbows and muskets were
aimed at him, he turned Rocinante's head and at the best gallop he
could manage fled from their midst, meanwhile praying to God with
all his heart to deliver him from this peril. He feared at every step that
some arrow might pierce his back and come out through his bosom, and
he was constantly drawing in his breath to make sure it had not failed
him.

The members of the squadron, however, were satisfied to see him
take flight like this and did not fire upon him. As for Sancho, as soon as
he had somewhat recovered his senses, they placed him upon his mount
and permitted him to follow his master. He was in no condition to guide
the beast, but the gray went along in Rocinante's foot-tracks as he could
not bear to be separated from his companion for a single moment. When
he was a good distance away, Don Quixote turned his head and, per-
ceiving that Sancho was coming and that no one was in pursuit,
stopped to wait for him. The squadron from the braying town re-
mained there until nightfall, and then, since their enemies had not come
out to join battle with them, they returned to their village in very high
spirits; and had they been familiar with the custom of the ancient
Greeks, they would have erected a monument upon that spot.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

Of things that, Benengeli says, the reader will come to know if he
reads attentively.



WHEN the brave man flees, it means that treachery has been un-
covered, and it is the part of the wise to save themselves for better
occasions.

This truth was brought out in the case of Don Quixote, who, hav-
ing aroused the fury of the townspeople and the ill will and indignation
of the squadron, showed his heels and, without thought of Sancho or
the danger in which he was leaving him, put as much distance between
himself and the enemy as he deemed necessary in order to assure his
own safety. Sancho followed, slung across his ass in the manner that
has been described. He finally came up, in full possession of his wits
by this time, and as he did so he slid from the gray's back to Rocinante s
feet, all battered and bruised and in a sorrowful plight. Don Quixote
then dismounted to examine his squire's wounds and, finding him sound
from head to foot, addressed him angrily enough.

"An evil hour it was, Sancho," he said, "when you learned how to
bray! Where did you ever hear that it was a good thing to mention the
rope in the house of the hanged man?361 What counterpoint can braying
music have except that of cudgels? You may give thanks to God, Sancho,
that they made the sign of the cross on you just now with a club and
not with a cutlass."

"I'm in no condition to answer," replied Sancho, "for it seems to me
that I'm talking through my shoulders. Let's mount and get away from
here. I'll not bray any more, but I can't help remarking362 that knights-
errant appear to run away and leave their faithful squires in the hands
of the enemy to be pounded like privet or like wheat in the hopper."

"He who retires," said Don Quixote, "does not flee. I would have you
know, Sancho, that valor not based upon prudence can only be termed
temerity, and the triumphs of the foolhardy are to be attributed to good
luck rather than to courage. I admit that I retired, but not that I fled;
and in this I have merely followed the example of many brave men
who have saved themselves for a more propitious time. The histories
are full of such instances, but as it would do you no good to refer you
to them, I shall spare myself the trouble for the present."

Sancho by now was once more on his gray's back, having been helped
up by Don Quixote, who then mounted Rocinante; and, riding slowly
along, they made for a grove that was visible about a quarter of a league
away. Every so often Sancho would heave a deep sigh or moan as if in
pain, and when his master asked him what the cause of it was, he replied
that he ached all over, from the base of his spine to the nape of his
neck, and it was nearly driving him crazy.

"The reason for that," remarked Don Quixote, "is undoubtedly the
fact that the club they used was a long one and caught you all the way
down your back where those aching parts are located; and if it had
gone any farther down, you would ache still more."

"By God," exclaimed Sancho, "your Grace has taken a great load off
my mind and made everything as clear as can be! Body of me! Is the
cause of my pain such a mystery that it is necessary to explain to me that
I ache wherever the club reached me--If it was my ankles hurting me,
there might be some sense in trying to find out what caused it, but to
tell me that I'm sore because they beat me is not much in the way of a
discovery. On my word, master of mine, the misfortune of another
hangs by a hair,363 and I am every day discovering how little I have to
hope for from keeping company with your Grace. This time you have
let them club me. Another time, or a hundred times more, it will be
the old story of the blanketings and other foolish pranks all over again;
and if up to now I've had it only across the shoulders, I'll be getting
it later straight in the eyes.

"I'd do a lot better," he went on, "if I wasn't a numbskull who will
never do anything well as long as he lives--I'd do a lot better, I say, by
going home to my wife and young ones, to support and bring them up
on whatever God may see fit to give me, instead of trailing after your
Grace along roads that lead nowhere and highways and byways that
don't deserve the name, with little to drink and less to eat. And as for
sleeping! Pace off seven feet of earth, brother squire, and if you want
any more than that, take another seven; the dish is in your hands,364 help
yourself; so stretch out to your heart's content, and welcome. I'd like
to see-the one who started this knight-errantry business burned to ashes,
or at least the first man who was willing to be a squire to such fools as
all the knights-errant of times past must have been. As to those of the
present day, I say nothing, for since your Grace is one of them, I must
respect them; and what's more, your Grace knows a little more than
the devil when it comes to talking and thinking."

"I would like to lay a good wager with you, Sancho," said Don Quix-
ote, "that since you have been running on like this with no one to stop
you, you don't feel an ache in your entire body. Talk on, my son;
say anything that comes to your mind or to the tip of your tongue; for
if it will relieve your pain, I will gladly put up with the annoyance which
your impudence causes me. If you are so anxious to go home to your
wife and children, God forbid that I should stop you. You have my
money; reckon up how long it has been since we left our village this
third time365 and what your wages should be each month, and then pay
yourself out of hand."

"When I worked for Tome Carrasco,"366 replied Sancho, "father of
the bachelor Sanson Carrasco, your Grace's acquaintance, I earned two
ducats a month and my board; but with your Grace, I can t say what
it should be, for your Grace knows that the squire to a knight-errant
does more work than a farmer's helper. The work in the fields may be
hard, but at the worst, when night comes we have our olla and a bed
to sleep in--and that's something I haven't had since I ve been serving
your Grace, except for the brief time we spent at Don Diego de
Miranda's house, and the feast I had on the skimmings that I took
from Camacho's pots, and the bed and what I had to drink at Basilio's.
All the rest of the time I've slept on the hard earth, under the open
sky, in what they call the inclemencies of the weather. I've kept myself
alive on scraps of cheese and crusts of bread; and as for drinking, it
has been water from the brooks or springs in the bypaths that we
traveled."

"I admit," said Don Quixote, "that everything you say, Sancho, is
the truth. How much more do you think I should give you than what
you had from Tome Carrasco?"

"As I see it," said Sancho, "if your Grace would give me a couple of
reales more for each month, I could consider myself well paid. That is
to say, so far as my wages go, for the work I've done. But seeing that
you gave me your word and solemn promise to make me the governor
of an island, it would only be fair for your Grace to add another six
reales, making thirty altogether."

"Very well," Don Quixote agreed, "it is now twenty-five days since
we left our village; so reckon it up, Sancho, on the basis of the wage
you think you ought to have, and see how much it is I owe you; and
then, as I have said, you can pay yourself by your own hand."

"O body of me!" cried Sancho, "your Grace is very wrong in this
reckoning; for so far as the island is concerned, we have to count from
the day your Grace promised it to me down to the present hour."

"Well," said Don Quixote, "and how long has it been since I made
you the promise?"

"If I'm not mistaken," replied Sancho, "it must be more than twenty
years and three days, more or less."

At this Don Quixote slapped his forehead with his hand and burst
into a hearty laugh.

"Why," he said, "with my wanderings in the Sierra and all the rest
barely two months have gone by. And are you trying to tell me, Sancho,
that it was twenty years ago I promised you that island--I am convinced
now that you would take all the money I have as your wages; and if
such is the case and that is what you want, I hereby give it to you; it is
yours from now on, and much good may it do you. In order to be rid
of so faithless a squire, I shall be content to remain a pauper, without a
penny to my name. But tell me, you perverter of the laws of chivalry
and the rules that govern squires, where have you ever heard of a squire
who made such terms with his lord: 'You must give me so much a
month for serving you?' Plunge, O rogue, scoundrel, monster--plunge,
I say, into the mare magnum of their histories; and if you find one single
squire who ever said or thought of saying such a thing as you have just
said, I would have you nail it to my forehead and in addition give me
four resounding slaps in the face.

"Turn, then, the reins, or better, the halter of your ass, and go back
to your home; for you are not going one step farther with me. O
bread ungratefully received! O promises ill bestowed! O man who
has more of the beast in him than of the human! So you are leaving me
now, are you, just when I was about to elevate you to a position in
life where, no matter what your wife might say, people would address
you as your Lordship--So you are leaving me just when I had firmly
resolved to make you governor of the best island in the world--In
short, as you have said before, honey is not for the ass's mouth.367 An
ass you are and an ass you will be to your dying day, for I think that
day will come before you ever realize that you are a stupid beast."

Sancho stared hard at Don Quixote as the knight heaped these in-
sults upon him and was so smitten with remorse that the tears came to
his eyes.

"Master," he said in a weak and sorrowing voice, "I will grant you
that all I lack is a tail and I would be an ass; and if your Grace wants
to put one on me, I'll look upon it as well placed and will serve you
as a beast of burden all the days of my life that are left me. Forgive me,
your Grace; have mercy on my foolishness. Remember that I know
little, and if I talk much, that is due to weakness rather than to malice.
But he who sins and mends his ways, commends himself to God."368

"I should have been surprised, Sancho," said his master, "if in the
course of your speech you had not rung in some proverb. Very well, I
forgive you, on condition that you do mend your ways and that from
now on you do not think so much of your own interests. Rather, you
should take heart, be of good cheer, pluck up courage, and trust me to
fulfill my promises. Fulfillment may be late in coming, but that does
not mean that it is impossible."

Sancho assured him that he would do so, contriving somehow to draw
strength from weakness. By this time they had reached the grove, and
Don Quixote now sat down at the foot of an elm and Sancho at the
foot of a beech (for trees of this sort and others like them always have
feet but no hands). Sancho spent an uncomfortable night, his aches re-
turning with the evening dew. Don Quixote as always was deep in
reveries; but, in spite of everything, the two of them had some sleep
and at sunup resumed their journey toward the banks of the famous
Ebro, where they had an experience that is related in the chapter to
follow.



CHAPTER XXIX.

Of the famous adventure of the enchanted bark .



By the stages described or undescribed, two days369 after leaving the
grove Don Quixote and Sancho reached the River Ebro, the sight of
which afforded the knight great pleasure as he beheld the charm of its
banks and gazed upon its clear and abundant, gently flowing waters,
which had the appearance of liquid crystal. It was a sight that brought
back a thousand fond memories, reminding him in particular of the
things he had viewed in the Cave of Montesinos; for although Master
Pedro's ape had said that a part of those things were true and the rest
were lies, he was inclined to regard them all as true rather than false,
whereas for Sancho they were all lies from beginning to end.

As they were going along the bank in this manner, they came upon a
small boat without oars or rigging of any kind that was lying at the
water's edge, being moored to the trunk of a tree. Don Quixote looked
around in all directions, and, seeing no one, he without more ado dis-
mounted from Rocinante and ordered Sancho to get down off the ass
and tie both animals very securely to an elm or a willow that stood
near by. When Sancho wanted to know the reason for all this, his master
answered him as follows:

"I may tell you, Sancho, that the bark you see there is plainly and
unmistakably calling and inviting me to enter it and proceed in it to
give succor to some knight or other highborn personage who stands in
need of my assistance and who must be in dire straits indeed; for that is
the way it is in the books of chivalry, in the stories where enchanters
figure and speak. When one knight is in some difficulty from which he
can be freed only by the hand of another knight, though they be two
or three thousand leagues distant from each other, or even more, the
enchanters will either snatch him up in a cloud or provide a bark for
him, and in less than the wink of an eye they will carry him through the
air or over the sea, wherever it is they wish to take him and where his
aid is needed. And this bark, O Sancho! is placed here for the same
purpose. I am as certain of that as I am that it is now day, and so, before
this day passes, tie Rocinante and the gray together, and then let it be in
God's hand to guide us, for I would not refrain from embarking though
barefooted friars should beg me to do so."

"If that is the way it is," replied Sancho, "and your Grace must be
getting into this kind of foolishness (if I may call it that) at every turn,
there's nothing for me to do but bow my head and obey; for, as the
old saying goes, 'Do what your master bids you and sit with him at
table.'370 But, for all that, just to get it off my conscience, I want to warn
your Grace that this boat doesn't look to me as if it belonged to any
enchanters but to some fishermen; for you catch the best shad in the
world in this river."

Sancho said this as he was tying the beasts. It grieved him deeply to
have to leave them to the tender mercies of the enchanters, but Don
Quixote assured him that he need not worry about their going uncared
for, as the one who was taking them on so long a journey, into such far
longitudes, would see to it that they were fed.

"I don't know anything about logitudes,"371 said Sancho, "nor did I
ever hear such a word in all my born days."

"Longitude," Don Quixote explained, "is an expression that is used in
referring to distance. But it is no wonder that you do not understand,
seeing you are not obliged to know Latin, like some who think they
know it but are in reality ignorant of it."

"I have them tied," Sancho informed him. "What do we do now?"

"What do we do?" replied Don Quixote. "We cross ourselves and
weigh anchor; by which I mean, we climb aboard and cut the moorings
by which this bark is fastened."

With this, he leaped into the boat, followed by Sancho, and severed
the rope that held it. The bark then began drifting slowly away from
the bank, and when Sancho found himself some two yards out in the
river, he started trembling all over, fearing that he was lost. What pained
him most of all was the braying of the ass and the sight of Rocinante
struggling to get loose.

"The gray," he said to his master, "is heartbroken because we are
leaving him, and Rocinante wants to get free so he can plunge in after us.
Peace be with you, O dearly beloved creatures! May the madness that
takes us from you be turned into sound sense and bring us back to you
once more!"

As he said this, he began weeping so bitterly that Don Quixote became
angry.

"What are you afraid of, cowardly one--Why those tears, you butter-
heart--Who is pursuing or attacking you, O man with the soul of a tame
mouse--What do you lack, O beggar in the very midst of plenty--Are
you perchance tramping barefoot over the Riphaean Mountains372 in place
of being seated like an archduke on a bench as you drift with the gentle
current of this pleasant river, from which we shall soon come out upon
the broad expanse of the ocean--But we must surely be on the sea by
now; indeed, we must have gone seven or eight hundred leagues, and if
I but had an astrolabe with which to take the latitude of the pole, I
should be able to tell you exactly how far we have traveled. Either I
know little about it or we already have passed, or soon shall pass, the
equinoctial line which lies between the two opposite poles at an equal
distance from each."

"And when we get to that lane373 your Grace is speaking of," said
Sancho, "how far shall we have gone?"

"Very far," said Don Quixote, "for of the three hundred and sixty
degrees on the terraqueous globe, according to the computation of
Ptolemy, the greatest known cosmographer, we shall have traversed half
that number in arriving at the line I have mentioned."

"By God," exclaimed Sancho, "if it isn't a nice sort of person your
Grace produces to witness what you say--a tall hoggifer374 with a me
or something or other on the end of his name!"

Don Quixote had to laugh at what his squire had contrived to make
out of Ptolemy the cosmographer.

"I may inform you, Sancho," he continued, "that one of the ways
the Spaniards who embark at Cadiz for the East Indies have of tell-
ing when they have passed that equinoctial line is this: if the lice die
upon every man aboard so that not a one is to be found anywhere even
though they offer its weight in gold for it, then they know they are
past the line; and so, Sancho, just run your hand over your thigh and
if you come on anything that's alive, it will remove all doubt, but if
you find nothing, then we have made the crossing."375

"I don't believe a word of it," declared Sancho, "but, nevertheless,
I will do as your Grace bids me, although I must say I don't know why
we have to make all these experiments, for I can see with my own eyes
that we're not five yards away from the bank, nor have we dropped two
yards below the spot where the animals stand; for Rocinante and the
ass are still there where we left them, and if you take a fixed point as I
am doing now, then, I swear, we're not moving any faster than an
ant's pace."

"Make the test that I asked you to, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and
do not be bothering your head with anything else; for you know noth-
ing of colures, lines, parallels, zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices, equinoxes,
planets, signs, and points of the compass, these being the units of which
the celestial and terrestrial spheres are composed. If you knew all these
things, or even a part of them, you would clearly perceive what parallels
we have crossed, what zodiacal signs we have seen, and what constella-
tions we have left, and are now leaving, behind us. But I tell you again:
feel and hunt, for I am certain that you are cleaner than a smooth white
sheet of paper."

Sancho did so and, having run his hand gently all the way down to
the inside of his left knee, he looked up at his master and said, "Either
the test is a false one or we're not within many leagues of where your
Grace says we are."

"How is that?" said Don Quixote. "Did you find something?"

"Yes, a number of somethings,"376 said Sancho. And, shaking his fingers,
he dipped his entire hand in the river, down which the bark was gently
drifting without being moved by any occult intelligence or invisible
enchanter but merely by the current itself, which was there flowing
along very smoothly.

At that moment they descried some big watermills moored in the
middle of the river, and no sooner did Don Quixote catch sight of them
than he called out to Sancho in a loud voice, "Do you see that, my
friend--There is the city, castle, or fortress where they must be hold-
ing some knight in captivity, or some sorely wronged queen, infanta,
or princess, to rescue whom I am being brought there.

"What the devil city, fortress, or castle is your Grace talking about?"
said Sancho. "Can't you see, master, that those are nothing but water-
mills on the river, where they grind corn?"

"Be quiet, Sancho," Don Quixote admonished him, "for though they
may appear to be watermills, they are not. I have already explained to
you how enchanters change and transform things from their natural
shape. I do not mean that they actually change them from one shape to
another, but they appear to do so, as experience has taught us in con-
nection with the transformation of Dulcinea, sole refuge of my hopes.

By this time the bark was in midstream and was not moving as gently
as it had been up to then. The millers, seeing this boat coming down the
river and perceiving that it was about to be sucked in by the millwheels,
came running out in all haste to stop it. Many of them carried poles,
and, as their faces and their clothes were covered with flour, they
presented a sinister appearance.

"Devils of men!" they cried out, "where are you going--Do you come
in desperation to drown yourselves or be battered to pieces by those
wheels?"

"Did I not tell you, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that we had come
to a place where I would have to display the might of my arm--Look
at those rogues and scoundrels who have sallied forth to meet me! Look
at those monsters who would oppose me! Behold the hideous counte-
nances with which they think to frighten us! You shall soon see, you
villains!" And then, standing up in the boat and shouting at the top
of his voice, he began hurling threats at the millers: "Lowborn and ill-
advised rabble, set free and restore to liberty the person whom you hold
in durance vile in that fortress or prison, whether that person be of
high or low degree, whatever his station or walk in life; for I am Don
Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise known as the Knight of the Lions,
for whom it is reserved, by order of the highest heavens, to bring this
adventure to a fortunate conclusion!"

Saying this, he drew his sword and began brandishing it in the air
by way of intimidating the millers, who, hearing but not understanding
these nonsensical remarks, now fell to with their poles to prevent the
bark from entering the millrace, as it was on the verge of doing. Sancho,
meanwhile, had dropped to his knees and was devoutly praying to
Heaven to deliver him from so manifest a peril; and thanks to the quick
work of the millers, his prayer was granted. By the aid of their poles
they succeeded in stopping the boat, but not without upsetting it and
throwing Don Quixote and Sancho into the water. Luckily for the
former, he could swim like a duck, but the weight of his armor twice
dragged him under, and if it had not been for the millers who dived
in and hauled them both out, it would have been the fall of Troy for
the two of them.

As soon as they had been brought to land, drenched to the skin
but hardly suffering from thirst, Sancho again fell on his knees, clasped
his hands, turned his eyes heavenward, and made a long and fervent
prayer in which he besought God to deliver him, from that day forth,
from his master's rash designs and undertakings. While he was thus
engaged, the fishermen who owned the boat, which had been hacked to
pieces by the millwheels, came up and, seeing what had been done to
their property, fell upon Sancho and stripped him of his clothing, de-
manding at the same time that Don Quixote make good their loss. The
knight was not in the least perturbed by this, but with a calm manner,
as if nothing whatever had happened, informed the millers and the
fishermen that he would be very glad to pay for the boat on condition
that they would deliver up to him, free and unharmed, the person or
persons whom they were holding in durance in that castle.

"What persons and what castle are you talking about, you fool?" one
of the millers answered him. "Do you by any chance, want to carry
off those who come to grind corn in these mills?"

"That will do," said Don Quixote to himself. "It would be preach-
ing in the desert to attempt by entreaties to induce this rabble to per-
form any worthy deed. In the course of this adventure two powerful
enchanters must have clashed, and one has undone what the other pro-
posed to do. God help us all, this world is nothing but schemes and
plots, all working at cross-purposes. I can do no more."

Raising his voice, he continued speaking as he gazed at the mills.
"Friends," he said, "whoever ye may be who are locked within these
prison walls, forgive me. It is my misfortune and yours that I am un-
able to rescue you from your dire peril. This emprise must doubtless
be reserved for some other knight."377

Having said this, he came to an understanding with the fishermen and
paid them fifty reales for their boat, which Sancho handed over with
a very ill grace. "A couple of more boat rides378 like this," he said, "and
we'll have sunk our entire capital."

Both fishermen and millers were filled with wonder at beholding these
two figures, so different to all appearances from the common run of
men. Unable to make out what Don Quixote was driving at with his
speeches and his questions, they decided that the pair were crazy and
went back to their tasks, the millers to their mills and the fishermen
to their shacks. Don Quixote and Sancho then returned to their beasts
and the life of beasts that they led, and thus ended the adventure of
the enchanted bark.




CHAPTER XXX.

Of what befell Don Quixote upon meeting with a beautiful huntress.



The knight and his squire were in a bad humor and more than a little
downcast as they returned to their beasts. This was especially true of
Sancho, for anything that touched their supply of money touched his
heart, and when any of it was taken from him it was as if he were being
deprived of the apple of his eye. And so, without saying a word, they
mounted and rode away from the banks of the famous river. While Don
Quixote was immersed in thoughts of love, Sancho was thinking of the
worldly advancement that had been promised him. It all seemed to him
very far away now; for while he may have been a simpleton, he could
not help perceiving that all or most of his master's actions were quite
mad, and he began casting about in his mind for some occasion that one
day would afford him an opportunity to slip away and return home
without getting into any arguments or so much as saying good-by.
Fortune, however, had something better in store for him.

The next day, as they emerged from a wood at sunset, Don Quixote
looked out over a green meadow, at the far end of which he could
see a group of people. Drawing closer, he saw that it was a hawking
party, and upon coming nearer still he perceived among the company
a fine lady seated upon a gleaming white palfrey or hackney caparisoned
in green and with a silver sidesaddle.379 The lady was in green also, and
so richly clad that she appeared to be elegance itself. On her left hand
she bore a hawk, which to Don Quixote signified that she must be some
great dame and the mistress of the party, which proved to be the case.

"Run, Sancho, my lad," he said, "and inform that lady of the palfrey
and the hawk that I, the Knight of the Lions, humbly salute her great
beauty,380 and if her Highness will grant me permission, I will come and
kiss her hands in person and serve her as my strength may enable me and
her Highness may command. Take care how you address her, Sancho,
and see that you do not mingle any of your proverbs with the message."

"Why say that to me?" replied Sancho. "I'm no mingler! This is not
the first time in my life that I've carried messages to high and mighty
ladies!"

"With the exception of the one you carried to the lady Dulcinea,"
said Don Quixote, "I do not know of any other, at least not since you
have been in my service."

"That is the truth," Sancho admitted, "but he who can pay doesn't
worry about pledges,381 and in the house where there's plenty supper is
soon on the table.382 By that I mean to say, you don't need to tell me or
warn me of anything, for I'm equal to anything and know a little of
everything."

"I believe that, Sancho," his master assured him, "and so good luck
and Godspeed."

Forcing his mount out of its usual pace, Sancho hastened to where
the beautiful huntress sat, and there, slipping down off his gray and
kneeling before her, he spoke as follows:

"Beautiful lady, the knight you see there, known as the Knight of the
Lions, is my master and I am a squire of his, Sancho Panza by name.
This same Knight of the Lions, who not long ago was called the Knight
of the Mournful Countenance, has sent me to beg your Highness to be
pleased to grant him permission, with your full approval and consent,
to come and fulfill his desire, which I believe to be none other than that
of serving your Highness's exalted beauty.383 If your Ladyship sees fit
to bestow this permission, it will be to her advantage, and he will be
most happy to receive so distinguished a favor."384

"Most certainly, good squire," replied the lady, "you have conveyed
the message with all the formalities that are required in such a case.
Rise from the ground; for it is not fitting that the squire to so great a
Knight as is he of the Mournful Countenance (of whom we have already
heard a great deal) should remain on his knees. Rise, friend, and say
to your master that he is welcome to my own services, and those of my
husband the duke, in a country house that we have not far from here."

As Sancho rose, he was as much impressed by the good lady's beauty
as by her high breeding and her courtesy, and he was particularly sur-
prised that she should have heard of his master, the Knight of the Mourn-
ful Countenance--if she had not referred to him as the Knight of the
Lions, that must be due to the fact that he had but recently assumed the
appellation. The duchess (whose full title he did not know) now went
on speaking to him.

"Tell me, brother squire," she said, "is not your master the one con-
cerning whom they have printed a story called The Ingenious Gentle-
man, Don Quixote de la Mancha, and who has as lady of his heart a cer-
tain Dulcinea del Toboso?"

"He is the same, my lady," replied Sancho, "and I am that squire of
his that figures, or is supposed to figure, in the story, the one named
Sancho Panza--that is to say, unless they changed me in the cradle--I
mean, in the press."

"I am very happy to hear all this," said the duchess. "Go, brother
Sancho, and tell your master that he will be most welcome at my estate,
as I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure."

With so gracious an answer as this to convey, Sancho hastened back
in high spirits to his master, to whom he repeated everything that the
great lady had said to him, extolling her beauty to the heavens in his own
rustic way and dwelling upon her gentle demeanor and her courtesy.
Don Quixote at once drew himself up in the saddle, settled himself
firmly in the stirrups, adjusted his visor, put spurs to Rocinante, and
with a graceful ease of manner rode forward to kiss the duchess's hands.
In the meantime, as Don Quixote was approaching, the duchess had
summoned her husband and told him of the message, and inasmuch
as they had read the first part of this story and were familiar with the
knight's nonsensical whims, they were both delighted and extremely
eager to make his acquaintance. As they waited for him, they decided
that they would humor him in every way and fall in with everything
he said, and that as long as he stayed with them they would treat him as
a knight-errant, with all the customary ceremonies as described in the
books of chivalry; for they had read those books and were very fond
of them.385

Don Quixote then rode up with his visor raised, and as he went to
dismount, Sancho came alongside to hold his stirrup for him; but un-
fortunately, as he descended from his gray, the squire caught his foot
in one of the ropes of his packsaddle in such a manner that he could
not get it loose and was left hanging there with his face and bosom on
the ground. Now, Don Quixote was not used to dismounting without
his stirrup being held, and, thinking that Sancho was already there to
see to it, he threw himself off with a lurch, bringing with him Roci-
nante's saddle, which must have been poorly fastened, and, as a result,
both he and the saddle came tumbling to the earth. Needless to say,
he was very much ashamed and could only mutter curses between his
teeth at the unfortunate Sancho, who still had his feet in the stocks.

The duke thereupon ordered his huntsmen to assist the knight and
squire, and they proceeded to lift Don Quixote, who was greatly shaken
by his fall but who nonetheless, limping along as best he could, now
came forward to kneel before the noble pair. The duke, however, would
by no means consent to this, but, dismounting from his own steed,
advanced to meet and embrace his guest.

"Sir Knight of the Mournful Countenance," he said, "I deeply regret
that the first time you set foot in my domains you should have met
with so unfortunate an accident, but the carelessness of squires is often
the cause of worse ones."

"Whatever might have happened to me, valorous prince," was Don
Quixote's reply, "could not possibly have been evil, even though I had
fallen all the way to the depths of the bottomless pit; for the great
honor of meeting you would have raised me up and delivered me. My
squire, God curse him, is better at loosening his impudent tongue than
he is at tightening a saddle girth so that it will stay. But in whatever
state I may be, fallen or erect, on foot or on horseback, I shall always
be at your service and that of my lady the duchess, your worthy con-
sort, beauty's deserving queen and sovereign princess of courtesy."

"Be careful what you say, Senor Don Quixote de la Mancha," the
duke advised him, "for where my lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso is,
other beauties are not to be praised."

Sancho Panza, who by this time had been freed of the noose, was
standing close by, and before his master could answer, he spoke up.
"It cannot be denied," he said; "indeed, it is to be maintained, that my
lady Dulcinea del Toboso is very beautiful; but the hare jumps where
you least expect it,386 and I have heard folks say that what is called nature
is like a potter who makes vessels out of clay: he who makes one beau-
tiful jar can make two, three, or a hundred. I say that because, on my
word, my lady the duchess is not one whit behind my mistress.

At this, Don Quixote turned to the duchess. "Your Highness," he said
to her, "can well imagine that no knight-errant in the world ever had
a more talkative or droller squire than I have, and he will prove to you
that I speak the truth if your exalted Highness be pleased to accept my
services for a few days."

"If the worthy Sancho is droll," replied the duchess, that is a very
good thing, for it shows that he is possessed of sound sense. As your
Grace is aware, Senor Don Quixote, drollery and wit do not go with a
dull mind and so, since Sancho is both droll and witty, I shall regard
him from now on as a shrewd fellow."

"And a talkative one," added Don Quixote.

"So much the better," said the duke; "for many drolleries cannot be
expressed in a few words. But come, great Knight of the Mournful
Countenance, let us not waste our time talking."

"Knight of the Lions, your Highness should say," Sancho reminded
him. "There is no Knight of the Mournful Countenance any more, nor
of any kind of Countenance."387

"Of the Lions let it be," the duke went on. "What I started to say
was that Sir Knight of the Lions should come to a castle of mine that
is hard by, where he will be accorded the reception that is justly due
to so exalted a personage, such a reception as the duchess and I are
accustomed to give to all knights-errant who arrive there."

Sancho lost no time in saddling Rocinante, seeing to it this time that
the girths were properly fastened, and they then set out for the castle,
with the duke mounted upon a handsome steed and the duchess in be-
tween them, the lady having requested Sancho to ride with her, as she
took a great delight in listening to his witticisms. Sancho required no
urging, and, riding in the center of the group, he made a fourth in the
conversation, all to the vast enjoyment of the titled pair, who were only
too happy to receive in their castle such a knight-errant and his arrant
squire.388



CHAPTER XXXI.

Which treats of many and great things.



Sancho was supremely happy at finding himself, as he thought,
in the good graces of the duchess, for he expected the same kind of
treatment in her castle that he had received in Don Diego's house and
at Basilio's place. Fond of good living always, he never failed to take
opportunity by the forelock and enjoy a feast whenever he could.

The history then goes on to relate that before they reached the
country house or castle the duke went on ahead and gave orders to
all his servants as to how they were to treat Don Quixote. Accordingly,
the moment the knight arrived at the castle gates in the company of
the duchess, two lackeys or equerries came out clad from head to foot
in what are known as morning robes of finest crimson satin, and, taking
the guest in their arms before he had seen or heard them, they said to
him, "Your Highness should go and help the duchess to dismount." He
started to do as they had suggested, and there followed an elaborate
exchange of courtesies regarding the matter, with the duchess insisting
that she would descend only in the arms of the duke, since she did not
deem it proper to impose so useless a burden on so distinguished a
knight; and in the end she had her way and the duke came out to help
her down.

They then entered a large patio, and as they did so two beautiful
maidens threw over Don Quixote's shoulders a great cloak of sumptu-
ous scarlet cloth, and upon the instant all the galleries of the courtyard
were filled with male and female servants of the noble pair, crying
loudly, "Welcome, O flower and cream of knight-errantry." And all
or most of them spilled vials of scented water upon the knight and
the duke and duchess. All of which greatly astonished Don Quixote;
indeed, it may be said that this was the first time that he really and
wholly believed himself to be a true knight-errant and not a fanciful
one, for here he was being treated in the very same manner as knights-
errant in ages past, according to the storybooks he had read.

Dismounting from his gray, Sancho contrived to keep close to the
duchess and entered the castle with her, although it hurt his conscience
a bit to leave the ass alone like that. There he encountered a dignified
duenna who with the other womenfolk had come out to receive their
mistress, and he took occasion to say to her in a low voice, "Scnora
Gonzalez, or whatever your name may be--"

"Dona Rodriguez de Grijalba is my name," the duenna replied. "What
is your pleasure, brother?"

"I would have your Grace do me the favor," said Sancho, "of going
out to the castle gate, where you will find a gray ass of mine. Will your
Grace be pleased to have them put him in the stable, or else put him
there yourself, for the poor beast is a little timid and simply can't bear
being alone."

"If the master is as wise as the man," replied the duenna, "we're in
for it. Be off with you, brother! You and the one who brought you
here can go to blazes! As for your ass, the ladies of this household are
not used to work of that sort."

"Well," said Sancho, "the truth is, I've heard my master, who is a
wizard when it comes to stones--I've heard him say of Lancelot:

　　　　　　　　When from Britain he came,
　　　　　　　　ladies took care of him,
　　　　　　　　duennas looked after his hack,389

And so far as that ass of mine is concerned, I wouldn't exchange him
for that hack of Sir Lancelot's

"Brother," said the duenna, "if you are a jester390 save your jokes
for those that appreciate them and will pay you for them, for you'll get
nothing out of me but a fig."391

"It will be a ripe one at least," was Sancho's answer, "for if years
are trumps, you won't lose the game for want of a point."392

"Son of a whore!" cried the duenna, who was now very angry. "How
old I am is a matter between me and God and no business of yours, you
garlic-stuffed rascal!"

She had raised her voice to such a pitch that the duchess heard
her; and the lady of the castle, upon turning her head and seeing her
waiting woman so excited, with her eyes all aflame, thereupon wished
to know who it was with whom she was quarreling.

"This fine fellow here," replied the duenna. "He has been urging
me to go out and stable an ass of his that is standing at the castle gate;
and he tells me by way of precedent that somewhere or other some
ladies took care of a certain Lancelot in that fashion and some duennas
looked after his horse. What's more, for good measure, he called me
an old woman."

"I should consider that the greatest insult that anyone could offer
me," said the duchess and, turning to the squire, she went on, "I must
advise you, friend Sancho, that Doha Rodriguez is very young, and
if she wears a hood, it is merely to lend her dignity and because it is
the custom and not on account of her years."

"May all the years that are left to me be bad ones," said Sancho, "if
I meant it that way. What I was trying to say was that I am very fond
of my beast and I thought I could not entrust him to a more kind-
hearted person than Doha Rodriguez."

Don Quixote, who had been listening all the while, now put in a word.
"Is this the place, Sancho," he asked, "for such talk as that?"

"Sir," replied Sancho, "everyone must say what he has to say wher-
ever he may be. I happened to think of my gray, and so I spoke of him.
If it had been in the stable that I thought of him, I'd have spoken of
him there."

"Sancho," said the duke, "is quite right about that and is not to be
blamed for anything. The gray shall have all he wants to eat and Sancho
need not worry; the ass will receive the same good treatment as his
owner."

Following this conversation, which was very amusing to all of them
except Don Quixote, they ascended the stairs to the floor above, and
there they took the knight into a chamber richly adorned with cloth
of gold and brocade, where six damsels, acting as his pages, proceeded
to disarm him. They had all been well instructed by the duke and
duchess as to what they were to say and do and how they were to
behave toward Don Quixote so that he would have reason to believe
he was being treated as a knight-errant. With his armor off, their guest
stood there in his tight-fitting breeches and chamois-skin doublet, tall,
lean, lanky, with cheeks that appeared to be kissing each other on the
inside of his mouth. In short, he presented such an appearance that, if
the damsels waiting on him had not done their best to restrain themselves
?this being one of the definite orders their master and mistress had
given them--they would have burst with laughing.

They then wanted to strip him so that they could put a shirt on him,
but be refused to consent to this, saying that modesty was as becoming
as valor in knights-errant. Instead, he directed them to give the shirt
to Sancho, and shutting himself up in a room where there was a sumptu-
ous bed, he undressed himself and put on the garment.

"Tell me, you old simpleton turned buffoon," he said upon finding
himself alone with Sancho, "do you think it was right to insult so
venerable a duenna and one so worthy of respect as that one--Was
that any time to be thinking of your gray--Are these the kind of peo-
ple to let beasts suffer when they treat their owners so royally--For
God's sake, Sancho, restrain yourself and do not be showing your fiber
so that they can see of what coarse, clownish stuff you are made. Bear
in mind, sinner that you are, that the more respectable and well bred his
servants are, the more is the master honored, and one of the great ad-
vantages that princes have over other men is that they are waited upon
by those who are as good as themselves.

"Do you not know," he continued, "small-minded creature that you
are and unfortunate man that I am, that if they perceive you to be a
boor and a clown they will take me for an impostor, for some swindler
or other--No, no, friend Sancho, that is a stumbling block you should
avoid; for whoever falls into the way of being a prattler for the amuse-
ment of others, the first time he trips will end as a wretched buffoon.
Put a bridle on your tongue, then; think over and ruminate on your
words before they leave your mouth, remembering that we have now
reached the point where, by God's help and the might of my arm, we
shall come forth greatly bettered in fame and fortune.

Sancho earnestly promised to do as his master had commanded and
keep his mouth closed, vowing that he would bite his tongue out be-
fore he uttered a word that was not in place and well considered. The
knight could set his mind at ease on one point: no one would ever
know through him, Sancho, who they were. Don Quixote then put on
his clothes, strapped on his baldric and his sword, threw a scarlet cloak
over his shoulders, and donned a cloth cap.393 which the damsels had
given him; and dressed in this manner he descended to the great hail,
where he found the maidens drawn up in two equal rows to present
him with what was needed for washing his hands, all of which was done
with many curtsies and great ceremony.

Twelve pages,394 accompanied by the seneschal, next made their ap-
pearance to bring him to the dinner, as his hosts were awaiting him.
Placing him in their midst, they conducted him with truly regal pomp
into another room where a rich table was laid with four places only.
The duke and duchess came to the door to receive him, and with them
was a solemn-faced ecclesiastic, one of those who rule over noble house-
holds and who, not having been born to the nobility themselves, are
unable to instruct their charges in the proper behavior. He was one
of those who would measure the greatness of great men by their own
narrow minds, one of those who, desirous of inculcating economy,
merely succeed in making misers.395 Such a one, I repeat, must have
been the grave-appearing churchman who now came forward with the
lord and lady of the castle to greet Don Quixote. There were innumera-
ble compliments on either side, after which, the knight walking be-
tween his host and hostess, they went to take their places at the table.

The duke invited Don Quixote to take the head of the table and in-
sisted upon it so strongly that, although the knight at first declined, there
was nothing to do but yield. The ecclesiastic took the seat opposite,
while the duke and duchess sat at the sides. Sancho, meanwhile, was
watching all this in open-mouthed amazement, unable to believe his
eyes as he saw the honor that was being shown his master by these
noble personages; and as he observed the ceremonies that marked the
dinner and heard the duke begging Don Quixote to take the place of
honor, he could not refrain from speaking up.

"If your Worships will grant me permission," he said, "I will tell
you a story concerning something that happened in my village. It has
to do with this matter of seats."

No sooner did he hear these words than Don Quixote began trem-
bling, for he thought that undoubtedly his squire was going to give
utterance to some absurdity. Sancho saw the look on his face and under-
stood it.

"You needn't fear, master," he assured him, "I'm not going to dis-
obey you or say anything that's not to the point. I haven't forgotten
the advice your Grace gave me a while ago about speaking much or
little, well or ill."

"I remember nothing about it," replied Don Quixote. "Say what you
like, so long as you say it quickly."

"What I am about to tell you," Sancho went on, "is the truth, and
my master here present will not let me lie."

"So far as I am concerned, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "you can lie
all you want to and I shan't stop you; but watch your words, that's
all."

"I've considered and reconsidered them," was the answer, "and the
bell-ringer's in a safe place,396 as you will see."

"It would be a good thing," remarked Don Quixote, "if your High-
nesses would have them throw this fool out, for he will talk all kinds
of nonsense."

"By the life of the duke," exclaimed the duchess, "I am not going
to part with Sancho for a moment. I am extremely fond of him, for
I know him to be very discreet."

"And may your days be discreet, your Holiness,"397 said Sancho, "in
return for the good opinion you have of me, even if I don't deserve it.
But the story I want to tell you is this. There was a gentleman of my
village, a very rich and important one, seeing that he came of the
Alamos of Medina del Campo and was married to Doha Mencia de
Quinones, who was the daughter of Don Alonso de Maranon, a knight
of the Order of Santiago who was drowned at Herradura, the same one
who was the cause of that quarrel in our town some years ago in which
my master, Don Quixote, was mixed up, so I've heard them say, and
Tomasillo the scapegrace, son of Balbastro the blacksmith, who was
wounded--isn't all that the truth, my master--Speak up, on your life,
so that these good people will not take me for a lying prattler.

"Up to now," said the ecclesiastic, "I have taken you for a prattler
rather than a liar, but I cannot say what I shall take you for later on.

"You cite so many witnesses, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and go
into so much circumstantial detail that I am forced to admit you must
be telling the truth; but get on with your story and cut it short, for at
the rate you are going you will not be finished in a couple of days.

"He is not to cut it short on my account," said the duchess. "Rather,
let him tell it in his own way, even if it takes him six days, for they
would be the best I ever spent in my life."

"Well, then, as I was saying, good people," continued Sancho, "this
certain gentleman--I know him as well as I do my own hands, for from
my house to his it is not a crossbow shot--this gentleman invited a
farmer, who was poor but respected--"

"Get on, brother," said the churchman at this point, "or otherwise
you will not be through with your story until you get to the other
world."

"I'll stop a little this side of halfway, please God," replied Sancho.
"And so, as I was saying, this farmer, coming to the house of this
gentleman I was telling you of who had invited him--God rest his soul,
for he is dead now, and what's more, they say he died the death of an
angel--I wasn't there, having gone down to Tembleque for the harvest
at that time--"

"On your life, son," said the churchman, "hurry back from Tem-
bleque398 and finish your story without stopping to bury the gentle-
man, unless you want more funerals on your hands."

"Well, then," Sancho went on, "it so happened that as the two of
them sat down at the table--it seems to me I can see them now plainer
than ever--"

The duke and duchess were delighted at the churchman's annoy-
ance, occasioned by Sancho's prolixity and digressions in the telling
of his story, but Don Quixote was consumed with rage.

"As I was saying," Sancho rambled on, "just as the two of them were
about to sit down to eat, the farmer began insisting that the gentle-
man should take the head of the table and the gentleman insisted that
the farmer should take it, saying that in his house his orders had to be
obeyed; but the farmer, who had been well brought up and was proud
of his manners, would not hear of it until the gentleman, becoming
quite angry, laid both hands on the farmer's shoulders and forced him
into the place, saying, 'Sit down, you stupid ass, for wherever I sit will
be the head of the table to you.' That is my story, and to tell the
truth, I don't think it's out of place here."399

Don Quixote turned a thousand colors that mottled his brown face
until it took on the appearance of jasper. The duke and duchess had
to conceal their laughter so as not to add to his embarrassment, for they
had seen through Sancho's maliciousness; and in order to change the
subject and prevent his squire from running on in this manner, the
duchess now inquired of the knight what news he had had of the lady
Dulcinea and asked if he had made her a present lately of any more
giants or evildoers, as he must surely have vanquished a great many of
them.

"Lady," he replied, "my misfortunes, though they had a beginning,
will never have an end. Giants I have conquered and rascals and scoun-
drels I have sent her, but where are they to find her if she is under a
magic spell and has been turned into the homeliest peasant lass that
could be imagined?"

"I don't know about that," said Sancho Panza. "To me she seemed
the most beautiful creature in the world. At least, when it comes to
nimbleness and frisking, she won't give in to a tumbler. My word, Duch-
ess, she leaps from the ground onto the back of a she-ass as if she were
a cat."

"Have you seen her, Sancho, since she has been enchanted?" the
duke asked.

"Have I seen her!" exclaimed Sancho. "Who in the devil was it but
me that first thought up this enchantment business! She's as much en-
chanted as my father"

The ecclesiastic, upon hearing this talk of giants, rogues, and en-
chanters, decided that their guest must be none other than Don Quix-
ote de la Mancha whose story the duke was always reading--he had re-
proved him for it many times, telling him it was nonsensical to waste
his time on such nonsense--and now, becoming convinced that his
suspicions were correct, he turned to the duke and addressed him angrily.

"Your Excellency, Senor Mio," he said, "will have to give an ac-
count to the Lord for what this good man does. This Don Quixote, or
Don Simpleton, or whatever his name is, surely cannot be such a dunce
as your Excellency would make him out to be by thus lending encourage-
ment to his foolish carryings-on." Addressing himself, then, to Don
Quixote, he continued, "And as for you, addlepate, who ever put it into
your head that you are a knight-errant who conquers giants and cap-
tures malefactors--I say to you: go your way and Heaven be with
you; return to your home, see to bringing up your children if you have
any, look after your property, and stop wandering about the world
like a gaping ninny, making a laughingstock of yourself in the eyes of
all, whether they know you or not. Where in the name of goodness400
did you ever come upon any knights-errant living or dead--Where are
there giants in Spain, or bandits in La Mancha, or enchanted Dulcineas.
or any of the other silly things they tell about in connection with you?"

Don Quixote listened very attentively to what the reverend gentle-
man had to say, and when he saw that the speaker had finished, disre-
garding the presence of the duke and duchess he sprang to his feet
with an angry and excited look on his face, and said--But his answer
deserves a chapter to itself.



CHAPTER XXXII.

Concerning the answer which Don Quixote gave to his reprover,
with other incidents, some serious and some amusing.



As Don Quixote rose from his seat, he was trembling from head to
foot like a man with an overdose of mercury, and he spoke in a hur-
ried, agitated voice.

"The place and presence in which I stand," he began, "and the respect
I have always had for your Reverence's profession, tie and bind the
hands of my just wrath. For this reason, and because I am aware that
the weapons of men in gowns401 are the same as those of a woman--
namely, the tongue--I shall employ that same weapon in doing battle
with your Reverence, from whom one might have looked for good
counsel rather than infamous abuse. Reprehension that is righteous and
well meant should be administered in a different way and calls for other
arguments. By reproving me in public and so rudely, you have ex-
ceeded all proper bounds; for Christian reprehension should be based
upon mildness not upon asperity, nor is it right, knowing nothing of
the sin you are censuring, to call the sinner straightaway a simpleton
and a fool.

"Otherwise," he went on, "tell me, your Reverence, what manifesta-
tion of foolishness have you discerned in me that leads you thus to
vituperate and condemn me and order me to return home, look after
the management of my affairs, and care for my wife and children, when
you do not even know whether or not I have a house or family--Is
nothing more required than to make your way by hook or crook into
other people's houses to rule over their masters, and that, perhaps, after
having been brought up in some poverty-stricken seminary402 and hav-
ing seen no more of the world than was to be found within a radius of
twenty or thirty leagues--Is such a one suddenly to take it upon himself
to lay down the law for chivalry and pass judgment on knights-errant--
Is it, perchance, a vain occupation or a waste of time to wander over
the earth, seeking not the pleasures of this life but those hardships by
which the virtuous may mount to the seat of immortality?403 If true
gentlemen or great lords of high and noble station were to call me a
fool I should take it as an irreparable insult, but for the opinion of mere
bookworms who have never entered upon or trod the paths of chivalry
1 would not give a penny. A knight I am and a knight I shall die, if it
be pleasing to Almighty God.

"Some men," the knight concluded, "take the broad field of ambi-
tion,404 others the road of low and servile adulation; some choose the way
of hypocrisy and deception, and others still that of religion; but, as for
me, led on by my star, I follow the narrow path of knight-errantry, and
in the exercise of that profession I despise wealth but not honor. I have
undone wrongs, righted grievances, chastised the insolent, overcome
giants, and trampled monsters under foot. I am enamored, for the very
good reason that knights-errant must be. I am not, however, one of those
vicious lovers, but, rather, chaste and platonic. My intention is always
a worthy one: that of doing good to all and harm to none. As to whether
a man with such a purpose and who puts it into execution deserves to
be called a simpleton, that is for your Highnesses to say, O excellent
Duke and Duchess."

"By God," exclaimed Sancho, "that's good! Say no more, master mine,
in your own behalf, for there's nothing more in the world to be said,
thought, or insisted upon.405 So far as that goes, seeing that this gentle-
man denies, as he has denied, that there are or have been knights-
errant in the world, is it any wonder if he doesn't know what he's
talking about?"

"Brother," said the ecclesiastic, "arc you by any chance that Sancho
Panza to whom, so they tell me, his master has promised an island?"

"I am," replied Sancho, "and I am one who deserves it as well as any
other. I am one of those of whom it is said, 'Keep good company and
you'll be one of them,'406 and, 'Not with whom you are bred but with
whom you are fed,'407 and, 'Who leans against a good tree is covered by
a goodly shade.'408 I've leaned against a good master, it's many months
now that I've been going about with him, and, God willing, I'll be just
such another as he is. Long life to him and long life to me, and may he
never lack empires to rule and may I always have islands to govern."

"Have them you certainly shall, friend Sandro," said the duke at
this point; "for in the name of Senor Don Quixote, I hereby confer
upon you the government of an island that I happen to possess, and one
of no small importance."

"Get down on your knees, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and kiss his
Excellency's feet for the favor he has done you."

Sancho did as he was bidden and when he saw this, the ecclesiastic
rose from the table in a temper.

"By the habit that I wear," he said, "I feel like saying that your Ex-
cellency is as much of a crackbrain as these sinners. It is not surpris-
ing that they are mad when those who are sane applaud their madness.
Let your Excellency stay with them if you like, but as long as they
are in this house I shall remain in mine and shall ask to be excused from
reproving that which I cannot remedy."

And without uttering another word or eating another bite, he left
the room, despite the entreaties of the duke and duchess. The duke, in
fact, did not say much, as he was laughing too hard at the churchman's
uncalled-for anger.

"Sir Knight of the Lions," he said to Don Quixote when he had
finally stopped laughing. "Your Grace has answered him so well that
there is no further satisfaction to be sought. While this may appear to
be an affront, it is not so in reality; for, as your Grace knows, ecclesias-
tics, like women, can give no offense."

"That is true," agreed Don Quixote, "and the reason for it is that he
who is not to be offended cannot offend another. Women, children, and
churchmen, since they cannot protect themselves, even though they
may be wronged cannot be insulted; for between an offense and an in-
sult there is this difference, as your Excellency is aware: the insult comes
from one who can and does sustain it; an offense may come from any
quarter, with no insult attached to it. Let us take an example. A man is
standing unsuspectingly in the street when ten armed ruffians come up
and start beating him. He draws his sword and does his duty, but his
opponents are too many for him and he cannot carry out his intention,
which is that of avenging himself. This man is offended but not in-
sulted. Or let us take another case. A man is standing with his back
turned when another comes up and strikes him and then flees. He pur-
sues his assailant but is unable to overtake him; and so we may say that
the one who was struck received an offense but no insult, since the in-
sult has to be sustained.

"On the other hand," continued the knight, "if the one who struck
him, even though he did it by stealth, should lay hand to his sword and
face it out with his enemy, the latter would then be both offended and
insulted at one and the same time; he would be insulted for the reason
that the one who dealt the blow did not turn tail but stood and backed
it up. And so, in accordance with the laws of the accursed duel, I may
have been offended but not insulted; for neither women nor children
can maintain an affront, nor can they flee or stand their ground, and the
same is true of those who are in the Church, since these three classes
of people lack both offensive and defensive arms and, though they are
naturally obliged to defend themselves, should offend no one.

"I said a moment ago," Don Quixote went on, "that I might have
been offended, but now I say no, by no manner of means; for he who
cannot receive an insult is still less capable of giving one; and for this
reason I ought not to resent, nor do I resent, what this good man said
to me. My only regret is that he did not wait a while so that I might
have shown him how wrong he is in thinking and saying that there are
not and never have been any knights-errant in this world. Had Amadis
heard him, or any one of that knight's innumerable progeny, it would
not have been well for his Reverence."

"That I can surely swear to," said Sancho. "He would have given
him a slash that would have laid him open from top to bottom like a
pomegranate or an overripe melon. They were not the fellows to put
up with jokes like that! Faith, and if Rinaldo de Montalban409 had heard
the little man he'd have rapped him over the mouth so hard his Rev-
erence wouldn't have had anything more to say for three whole years.
He'd better not get mixed up with them or he'll see how he comes out!"

The duchess nearly died laughing as she listened to Sancho. In her
opinion he was even droller and more insane than his master, and there
were many at that time who would have agreed with her. Finally, Don
Quixote quieted down and the meal was finished; and as they removed
the cloth, four damsels appeared, one with a silver basin, one with a
jug likewise of silver, a third with the finest of white towels over her
shoulder, while the fourth, whose arms were bare to the elbow, carried
in her white hands (for white they assuredly were) a rounded cake
of Neapolitan soap.410 The one with the basin then came up with a
graceful, free, and easy manner and held the vessel under Don Quixote's
beard. The knight did not say a word, being quite astonished at such
a ceremony, but thinking it must be the custom of that region to wash
the beard in place of the hands, he stretched his whiskers out as far as
he could, and at that very moment the damsel with the jug began to
pour and the one with the soap started scrubbing most energetically,
raising snowflakes out of the lather that covered not only the beard
of the obedient knight but his entire face, compelling him to keep his
eyes closed.

The duke and duchess, who were wholly unprepared for all this,
waited to see what the outcome of these extraordinary ablutions would
be. The barber damsel, when she had her victim a palm's breadth deep
in lather, pretended that the water had run out and ordered the maid
with the jug to go fetch some more while Don Quixote remained like
that, the weirdest and most laughable-looking figure that could be imag-
ined. All those present, and there were many of them, stared at him,
at his neck half a yard long and uncommonly brown, his closed eyes,
and his beard full of soap, and it was all they could do to keep from
laughing outright. As for the damsels who had thought up the joke,
they kept their gaze lowered, not daring to look up at their master
and mistress, who were torn between laughter and anger and did not
know what to do, whether to punish the girls for their boldness or
reward them for the pleasure of seeing Don Quixote in this plight.

At last the girl with the jug came back and they finished bathing
the knight, after which they brought in towels and cleaned and dried
him very matter-of-factly. Having done this, all four of them made deep
bows, and curtsied and were about to withdraw when the duke, who
did not wish Don Quixote to discover the jest, called to them and said,
"Come and wash me too, and be sure there is plenty of water."

The girl, being sharp-witted, promptly placed the basin in front
of the duke as she had done with Don Quixote, and with the same en-
ergy and thoroughness they proceeded to bathe and lather him. Then,
with more curtsies, they all went away and it was afterward learned
that the duke had sworn that if they had not bathed him in the same
manner as they had the knight, he would have punished them for their
impudence, but, as it was, they had cleverly made amends.

"So help me God!" muttered Sancho to himself as he watched this
ceremonious bathing. "Could it be the custom in this country to wash
squires' beards as well as knights'--For, by God and 'pon my soul, I
have need of it. And if they gave me a shave as well, I'd take it as an
extra favor."

"What are you mumbling about, Sancho?" the duchess inquired.

"I was just saying to myself that in the courts of other princes, so I've
heard tell, when they take the cloth away they bring water for the
hands but not lye for the beard. For that reason, it's good to live a long
time so that you'll see a lot of things.411 They also say that he who has
a long life has to go through much trouble,412 though I'd call it pleasure,
not trouble, to have a bath like that."

"Do not let it worry you, friend Sancho," said the duchess, "for I
will have my damsels bathe you and they will even put you in the tub
if necessary."

"I'll be satisfied with the beard," replied Sancho, "for the present at
least. As for the future, God knows what is to be."

"Seneschal," called the duchess, "see that the good Sancho has what-
ever he asks for, and carry out his wishes in every respect."

The seneschal replied that he was wholly at Senor Sancho's service,
and with this he went off to eat, taking the squire with him, while the
duke and duchess and Don Quixote were left at the table talking of
many and various things, but all of them having to do with the pro-
fession of arms and the calling of knight-errantry. The duchess then
requested her guest, since he appeared to have so good a memory, to
describe for her the features of the beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso, who,
if what fame had trumpeted abroad concerning her loveliness was true,
must surely be the fairest creature in the world and even in all La
Mancha. Upon hearing this, Don Quixote heaved a sigh.

"If," he said, "I could but take my heart out and lay it before your
Highness's eyes, upon a plate here on this table, I should be able to spare
my tongue the trouble of telling what is scarcely to be conceived; for
in my heart your Excellency would see her fully portrayed. After all,
why should I undertake to describe and depict, point by point and fea-
ture by feature, the beauty of the peerless Dulcinea--That is a task
that should be laid upon other shoulders than mine, being one worthy
of the brushes of Parrhasius, Timanthes, and Apelles and of the chisel
of Lysippus;413 artists such as they should preserve that beauty in pic-
tures, in marble, and in bronze, and a Ciceronian and Demosthene elo-
quence are called for to eulogize it."

"What does Demosthene mean, Senor Don Quixote?"414 asked the
duchess. "That is a word I never heard in all my life.'

"Demosthene eloquence," Don Quixote explained, "is equivalent to
saying the eloquence of Demosthenes, just as Ciceronian means of
Cicero, for they were the two greatest orators in the world."

"That is right," said the duke. "Your mind must have been wan-
dering," he added, speaking to the duchess, "or you would not have
asked such a question. But, for all of that, it would give us a very great
pleasure if Senor Don Quixote would portray her for us; for I am sure
that, even though it be the merest outline or sketch, she will emerge
in such a manner as to arouse envy in the fairest of ladies."

"I should most certainly do so," said Don Quixote, "if it were not that
the misfortune that befell her a short while ago, of a kind to be wept
over rather than described, had blurred my mental image of her. For
I must inform your Highnesses that, some days past, when I went to
kiss her hand and to receive her blessing, her approval, and her per-
mission for this third sally of mine, I found her quite a different being
from the one I sought. I found her under a magic spell, converted from
a princess into a peasant girl, from a beautiful creature into an ugly one,
from an angel into a devil, from a fragrant-scented being into a foul-
smelling wench, from a fine-garbed, dignified lady into a rustic clown,
leaping in the air--in short, from Dulcinea del Toboso into a Sayago
country woman."415

"God save us!" cried the duke in a loud voice at this juncture. "Who
is it could have done such a wrong to the world--Who could have
deprived it of that beauty that rendered it joyful, that grace that
charmed it, and that modesty that so redounded to its credit?"

"Who?" Don Quixote repeated. "Who could it have been except some
malign enchanter of the many envious ones who persecute me--That
cursed race of beings was born into the world to darken it, to frustrate
the achievements of the virtuous and exalt those of the wicked. These
enchanters have persecuted, are persecuting, and will continue to per-
secute me until they shall have sunk me and my high deeds of chivalry
into the deep pit of oblivion. They seek to harm and wound me where
they know I am most vulnerable, for to take away his lady from a knight-
errant is to rob him of the eyes with which he sees, the sun that lights
him, and the sustenance that is his life. I have said many times before
and I will say it again, that the knight-errant without a lady is like the
tree without leaves, a building without a foundation, or a shadow with-
out the body that casts it."

"There is no more to be said on the subject," observed the duchess;
"but, nevertheless, if we are to believe the tale about Senor Don Quix-
ote that was recently published in these parts and that won the praise of
all--we are to gather from this tale, if I remember rightly, that your
Grace has never seen the lady Dulcinea, that there is, in fact, no such
lady in existence, or, rather, that she is a purely fanciful one, created
in your Grace's own mind, whom you have endowed with all the charms
and perfections that you chose to give her."

"That," replied Don Quixote, "is a long story. God knows whether
or not there is a Dulcinea in this world or if she is a fanciful creation.
This is not one of those cases where you can prove a thing conclusively.
I have not begotten or given birth to my lady, although I contemplate her
as she needs must be, seeing that she is a damsel who possesses all those
qualities that may render her famous in all parts of the world, such as: a
flawless beauty; dignity without haughtiness; a tenderness that is never
immodest; a graciousness due to courtesy and a courtesy that comes
from good breeding; and, finally, a highborn lineage, for beauty is more
resplendent and more nearly perfect in those of lofty extraction than
in creatures of a humbler origin."

"True enough," said the duke, "but if Senor Don Quixote will per-
mit me, after having read the story of his exploits I am compelled to re-
mind him that it is stated there that, granted there is a Dulcinea in or out
of El Toboso, and granted that she is as supremely beautiful as your
Grace has depicted her, she still cannot compare in the matter of an-
cestry with the Orianas, the Alastraj areas, the Madasimas,416 or others
of that sort with whose names the histories that your Grace knows so
well are filled."

"As to that," Don Quixote answered, "I can say only that Dulcinea
is the daughter of her works,417 that virtues shed luster upon the blood-
stream, and that a person of low degree who is possessed of them is
more to be esteemed than the vicious one who has risen to high sta-
tion.418 Moreover, Dulcinea has qualities that well may bring her to a crown
and scepter; for a woman who is at once beautiful and virtuous may by
her merits come to work miracles, and has locked within her, potentially
if not actually, a higher fortune than the one she knows."

"I must remark," said the duchess, "that in everything your Grace
tells us you proceed with leaden foot and plummet in hand, as the say-
ing is.419 As for myself, I shall continue to believe and shall see to it that
all in my household do the same--even my lord the duke if necessary
--that there is a Dulcinea now living in El Toboso, and that she is beau-
tiful and highborn, a lady worthy of being served by such a knight as
Senor Don Quixote, which is the highest praise I can bestow upon her.
But, for all of that, there is still some small doubt in my mind, and here
I hold a grudge against Sancho Panza; for the story that I have men-
tioned states that when Sancho brought the lady Dulcinea a message
from your Grace, he found her winnowing a bag of wheat, and red
wheat at that, a circumstance that leads me to question her exalted
lineage."420

"My lady," replied Don Quixote, "your Highness should know that
all or most of the things that happen to me are beyond the common ex-
perience of other knights-errant, being brought about either through
the inscrutable will of the fates or through the malice of some envious
enchanter. For it is a known fact that all or most of the famous knights-
errant either had a special gift that was proof against enchantment or
else had flesh that was impenetrable so that they could not be wounded.
There was, for example, Orlando, one of the Twelve Peers of France,
of whom it is related that he could be wounded only in the sole of his
left foot, and with no other weapon whatever than a large pin; and so
when Bernardo del Carpio slew him at Roncesvalles,421 upon perceiving
that he could not reach him with his sword, he was compelled to lift
him from the ground and strangle him, thus recalling the manner in
which Hercules disposed of Antaeus, the ferocious giant who, they say,
was Earth's own son.

"By this," he went on, "I mean to infer that I may possibly possess
some gift of this sort. Not the gift of invulnerability, however, since ex-
perience has frequently taught me that my flesh is tender and by no
means impenetrable; nor am I proof against enchantment, having, be-
fore now, found myself thrust into a cage,422 a thing which all the world
combined could never have accomplished except through the power
of magic. But inasmuch as I succeeded in freeing myself from that
spell, I am of the opinion that no one will henceforth be able to hurt
me. Accordingly, those enchanters, seeing they can no longer lay their
evil hands upon my person, are avenging themselves upon the object
that I most love and would deprive me of life by mistreating Dulcinea,
in whom I have my being.

"What I think is that when my squire brought her my message, those
same enchanters transformed her into a country wench and set her at
so low a task as is that of winnowing wheat. But I have already said that
the wheat in question was not red, nor was it wheat, but oriental pearls;
and, in proof of this, I may inform your Highnesses that when I came to
El Toboso not long ago, I was able to find Dulcinca's palace; and the
very next day Sancho, my squire, beheld her in her proper form, which
is the most beautiful of any on earth, while to me she appeared as a
coarse and ugly peasant girl and very rude in her speech, though she
herself is the soul of propriety. And seeing that I am not enchanted
and, it stands to reason, cannot be, she must be the one who has suffered
this injury and has been thus altered, changed, and transformed. That
is to say, my enemies through her have had their revenge on me, and it
is on account of her that I live amid ceaseless tears until I shall once
more have beheld her in her pristine state.

"All this," continued Don Quixote, "I have told you in order that
no one may believe what Sancho says about Dulcinea's winnowing or
sifting grain; for if they altered her in my sight, it is no wonder if they
transformed her for him. Dulcinea is illustrious and wellborn and comes
from one of those noble lines such as are to be met with in El Toboso,423
where they are numerous, ancient, and respected; and, without a doubt,
much of the credit for the esteem in which these houses are held must
go to her, on account of whom her town will be as famous and renowned
as Troy was on account of Helen or Spain by reason of Cava,424 and
with an even better title to fame.

"On the other hand, I would have your Highnesses know that Sancho
Panza is one of the drollest squires that ever served a knight-errant. He
is so sharp in his simple-mindedness that one may derive no little amuse-
ment from trying to determine whether he is in reality simple or sharp-
witted. He has in him a certain malicious streak that seems to indicate
he is a rogue, and from his blundering you would take him for a dunce.
He doubts everything and believes everything, and just as I think he
is about to tumble headlong, owing to some stupidity, he will come
up with some witticism or other that sends him skyward in my estima-
tion. The short of the matter is, I would not exchange him for another
squire even though they threw in a city to boot.

"And so I am in some doubt as to whether it would be a good thing
to entrust him with that governorship that your Highness has done him
the favor of bestowing on him; although it is true that I discern in him
a certain aptitude for governing, and with a little brushing-up of his
wits he might make out as well with any government whatsoever as a
king with his taxes.425 Especially since we know from long experience
that neither much ability nor much learning is necessary in order to
be a governor; for there are a hundred hereabouts who are barely able
to read and who yet acquit themselves of their task like so many ger-
falcons.426 The main thing is for them to be possessed of good inten-
tions and a desire to do the right thing always, for they will never lack
those who can advise and direct them in what they have to do, just
as those who are knights and not scholars pass judgment with the aid
of an assessor. My advice to him would be to take no bribe and sur-
render no right,427 and there are a few other little points I have in mind
that I can bring up when the time comes and that will be useful to
Sancho and of benefit to the island he is to govern."

The duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote had reached this point in
their conversation when they heard the sound of many voices and a
great uproar in the palace, and of a sudden Sancho burst into the room
in a rage, with a straining cloth under his chin for a bib, followed by a
large number of lads, or, more precisely, scullions and other kitchen
help. One of the pursuers carried a small trough filled with a liquid that,
from its color and unclean appearance, was clearly seen to be dish-
water, and he kept insisting on placing the receptacle under Sancho's
beard while one of his companions sought to give the squire a bath.

"What is this, brothers?" the duchess demanded. "What is this--What
are you trying to do to this good man--Do you not know that he has
just been appointed a governor?"

"The gentleman does not want to let us bathe him," replied the
barber-scullion, "as is the custom and as we bathed my lord the duke,
and his own master."

"Yes," said Sancho wrathfully, "I do want to be bathed, but with
cleaner towels, clearer suds,428 and hands that are not so dirty. There is
not so much difference between my master and me that they should
bathe him with angel water429 and me with these damnable suds! The
customs of countries and of princely palaces are good so long as they
do not cause hardship, but the custom of bathing as in use here is worse
than the rule of the flagellants. My beard is clean and does not need
to be freshened up in that way, and I will say, with all due respect, that
if anyone tries to wash me or touches a hair of my head, I mean, of
my beard, I'll give him a punch that will leave my fist buried in his
skull; for, in my opinion, cirimonies430 and soapings such as these are
more of a joke than they are the kind of treatment that should be shown
to a guest."

The duchess nearly died with laughter as she saw how very angry
Sancho was and listened to his words; but Don Quixote was not greatly
amused at seeing his squire in such a plight, with the dirty towel about
him and surrounded by the pranksters from the kitchen. And so, mak-
ing a profound obeisance to the duke and duchess, as if begging their
permission to speak, the knight turned and addressed the rowdies in
these words:

"I say there, you gentlemen,431 leave this young man alone and go
back where you came from, or anywhere else that you please. My squire
is as clean as any other, and he likes those troughs of yours no better
than he does slim, narrow-mouthed wine jars;432 so take my advice
and leave him alone, for neither he nor I is fond of jests."
At this point Sancho took the words out of his mouth.

"Let them come on," he said, "and try their jokes on this bumpkin.
It's as likely I'll stand for them as it is that it is now night.433 Let them
bring a comb or whatever they like and curry this beard of mine, and
if they bring out of it anything that's not clean, I'll let them give me a
fool's haircut."434

"Sancho Panza," said the duchess, laughing still, "is right in every-
thing he has said or will say. He is clean and, as he has told us, has
no need of a bath; so, if our custom is not pleasing to him, let him do
as he likes. What is more, you ministers of cleanliness have been en-
tirely too careless and remiss, perhaps I should say audacious, in bring-
ing such a person as this, with such a beard, a wooden trough and
dishclouts in place of a basin and jugs of purest gold and towels of
Holland linen. In short, you are ill behaved and ill bred and, knaves
that you are, cannot refrain from showing the grudge you harbor against
the squires of knights-errant."

The impudent servants and even the seneschal who had come with
them believed that the duchess was speaking in earnest. They now re-
moved the straining cloth from around Sancho's neck and, more than
a little embarrassed and out of countenance, went away and left him
there; whereupon, seeing himself delivered from what he looked upon
as a supreme peril, the squire ran over and fell on his knees in front
of the duchess.

"From great ladies great favors are to be expected," he said, "but in
order to repay the one your Highness has shown me, I can only wish
that I could be dubbed a knight-errant so that I could spend all the
days of my life in serving your exalted Ladyship. I am a peasant, Sancho
Panza by name, I am married and the father of a family, and I serve
as a squire. If in any of these respects I can be of service to your High-
ness, I shall hesitate less in obeying than your Ladyship in commanding."

"It is quite apparent, Sancho," replied the duchess, "that you have
studied in the school of courtesy itself; by that I mean to say, that
you have been nourished at the bosom of Senor Don Quixote, who is
the very cream of courtesy and flower of ceremony--or cirimony, as
you yourself would say.435 Well may such a master and man fare, the
one being the north pole of knight-errantry while the other is the star
of squirely fidelity! Arise, friend Sancho, that I may repay your courtesy
by having my lord the duke fulfill as soon as possible the promise of a
governorship that he has made you."

This ended their conversation. Don Quixote now went off to take
his siesta, and the duchess requested Sancho, in case he was not too
sleepy, to spend the afternoon with her and her damsels in a very cool
apartment that they had. He replied that, although it was true that he
liked to take a nap of four or five hours in the summertime, in order
to be of service to her Excellency he would strive with all his might to
go without sleep that day and in obedience to her command would
come to her chambers. The duke, meanwhile, gave fresh orders to the
effect that Don Quixote was to be treated as a knight-errant in every
way, without departing one jot from the formalities that, according to
the storybooks, were observed in the case of knights of old.