CHAPTER XLVI.

OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY

BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE

While Don Quixote was talking in this strain, the curate was endeavouring

to persuade the officers that he was out of his senses, as they might

perceive by his deeds and his words, and that they need not press the

matter any further, for even if they arrested him and carried him off,

they would have to release him by-and-by as a madman; to which the holder

of the warrant replied that he had nothing to do with inquiring into Don

Quixote's madness, but only to execute his superior's orders, and that

once taken they might let him go three hundred times if they liked.

"For all that," said the curate, "you must not take him away this time,

nor will he, it is my opinion, let himself be taken away."

In short, the curate used such arguments, and Don Quixote did such mad

things, that the officers would have been more mad than he was if they

had not perceived his want of wits, and so they thought it best to allow

themselves to be pacified, and even to act as peacemakers between the

barber and Sancho Panza, who still continued their altercation with much

bitterness. In the end they, as officers of justice, settled the question

by arbitration in such a manner that both sides were, if not perfectly

contented, at least to some extent satisfied; for they changed the

pack-saddles, but not the girths or head-stalls; and as to Mambrino's

helmet, the curate, under the rose and without Don Quixote's knowing it,

paid eight reals for the basin, and the barber executed a full receipt

and engagement to make no further demand then or thenceforth for

evermore, amen. These two disputes, which were the most important and

gravest, being settled, it only remained for the servants of Don Luis to

consent that three of them should return while one was left to accompany

him whither Don Fernando desired to take him; and good luck and better

fortune, having already begun to solve difficulties and remove

obstructions in favour of the lovers and warriors of the inn, were

pleased to persevere and bring everything to a happy issue; for the

servants agreed to do as Don Luis wished; which gave Dona Clara such

happiness that no one could have looked into her face just then without

seeing the joy of her heart. Zoraida, though she did not fully comprehend

all she saw, was grave or gay without knowing why, as she watched and

studied the various countenances, but particularly her Spaniard's, whom

she followed with her eyes and clung to with her soul. The gift and

compensation which the curate gave the barber had not escaped the

landlord's notice, and he demanded Don Quixote's reckoning, together with

the amount of the damage to his wine-skins, and the loss of his wine,

swearing that neither Rocinante nor Sancho's ass should leave the inn

until he had been paid to the very last farthing. The curate settled all

amicably, and Don Fernando paid; though the Judge had also very readily

offered to pay the score; and all became so peaceful and quiet that the

inn no longer reminded one of the discord of Agramante's camp, as Don

Quixote said, but of the peace and tranquillity of the days of

Octavianus: for all which it was the universal opinion that their thanks

were due to the great zeal and eloquence of the curate, and to the

unexampled generosity of Don Fernando.

Finding himself now clear and quit of all quarrels, his squire's as well

as his own, Don Quixote considered that it would be advisable to continue

the journey he had begun, and bring to a close that great adventure for

which he had been called and chosen; and with this high resolve he went

and knelt before Dorothea, who, however, would not allow him to utter a

word until he had risen; so to obey her he rose, and said, "It is a

common proverb, fair lady, that 'diligence is the mother of good

fortune,' and experience has often shown in important affairs that the

earnestness of the negotiator brings the doubtful case to a successful

termination; but in nothing does this truth show itself more plainly than

in war, where quickness and activity forestall the devices of the enemy,

and win the victory before the foe has time to defend himself. All this I

say, exalted and esteemed lady, because it seems to me that for us to

remain any longer in this castle now is useless, and may be injurious to

us in a way that we shall find out some day; for who knows but that your

enemy the giant may have learned by means of secret and diligent spies

that I am going to destroy him, and if the opportunity be given him he

may seize it to fortify himself in some impregnable castle or stronghold,

against which all my efforts and the might of my indefatigable arm may

avail but little? Therefore, lady, let us, as I say, forestall his

schemes by our activity, and let us depart at once in quest of fair

fortune; for your highness is only kept from enjoying it as fully as you

could desire by my delay in encountering your adversary."

Don Quixote held his peace and said no more, calmly awaiting the reply of

the beauteous princess, who, with commanding dignity and in a style

adapted to Don Quixote's own, replied to him in these words, "I give you

thanks, sir knight, for the eagerness you, like a good knight to whom it

is a natural obligation to succour the orphan and the needy, display to

afford me aid in my sore trouble; and heaven grant that your wishes and

mine may be realised, so that you may see that there are women in this

world capable of gratitude; as to my departure, let it be forthwith, for

I have no will but yours; dispose of me entirely in accordance with your

good pleasure; for she who has once entrusted to you the defence of her

person, and placed in your hands the recovery of her dominions, must not

think of offering opposition to that which your wisdom may ordain."

"On, then, in God's name," said Don Quixote; "for, when a lady humbles

herself to me, I will not lose the opportunity of raising her up and

placing her on the throne of her ancestors. Let us depart at once, for

the common saying that in delay there is danger, lends spurs to my

eagerness to take the road; and as neither heaven has created nor hell

seen any that can daunt or intimidate me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and

get ready thy ass and the queen's palfrey, and let us take leave of the

castellan and these gentlemen, and go hence this very instant."

Sancho, who was standing by all the time, said, shaking his head, "Ah!

master, master, there is more mischief in the village than one hears of,

begging all good bodies' pardon."

"What mischief can there be in any village, or in all the cities of the

world, you booby, that can hurt my reputation?" said Don Quixote.

"If your worship is angry," replied Sancho, "I will hold my tongue and

leave unsaid what as a good squire I am bound to say, and what a good

servant should tell his master."

"Say what thou wilt," returned Don Quixote, "provided thy words be not

meant to work upon my fears; for thou, if thou fearest, art behaving like

thyself; but I like myself, in not fearing."

"It is nothing of the sort, as I am a sinner before God," said Sancho,

"but that I take it to be sure and certain that this lady, who calls

herself queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more so than my

mother; for, if she was what she says, she would not go rubbing noses

with one that is here every instant and behind every door."

Dorothea turned red at Sancho's words, for the truth was that her husband

Don Fernando had now and then, when the others were not looking, gathered

from her lips some of the reward his love had earned, and Sancho seeing

this had considered that such freedom was more like a courtesan than a

queen of a great kingdom; she, however, being unable or not caring to

answer him, allowed him to proceed, and he continued, "This I say, senor,

because, if after we have travelled roads and highways, and passed bad

nights and worse days, one who is now enjoying himself in this inn is to

reap the fruit of our labours, there is no need for me to be in a hurry

to saddle Rocinante, put the pad on the ass, or get ready the palfrey;

for it will be better for us to stay quiet, and let every jade mind her

spinning, and let us go to dinner."

Good God, what was the indignation of Don Quixote when he heard the

audacious words of his squire! So great was it, that in a voice

inarticulate with rage, with a stammering tongue, and eyes that flashed

living fire, he exclaimed, "Rascally clown, boorish, insolent, and

ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, impudent backbiter and slanderer!

Hast thou dared to utter such words in my presence and in that of these

illustrious ladies? Hast thou dared to harbour such gross and shameless

thoughts in thy muddled imagination? Begone from my presence, thou born

monster, storehouse of lies, hoard of untruths, garner of knaveries,

inventor of scandals, publisher of absurdities, enemy of the respect due

to royal personages! Begone, show thyself no more before me under pain of

my wrath;" and so saying he knitted his brows, puffed out his cheeks,

gazed around him, and stamped on the ground violently with his right

foot, showing in every way the rage that was pent up in his heart; and at

his words and furious gestures Sancho was so scared and terrified that he

would have been glad if the earth had opened that instant and swallowed

him, and his only thought was to turn round and make his escape from the

angry presence of his master.

But the ready-witted Dorothea, who by this time so well understood Don

Quixote's humour, said, to mollify his wrath, "Be not irritated at the

absurdities your good squire has uttered, Sir Knight of the Rueful

Countenance, for perhaps he did not utter them without cause, and from

his good sense and Christian conscience it is not likely that he would

bear false witness against anyone. We may therefore believe, without any

hesitation, that since, as you say, sir knight, everything in this castle

goes and is brought about by means of enchantment, Sancho, I say, may

possibly have seen, through this diabolical medium, what he says he saw

so much to the detriment of my modesty."

"I swear by God Omnipotent," exclaimed Don Quixote at this, "your

highness has hit the point; and that some vile illusion must have come

before this sinner of a Sancho, that made him see what it would have been

impossible to see by any other means than enchantments; for I know well

enough, from the poor fellow's goodness and harmlessness, that he is

incapable of bearing false witness against anybody."

"True, no doubt," said Don Fernando, "for which reason, Senor Don

Quixote, you ought to forgive him and restore him to the bosom of your

favour, sicut erat in principio, before illusions of this sort had taken

away his senses."

Don Quixote said he was ready to pardon him, and the curate went for

Sancho, who came in very humbly, and falling on his knees begged for the

hand of his master, who having presented it to him and allowed him to

kiss it, gave him his blessing and said, "Now, Sancho my son, thou wilt

be convinced of the truth of what I have many a time told thee, that

everything in this castle is done by means of enchantment."

"So it is, I believe," said Sancho, "except the affair of the blanket,

which came to pass in reality by ordinary means."

"Believe it not," said Don Quixote, "for had it been so, I would have

avenged thee that instant, or even now; but neither then nor now could I,

nor have I seen anyone upon whom to avenge thy wrong."

They were all eager to know what the affair of the blanket was, and the

landlord gave them a minute account of Sancho's flights, at which they

laughed not a little, and at which Sancho would have been no less out of

countenance had not his master once more assured him it was all

enchantment. For all that his simplicity never reached so high a pitch

that he could persuade himself it was not the plain and simple truth,

without any deception whatever about it, that he had been blanketed by

beings of flesh and blood, and not by visionary and imaginary phantoms,

as his master believed and protested.

The illustrious company had now been two days in the inn; and as it

seemed to them time to depart, they devised a plan so that, without

giving Dorothea and Don Fernando the trouble of going back with Don

Quixote to his village under pretence of restoring Queen Micomicona, the

curate and the barber might carry him away with them as they proposed,

and the curate be able to take his madness in hand at home; and in

pursuance of their plan they arranged with the owner of an oxcart who

happened to be passing that way to carry him after this fashion. They

constructed a kind of cage with wooden bars, large enough to hold Don

Quixote comfortably; and then Don Fernando and his companions, the

servants of Don Luis, and the officers of the Brotherhood, together with

the landlord, by the directions and advice of the curate, covered their

faces and disguised themselves, some in one way, some in another, so as

to appear to Don Quixote quite different from the persons he had seen in

the castle. This done, in profound silence they entered the room where he

was asleep, taking his his rest after the past frays, and advancing to

where he was sleeping tranquilly, not dreaming of anything of the kind

happening, they seized him firmly and bound him fast hand and foot, so

that, when he awoke startled, he was unable to move, and could only

marvel and wonder at the strange figures he saw before him; upon which he

at once gave way to the idea which his crazed fancy invariably conjured

up before him, and took it into his head that all these shapes were

phantoms of the enchanted castle, and that he himself was unquestionably

enchanted as he could neither move nor help himself; precisely what the

curate, the concoctor of the scheme, expected would happen. Of all that

were there Sancho was the only one who was at once in his senses and in

his own proper character, and he, though he was within very little of

sharing his master's infirmity, did not fail to perceive who all these

disguised figures were; but he did not dare to open his lips until he saw

what came of this assault and capture of his master; nor did the latter

utter a word, waiting to the upshot of his mishap; which was that

bringing in the cage, they shut him up in it and nailed the bars so

firmly that they could not be easily burst open.

They then took him on their shoulders, and as they passed out of the room

an awful voice--as much so as the barber, not he of the pack-saddle but

the other, was able to make it--was heard to say, "O Knight of the Rueful

Countenance, let not this captivity in which thou art placed afflict

thee, for this must needs be, for the more speedy accomplishment of the

adventure in which thy great heart has engaged thee; the which shall be

accomplished when the raging Manchegan lion and the white Tobosan dove

shall be linked together, having first humbled their haughty necks to the

gentle yoke of matrimony. And from this marvellous union shall come forth

to the light of the world brave whelps that shall rival the ravening

claws of their valiant father; and this shall come to pass ere the

pursuer of the flying nymph shall in his swift natural course have twice

visited the starry signs. And thou, O most noble and obedient squire that

ever bore sword at side, beard on face, or nose to smell with, be not

dismayed or grieved to see the flower of knight-errantry carried away

thus before thy very eyes; for soon, if it so please the Framer of the

universe, thou shalt see thyself exalted to such a height that thou shalt

not know thyself, and the promises which thy good master has made thee

shall not prove false; and I assure thee, on the authority of the sage

Mentironiana, that thy wages shall be paid thee, as thou shalt see in due

season. Follow then the footsteps of the valiant enchanted knight, for it

is expedient that thou shouldst go to the destination assigned to both of

you; and as it is not permitted to me to say more, God be with thee; for

I return to that place I wot of;" and as he brought the prophecy to a

close he raised his voice to a high pitch, and then lowered it to such a

soft tone, that even those who knew it was all a joke were almost

inclined to take what they heard seriously.

Don Quixote was comforted by the prophecy he heard, for he at once

comprehended its meaning perfectly, and perceived it was promised to him

that he should see himself united in holy and lawful matrimony with his

beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose blessed womb should proceed the

whelps, his sons, to the eternal glory of La Mancha; and being thoroughly

and firmly persuaded of this, he lifted up his voice, and with a deep

sigh exclaimed, "Oh thou, whoever thou art, who hast foretold me so much

good, I implore of thee that on my part thou entreat that sage enchanter

who takes charge of my interests, that he leave me not to perish in this

captivity in which they are now carrying me away, ere I see fulfilled

promises so joyful and incomparable as those which have been now made me;

for, let this but come to pass, and I shall glory in the pains of my

prison, find comfort in these chains wherewith they bind me, and regard

this bed whereon they stretch me, not as a hard battle-field, but as a

soft and happy nuptial couch; and touching the consolation of Sancho

Panza, my squire, I rely upon his goodness and rectitude that he will not

desert me in good or evil fortune; for if, by his ill luck or mine, it

may not happen to be in my power to give him the island I have promised,

or any equivalent for it, at least his wages shall not be lost; for in my

will, which is already made, I have declared the sum that shall be paid

to him, measured, not by his many faithful services, but by the means at

my disposal."

Sancho bowed his head very respectfully and kissed both his hands, for,

being tied together, he could not kiss one; and then the apparitions

lifted the cage upon their shoulders and fixed it upon the ox-cart.

===16

DON QUIXOTE

by Miguel de Cervantes

Translated by John Ormsby

Volume I.

Part 16.

CHAPTER XLVII.

OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED AWAY

ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS

When Don Quixote saw himself caged and hoisted on the cart in this way,

he said, "Many grave histories of knights-errant have I read; but never

yet have I read, seen, or heard of their carrying off enchanted

knights-errant in this fashion, or at the slow pace that these lazy,

sluggish animals promise; for they always take them away through the air

with marvellous swiftness, enveloped in a dark thick cloud, or on a

chariot of fire, or it may be on some hippogriff or other beast of the

kind; but to carry me off like this on an ox-cart! By God, it puzzles me!

But perhaps the chivalry and enchantments of our day take a different

course from that of those in days gone by; and it may be, too, that as I

am a new knight in the world, and the first to revive the already

forgotten calling of knight-adventurers, they may have newly invented

other kinds of enchantments and other modes of carrying off the

enchanted. What thinkest thou of the matter, Sancho my son?"

"I don't know what to think," answered Sancho, "not being as well read as

your worship in errant writings; but for all that I venture to say and

swear that these apparitions that are about us are not quite catholic."

"Catholic!" said Don Quixote. "Father of me! how can they be Catholic

when they are all devils that have taken fantastic shapes to come and do

this, and bring me to this condition? And if thou wouldst prove it, touch

them, and feel them, and thou wilt find they have only bodies of air, and

no consistency except in appearance."

"By God, master," returned Sancho, "I have touched them already; and that

devil, that goes about there so busily, has firm flesh, and another

property very different from what I have heard say devils have, for by

all accounts they all smell of brimstone and other bad smells; but this

one smells of amber half a league off." Sancho was here speaking of Don

Fernando, who, like a gentleman of his rank, was very likely perfumed as

Sancho said.

"Marvel not at that, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote; "for let me

tell thee devils are crafty; and even if they do carry odours about with

them, they themselves have no smell, because they are spirits; or, if

they have any smell, they cannot smell of anything sweet, but of

something foul and fetid; and the reason is that as they carry hell with

them wherever they go, and can get no ease whatever from their torments,

and as a sweet smell is a thing that gives pleasure and enjoyment, it is

impossible that they can smell sweet; if, then, this devil thou speakest

of seems to thee to smell of amber, either thou art deceiving thyself, or

he wants to deceive thee by making thee fancy he is not a devil."

Such was the conversation that passed between master and man; and Don

Fernando and Cardenio, apprehensive of Sancho's making a complete

discovery of their scheme, towards which he had already gone some way,

resolved to hasten their departure, and calling the landlord aside, they

directed him to saddle Rocinante and put the pack-saddle on Sancho's ass,

which he did with great alacrity. In the meantime the curate had made an

arrangement with the officers that they should bear them company as far

as his village, he paying them so much a day. Cardenio hung the buckler

on one side of the bow of Rocinante's saddle and the basin on the other,

and by signs commanded Sancho to mount his ass and take Rocinante's

bridle, and at each side of the cart he placed two officers with their

muskets; but before the cart was put in motion, out came the landlady and

her daughter and Maritornes to bid Don Quixote farewell, pretending to

weep with grief at his misfortune; and to them Don Quixote said:

"Weep not, good ladies, for all these mishaps are the lot of those who

follow the profession I profess; and if these reverses did not befall me

I should not esteem myself a famous knight-errant; for such things never

happen to knights of little renown and fame, because nobody in the world

thinks about them; to valiant knights they do, for these are envied for

their virtue and valour by many princes and other knights who compass the

destruction of the worthy by base means. Nevertheless, virtue is of

herself so mighty, that, in spite of all the magic that Zoroaster its

first inventor knew, she will come victorious out of every trial, and

shed her light upon the earth as the sun does upon the heavens. Forgive

me, fair ladies, if, through inadvertence, I have in aught offended you;

for intentionally and wittingly I have never done so to any; and pray to

God that he deliver me from this captivity to which some malevolent

enchanter has consigned me; and should I find myself released therefrom,

the favours that ye have bestowed upon me in this castle shall be held in

memory by me, that I may acknowledge, recognise, and requite them as they

deserve."

While this was passing between the ladies of the castle and Don Quixote,

the curate and the barber bade farewell to Don Fernando and his

companions, to the captain, his brother, and the ladies, now all made

happy, and in particular to Dorothea and Luscinda. They all embraced one

another, and promised to let each other know how things went with them,

and Don Fernando directed the curate where to write to him, to tell him

what became of Don Quixote, assuring him that there was nothing that

could give him more pleasure than to hear of it, and that he too, on his

part, would send him word of everything he thought he would like to know,

about his marriage, Zoraida's baptism, Don Luis's affair, and Luscinda's

return to her home. The curate promised to comply with his request

carefully, and they embraced once more, and renewed their promises.

The landlord approached the curate and handed him some papers, saying he

had discovered them in the lining of the valise in which the novel of

"The Ill-advised Curiosity" had been found, and that he might take them

all away with him as their owner had not since returned; for, as he could

not read, he did not want them himself. The curate thanked him, and

opening them he saw at the beginning of the manuscript the words, "Novel

of Rinconete and Cortadillo," by which he perceived that it was a novel,

and as that of "The Ill-advised Curiosity" had been good he concluded

this would be so too, as they were both probably by the same author; so

he kept it, intending to read it when he had an opportunity. He then

mounted and his friend the barber did the same, both masked, so as not to

be recognised by Don Quixote, and set out following in the rear of the

cart. The order of march was this: first went the cart with the owner

leading it; at each side of it marched the officers of the Brotherhood,

as has been said, with their muskets; then followed Sancho Panza on his

ass, leading Rocinante by the bridle; and behind all came the curate and

the barber on their mighty mules, with faces covered, as aforesaid, and a

grave and serious air, measuring their pace to suit the slow steps of the

oxen. Don Quixote was seated in the cage, with his hands tied and his

feet stretched out, leaning against the bars as silent and as patient as

if he were a stone statue and not a man of flesh. Thus slowly and

silently they made, it might be, two leagues, until they reached a valley

which the carter thought a convenient place for resting and feeding his

oxen, and he said so to the curate, but the barber was of opinion that

they ought to push on a little farther, as at the other side of a hill

which appeared close by he knew there was a valley that had more grass

and much better than the one where they proposed to halt; and his advice

was taken and they continued their journey.

Just at that moment the curate, looking back, saw coming on behind them

six or seven mounted men, well found and equipped, who soon overtook

them, for they were travelling, not at the sluggish, deliberate pace of

oxen, but like men who rode canons' mules, and in haste to take their

noontide rest as soon as possible at the inn which was in sight not a

league off. The quick travellers came up with the slow, and courteous

salutations were exchanged; and one of the new comers, who was, in fact,

a canon of Toledo and master of the others who accompanied him, observing

the regular order of the procession, the cart, the officers, Sancho,

Rocinante, the curate and the barber, and above all Don Quixote caged and

confined, could not help asking what was the meaning of carrying the man

in that fashion; though, from the badges of the officers, he already

concluded that he must be some desperate highwayman or other malefactor

whose punishment fell within the jurisdiction of the Holy Brotherhood.

One of the officers to whom he had put the question, replied, "Let the

gentleman himself tell you the meaning of his going this way, senor, for

we do not know."

Don Quixote overheard the conversation and said, "Haply, gentlemen, you

are versed and learned in matters of errant chivalry? Because if you are

I will tell you my misfortunes; if not, there is no good in my giving

myself the trouble of relating them;" but here the curate and the barber,

seeing that the travellers were engaged in conversation with Don Quixote,

came forward, in order to answer in such a way as to save their stratagem

from being discovered.

The canon, replying to Don Quixote, said, "In truth, brother, I know more

about books of chivalry than I do about Villalpando's elements of logic;

so if that be all, you may safely tell me what you please."

"In God's name, then, senor," replied Don Quixote; "if that be so, I

would have you know that I am held enchanted in this cage by the envy and

fraud of wicked enchanters; for virtue is more persecuted by the wicked

than loved by the good. I am a knight-errant, and not one of those whose

names Fame has never thought of immortalising in her record, but of those

who, in defiance and in spite of envy itself, and all the magicians that

Persia, or Brahmans that India, or Gymnosophists that Ethiopia ever

produced, will place their names in the temple of immortality, to serve

as examples and patterns for ages to come, whereby knights-errant may see

the footsteps in which they must tread if they would attain the summit

and crowning point of honour in arms."

"What Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha says," observed the curate, "is the

truth; for he goes enchanted in this cart, not from any fault or sins of

his, but because of the malevolence of those to whom virtue is odious and

valour hateful. This, senor, is the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if

you have ever heard him named, whose valiant achievements and mighty

deeds shall be written on lasting brass and imperishable marble,

notwithstanding all the efforts of envy to obscure them and malice to

hide them."

When the canon heard both the prisoner and the man who was at liberty

talk in such a strain he was ready to cross himself in his astonishment,

and could not make out what had befallen him; and all his attendants were

in the same state of amazement.

At this point Sancho Panza, who had drawn near to hear the conversation,

said, in order to make everything plain, "Well, sirs, you may like or

dislike what I am going to say, but the fact of the matter is, my master,

Don Quixote, is just as much enchanted as my mother. He is in his full

senses, he eats and he drinks, and he has his calls like other men and as

he had yesterday, before they caged him. And if that's the case, what do

they mean by wanting me to believe that he is enchanted? For I have heard

many a one say that enchanted people neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk;

and my master, if you don't stop him, will talk more than thirty

lawyers." Then turning to the curate he exclaimed, "Ah, senor curate,

senor curate! do you think I don't know you? Do you think I don't guess

and see the drift of these new enchantments? Well then, I can tell you I

know you, for all your face is covered, and I can tell you I am up to

you, however you may hide your tricks. After all, where envy reigns

virtue cannot live, and where there is niggardliness there can be no

liberality. Ill betide the devil! if it had not been for your worship my

master would be married to the Princess Micomicona this minute, and I

should be a count at least; for no less was to be expected, as well from

the goodness of my master, him of the Rueful Countenance, as from the

greatness of my services. But I see now how true it is what they say in

these parts, that the wheel of fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel,

and that those who were up yesterday are down to-day. I am sorry for my

wife and children, for when they might fairly and reasonably expect to

see their father return to them a governor or viceroy of some island or

kingdom, they will see him come back a horse-boy. I have said all this,

senor curate, only to urge your paternity to lay to your conscience your

ill-treatment of my master; and have a care that God does not call you to

account in another life for making a prisoner of him in this way, and

charge against you all the succours and good deeds that my lord Don

Quixote leaves undone while he is shut up.

"Trim those lamps there!" exclaimed the barber at this; "so you are of

the same fraternity as your master, too, Sancho? By God, I begin to see

that you will have to keep him company in the cage, and be enchanted like

him for having caught some of his humour and chivalry. It was an evil

hour when you let yourself be got with child by his promises, and that

island you long so much for found its way into your head."

"I am not with child by anyone," returned Sancho, "nor am I a man to let

myself be got with child, if it was by the King himself. Though I am poor

I am an old Christian, and I owe nothing to nobody, and if I long for an

island, other people long for worse. Each of us is the son of his own

works; and being a man I may come to be pope, not to say governor of an

island, especially as my master may win so many that he will not know

whom to give them to. Mind how you talk, master barber; for shaving is

not everything, and there is some difference between Peter and Peter. I

say this because we all know one another, and it will not do to throw

false dice with me; and as to the enchantment of my master, God knows the

truth; leave it as it is; it only makes it worse to stir it."

The barber did not care to answer Sancho lest by his plain speaking he

should disclose what the curate and he himself were trying so hard to

conceal; and under the same apprehension the curate had asked the canon

to ride on a little in advance, so that he might tell him the mystery of

this man in the cage, and other things that would amuse him. The canon

agreed, and going on ahead with his servants, listened with attention to

the account of the character, life, madness, and ways of Don Quixote,

given him by the curate, who described to him briefly the beginning and

origin of his craze, and told him the whole story of his adventures up to

his being confined in the cage, together with the plan they had of taking

him home to try if by any means they could discover a cure for his

madness. The canon and his servants were surprised anew when they heard

Don Quixote's strange story, and when it was finished he said, "To tell

the truth, senor curate, I for my part consider what they call books of

chivalry to be mischievous to the State; and though, led by idle and

false taste, I have read the beginnings of almost all that have been

printed, I never could manage to read any one of them from beginning to

end; for it seems to me they are all more or less the same thing; and one

has nothing more in it than another; this no more than that. And in my

opinion this sort of writing and composition is of the same species as

the fables they call the Milesian, nonsensical tales that aim solely at

giving amusement and not instruction, exactly the opposite of the

apologue fables which amuse and instruct at the same time. And though it

may be the chief object of such books to amuse, I do not know how they

can succeed, when they are so full of such monstrous nonsense. For the

enjoyment the mind feels must come from the beauty and harmony which it

perceives or contemplates in the things that the eye or the imagination

brings before it; and nothing that has any ugliness or disproportion

about it can give any pleasure. What beauty, then, or what proportion of

the parts to the whole, or of the whole to the parts, can there be in a

book or fable where a lad of sixteen cuts down a giant as tall as a tower

and makes two halves of him as if he was an almond cake? And when they

want to give us a picture of a battle, after having told us that there

are a million of combatants on the side of the enemy, let the hero of the

book be opposed to them, and we have perforce to believe, whether we like

it or not, that the said knight wins the victory by the single might of

his strong arm. And then, what shall we say of the facility with which a

born queen or empress will give herself over into the arms of some

unknown wandering knight? What mind, that is not wholly barbarous and

uncultured, can find pleasure in reading of how a great tower full of

knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a fair wind, and will

be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the land of Prester John

of the Indies, or some other that Ptolemy never described nor Marco Polo

saw? And if, in answer to this, I am told that the authors of books of

the kind write them as fiction, and therefore are not bound to regard

niceties of truth, I would reply that fiction is all the better the more

it looks like truth, and gives the more pleasure the more probability and

possibility there is about it. Plots in fiction should be wedded to the

understanding of the reader, and be constructed in such a way that,

reconciling impossibilities, smoothing over difficulties, keeping the

mind on the alert, they may surprise, interest, divert, and entertain, so

that wonder and delight joined may keep pace one with the other; all

which he will fail to effect who shuns verisimilitude and truth to

nature, wherein lies the perfection of writing. I have never yet seen any

book of chivalry that puts together a connected plot complete in all its

numbers, so that the middle agrees with the beginning, and the end with

the beginning and middle; on the contrary, they construct them with such

a multitude of members that it seems as though they meant to produce a

chimera or monster rather than a well-proportioned figure. And besides

all this they are harsh in their style, incredible in their achievements,

licentious in their amours, uncouth in their courtly speeches, prolix in

their battles, silly in their arguments, absurd in their travels, and, in

short, wanting in everything like intelligent art; for which reason they

deserve to be banished from the Christian commonwealth as a worthless

breed."

The curate listened to him attentively and felt that he was a man of

sound understanding, and that there was good reason in what he said; so

he told him that, being of the same opinion himself, and bearing a grudge

to books of chivalry, he had burned all Don Quixote's, which were many;

and gave him an account of the scrutiny he had made of them, and of those

he had condemned to the flames and those he had spared, with which the

canon was not a little amused, adding that though he had said so much in

condemnation of these books, still he found one good thing in them, and

that was the opportunity they afforded to a gifted intellect for

displaying itself; for they presented a wide and spacious field over

which the pen might range freely, describing shipwrecks, tempests,

combats, battles, portraying a valiant captain with all the

qualifications requisite to make one, showing him sagacious in foreseeing

the wiles of the enemy, eloquent in speech to encourage or restrain his

soldiers, ripe in counsel, rapid in resolve, as bold in biding his time

as in pressing the attack; now picturing some sad tragic incident, now

some joyful and unexpected event; here a beauteous lady, virtuous, wise,

and modest; there a Christian knight, brave and gentle; here a lawless,

barbarous braggart; there a courteous prince, gallant and gracious;

setting forth the devotion and loyalty of vassals, the greatness and

generosity of nobles. "Or again," said he, "the author may show himself

to be an astronomer, or a skilled cosmographer, or musician, or one

versed in affairs of state, and sometimes he will have a chance of coming

forward as a magician if he likes. He can set forth the craftiness of

Ulysses, the piety of AEneas, the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of

Hector, the treachery of Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the

generosity of Alexander, the boldness of Caesar, the clemency and truth

of Trajan, the fidelity of Zopyrus, the wisdom of Cato, and in short all

the faculties that serve to make an illustrious man perfect, now uniting

them in one individual, again distributing them among many; and if this

be done with charm of style and ingenious invention, aiming at the truth

as much as possible, he will assuredly weave a web of bright and varied

threads that, when finished, will display such perfection and beauty that

it will attain the worthiest object any writing can seek, which, as I

said before, is to give instruction and pleasure combined; for the

unrestricted range of these books enables the author to show his powers,

epic, lyric, tragic, or comic, and all the moods the sweet and winning

arts of poesy and oratory are capable of; for the epic may be written in

prose just as well as in verse."

CHAPTER XLVIII.

IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH

OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT

"It is as you say, senor canon," said the curate; "and for that reason

those who have hitherto written books of the sort deserve all the more

censure for writing without paying any attention to good taste or the

rules of art, by which they might guide themselves and become as famous

in prose as the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry are in verse."

"I myself, at any rate," said the canon, "was once tempted to write a

book of chivalry in which all the points I have mentioned were to be

observed; and if I must own the truth I have more than a hundred sheets

written; and to try if it came up to my own opinion of it, I showed them

to persons who were fond of this kind of reading, to learned and

intelligent men as well as to ignorant people who cared for nothing but

the pleasure of listening to nonsense, and from all I obtained flattering

approval; nevertheless I proceeded no farther with it, as well because it

seemed to me an occupation inconsistent with my profession, as because I

perceived that the fools are more numerous than the wise; and, though it

is better to be praised by the wise few than applauded by the foolish

many, I have no mind to submit myself to the stupid judgment of the silly

public, to whom the reading of such books falls for the most part.

"But what most of all made me hold my hand and even abandon all idea of

finishing it was an argument I put to myself taken from the plays that

are acted now-a-days, which was in this wise: if those that are now in

vogue, as well those that are pure invention as those founded on history,

are, all or most of them, downright nonsense and things that have neither

head nor tail, and yet the public listens to them with delight, and

regards and cries them up as perfection when they are so far from it; and

if the authors who write them, and the players who act them, say that

this is what they must be, for the public wants this and will have

nothing else; and that those that go by rule and work out a plot

according to the laws of art will only find some half-dozen intelligent

people to understand them, while all the rest remain blind to the merit

of their composition; and that for themselves it is better to get bread

from the many than praise from the few; then my book will fare the same

way, after I have burnt off my eyebrows in trying to observe the

principles I have spoken of, and I shall be 'the tailor of the corner.'

And though I have sometimes endeavoured to convince actors that they are

mistaken in this notion they have adopted, and that they would attract

more people, and get more credit, by producing plays in accordance with

the rules of art, than by absurd ones, they are so thoroughly wedded to

their own opinion that no argument or evidence can wean them from it.

"I remember saying one day to one of these obstinate fellows, 'Tell me,

do you not recollect that a few years ago, there were three tragedies

acted in Spain, written by a famous poet of these kingdoms, which were

such that they filled all who heard them with admiration, delight, and

interest, the ignorant as well as the wise, the masses as well as the

higher orders, and brought in more money to the performers, these three

alone, than thirty of the best that have been since produced?'

"'No doubt,' replied the actor in question, 'you mean the "Isabella," the

"Phyllis," and the "Alexandra."'

"'Those are the ones I mean,' said I; 'and see if they did not observe

the principles of art, and if, by observing them, they failed to show

their superiority and please all the world; so that the fault does not

lie with the public that insists upon nonsense, but with those who don't

know how to produce something else. "The Ingratitude Revenged" was not

nonsense, nor was there any in "The Numantia," nor any to be found in

"The Merchant Lover," nor yet in "The Friendly Fair Foe," nor in some

others that have been written by certain gifted poets, to their own fame

and renown, and to the profit of those that brought them out;' some

further remarks I added to these, with which, I think, I left him rather

dumbfoundered, but not so satisfied or convinced that I could disabuse

him of his error."

"You have touched upon a subject, senor canon," observed the curate here,

"that has awakened an old enmity I have against the plays in vogue at the

present day, quite as strong as that which I bear to the books of

chivalry; for while the drama, according to Tully, should be the mirror

of human life, the model of manners, and the image of the truth, those

which are presented now-a-days are mirrors of nonsense, models of folly,

and images of lewdness. For what greater nonsense can there be in

connection with what we are now discussing than for an infant to appear

in swaddling clothes in the first scene of the first act, and in the

second a grown-up bearded man? Or what greater absurdity can there be

than putting before us an old man as a swashbuckler, a young man as a

poltroon, a lackey using fine language, a page giving sage advice, a king

plying as a porter, a princess who is a kitchen-maid? And then what shall

I say of their attention to the time in which the action they represent

may or can take place, save that I have seen a play where the first act

began in Europe, the second in Asia, the third finished in Africa, and no

doubt, had it been in four acts, the fourth would have ended in America,

and so it would have been laid in all four quarters of the globe? And if

truth to life is the main thing the drama should keep in view, how is it

possible for any average understanding to be satisfied when the action is

supposed to pass in the time of King Pepin or Charlemagne, and the

principal personage in it they represent to be the Emperor Heraclius who

entered Jerusalem with the cross and won the Holy Sepulchre, like Godfrey

of Bouillon, there being years innumerable between the one and the other?

or, if the play is based on fiction and historical facts are introduced,

or bits of what occurred to different people and at different times mixed

up with it, all, not only without any semblance of probability, but with

obvious errors that from every point of view are inexcusable? And the

worst of it is, there are ignorant people who say that this is

perfection, and that anything beyond this is affected refinement. And

then if we turn to sacred dramas--what miracles they invent in them! What

apocryphal, ill-devised incidents, attributing to one saint the miracles

of another! And even in secular plays they venture to introduce miracles

without any reason or object except that they think some such miracle, or

transformation as they call it, will come in well to astonish stupid

people and draw them to the play. All this tends to the prejudice of the

truth and the corruption of history, nay more, to the reproach of the

wits of Spain; for foreigners who scrupulously observe the laws of the

drama look upon us as barbarous and ignorant, when they see the absurdity

and nonsense of the plays we produce. Nor will it be a sufficient excuse

to say that the chief object well-ordered governments have in view when

they permit plays to be performed in public is to entertain the people

with some harmless amusement occasionally, and keep it from those evil

humours which idleness is apt to engender; and that, as this may be

attained by any sort of play, good or bad, there is no need to lay down

laws, or bind those who write or act them to make them as they ought to

be made, since, as I say, the object sought for may be secured by any

sort. To this I would reply that the same end would be, beyond all

comparison, better attained by means of good plays than by those that are

not so; for after listening to an artistic and properly constructed play,

the hearer will come away enlivened by the jests, instructed by the

serious parts, full of admiration at the incidents, his wits sharpened by

the arguments, warned by the tricks, all the wiser for the examples,

inflamed against vice, and in love with virtue; for in all these ways a

good play will stimulate the mind of the hearer be he ever so boorish or

dull; and of all impossibilities the greatest is that a play endowed with

all these qualities will not entertain, satisfy, and please much more

than one wanting in them, like the greater number of those which are

commonly acted now-a-days. Nor are the poets who write them to be blamed

for this; for some there are among them who are perfectly well aware of

their faults, and know what they ought to do; but as plays have become a

salable commodity, they say, and with truth, that the actors will not buy

them unless they are after this fashion; and so the poet tries to adapt

himself to the requirements of the actor who is to pay him for his work.

And that this is the truth may be seen by the countless plays that a most

fertile wit of these kingdoms has written, with so much brilliancy, so

much grace and gaiety, such polished versification, such choice language,

such profound reflections, and in a word, so rich in eloquence and

elevation of style, that he has filled the world with his fame; and yet,

in consequence of his desire to suit the taste of the actors, they have

not all, as some of them have, come as near perfection as they ought.

Others write plays with such heedlessness that, after they have been

acted, the actors have to fly and abscond, afraid of being punished, as

they often have been, for having acted something offensive to some king

or other, or insulting to some noble family. All which evils, and many

more that I say nothing of, would be removed if there were some

intelligent and sensible person at the capital to examine all plays

before they were acted, not only those produced in the capital itself,

but all that were intended to be acted in Spain; without whose approval,

seal, and signature, no local magistracy should allow any play to be

acted. In that case actors would take care to send their plays to the

capital, and could act them in safety, and those who write them would be

more careful and take more pains with their work, standing in awe of

having to submit it to the strict examination of one who understood the

matter; and so good plays would be produced and the objects they aim at

happily attained; as well the amusement of the people, as the credit of

the wits of Spain, the interest and safety of the actors, and the saving

of trouble in inflicting punishment on them. And if the same or some

other person were authorised to examine the newly written books of

chivalry, no doubt some would appear with all the perfections you have

described, enriching our language with the gracious and precious treasure

of eloquence, and driving the old books into obscurity before the light

of the new ones that would come out for the harmless entertainment, not

merely of the idle but of the very busiest; for the bow cannot be always

bent, nor can weak human nature exist without some lawful amusement."

The canon and the curate had proceeded thus far with their conversation,

when the barber, coming forward, joined them, and said to the curate,

"This is the spot, senor licentiate, that I said was a good one for fresh

and plentiful pasture for the oxen, while we take our noontide rest."

"And so it seems," returned the curate, and he told the canon what he

proposed to do, on which he too made up his mind to halt with them,

attracted by the aspect of the fair valley that lay before their eyes;

and to enjoy it as well as the conversation of the curate, to whom he had

begun to take a fancy, and also to learn more particulars about the

doings of Don Quixote, he desired some of his servants to go on to the

inn, which was not far distant, and fetch from it what eatables there

might be for the whole party, as he meant to rest for the afternoon where

he was; to which one of his servants replied that the sumpter mule, which

by this time ought to have reached the inn, carried provisions enough to

make it unnecessary to get anything from the inn except barley.

"In that case," said the canon, "take all the beasts there, and bring the

sumpter mule back."

While this was going on, Sancho, perceiving that he could speak to his

master without having the curate and the barber, of whom he had his

suspicions, present all the time, approached the cage in which Don

Quixote was placed, and said, "Senor, to ease my conscience I want to

tell you the state of the case as to your enchantment, and that is that

these two here, with their faces covered, are the curate of our village

and the barber; and I suspect they have hit upon this plan of carrying

you off in this fashion, out of pure envy because your worship surpasses

them in doing famous deeds; and if this be the truth it follows that you

are not enchanted, but hoodwinked and made a fool of. And to prove this I

want to ask you one thing; and if you answer me as I believe you will

answer, you will be able to lay your finger on the trick, and you will

see that you are not enchanted but gone wrong in your wits."

"Ask what thou wilt, Sancho my son," returned Don Quixote, "for I will

satisfy thee and answer all thou requirest. As to what thou sayest, that

these who accompany us yonder are the curate and the barber, our

neighbours and acquaintances, it is very possible that they may seem to

be those same persons; but that they are so in reality and in fact,

believe it not on any account; what thou art to believe and think is

that, if they look like them, as thou sayest, it must be that those who

have enchanted me have taken this shape and likeness; for it is easy for

enchanters to take any form they please, and they may have taken those of

our friends in order to make thee think as thou dost, and lead thee into

a labyrinth of fancies from which thou wilt find no escape though thou

hadst the cord of Theseus; and they may also have done it to make me

uncertain in my mind, and unable to conjecture whence this evil comes to

me; for if on the one hand thou dost tell me that the barber and curate

of our village are here in company with us, and on the other I find

myself shut up in a cage, and know in my heart that no power on earth

that was not supernatural would have been able to shut me in, what

wouldst thou have me say or think, but that my enchantment is of a sort

that transcends all I have ever read of in all the histories that deal

with knights-errant that have been enchanted? So thou mayest set thy mind

at rest as to the idea that they are what thou sayest, for they are as

much so as I am a Turk. But touching thy desire to ask me something, say

on, and I will answer thee, though thou shouldst ask questions from this

till to-morrow morning."

"May Our Lady be good to me!" said Sancho, lifting up his voice; "and is

it possible that your worship is so thick of skull and so short of brains

that you cannot see that what I say is the simple truth, and that malice

has more to do with your imprisonment and misfortune than enchantment?

But as it is so, I will prove plainly to you that you are not enchanted.

Now tell me, so may God deliver you from this affliction, and so may you

find yourself when you least expect it in the arms of my lady Dulcinea-"

"Leave off conjuring me," said Don Quixote, "and ask what thou wouldst

know; I have already told thee I will answer with all possible

precision."

"That is what I want," said Sancho; "and what I would know, and have you

tell me, without adding or leaving out anything, but telling the whole

truth as one expects it to be told, and as it is told, by all who profess

arms, as your worship professes them, under the title of knights-errant-"

"I tell thee I will not lie in any particular," said Don Quixote; "finish

thy question; for in truth thou weariest me with all these asseverations,

requirements, and precautions, Sancho."

"Well, I rely on the goodness and truth of my master," said Sancho; "and

so, because it bears upon what we are talking about, I would ask,

speaking with all reverence, whether since your worship has been shut up

and, as you think, enchanted in this cage, you have felt any desire or

inclination to go anywhere, as the saying is?"

"I do not understand 'going anywhere,'" said Don Quixote; "explain

thyself more clearly, Sancho, if thou wouldst have me give an answer to

the point."

"Is it possible," said Sancho, "that your worship does not understand

'going anywhere'? Why, the schoolboys know that from the time they were

babes. Well then, you must know I mean have you had any desire to do what

cannot be avoided?"

"Ah! now I understand thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "yes, often, and

even this minute; get me out of this strait, or all will not go right."

CHAPTER XLIX.

WHICH TREATS OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS

MASTER DON QUIXOTE

"Aha, I have caught you," said Sancho; "this is what in my heart and soul

I was longing to know. Come now, senor, can you deny what is commonly

said around us, when a person is out of humour, 'I don't know what ails

so-and-so, that he neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor gives a

proper answer to any question; one would think he was enchanted'? From

which it is to be gathered that those who do not eat, or drink, or sleep,

or do any of the natural acts I am speaking of-that such persons are

enchanted; but not those that have the desire your worship has, and drink

when drink is given them, and eat when there is anything to eat, and

answer every question that is asked them."

"What thou sayest is true, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "but I have

already told thee there are many sorts of enchantments, and it may be

that in the course of time they have been changed one for another, and

that now it may be the way with enchanted people to do all that I do,

though they did not do so before; so it is vain to argue or draw

inferences against the usage of the time. I know and feel that I am

enchanted, and that is enough to ease my conscience; for it would weigh

heavily on it if I thought that I was not enchanted, and that in a

faint-hearted and cowardly way I allowed myself to lie in this cage,

defrauding multitudes of the succour I might afford to those in need and

distress, who at this very moment may be in sore want of my aid and

protection."

"Still for all that," replied Sancho, "I say that, for your greater and

fuller satisfaction, it would be well if your worship were to try to get

out of this prison (and I promise to do all in my power to help, and even

to take you out of it), and see if you could once more mount your good

Rocinante, who seems to be enchanted too, he is so melancholy and

dejected; and then we might try our chance in looking for adventures

again; and if we have no luck there will be time enough to go back to the

cage; in which, on the faith of a good and loyal squire, I promise to

shut myself up along with your worship, if so be you are so unfortunate,

or I so stupid, as not to be able to carry out my plan."

"I am content to do as thou sayest, brother Sancho," said Don Quixote,

"and when thou seest an opportunity for effecting my release I will obey

thee absolutely; but thou wilt see, Sancho, how mistaken thou art in thy

conception of my misfortune."

The knight-errant and the ill-errant squire kept up their conversation

till they reached the place where the curate, the canon, and the barber,

who had already dismounted, were waiting for them. The carter at once

unyoked the oxen and left them to roam at large about the pleasant green

spot, the freshness of which seemed to invite, not enchanted people like

Don Quixote, but wide-awake, sensible folk like his squire, who begged

the curate to allow his master to leave the cage for a little; for if

they did not let him out, the prison might not be as clean as the

propriety of such a gentleman as his master required. The curate

understood him, and said he would very gladly comply with his request,

only that he feared his master, finding himself at liberty, would take to

his old courses and make off where nobody could ever find him again.

"I will answer for his not running away," said Sancho.

"And I also," said the canon, "especially if he gives me his word as a

knight not to leave us without our consent."

Don Quixote, who was listening to all this, said, "I give it;-moreover

one who is enchanted as I am cannot do as he likes with himself; for he

who had enchanted him could prevent his moving from one place for three

ages, and if he attempted to escape would bring him back flying."--And

that being so, they might as well release him, particularly as it would

be to the advantage of all; for, if they did not let him out, he

protested he would be unable to avoid offending their nostrils unless

they kept their distance.

The canon took his hand, tied together as they both were, and on his word

and promise they unbound him, and rejoiced beyond measure he was to find

himself out of the cage. The first thing he did was to stretch himself

all over, and then he went to where Rocinante was standing and giving him

a couple of slaps on the haunches said, "I still trust in God and in his

blessed mother, O flower and mirror of steeds, that we shall soon see

ourselves, both of us, as we wish to be, thou with thy master on thy

back, and I mounted upon thee, following the calling for which God sent

me into the world." And so saying, accompanied by Sancho, he withdrew to

a retired spot, from which he came back much relieved and more eager than

ever to put his squire's scheme into execution.

The canon gazed at him, wondering at the extraordinary nature of his

madness, and that in all his remarks and replies he should show such

excellent sense, and only lose his stirrups, as has been already said,

when the subject of chivalry was broached. And so, moved by compassion,

he said to him, as they all sat on the green grass awaiting the arrival

of the provisions:

"Is it possible, gentle sir, that the nauseous and idle reading of books

of chivalry can have had such an effect on your worship as to upset your

reason so that you fancy yourself enchanted, and the like, all as far

from the truth as falsehood itself is? How can there be any human

understanding that can persuade itself there ever was all that infinity

of Amadises in the world, or all that multitude of famous knights, all

those emperors of Trebizond, all those Felixmartes of Hircania, all those

palfreys, and damsels-errant, and serpents, and monsters, and giants, and

marvellous adventures, and enchantments of every kind, and battles, and

prodigious encounters, splendid costumes, love-sick princesses, squires

made counts, droll dwarfs, love letters, billings and cooings,

swashbuckler women, and, in a word, all that nonsense the books of

chivalry contain? For myself, I can only say that when I read them, so

long as I do not stop to think that they are all lies and frivolity, they

give me a certain amount of pleasure; but when I come to consider what

they are, I fling the very best of them at the wall, and would fling it

into the fire if there were one at hand, as richly deserving such

punishment as cheats and impostors out of the range of ordinary

toleration, and as founders of new sects and modes of life, and teachers

that lead the ignorant public to believe and accept as truth all the

folly they contain. And such is their audacity, they even dare to

unsettle the wits of gentlemen of birth and intelligence, as is shown

plainly by the way they have served your worship, when they have brought

you to such a pass that you have to be shut up in a cage and carried on

an ox-cart as one would carry a lion or a tiger from place to place to

make money by showing it. Come, Senor Don Quixote, have some compassion

for yourself, return to the bosom of common sense, and make use of the

liberal share of it that heaven has been pleased to bestow upon you,

employing your abundant gifts of mind in some other reading that may

serve to benefit your conscience and add to your honour. And if, still

led away by your natural bent, you desire to read books of achievements

and of chivalry, read the Book of Judges in the Holy Scriptures, for

there you will find grand reality, and deeds as true as they are heroic.

Lusitania had a Viriatus, Rome a Caesar, Carthage a Hannibal, Greece an

Alexander, Castile a Count Fernan Gonzalez, Valencia a Cid, Andalusia a

Gonzalo Fernandez, Estremadura a Diego Garcia de Paredes, Jerez a Garci

Perez de Vargas, Toledo a Garcilaso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon, to

read of whose valiant deeds will entertain and instruct the loftiest

minds and fill them with delight and wonder. Here, Senor Don Quixote,

will be reading worthy of your sound understanding; from which you will

rise learned in history, in love with virtue, strengthened in goodness,

improved in manners, brave without rashness, prudent without cowardice;

and all to the honour of God, your own advantage and the glory of La

Mancha, whence, I am informed, your worship derives your birth."

Don Quixote listened with the greatest attention to the canon's words,

and when he found he had finished, after regarding him for some time, he

replied to him:

"It appears to me, gentle sir, that your worship's discourse is intended

to persuade me that there never were any knights-errant in the world, and

that all the books of chivalry are false, lying, mischievous and useless

to the State, and that I have done wrong in reading them, and worse in

believing them, and still worse in imitating them, when I undertook to

follow the arduous calling of knight-errantry which they set forth; for

you deny that there ever were Amadises of Gaul or of Greece, or any other

of the knights of whom the books are full."

"It is all exactly as you state it," said the canon; to which Don Quixote

returned, "You also went on to say that books of this kind had done me

much harm, inasmuch as they had upset my senses, and shut me up in a

cage, and that it would be better for me to reform and change my studies,

and read other truer books which would afford more pleasure and

instruction."

"Just so," said the canon.

"Well then," returned Don Quixote, "to my mind it is you who are the one

that is out of his wits and enchanted, as you have ventured to utter such

blasphemies against a thing so universally acknowledged and accepted as

true that whoever denies it, as you do, deserves the same punishment

which you say you inflict on the books that irritate you when you read

them. For to try to persuade anybody that Amadis, and all the other

knights-adventurers with whom the books are filled, never existed, would

be like trying to persuade him that the sun does not yield light, or ice

cold, or earth nourishment. What wit in the world can persuade another

that the story of the Princess Floripes and Guy of Burgundy is not true,

or that of Fierabras and the bridge of Mantible, which happened in the

time of Charlemagne? For by all that is good it is as true as that it is

daylight now; and if it be a lie, it must be a lie too that there was a

Hector, or Achilles, or Trojan war, or Twelve Peers of France, or Arthur

of England, who still lives changed into a raven, and is unceasingly

looked for in his kingdom. One might just as well try to make out that

the history of Guarino Mezquino, or of the quest of the Holy Grail, is

false, or that the loves of Tristram and the Queen Yseult are apocryphal,

as well as those of Guinevere and Lancelot, when there are persons who

can almost remember having seen the Dame Quintanona, who was the best

cupbearer in Great Britain. And so true is this, that I recollect a

grandmother of mine on the father's side, whenever she saw any dame in a

venerable hood, used to say to me, 'Grandson, that one is like Dame

Quintanona,' from which I conclude that she must have known her, or at

least had managed to see some portrait of her. Then who can deny that the

story of Pierres and the fair Magalona is true, when even to this day may

be seen in the king's armoury the pin with which the valiant Pierres

guided the wooden horse he rode through the air, and it is a trifle

bigger than the pole of a cart? And alongside of the pin is Babieca's

saddle, and at Roncesvalles there is Roland's horn, as large as a large

beam; whence we may infer that there were Twelve Peers, and a Pierres,

and a Cid, and other knights like them, of the sort people commonly call

adventurers. Or perhaps I shall be told, too, that there was no such

knight-errant as the valiant Lusitanian Juan de Merlo, who went to

Burgundy and in the city of Arras fought with the famous lord of Charny,

Mosen Pierres by name, and afterwards in the city of Basle with Mosen

Enrique de Remesten, coming out of both encounters covered with fame and

honour; or adventures and challenges achieved and delivered, also in

Burgundy, by the valiant Spaniards Pedro Barba and Gutierre Quixada (of

whose family I come in the direct male line), when they vanquished the

sons of the Count of San Polo. I shall be told, too, that Don Fernando de

Guevara did not go in quest of adventures to Germany, where he engaged in

combat with Micer George, a knight of the house of the Duke of Austria. I

shall be told that the jousts of Suero de Quinones, him of the 'Paso,'

and the emprise of Mosen Luis de Falces against the Castilian knight, Don

Gonzalo de Guzman, were mere mockeries; as well as many other

achievements of Christian knights of these and foreign realms, which are

so authentic and true, that, I repeat, he who denies them must be totally

wanting in reason and good sense."

The canon was amazed to hear the medley of truth and fiction Don Quixote

uttered, and to see how well acquainted he was with everything relating

or belonging to the achievements of his knight-errantry; so he said in

reply:

"I cannot deny, Senor Don Quixote, that there is some truth in what you

say, especially as regards the Spanish knights-errant; and I am willing

to grant too that the Twelve Peers of France existed, but I am not

disposed to believe that they did all the things that the Archbishop

Turpin relates of them. For the truth of the matter is they were knights

chosen by the kings of France, and called 'Peers' because they were all

equal in worth, rank and prowess (at least if they were not they ought to

have been), and it was a kind of religious order like those of Santiago

and Calatrava in the present day, in which it is assumed that those who

take it are valiant knights of distinction and good birth; and just as we

say now a Knight of St. John, or of Alcantara, they used to say then a

Knight of the Twelve Peers, because twelve equals were chosen for that

military order. That there was a Cid, as well as a Bernardo del Carpio,

there can be no doubt; but that they did the deeds people say they did, I

hold to be very doubtful. In that other matter of the pin of Count

Pierres that you speak of, and say is near Babieca's saddle in the

Armoury, I confess my sin; for I am either so stupid or so short-sighted,

that, though I have seen the saddle, I have never been able to see the

pin, in spite of it being as big as your worship says it is."

"For all that it is there, without any manner of doubt," said Don

Quixote; "and more by token they say it is inclosed in a sheath of

cowhide to keep it from rusting."

"All that may be," replied the canon; "but, by the orders I have

received, I do not remember seeing it. However, granting it is there,

that is no reason why I am bound to believe the stories of all those

Amadises and of all that multitude of knights they tell us about, nor is

it reasonable that a man like your worship, so worthy, and with so many

good qualities, and endowed with such a good understanding, should allow

himself to be persuaded that such wild crazy things as are written in

those absurd books of chivalry are really true."

===17

DON QUIXOTE

by Miguel de Cervantes

Translated by John Ormsby

Volume I.

Part 17.

CHAPTER L.

OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD, TOGETHER

WITH OTHER INCIDENTS

"A good joke, that!" returned Don Quixote. "Books that have been printed

with the king's licence, and with the approbation of those to whom they

have been submitted, and read with universal delight, and extolled by

great and small, rich and poor, learned and ignorant, gentle and simple,

in a word by people of every sort, of whatever rank or condition they may

be--that these should be lies! And above all when they carry such an

appearance of truth with them; for they tell us the father, mother,

country, kindred, age, place, and the achievements, step by step, and day

by day, performed by such a knight or knights! Hush, sir; utter not such

blasphemy; trust me I am advising you now to act as a sensible man

should; only read them, and you will see the pleasure you will derive

from them. For, come, tell me, can there be anything more delightful than

to see, as it were, here now displayed before us a vast lake of bubbling

pitch with a host of snakes and serpents and lizards, and ferocious and

terrible creatures of all sorts swimming about in it, while from the

middle of the lake there comes a plaintive voice saying: 'Knight,

whosoever thou art who beholdest this dread lake, if thou wouldst win the

prize that lies hidden beneath these dusky waves, prove the valour of thy

stout heart and cast thyself into the midst of its dark burning waters,

else thou shalt not be worthy to see the mighty wonders contained in the

seven castles of the seven Fays that lie beneath this black expanse;' and

then the knight, almost ere the awful voice has ceased, without stopping

to consider, without pausing to reflect upon the danger to which he is

exposing himself, without even relieving himself of the weight of his

massive armour, commending himself to God and to his lady, plunges into

the midst of the boiling lake, and when he little looks for it, or knows

what his fate is to be, he finds himself among flowery meadows, with

which the Elysian fields are not to be compared.

"The sky seems more transparent there, and the sun shines with a strange

brilliancy, and a delightful grove of green leafy trees presents itself

to the eyes and charms the sight with its verdure, while the ear is

soothed by the sweet untutored melody of the countless birds of gay

plumage that flit to and fro among the interlacing branches. Here he sees

a brook whose limpid waters, like liquid crystal, ripple over fine sands

and white pebbles that look like sifted gold and purest pearls. There he

perceives a cunningly wrought fountain of many-coloured jasper and

polished marble; here another of rustic fashion where the little

mussel-shells and the spiral white and yellow mansions of the snail

disposed in studious disorder, mingled with fragments of glittering

crystal and mock emeralds, make up a work of varied aspect, where art,

imitating nature, seems to have outdone it.

"Suddenly there is presented to his sight a strong castle or gorgeous

palace with walls of massy gold, turrets of diamond and gates of jacinth;

in short, so marvellous is its structure that though the materials of

which it is built are nothing less than diamonds, carbuncles, rubies,

pearls, gold, and emeralds, the workmanship is still more rare. And after

having seen all this, what can be more charming than to see how a bevy of

damsels comes forth from the gate of the castle in gay and gorgeous

attire, such that, were I to set myself now to depict it as the histories

describe it to us, I should never have done; and then how she who seems

to be the first among them all takes the bold knight who plunged into the

boiling lake by the hand, and without addressing a word to him leads him

into the rich palace or castle, and strips him as naked as when his

mother bore him, and bathes him in lukewarm water, and anoints him all

over with sweet-smelling unguents, and clothes him in a shirt of the

softest sendal, all scented and perfumed, while another damsel comes and

throws over his shoulders a mantle which is said to be worth at the very

least a city, and even more? How charming it is, then, when they tell us

how, after all this, they lead him to another chamber where he finds the

tables set out in such style that he is filled with amazement and wonder;

to see how they pour out water for his hands distilled from amber and

sweet-scented flowers; how they seat him on an ivory chair; to see how

the damsels wait on him all in profound silence; how they bring him such

a variety of dainties so temptingly prepared that the appetite is at a

loss which to select; to hear the music that resounds while he is at

table, by whom or whence produced he knows not. And then when the repast

is over and the tables removed, for the knight to recline in the chair,

picking his teeth perhaps as usual, and a damsel, much lovelier than any

of the others, to enter unexpectedly by the chamber door, and herself by

his side, and begin to tell him what the castle is, and how she is held

enchanted there, and other things that amaze the knight and astonish the

readers who are perusing his history.

"But I will not expatiate any further upon this, as it may be gathered

from it that whatever part of whatever history of a knight-errant one

reads, it will fill the reader, whoever he be, with delight and wonder;

and take my advice, sir, and, as I said before, read these books and you

will see how they will banish any melancholy you may feel and raise your

spirits should they be depressed. For myself I can say that since I have

been a knight-errant I have become valiant, polite, generous, well-bred,

magnanimous, courteous, dauntless, gentle, patient, and have learned to

bear hardships, imprisonments, and enchantments; and though it be such a

short time since I have seen myself shut up in a cage like a madman, I

hope by the might of my arm, if heaven aid me and fortune thwart me not,

to see myself king of some kingdom where I may be able to show the

gratitude and generosity that dwell in my heart; for by my faith, senor,

the poor man is incapacitated from showing the virtue of generosity to

anyone, though he may possess it in the highest degree; and gratitude

that consists of disposition only is a dead thing, just as faith without

works is dead. For this reason I should be glad were fortune soon to

offer me some opportunity of making myself an emperor, so as to show my

heart in doing good to my friends, particularly to this poor Sancho

Panza, my squire, who is the best fellow in the world; and I would gladly

give him a county I have promised him this ever so long, only that I am

afraid he has not the capacity to govern his realm."

Sancho partly heard these last words of his master, and said to him,

"Strive hard you, Senor Don Quixote, to give me that county so often

promised by you and so long looked for by me, for I promise you there

will be no want of capacity in me to govern it; and even if there is, I

have heard say there are men in the world who farm seigniories, paying so

much a year, and they themselves taking charge of the government, while

the lord, with his legs stretched out, enjoys the revenue they pay him,

without troubling himself about anything else. That's what I'll do, and

not stand haggling over trifles, but wash my hands at once of the whole

business, and enjoy my rents like a duke, and let things go their own

way."

"That, brother Sancho," said the canon, "only holds good as far as the

enjoyment of the revenue goes; but the lord of the seigniory must attend

to the administration of justice, and here capacity and sound judgment

come in, and above all a firm determination to find out the truth; for if

this be wanting in the beginning, the middle and the end will always go

wrong; and God as commonly aids the honest intentions of the simple as he

frustrates the evil designs of the crafty."

"I don't understand those philosophies," returned Sancho Panza; "all I

know is I would I had the county as soon as I shall know how to govern

it; for I have as much soul as another, and as much body as anyone, and I

shall be as much king of my realm as any other of his; and being so I

should do as I liked, and doing as I liked I should please myself, and

pleasing myself I should be content, and when one is content he has

nothing more to desire, and when one has nothing more to desire there is

an end of it; so let the county come, and God he with you, and let us see

one another, as one blind man said to the other."

"That is not bad philosophy thou art talking, Sancho," said the canon;

"but for all that there is a good deal to be said on this matter of

counties."

To which Don Quixote returned, "I know not what more there is to be said;

I only guide myself by the example set me by the great Amadis of Gaul,

when he made his squire count of the Insula Firme; and so, without any

scruples of conscience, I can make a count of Sancho Panza, for he is one

of the best squires that ever knight-errant had."

The canon was astonished at the methodical nonsense (if nonsense be

capable of method) that Don Quixote uttered, at the way in which he had

described the adventure of the knight of the lake, at the impression that

the deliberate lies of the books he read had made upon him, and lastly he

marvelled at the simplicity of Sancho, who desired so eagerly to obtain

the county his master had promised him.

By this time the canon's servants, who had gone to the inn to fetch the

sumpter mule, had returned, and making a carpet and the green grass of

the meadow serve as a table, they seated themselves in the shade of some

trees and made their repast there, that the carter might not be deprived

of the advantage of the spot, as has been already said. As they were

eating they suddenly heard a loud noise and the sound of a bell that

seemed to come from among some brambles and thick bushes that were close

by, and the same instant they observed a beautiful goat, spotted all over

black, white, and brown, spring out of the thicket with a goatherd after

it, calling to it and uttering the usual cries to make it stop or turn

back to the fold. The fugitive goat, scared and frightened, ran towards

the company as if seeking their protection and then stood still, and the

goatherd coming up seized it by the horns and began to talk to it as if

it were possessed of reason and understanding: "Ah wanderer, wanderer,

Spotty, Spotty; how have you gone limping all this time? What wolves have

frightened you, my daughter? Won't you tell me what is the matter, my

beauty? But what else can it be except that you are a she, and cannot

keep quiet? A plague on your humours and the humours of those you take

after! Come back, come back, my darling; and if you will not be so happy,

at any rate you will be safe in the fold or with your companions; for if

you who ought to keep and lead them, go wandering astray, what will

become of them?"

The goatherd's talk amused all who heard it, but especially the canon,

who said to him, "As you live, brother, take it easy, and be not in such

a hurry to drive this goat back to the fold; for, being a female, as you

say, she will follow her natural instinct in spite of all you can do to

prevent it. Take this morsel and drink a sup, and that will soothe your

irritation, and in the meantime the goat will rest herself," and so

saying, he handed him the loins of a cold rabbit on a fork.

The goatherd took it with thanks, and drank and calmed himself, and then

said, "I should be sorry if your worships were to take me for a simpleton

for having spoken so seriously as I did to this animal; but the truth is

there is a certain mystery in the words I used. I am a clown, but not so

much of one but that I know how to behave to men and to beasts."

"That I can well believe," said the curate, "for I know already by

experience that the woods breed men of learning, and shepherds' harbour

philosophers."

"At all events, senor," returned the goatherd, "they shelter men of

experience; and that you may see the truth of this and grasp it, though I

may seem to put myself forward without being asked, I will, if it will

not tire you, gentlemen, and you will give me your attention for a

little, tell you a true story which will confirm this gentleman's word

(and he pointed to the curate) as well as my own."

To this Don Quixote replied, "Seeing that this affair has a certain

colour of chivalry about it, I for my part, brother, will hear you most

gladly, and so will all these gentlemen, from the high intelligence they

possess and their love of curious novelties that interest, charm, and

entertain the mind, as I feel quite sure your story will do. So begin,

friend, for we are all prepared to listen."

"I draw my stakes," said Sancho, "and will retreat with this pasty to the

brook there, where I mean to victual myself for three days; for I have

heard my lord, Don Quixote, say that a knight-errant's squire should eat

until he can hold no more, whenever he has the chance, because it often

happens them to get by accident into a wood so thick that they cannot

find a way out of it for six days; and if the man is not well filled or

his alforjas well stored, there he may stay, as very often he does,

turned into a dried mummy."

"Thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "go where thou

wilt and eat all thou canst, for I have had enough, and only want to give

my mind its refreshment, as I shall by listening to this good fellow's

story."

"It is what we shall all do," said the canon; and then begged the

goatherd to begin the promised tale.

The goatherd gave the goat which he held by the horns a couple of slaps

on the back, saying, "Lie down here beside me, Spotty, for we have time

enough to return to our fold." The goat seemed to understand him, for as

her master seated himself, she stretched herself quietly beside him and

looked up in his face to show him she was all attention to what he was

going to say, and then in these words he began his story.

===18

DON QUIXOTE

by Miguel de Cervantes

Translated by John Ormsby

Volume I.

Part 18.

CHAPTER LI.

WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE WHO WERE CARRYING OFF DON

QUIXOTE

Three leagues from this valley there is a village which, though small, is

one of the richest in all this neighbourhood, and in it there lived a

farmer, a very worthy man, and so much respected that, although to be so

is the natural consequence of being rich, he was even more respected for

his virtue than for the wealth he had acquired. But what made him still

more fortunate, as he said himself, was having a daughter of such

exceeding beauty, rare intelligence, gracefulness, and virtue, that

everyone who knew her and beheld her marvelled at the extraordinary gifts

with which heaven and nature had endowed her. As a child she was

beautiful, she continued to grow in beauty, and at the age of sixteen she

was most lovely. The fame of her beauty began to spread abroad through

all the villages around--but why do I say the villages around, merely,

when it spread to distant cities, and even made its way into the halls of

royalty and reached the ears of people of every class, who came from all

sides to see her as if to see something rare and curious, or some

wonder-working image?

Her father watched over her and she watched over herself; for there are

no locks, or guards, or bolts that can protect a young girl better than

her own modesty. The wealth of the father and the beauty of the daughter

led many neighbours as well as strangers to seek her for a wife; but he,

as one might well be who had the disposal of so rich a jewel, was

perplexed and unable to make up his mind to which of her countless

suitors he should entrust her. I was one among the many who felt a desire

so natural, and, as her father knew who I was, and I was of the same

town, of pure blood, in the bloom of life, and very rich in possessions,

I had great hopes of success. There was another of the same place and

qualifications who also sought her, and this made her father's choice

hang in the balance, for he felt that on either of us his daughter would

be well bestowed; so to escape from this state of perplexity he resolved

to refer the matter to Leandra (for that is the name of the rich damsel

who has reduced me to misery), reflecting that as we were both equal it

would be best to leave it to his dear daughter to choose according to her

inclination--a course that is worthy of imitation by all fathers who wish

to settle their children in life. I do not mean that they ought to leave

them to make a choice of what is contemptible and bad, but that they

should place before them what is good and then allow them to make a good

choice as they please. I do not know which Leandra chose; I only know her

father put us both off with the tender age of his daughter and vague

words that neither bound him nor dismissed us. My rival is called Anselmo

and I myself Eugenio--that you may know the names of the personages that

figure in this tragedy, the end of which is still in suspense, though it

is plain to see it must be disastrous.

About this time there arrived in our town one Vicente de la Roca, the son

of a poor peasant of the same town, the said Vicente having returned from

service as a soldier in Italy and divers other parts. A captain who

chanced to pass that way with his company had carried him off from our

village when he was a boy of about twelve years, and now twelve years

later the young man came back in a soldier's uniform, arrayed in a

thousand colours, and all over glass trinkets and fine steel chains.

To-day he would appear in one gay dress, to-morrow in another; but all

flimsy and gaudy, of little substance and less worth. The peasant folk,

who are naturally malicious, and when they have nothing to do can be

malice itself, remarked all this, and took note of his finery and

jewellery, piece by piece, and discovered that he had three suits of

different colours, with garters and stockings to match; but he made so

many arrangements and combinations out of them, that if they had not

counted them, anyone would have sworn that he had made a display of more

than ten suits of clothes and twenty plumes. Do not look upon all this

that I am telling you about the clothes as uncalled for or spun out, for

they have a great deal to do with the story. He used to seat himself on a

bench under the great poplar in our plaza, and there he would keep us all

hanging open-mouthed on the stories he told us of his exploits. There was

no country on the face of the globe he had not seen, nor battle he had

not been engaged in; he had killed more Moors than there are in Morocco

and Tunis, and fought more single combats, according to his own account,

than Garcilaso, Diego Garcia de Paredes and a thousand others he named,

and out of all he had come victorious without losing a drop of blood. On

the other hand he showed marks of wounds, which, though they could not be

made out, he said were gunshot wounds received in divers encounters and

actions. Lastly, with monstrous impudence he used to say "you" to his

equals and even those who knew what he was, and declare that his arm was

his father and his deeds his pedigree, and that being a soldier he was as

good as the king himself. And to add to these swaggering ways he was a

trifle of a musician, and played the guitar with such a flourish that

some said he made it speak; nor did his accomplishments end here, for he

was something of a poet too, and on every trifle that happened in the

town he made a ballad a league long.

This soldier, then, that I have described, this Vicente de la Roca, this

bravo, gallant, musician, poet, was often seen and watched by Leandra

from a window of her house which looked out on the plaza. The glitter of

his showy attire took her fancy, his ballads bewitched her (for he gave

away twenty copies of every one he made), the tales of his exploits which

he told about himself came to her ears; and in short, as the devil no

doubt had arranged it, she fell in love with him before the presumption

of making love to her had suggested itself to him; and as in love-affairs

none are more easily brought to an issue than those which have the

inclination of the lady for an ally, Leandra and Vicente came to an

understanding without any difficulty; and before any of her numerous

suitors had any suspicion of her design, she had already carried it into

effect, having left the house of her dearly beloved father (for mother

she had none), and disappeared from the village with the soldier, who

came more triumphantly out of this enterprise than out of any of the

large number he laid claim to. All the village and all who heard of it

were amazed at the affair; I was aghast, Anselmo thunderstruck, her

father full of grief, her relations indignant, the authorities all in a

ferment, the officers of the Brotherhood in arms. They scoured the roads,

they searched the woods and all quarters, and at the end of three days

they found the flighty Leandra in a mountain cave, stript to her shift,

and robbed of all the money and precious jewels she had carried away from

home with her.

They brought her back to her unhappy father, and questioned her as to her

misfortune, and she confessed without pressure that Vicente de la Roca

had deceived her, and under promise of marrying her had induced her to

leave her father's house, as he meant to take her to the richest and most

delightful city in the whole world, which was Naples; and that she,

ill-advised and deluded, had believed him, and robbed her father, and

handed over all to him the night she disappeared; and that he had carried

her away to a rugged mountain and shut her up in the eave where they had

found her. She said, moreover, that the soldier, without robbing her of

her honour, had taken from her everything she had, and made off, leaving

her in the cave, a thing that still further surprised everybody. It was

not easy for us to credit the young man's continence, but she asserted it

with such earnestness that it helped to console her distressed father,

who thought nothing of what had been taken since the jewel that once lost

can never be recovered had been left to his daughter. The same day that

Leandra made her appearance her father removed her from our sight and

took her away to shut her up in a convent in a town near this, in the

hope that time may wear away some of the disgrace she has incurred.

Leandra's youth furnished an excuse for her fault, at least with those to

whom it was of no consequence whether she was good or bad; but those who

knew her shrewdness and intelligence did not attribute her misdemeanour

to ignorance but to wantonness and the natural disposition of women,

which is for the most part flighty and ill-regulated.

Leandra withdrawn from sight, Anselmo's eyes grew blind, or at any rate

found nothing to look at that gave them any pleasure, and mine were in

darkness without a ray of light to direct them to anything enjoyable

while Leandra was away. Our melancholy grew greater, our patience grew

less; we cursed the soldier's finery and railed at the carelessness of

Leandra's father. At last Anselmo and I agreed to leave the village and

come to this valley; and, he feeding a great flock of sheep of his own,

and I a large herd of goats of mine, we pass our life among the trees,

giving vent to our sorrows, together singing the fair Leandra's praises,

or upbraiding her, or else sighing alone, and to heaven pouring forth our

complaints in solitude. Following our example, many more of Leandra's

lovers have come to these rude mountains and adopted our mode of life,

and they are so numerous that one would fancy the place had been turned

into the pastoral Arcadia, so full is it of shepherds and sheep-folds;

nor is there a spot in it where the name of the fair Leandra is not

heard. Here one curses her and calls her capricious, fickle, and

immodest, there another condemns her as frail and frivolous; this pardons

and absolves her, that spurns and reviles her; one extols her beauty,

another assails her character, and in short all abuse her, and all adore

her, and to such a pitch has this general infatuation gone that there are

some who complain of her scorn without ever having exchanged a word with

her, and even some that bewail and mourn the raging fever of jealousy,

for which she never gave anyone cause, for, as I have already said, her

misconduct was known before her passion. There is no nook among the

rocks, no brookside, no shade beneath the trees that is not haunted by

some shepherd telling his woes to the breezes; wherever there is an echo

it repeats the name of Leandra; the mountains ring with "Leandra,"

"Leandra" murmur the brooks, and Leandra keeps us all bewildered and

bewitched, hoping without hope and fearing without knowing what we fear.

Of all this silly set the one that shows the least and also the most

sense is my rival Anselmo, for having so many other things to complain

of, he only complains of separation, and to the accompaniment of a

rebeck, which he plays admirably, he sings his complaints in verses that

show his ingenuity. I follow another, easier, and to my mind wiser

course, and that is to rail at the frivolity of women, at their

inconstancy, their double dealing, their broken promises, their unkept

pledges, and in short the want of reflection they show in fixing their

affections and inclinations. This, sirs, was the reason of words and

expressions I made use of to this goat when I came up just now; for as

she is a female I have a contempt for her, though she is the best in all

my fold. This is the story I promised to tell you, and if I have been

tedious in telling it, I will not be slow to serve you; my hut is close

by, and I have fresh milk and dainty cheese there, as well as a variety

of toothsome fruit, no less pleasing to the eye than to the palate.

CHAPTER LII.

OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH THE

RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT HE

BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION

The goatherd's tale gave great satisfaction to all the hearers, and the

canon especially enjoyed it, for he had remarked with particular

attention the manner in which it had been told, which was as unlike the

manner of a clownish goatherd as it was like that of a polished city wit;

and he observed that the curate had been quite right in saying that the

woods bred men of learning. They all offered their services to Eugenio

but he who showed himself most liberal in this way was Don Quixote, who

said to him, "Most assuredly, brother goatherd, if I found myself in a

position to attempt any adventure, I would, this very instant, set out on

your behalf, and would rescue Leandra from that convent (where no doubt

she is kept against her will), in spite of the abbess and all who might

try to prevent me, and would place her in your hands to deal with her

according to your will and pleasure, observing, however, the laws of

chivalry which lay down that no violence of any kind is to be offered to

any damsel. But I trust in God our Lord that the might of one malignant

enchanter may not prove so great but that the power of another better

disposed may prove superior to it, and then I promise you my support and

assistance, as I am bound to do by my profession, which is none other

than to give aid to the weak and needy."

The goatherd eyed him, and noticing Don Quixote's sorry appearance and

looks, he was filled with wonder, and asked the barber, who was next him,

"Senor, who is this man who makes such a figure and talks in such a

strain?"

"Who should it be," said the barber, "but the famous Don Quixote of La

Mancha, the undoer of injustice, the righter of wrongs, the protector of

damsels, the terror of giants, and the winner of battles?"

"That," said the goatherd, "sounds like what one reads in the books of

the knights-errant, who did all that you say this man does; though it is

my belief that either you are joking, or else this gentleman has empty

lodgings in his head."

"You are a great scoundrel," said Don Quixote, "and it is you who are

empty and a fool. I am fuller than ever was the whoreson bitch that bore

you;" and passing from words to deeds, he caught up a loaf that was near

him and sent it full in the goatherd's face, with such force that he

flattened his nose; but the goatherd, who did not understand jokes, and

found himself roughly handled in such good earnest, paying no respect to

carpet, tablecloth, or diners, sprang upon Don Quixote, and seizing him

by the throat with both hands would no doubt have throttled him, had not

Sancho Panza that instant come to the rescue, and grasping him by the

shoulders flung him down on the table, smashing plates, breaking glasses,

and upsetting and scattering everything on it. Don Quixote, finding

himself free, strove to get on top of the goatherd, who, with his face

covered with blood, and soundly kicked by Sancho, was on all fours

feeling about for one of the table-knives to take a bloody revenge with.

The canon and the curate, however, prevented him, but the barber so

contrived it that he got Don Quixote under him, and rained down upon him

such a shower of fisticuffs that the poor knight's face streamed with

blood as freely as his own. The canon and the curate were bursting with

laughter, the officers were capering with delight, and both the one and

the other hissed them on as they do dogs that are worrying one another in

a fight. Sancho alone was frantic, for he could not free himself from the

grasp of one of the canon's servants, who kept him from going to his

master's assistance.

At last, while they were all, with the exception of the two bruisers who

were mauling each other, in high glee and enjoyment, they heard a trumpet

sound a note so doleful that it made them all look in the direction

whence the sound seemed to come. But the one that was most excited by

hearing it was Don Quixote, who though sorely against his will he was

under the goatherd, and something more than pretty well pummelled, said

to him, "Brother devil (for it is impossible but that thou must be one

since thou hast had might and strength enough to overcome mine), I ask

thee to agree to a truce for but one hour for the solemn note of yonder

trumpet that falls on our ears seems to me to summon me to some new

adventure." The goatherd, who was by this time tired of pummelling and

being pummelled, released him at once, and Don Quixote rising to his feet

and turning his eyes to the quarter where the sound had been heard,

suddenly saw coming down the slope of a hill several men clad in white

like penitents.

The fact was that the clouds had that year withheld their moisture from

the earth, and in all the villages of the district they were organising

processions, rogations, and penances, imploring God to open the hands of

his mercy and send the rain; and to this end the people of a village that

was hard by were going in procession to a holy hermitage there was on one

side of that valley. Don Quixote when he saw the strange garb of the

penitents, without reflecting how often he had seen it before, took it

into his head that this was a case of adventure, and that it fell to him

alone as a knight-errant to engage in it; and he was all the more

confirmed in this notion, by the idea that an image draped in black they

had with them was some illustrious lady that these villains and

discourteous thieves were carrying off by force. As soon as this occurred

to him he ran with all speed to Rocinante who was grazing at large, and

taking the bridle and the buckler from the saddle-bow, he had him bridled

in an instant, and calling to Sancho for his sword he mounted Rocinante,

braced his buckler on his arm, and in a loud voice exclaimed to those who

stood by, "Now, noble company, ye shall see how important it is that

there should be knights in the world professing the of knight-errantry;

now, I say, ye shall see, by the deliverance of that worthy lady who is

borne captive there, whether knights-errant deserve to be held in

estimation," and so saying he brought his legs to bear on Rocinante--for

he had no spurs--and at a full canter (for in all this veracious history

we never read of Rocinante fairly galloping) set off to encounter the

penitents, though the curate, the canon, and the barber ran to prevent

him. But it was out of their power, nor did he even stop for the shouts

of Sancho calling after him, "Where are you going, Senor Don Quixote?

What devils have possessed you to set you on against our Catholic faith?

Plague take me! mind, that is a procession of penitents, and the lady

they are carrying on that stand there is the blessed image of the

immaculate Virgin. Take care what you are doing, senor, for this time it

may be safely said you don't know what you are about." Sancho laboured in

vain, for his master was so bent on coming to quarters with these sheeted

figures and releasing the lady in black that he did not hear a word; and

even had he heard, he would not have turned back if the king had ordered

him. He came up with the procession and reined in Rocinante, who was

already anxious enough to slacken speed a little, and in a hoarse,

excited voice he exclaimed, "You who hide your faces, perhaps because you

are not good subjects, pay attention and listen to what I am about to say

to you." The first to halt were those who were carrying the image, and

one of the four ecclesiastics who were chanting the Litany, struck by the

strange figure of Don Quixote, the leanness of Rocinante, and the other

ludicrous peculiarities he observed, said in reply to him, "Brother, if

you have anything to say to us say it quickly, for these brethren are

whipping themselves, and we cannot stop, nor is it reasonable we should

stop to hear anything, unless indeed it is short enough to be said in two

words."

"I will say it in one," replied Don Quixote, "and it is this; that at

once, this very instant, ye release that fair lady whose tears and sad

aspect show plainly that ye are carrying her off against her will, and

that ye have committed some scandalous outrage against her; and I, who

was born into the world to redress all such like wrongs, will not permit

you to advance another step until you have restored to her the liberty

she pines for and deserves."

From these words all the hearers concluded that he must be a madman, and

began to laugh heartily, and their laughter acted like gunpowder on Don

Quixote's fury, for drawing his sword without another word he made a rush

at the stand. One of those who supported it, leaving the burden to his

comrades, advanced to meet him, flourishing a forked stick that he had

for propping up the stand when resting, and with this he caught a mighty

cut Don Quixote made at him that severed it in two; but with the portion

that remained in his hand he dealt such a thwack on the shoulder of Don

Quixote's sword arm (which the buckler could not protect against the

clownish assault) that poor Don Quixote came to the ground in a sad

plight.

Sancho Panza, who was coming on close behind puffing and blowing, seeing

him fall, cried out to his assailant not to strike him again, for he was

poor enchanted knight, who had never harmed anyone all the days of his

life; but what checked the clown was, not Sancho's shouting, but seeing

that Don Quixote did not stir hand or foot; and so, fancying he had

killed him, he hastily hitched up his tunic under his girdle and took to

his heels across the country like a deer.

By this time all Don Quixote's companions had come up to where he lay;

but the processionists seeing them come running, and with them the

officers of the Brotherhood with their crossbows, apprehended mischief,

and clustering round the image, raised their hoods, and grasped their

scourges, as the priests did their tapers, and awaited the attack,

resolved to defend themselves and even to take the offensive against

their assailants if they could. Fortune, however, arranged the matter

better than they expected, for all Sancho did was to fling himself on his

master's body, raising over him the most doleful and laughable

lamentation that ever was heard, for he believed he was dead. The curate

was known to another curate who walked in the procession, and their

recognition of one another set at rest the apprehensions of both parties;

the first then told the other in two words who Don Quixote was, and he

and the whole troop of penitents went to see if the poor gentleman was

dead, and heard Sancho Panza saying, with tears in his eyes, "Oh flower

of chivalry, that with one blow of a stick hast ended the course of thy

well-spent life! Oh pride of thy race, honour and glory of all La Mancha,

nay, of all the world, that for want of thee will be full of evil-doers,

no longer in fear of punishment for their misdeeds! Oh thou, generous

above all the Alexanders, since for only eight months of service thou

hast given me the best island the sea girds or surrounds! Humble with the

proud, haughty with the humble, encounterer of dangers, endurer of

outrages, enamoured without reason, imitator of the good, scourge of the

wicked, enemy of the mean, in short, knight-errant, which is all that can

be said!"

At the cries and moans of Sancho, Don Quixote came to himself, and the

first word he said was, "He who lives separated from you, sweetest

Dulcinea, has greater miseries to endure than these. Aid me, friend

Sancho, to mount the enchanted cart, for I am not in a condition to press

the saddle of Rocinante, as this shoulder is all knocked to pieces."

"That I will do with all my heart, senor," said Sancho; "and let us

return to our village with these gentlemen, who seek your good, and there

we will prepare for making another sally, which may turn out more

profitable and creditable to us."

"Thou art right, Sancho," returned Don Quixote; "It will be wise to let

the malign influence of the stars which now prevails pass off."

The canon, the curate, and the barber told him he would act very wisely

in doing as he said; and so, highly amused at Sancho Panza's

simplicities, they placed Don Quixote in the cart as before. The

procession once more formed itself in order and proceeded on its road;

the goatherd took his leave of the party; the officers of the Brotherhood

declined to go any farther, and the curate paid them what was due to

them; the canon begged the curate to let him know how Don Quixote did,

whether he was cured of his madness or still suffered from it, and then

begged leave to continue his journey; in short, they all separated and

went their ways, leaving to themselves the curate and the barber, Don

Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the good Rocinante, who regarded everything

with as great resignation as his master. The carter yoked his oxen and

made Don Quixote comfortable on a truss of hay, and at his usual

deliberate pace took the road the curate directed, and at the end of six

days they reached Don Quixote's village, and entered it about the middle

of the day, which it so happened was a Sunday, and the people were all in

the plaza, through which Don Quixote's cart passed. They all flocked to

see what was in the cart, and when they recognised their townsman they

were filled with amazement, and a boy ran off to bring the news to his

housekeeper and his niece that their master and uncle had come back all

lean and yellow and stretched on a truss of hay on an ox-cart. It was

piteous to hear the cries the two good ladies raised, how they beat their

breasts and poured out fresh maledictions on those accursed books of

chivalry; all which was renewed when they saw Don Quixote coming in at

the gate.

At the news of Don Quixote's arrival Sancho Panza's wife came running,

for she by this time knew that her husband had gone away with him as his

squire, and on seeing Sancho, the first thing she asked him was if the

ass was well. Sancho replied that he was, better than his master was.

"Thanks be to God," said she, "for being so good to me; but now tell me,

my friend, what have you made by your squirings? What gown have you

brought me back? What shoes for your children?"

"I bring nothing of that sort, wife," said Sancho; "though I bring other

things of more consequence and value."

"I am very glad of that," returned his wife; "show me these things of

more value and consequence, my friend; for I want to see them to cheer my

heart that has been so sad and heavy all these ages that you have been

away."

"I will show them to you at home, wife," said Sancho; "be content for the

present; for if it please God that we should again go on our travels in

search of adventures, you will soon see me a count, or governor of an

island, and that not one of those everyday ones, but the best that is to

be had."

"Heaven grant it, husband," said she, "for indeed we have need of it. But

tell me, what's this about islands, for I don't understand it?"

"Honey is not for the mouth of the ass," returned Sancho; "all in good

time thou shalt see, wife--nay, thou wilt be surprised to hear thyself

called 'your ladyship' by all thy vassals."

"What are you talking about, Sancho, with your ladyships, islands, and

vassals?" returned Teresa Panza--for so Sancho's wife was called, though

they were not relations, for in La Mancha it is customary for wives to

take their husbands' surnames.

"Don't be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa," said Sancho; "it is

enough that I am telling you the truth, so shut your mouth. But I may

tell you this much by the way, that there is nothing in the world more

delightful than to be a person of consideration, squire to a

knight-errant, and a seeker of adventures. To be sure most of those one

finds do not end as pleasantly as one could wish, for out of a hundred,

ninety-nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it by experience,

for out of some I came blanketed, and out of others belaboured. Still,

for all that, it is a fine thing to be on the look-out for what may

happen, crossing mountains, searching woods, climbing rocks, visiting

castles, putting up at inns, all at free quarters, and devil take the

maravedi to pay."

While this conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife, Don

Quixote's housekeeper and niece took him in and undressed him and laid

him in his old bed. He eyed them askance, and could not make out where he

was. The curate charged his niece to be very careful to make her uncle

comfortable and to keep a watch over him lest he should make his escape

from them again, telling her what they had been obliged to do to bring

him home. On this the pair once more lifted up their voices and renewed

their maledictions upon the books of chivalry, and implored heaven to

plunge the authors of such lies and nonsense into the midst of the

bottomless pit. They were, in short, kept in anxiety and dread lest their

uncle and master should give them the slip the moment he found himself

somewhat better, and as they feared so it fell out.

But the author of this history, though he has devoted research and

industry to the discovery of the deeds achieved by Don Quixote in his

third sally, has been unable to obtain any information respecting them,

at any rate derived from authentic documents; tradition has merely

preserved in the memory of La Mancha the fact that Don Quixote, the third

time he sallied forth from his home, betook himself to Saragossa, where

he was present at some famous jousts which came off in that city, and

that he had adventures there worthy of his valour and high intelligence.

Of his end and death he could learn no particulars, nor would he have

ascertained it or known of it, if good fortune had not produced an old

physician for him who had in his possession a leaden box, which,

according to his account, had been discovered among the crumbling

foundations of an ancient hermitage that was being rebuilt; in which box

were found certain parchment manuscripts in Gothic character, but in

Castilian verse, containing many of his achievements, and setting forth

the beauty of Dulcinea, the form of Rocinante, the fidelity of Sancho

Panza, and the burial of Don Quixote himself, together with sundry

epitaphs and eulogies on his life and character; but all that could be

read and deciphered were those which the trustworthy author of this new

and unparalleled history here presents. And the said author asks of those

that shall read it nothing in return for the vast toil which it has cost

him in examining and searching the Manchegan archives in order to bring

it to light, save that they give him the same credit that people of sense

give to the books of chivalry that pervade the world and are so popular;

for with this he will consider himself amply paid and fully satisfied,

and will be encouraged to seek out and produce other histories, if not as

truthful, at least equal in invention and not less entertaining. The

first words written on the parchment found in the leaden box were these:

THE ACADEMICIANS OF

ARGAMASILLA, A VILLAGE OF

LA MANCHA,

ON THE LIFE AND DEATH

OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA,

HOC SCRIPSERUNT

MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,

ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE

EPITAPH

The scatterbrain that gave La Mancha more

Rich spoils than Jason's; who a point so keen

Had to his wit, and happier far had been

If his wit's weathercock a blunter bore;

The arm renowned far as Gaeta's shore,

Cathay, and all the lands that lie between;

The muse discreet and terrible in mien

As ever wrote on brass in days of yore;

He who surpassed the Amadises all,

And who as naught the Galaors accounted,

Supported by his love and gallantry:

Who made the Belianises sing small,

And sought renown on Rocinante mounted;

Here, underneath this cold stone, doth he lie.

PANIAGUADO,

ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,

IN LAUDEM DULCINEAE DEL TOBOSO

SONNET

She, whose full features may be here descried,

High-bosomed, with a bearing of disdain,

Is Dulcinea, she for whom in vain

The great Don Quixote of La Mancha sighed.

For her, Toboso's queen, from side to side

He traversed the grim sierra, the champaign

Of Aranjuez, and Montiel's famous plain:

On Rocinante oft a weary ride.

Malignant planets, cruel destiny,

Pursued them both, the fair Manchegan dame,

And the unconquered star of chivalry.

Nor youth nor beauty saved her from the claim

Of death; he paid love's bitter penalty,

And left the marble to preserve his name.

CAPRICHOSO, A MOST ACUTE ACADEMICIAN

OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF ROCINANTE,

STEED OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA

SONNET

On that proud throne of diamantine sheen,

Which the blood-reeking feet of Mars degrade,

The mad Manchegan's banner now hath been

By him in all its bravery displayed.

There hath he hung his arms and trenchant blade

Wherewith, achieving deeds till now unseen,

He slays, lays low, cleaves, hews; but art hath made

A novel style for our new paladin.

If Amadis be the proud boast of Gaul,

If by his progeny the fame of Greece

Through all the regions of the earth be spread,

Great Quixote crowned in grim Bellona's hall

To-day exalts La Mancha over these,

And above Greece or Gaul she holds her head.

Nor ends his glory here, for his good steed

Doth Brillador and Bayard far exceed;

As mettled steeds compared with Rocinante,

The reputation they have won is scanty.

BURLADOR, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,

ON SANCHO PANZA

SONNET

The worthy Sancho Panza here you see;

A great soul once was in that body small,

Nor was there squire upon this earthly ball

So plain and simple, or of guile so free.

Within an ace of being Count was he,

And would have been but for the spite and gall

Of this vile age, mean and illiberal,

That cannot even let a donkey be.

For mounted on an ass (excuse the word),

By Rocinante's side this gentle squire

Was wont his wandering master to attend.

Delusive hopes that lure the common herd

With promises of ease, the heart's desire,

In shadows, dreams, and smoke ye always end.

CACHIDIABLO,

ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,

ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE

EPITAPH

The knight lies here below,

Ill-errant and bruised sore,

Whom Rocinante bore

In his wanderings to and fro.

By the side of the knight is laid

Stolid man Sancho too,

Than whom a squire more true

Was not in the esquire trade.

TIQUITOC,

ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,

ON THE TOMB OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

EPITAPH

Here Dulcinea lies.

Plump was she and robust:

Now she is ashes and dust:

The end of all flesh that dies.

A lady of high degree,

With the port of a lofty dame,

And the great Don Quixote's flame,

And the pride of her village was she.

These were all the verses that could be deciphered; the rest, the writing

being worm-eaten, were handed over to one of the Academicians to make out

their meaning conjecturally. We have been informed that at the cost of

many sleepless nights and much toil he has succeeded, and that he means

to publish them in hopes of Don Quixote's third sally.

"Forse altro cantera con miglior plectro."