_Seth_--

All the beauty that I saw

Tongue of man can never tell,

Of good fruits and beauteous flowers,

Of minstrels and sweet song,

A fountain bright as silver,

And flowing from it four great streams,

That there is a desire to gaze upon them.

In it there is a tree,

High and with many boughs,

But they are bare and leafless.

Bark there is none around it;

From the stem to the head

All its branches are bare.

And below when I looked,

I saw its roots

Even into hell descending,

In the midst of great darkness;

And its branches growing up

Even to heaven high in light.

And it was wholly without bark,

Both the head and the boughs.

_Cherubin_--

Look yet again within,

And all else thou shalt see

Before thou come from it.

_Seth_--

I am happy to have leave;

I will go to the gate at once,

That I may see further good.

[_He goes and looks and returns._

_Cherubin_--

Dost thou see more now

Than what there was just now?

_Seth_--

There is a serpent in the tree:

Truly a hideous beast is he.

_Cherubin_--

Go yet the third time to it,

And look better at the tree.

Look what you can see on it

Besides roots and branches.

_Seth_--

Cherubin, angel of the God of grace,

High in the branches of the tree I saw

A new-born child, wrapped in swaddling clothes

And bound with bands.

_Cherubin_--

It was God's son that thou sawest,

Like a child in swaddling clothes.

He will redeem Adam thy father

With his flesh and blood likewise,

When the time is come,

And thy mother and all good people.

He is the oil of mercy

Which was promised to thy father.

Through his death truly

Shall all the world be saved.

[Signature: William Sharp & Ernest Rhys]

CERVANTES

(1547-1616)

BY GEORGE SANTAYANA

Cervantes is known to the world as the author of 'Don Quixote' and

although his other works are numerous and creditable, and his pathetic

life is carefully recorded, yet it is as the author of 'Don Quixote'

alone that he deserves to be generally known or considered. Had his

wit not come by chance on the idea of the Ingenious Hidalgo, Cervantes

would never have attained his universal renown, even if his other

works and the interest of his career should have sufficed to give him

a place in the literary history of his country. Here, then, where our

task is to present in miniature only what has the greatest and most

universal value, we may treat our author as playwrights are advised to

treat their heroes, saying of him only what is necessary to the

understanding of the single action with which we are concerned. This

single action is the writing of 'Don Quixote': and what we shall try

to understand is what there was in the life and environment of

Cervantes that enabled him to compose that great book, and that

remained imbedded in its characters, its episodes, and its moral.

There was in vogue in the Spain of the sixteenth century a species of

romance called books of chivalry. They were developments of the

legends dealing with King Arthur and the Knights of the Table Round,

and their numerous descendants and emulators. These stories had

appealed in the first place to what we should still think of as the

spirit of chivalry: they were full of tourneys and single combats,

desperate adventures and romantic loves. The setting was in the same

vague and wonderful region as the Coast of Bohemia, where to the known

mountains, seas, and cities that have poetic names, was added a

prodigious number of caverns, castles, islands, and forests of the

romancer's invention. With time and popularity this kind of story had

naturally intensified its characteristics until it had reached the

greatest extravagance and absurdity, and combined in a way the

unreality of the fairy tale with the bombast of the melodrama.

Cervantes had apparently read these books with avidity, and was not

without a great sympathy with the kind of imagination they embodied.

His own last and most carefully written book, the 'Travails of

Persiles and Sigismunda,' is in many respects an imitation of them;

it abounds in savage islands, furious tyrants, prodigious feats of

arms, disguised maidens whose discretion is as marvelous as their

beauty, and happy deliverances from intricate and hopeless situations.

His first book also, the 'Galatea,' was an embodiment of a kind of

pastoral idealism: sentimental verses being interspersed with

euphuistic prose, the whole describing the lovelorn shepherds and

heartless shepherdesses of Arcadia.

But while these books, which were the author's favorites among his own

works, expressed perhaps Cervantes's natural taste and ambition, the

events of his life and the real bent of his talent, which in time he

came himself to recognize, drove him to a very different sort of

composition. His family was ancient but impoverished, and he was

forced throughout his life to turn his hand to anything that could

promise him a livelihood. His existence was a continuous series of

experiments, vexations, and disappointments. He adopted at first the

profession of arms, and followed his colors as a private soldier upon

several foreign expeditions. He was long quartered in Italy; he fought

at Lepanto against the Turks, where among other wounds he received one

that maimed his left hand, to the greater glory, as he tells us, of

his right; he was captured by Barbary pirates and remained for five

years a slave in Algiers; he was ransomed, and returned to Spain only

to find official favors and recognitions denied him; and finally, at

the age of thirty-seven, he abandoned the army for literature.

His first thought as a writer does not seem to have been to make

direct use of his rich experience and varied observation; he was

rather possessed by an obstinate longing for that poetic gift which,

as he confesses in one place, Heaven had denied him. He began with the

idyllic romance, the 'Galatea' already mentioned, and at various times

during the rest of his life wrote poems, plays, and stories of a

romantic and sentimental type. In the course of these labors, however,

he struck one vein of much richer promise. It was what the Spanish

call the _picaresque_; that is, the description of the life and

character of rogues, pickpockets, vagabonds, and all those wretches

and sorry wits that might be found about the highways, in the country

inns, or in the slums of cities. Of this kind is much of what is best

in his collected stories, the 'Novelas Exemplares.' The talent and the

experience which he betrays in these amusing narratives were to be

invaluable to him later as the author of 'Don Quixote,' where they

enabled him to supply a foil to the fine world of his poor hero's

imagination.

We have now mentioned what were perhaps the chief elements of the

preparation of Cervantes for his great task. They were a great

familiarity with the romances of chivalry, and a natural liking for

them; a life of honorable but unrewarded endeavor both in war and in

the higher literature; and much experience of Vagabondia, with the art

of taking down and reproducing in amusing profusion the typical scenes

and languages of low life. Out of these elements a single spark, which

we may attribute to genius, to chance, or to inspiration, was enough

to produce a new and happy conception: that of a parody on the

romances of chivalry, in which the extravagances of the fables of

knighthood should be contrasted with the sordid realities of life.

This is done by the ingenious device of representing a country

gentleman whose naturally generous mind, unhinged by much reading of

the books of chivalry, should lead him to undertake the office of

knight-errant, and induce him to ride about the country clad in

ancient armor, to right wrongs, to succor defenseless maidens, to kill

giants, and to win empires at least as vast as that of Alexander.

This is the subject of 'Don Quixote.' But happy as the conception is,

it could not have produced a book of enduring charm and well-seasoned

wisdom, had it not been filled in with a great number of amusing and

lifelike episodes, and verified by two admirable figures, Don Quixote

and Sancho Panza, characters at once intimately individual and truly

universal.

Don Quixote at first appears to the reader, and probably appeared to

the author as well, as primarily a madman,--a thin and gaunt old

village squire, whose brain has been turned by the nonsense he has

read and taken for gospel truth; and who is punished for his

ridiculous mania by an uninterrupted series of beatings, falls,

indignities, and insults. But the hero and the author together, with

the ingenuity proper to madness and the inevitableness proper to

genius, soon begin to disclose the fund of intelligence and ideal

passion which underlies this superficial insanity. We see that Don

Quixote is only mad north-north-west, when the wind blows from the

quarter of his chivalrous preoccupation. At other times he shows

himself a man of great goodness and fineness of wit; virtuous,

courageous, courteous, and generous, and in fact the perfect ideal of

a gentleman. When he takes, for instance, a handful of acorns from the

goat-herds' table and begins a grandiloquent discourse upon the Golden

Age, we feel how cultivated the man is, how easily the little things

of life suggest to him the great things, and with what delight he

dwells on what is beautiful and happy. The truth and pathos of the

character become all the more compelling when we consider how

naturally the hero's madness and calamities flow from this same

exquisite sense of what is good.

The contrast to this figure is furnished by that of Sancho Panza, who

embodies all that is matter-of-fact, gross, and plebeian. Yet he is

willing to become Don Quixote's esquire, and by his credulity and

devotion shows what an ascendency a heroic and enthusiastic nature can

gain over the most sluggish of men. Sancho has none of the instincts

of his master. He never read the books of chivalry or desired to right

the wrongs of the world. He is naturally satisfied with his crust and

his onions, if they can be washed down with enough bad wine. His good

drudge of a wife never transformed herself in his fancy into a

peerless Dulcinea. Yet Sancho follows his master into every danger,

shares his discomfiture and the many blows that rain down upon him,

and hopes to the end for the governorship of that Insula with which

Don Quixote is some day to reward his faithful esquire.

As the madness of Don Quixote is humanized by his natural intelligence

and courage, so the grossness and credulity of Sancho are relieved by

his homely wit. He abounds in proverbs. He never fails to see the

reality of a situation, and to protest doggedly against his master's

visionary flights. He holds fast as long as he can to the evidence of

his senses, and to his little weaknesses of flesh and spirit. But

finally he surrenders to the authority of Don Quixote, and of the

historians of chivalry, although not without a certain reluctance and

some surviving doubts.

The character of Sancho is admirable for the veracity with which its

details are drawn. The traits of the boor, the glutton, and the coward

come most naturally to the surface upon occasion, yet Sancho remains a

patient, good-natured peasant, a devoted servant, and a humble

Christian. Under the cover of such lifelike incongruities, and of a

pervasive humor, the author has given us a satirical picture of human

nature not inferior, perhaps, to that furnished by Don Quixote

himself. For instance: Don Quixote, after mending his helmet, tries

its strength with a blow that smashes it to pieces. He mends it a

second time, but now, without trial, deputes it to be henceforth a

strong and perfect helmet. Sancho, when he is sent to bear a letter

to Dulcinea, neglects to deliver it, and invents an account of his

interview with the imaginary lady for the satisfaction of his master.

But before long, by dint of repeating the story, he comes himself to

believe his own lies. Thus self-deception in the knight is the

ridiculous effect of courage, and in the esquire the not less

ridiculous effect of sloth.

The adventures these two heroes encounter are naturally only such as

travelers along the Spanish roads would then have been likely to come

upon. The point of the story depends on the familiarity and commonness

of the situations in which Don Quixote finds himself, so that the

absurdity of his pretensions may be overwhelmingly shown. Critics are

agreed in blaming the exceptions which Cervantes allowed himself to

make to the realism of his scenes, where he introduced romantic tales

into the narrative of the first part. The tales are in themselves

unworthy of their setting, and contrary to the spirit of the whole

book. Cervantes doubtless yielded here partly to his story-telling

habits, partly to a fear of monotony in the uninterrupted description

of Don Quixote's adventures. He avoided this mistake in the second

part, and devised the visit to the Duke's palace, and the intentional

sport there made of the hero, to give variety to the story.

More variety and more unity may still, perhaps, seem desirable in the

book. The episodes are strung together without much coherence, and

without any attempt to develop either the plot or the characters.

Sancho, to be sure, at last tastes the governorship of his Insula, and

Don Quixote on his death-bed recovers his wits. But this conclusion,

appropriate and touching as it is, might have come almost anywhere in

the course of the story. The whole book has, in fact, rather the

quality of an improvisation. The episodes suggest themselves to the

author's fancy as he proceeds; a fact which gives them the same

unexpectedness and sometimes the same incompleteness which the events

of a journey naturally have. It is in the genius of this kind of

narrative to be a sort of imaginary diary, without a general dramatic

structure. The interest depends on the characters and the incidents

alone; on the fertility of the author's invention, on the ingenuity of

the turns he gives to the story, and on the incidental scenes and

figures he describes.

When we have once accepted this manner of writing fiction--which might

be called that of the novelist before the days of the novel--we can

only admire the execution of 'Don Quixote' as masterly in its kind. We

find here an abundance of fancy that is never at a loss for some

probable and interesting incident; we find a graphic power that makes

living and unforgettable many a minor character, even if slightly

sketched; we find the charm of the country rendered by little touches

without any formal descriptions; and we find a humorous and minute

reproduction of the manners of the time. All this is rendered in a

flowing and easy style, abounding in both characterization and parody

of diverse types of speech and composition; and the whole is still but

the background for the figures of Don Quixote and Sancho, and for

their pleasant discourse, the quality and savor of which is maintained

to the end. These excellences unite to make the book one of the most

permanently delightful in the world, as well as one of the most

diverting. Seldom has laughter been so well justified as that which

the reading of 'Don Quixote' continually provokes; seldom has it found

its causes in such genuine fancy, such profound and real contrast, and

such victorious good-humor.

We sometimes wish, perhaps, that our heroes were spared some of their

bruises, and that we were not asked to delight so much in promiscuous

beatings and floggings. But we must remember that these three hundred

years have made the European race much more sensitive to physical

suffering. Our ancestors took that doubtful pleasure in the idea of

corporal writhings which we still take in the description of the

tortures of the spirit. The idea of both evils is naturally

distasteful to a refined mind; but we admit more willingly the kind

which habit has accustomed us to regard as inevitable, and which

personal experience very probably has made an old friend.

'Don Quixote' has accordingly enjoyed a universal popularity, and has

had the singular privilege of accomplishing the object for which it

was written, which was to recall fiction from the extravagances of the

books of chivalry to the study of real life. This is the simple object

which Cervantes had and avowed. He was a literary man with literary

interests, and the idea which came to him was to ridicule the

absurdities of the prevalent literary mode. The rich vein which he

struck in the conception of Don Quixote's madness and topsy-turvy

adventures encouraged him to go on. The subject and the characters

deepened under his hands, until from a parody of a certain kind of

romances the story threatened to become a satire on human idealism.

At the same time Cervantes grew fond of his hero, and made him, as

we must feel, in some sort a representative of his own chivalrous

enthusiasms and constant disappointments.

We need not, however, see in this transformation any deep-laid

malice or remote significance. As the tale opened out before the

author's fancy and enlisted his closer and more loving attention, he

naturally enriched it with all the wealth of his experience. Just as

he diversified it with pictures of common life and manners, so he

weighted it with the burden of human tragedy. He left upon it an

impress of his own nobility and misfortunes side by side with a record

of his time and country. But in this there was nothing intentional. He

only spoke out of the fullness of his heart. The highest motives and

characters had been revealed to him by his own impulses, and the

lowest by his daily experience.

There is nothing in the book that suggests a premeditated satire upon

faith and enthusiasm in general. The author's evident purpose is to

amuse, not to upbraid or to discourage. There is no bitterness in his

pathos or despair in his disenchantment; partly because he retains a

healthy fondness for this naughty world, and partly because his heart

is profoundly and entirely Christian. He would have rejected with

indignation an interpretation of his work that would see in it an

attack on religion or even on chivalry. His birth and nurture had

made him religious and chivalrous from the beginning, and he remained

so by conviction to the end. He was still full of plans and hopes when

death overtook him, but he greeted it with perfect simplicity, without

lamentations over the past or anxiety for the future.

If we could have asked Cervantes what the moral of Don Quixote was to

his own mind, he would have told us perhaps that it was this: that the

force of idealism is wasted when it does not recognize the reality of

things. Neglect of the facts of daily life made the absurdity of the

romances of chivalry and of the enterprise of Don Quixote. What is

needed is not, of course, that idealism should be surrendered, either

in literature or in life; but that in both it should be made

efficacious by a better adjustment to the reality it would transform.

Something of this kind would have been, we may believe, Cervantes's

own reading of his parable. But when parables are such direct and full

transcripts of life as is the story of Don Quixote, they offer almost

as much occasion for diversity of interpretation as does the personal

experience of men in the world. That the moral of Don Quixote should

be doubtful and that each man should be tempted to see in it the

expression of his own convictions, is after all the greatest possible

encomium of the book. For we may infer that the truth has been

rendered in it, and that men may return to it always, as to Nature

herself, to renew their theories or to forget them, and to refresh

their fancy with the spectacle of a living world.

[Signature: G. Santayana]

TREATING OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF DON QUIXOTE

In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call

to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep

a lance in the lance-rack, and an old buckler, a lean hack, and a

greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a

salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a

pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his

income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet

breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a

brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper

past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and

market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the

bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty;

he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser

and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada

or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among

the authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable

conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quixana. This, however,

is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to

stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it.

You must know then that the above-named gentleman, whenever he was at

leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to

reading books of chivalry with such ardor and avidity that he almost

entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the

management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and

infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillage-land to buy books

of chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get.

But of all there were none he liked so well as those of the famous

Feliciano de Silva's composition, for their lucidity of style and

complicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in

his reading he came upon courtships and cartels, where he often found

passages like:--"The reason of the unreason with which my reason is

afflicted, so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your

beauty;" or again:--"The high heavens, that of your divinity divinely

fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert your

greatness deserves." Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman

lost his wits, and used to lie awake striving to understand them and

worm the meaning out of them; what Aristotle himself could not have

made out or extracted, had he come to life again for that special

purpose. He was not at all easy about the wounds which Don Belianis

gave and took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the

surgeons who had cured him, he must have had his face and body covered

all over with seams and scars. He commended however the author's way

of ending his book with the promise of that interminable adventure;

and many a time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it

properly as is there proposed, which no doubt he would have done, and

made a successful piece of work of it too, had not greater and more

absorbing thoughts prevented him.

Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a learned

man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better

knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas the

village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to

the Knight of Phoebus, and that if there was any could compare with

_him_ it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had

a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight,

nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter of valor he was

not a whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his books

that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from

dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much

reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew

full of what he used to read about in his books--enchantments,

quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and

all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that

the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true, that to

him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to say the

Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knight, but that he was not to be

compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword, who with one back

stroke cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of

Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of

enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he

strangled Antaeus the son of Terra in his arms. He approved highly of

the giant Morgante, because although of the giant breed, which is

always arrogant and ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and

well-bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban; especially

when he saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing every one

he met, and when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet which,

as his history says, was entirely of gold. And to have a bout of

kicking at that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his

housekeeper, and his niece into the bargain.

In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion

that ever madman in this world hit upon: and that was that he fancied

it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honor

as for the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant

of himself, roaming the world over in full armor and on horseback in

quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had

read of as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting

every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from

which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already

the poor man saw himself crowned, by the might of his arm, Emperor of

Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found

in these pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme

into execution.

The first thing he did was to clean up some armor that had belonged to

his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a

corner, eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and

polished it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it;

that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This

deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind

of half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked

like a whole one. It is true that in order to see if it was strong and

fit to stand a cut he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes,

the first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to

do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him

somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to work again,

fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied with its

strength; and then, not caring to try any more experiments with it, he

passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most perfect construction.

He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than a

real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that "_tantum pellis

et ossa fuit_," surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or

the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to

give him; because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a

horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits of

his own, should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to

adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a

knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only reasonable that,

his master taking a new character, he should take a new name, and

that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting

the new order and calling he was about to follow. And so after having

composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a

multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he decided upon

calling him Rosinante,--to his thinking lofty, sonorous, and

significant of his condition as a hack before he became what he

now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the world.

Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious

to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this

point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself Don Quixote,

whence, as has already been said, the authors of this veracious

history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt

Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting however

that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself curtly Amadis

and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to

make it famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul: he, like a good

knight, resolved to add on the name of his and to style himself Don

Quixote of La Mancha; whereby he considered he described accurately

his origin and country, and did honor to it in taking his surname from

it.

So then, his armor being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet,

his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the

conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a

lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a

tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said to

himself:--"If for my sins or by my good fortune I come across some

giant hereabouts,--a common occurrence with knights-errant,--and

overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist,

or in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to

have some one I may send him to as a present, that he may come

in and fall on his knees before my sweet lady and in a humble,

submissive voice say:--'I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of

the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the

never-sufficiently-extolled knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has

commanded me to present myself before your Grace, that your Highness

dispose of me at your pleasure'"? Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed

the delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of some

one to call his Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a village near

his own a very good-looking farm-girl with whom he had been at one

time in love, though so far as is known, she never knew it nor gave a

thought to the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he

thought fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after

some search for a name which should not be out of harmony with her

own, and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great

lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso--she being of El

Toboso--a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like

all those he had already bestowed upon himself and the things

belonging to him.

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WHEN HE LEFT THE INN

Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so gay, so

exhilarated at finding himself dubbed a knight, that his joy was like

to burst his horse-girths. However, recalling the advice of his host

as to the requisites he ought to carry with him, especially that

referring to money and shirts, he determined to go home and provide

himself with all, and also with a squire; for he reckoned upon

securing a farm-laborer, a neighbor of his, a poor man with a family,

but very well qualified for the office of squire to a knight. With

this object he turned his horse's head towards his village, and

Rosinante, thus reminded of his old quarters, stepped out so briskly

that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.

He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed

to come feeble cries as of some one in distress; and the instant he

heard them he exclaimed:--"Thanks be to heaven for the favor it

accords me, that it so soon offers me an opportunity of fulfilling the

obligation I have undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my ambition.

These cries no doubt come from some man or woman in want of help, and

needing my aid and protection;" and wheeling, he turned Rosinante in

the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had gone but a

few paces into the wood when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to

another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen

years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor were they without cause,

for a lusty farmer was flogging him with a belt and following up every

blow with scoldings and commands; repeating, "Your mouth shut and your

eyes open!" while the youth made answer, "I won't do it again, master

mine; by God's passion, I won't do it again, and I'll take more care

of the flock another time."

Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry voice,

"Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot

defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance" (for there was a

lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied), "and I will

make you know that you are behaving as a coward." The farmer, seeing

before him this figure in full armor, brandishing a lance over his

head, gave himself up for dead and made answer meekly:--"Sir Knight,

this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch

a flock of sheep that I have hard by; and he is so careless that I

lose one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and

knavery he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying him the

wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies."

"Lies before me, base clown!" said Don Quixote. "By the sun that

shines on us, I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay

him at once, without another word; if not, by the God that rules us, I

will make an end of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him

instantly."

The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant, of

whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him.

He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it

up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, and told the farmer to

pay it down immediately if he did not want to die for it.

The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he had

sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so much; for there were

to be taken into account and deducted three pairs of shoes he had

given him, and a real for two blood-lettings when he was sick.

"All that is very well," said Don Quixote; "but let the shoes and the

blood-lettings stand as a set-off against the blows you have given him

without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the shoes you paid

for, you have damaged that of his body, and if the barber took blood

from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was sound; so on

that score he owes you nothing."

"The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let Andres

come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real."

"I go with him!" said the youth. "Nay, God forbid! no, senor, not for

the world; for once alone with me, he would flay me like a Saint

Bartholomew."

"He will do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; "I have only to

command and he will obey me, and he has sworn to me by the order of

knighthood which he has received. I leave him free, and I guarantee

the payment."

"Consider what you are saying, senor," said the youth; "this master of

mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order of knighthood; for

he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar."

"That matters little," replied Don Quixote; "there may be Haldudos

knights; moreover, every one is the son of his works."

"That is true," said Andres; "but this master of mine--of what work is

he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labor?"

"I do not refuse, brother Andres," said the farmer; "be good enough to

come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of knighthood there

are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by real, and

perfumed."

"For the perfumery I excuse you," said Don Quixote; "give it to him in

reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you have

sworn; if not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you out

and punish you; and I shall find you though you should lie closer than

a lizard. And if you desire to know who it is lays this command upon

you, that you may be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the

valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and

injustices; and so God be with you, and keep in mind what you have

promised and sworn under those penalties that have been already

declared to you."

So saying, he gave Rosinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The

farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared

the wood and was no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres and

said, "Come here, my son; I want to pay you what I owe you, as that

undoer of wrongs has commanded me."

"My oath on it," said Andres, "your Worship will be well advised to

obey the command of that good knight--may he live a thousand

years!--for as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque, if you do not

pay me, he will come back and do as he said."

"My oath on it too," said the farmer; "but as I have a strong

affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to add to the

payment;" and seizing him by the arm, he tied him up to the oak again,

where he gave him such a flogging that he left him for dead.

[Illustration: CERVANTES]

"Now, Master Andres," said the farmer, "call on the undoer of wrongs;

you will find he won't undo that, though I am not sure that I have

quite done with you, for I have a good mind to flay you alive as you

feared." But at last he untied him, and gave him leave to go look for

his judge in order to put the sentence pronounced into execution.

Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he would go to look

for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly what had

happened, and that all would have to be repaid him sevenfold; but for

all that he went off weeping, while his master stood laughing.

Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong; and thoroughly

satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered he had made a

very happy and noble beginning with his knighthood, he took the road

towards his village in perfect self-content, saying in a low

voice:--"Well mayest them this day call thyself fortunate above all on

earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen

to thy lot to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and

pleasure a knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La

Mancha, who as all the world knows, yesterday received the order of

knighthood, and hath to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance

that ever injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated; who hath to-day

plucked the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly

lashing that tender child."

He now came to a road branching in four directions, and immediately he

was reminded of those cross-roads where knights-errant used to stop to

consider which road they should take. In imitation of them he halted

for a while, and after having deeply considered it, he gave Rosinante

his head, submitting his own will to that of his hack, who followed

out his first intention, which was to make straight for his own

stable. After he had gone about two miles Don Quixote perceived a

large party of people, who as afterwards appeared were some Toledo

traders, on their way to buy silk at Murcia. There were six of them

coming along under their sun-shades, with four servants mounted, and

three muleteers on foot. Scarcely had Don Quixote descried them when

the fancy possessed him that this must be some new adventure; and to

help him to imitate as far as he could those passages he had read of

in his books, here seemed to come one made on purpose, which he

resolved to attempt. So with a lofty bearing and determination he

fixed himself firmly in his stirrups, got his lance ready, brought his

buckler before his breast, and planting himself in the middle of the

road, stood waiting the approach of these knights-errant, for such he

now considered and held them to be; and when they had come near enough

to see and hear, he exclaimed with a haughty gesture:--"All the world

stand, unless all the world confess that in all the world there is no

maiden fairer than the Empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del

Toboso."

The traders halted at the sound of this language and the sight of the

strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure and language at

once guessed the craze of their owner; they wished however to learn

quietly what was the object of this confession that was demanded of

them, and one of them, who was rather fond of a joke and was very

sharp-witted, said to him:--"Sir Knight, we do not know who this good

lady is that you speak of; show her to us, for if she be of such

beauty as you suggest, with all our hearts and without any pressure we

will confess the truth that is on your part required of us."

"If I were to show her to you," replied Don Quixote, "what merit would

you have in confessing a truth so manifest? The essential point is

that without seeing her you must believe, confess, affirm, swear, and

defend it; else ye have to do with me in battle, ill-conditioned

arrogant rabble that ye are: and come ye on, one by one as the order

of knighthood requires, or all together as is the custom and vile

usage of your breed; here do I bide and await you, relying on the

justice of the cause I maintain."

"Sir Knight," replied the trader, "I entreat your Worship in the name

of this present company of princes, that to save us from charging our

consciences with the confession of a thing we have never seen or heard

of, and one moreover so much to the prejudice of the Empresses and

Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura, your worship will be pleased

to show us some portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a

grain of wheat; for by the thread one gets at the ball, and in this

way we shall be satisfied and easy, and you will be content and

pleased: nay, I believe we are already so far agreed with you that

even though her portrait should show her blind of one eye, and

distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other, we would

nevertheless, to gratify your Worship, say all in her favor that you

desire."

"She distills nothing of the kind, vile rabble," said Don Quixote,

burning with rage; "nothing of the kind, I say; only ambergris and

civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or hump-backed, but straighter

than a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the blasphemy ye have

uttered against beauty like that of my lady."

And so saying he charged with leveled lance against the one who had

spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck had not contrived

that Rosinante should stumble midway and come down, it would have gone

hard with the rash trader. Down went Rosinante, and over went his

master, rolling along the ground for some distance; and when he tried

to rise he was unable, so incumbered was he with lance, buckler,

spurs, helmet, and the weight of his old armor; and all the while he

was struggling to get up, he kept saying, "Fly not, cowards and

caitiffs! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse's, am I stretched

here."

One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had much

good-nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man blustering in this

style, was unable to refrain from giving him an answer on his ribs;

and coming up to him he seized his lance, and having broken it in

pieces, with one of them he began so to belabor our Don Quixote that,

notwithstanding and in spite of his armor, he milled him like a

measure of wheat. His masters called out not to lay on so hard and to

leave him alone, but the muleteer's blood was up, and he did not care

to drop the game until he had vented the rest of his wrath; and

gathering up the remaining fragments of the lance he finished with a

discharge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the storm of sticks

that rained on him never ceased threatening heaven, and earth, and the

brigands--for such they seemed to him. At last the muleteer was tired,

and the traders continued their journey, taking with them matter for

talk about the poor fellow who had been cudgeled. He, when he found

himself alone, made another effort to rise; but if he was unable when

whole and sound, how was he to rise after having been thrashed and

well-nigh knocked to pieces! And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as

it seemed to him that this was a regular knight-errant's mishap, and

entirely, he considered, the fault of his horse. However, battered in

body as he was, to rise was beyond his power.

DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA SALLY FORTH: AND THE ADVENTURE WITH THE

WINDMILLS

He remained at home fifteen days very quietly, without showing any

signs of a desire to take up with his former delusions; and during

this time he held lively discussions with his two gossips, the curate

and the barber, on the point he maintained, that knights-errant were

what the world stood most in need of, and that in him was to be

accomplished the revival of knight-errantry. The curate sometimes

contradicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not

observed this precaution he would have been unable to bring him to

reason.

Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm-laborer, a neighbor of his,

an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is poor),

but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked him

over, and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor clown made

up his mind to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. Don

Quixote, among other things, told him he ought to be ready to go with

him gladly, because at any moment an adventure might occur, that might

win an island in the twinkling of an eye and leave him governor of it.

On these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the laborer was

called) left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to his

neighbor. Don Quixote next set about getting some money; and selling

one thing and pawning another, and making a bad bargain in every case,

he got together a fair sum. He provided himself with a buckler, which

he begged as a loan from a friend, and restoring his battered helmet

as best he could, he warned his squire Sancho of the day and hour he

meant to set out, that he might provide himself with what he thought

most needful. Above all, he charged him to take _alforjas_ with him.

The other said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good

ass he had, as he was not much given to going on foot. About the ass,

Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying whether he could call to mind

any knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back, but

no instance occurred to his memory. For all that, however, he

determined to take him; intending to furnish him with a more honorable

mount when a chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the horse

of the first discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he provided

with shirts and such other things as he could, according to the

advice the host had given him; all which being settled and done,

without taking leave, Sancho Panza of his wife and children, or Don

Quixote of his housekeeper and niece, they sallied forth unseen by

anybody from the village one night, and made such good way in the

course of it that by daylight they held themselves safe from

discovery, even should search be made for them.

Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch, with his _alforjas_ and

_bota_, and longing to see himself soon governor of the island his

master had promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking the same

route and road he had taken on his first journey, that over the Campo

de Montiel, which he traveled with less discomfort than on the last

occasion; for as it was early morning and the rays of the sun fell on

them obliquely, the heat did not distress them.

And now said Sancho Panza to his master, "Your Worship will take care,

Senor Knight-Errant, not to forget about the island you have promised

me, for be it ever so big I'll be equal to governing it."

To which Don Quixote replied:--"Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza,

that it was a practice very much in vogue with the knights-errant of

old to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they

won, and I am determined that there shall be no failure on my part in

so liberal a custom; on the contrary, I mean to improve upon it, for

they sometimes, and perhaps most frequently, waited until their

squires were old, and then when they had had enough of service and

hard days and worse nights, they gave them some title or other, of

count, or at the most marquis, of some valley or province more or

less; but if thou livest and I live, it may well be that before six

days are over I may have won some kingdom that has others dependent

upon it, which will be just the thing to enable thee to be crowned

king of one of them. Nor needst thou count this wonderful, for things

and chances fall to the lot of such knights in ways so unexampled and

unexpected that I might easily give thee even more than I promise

thee."

"In that case," said Sancho Panza, "if I should become a king by one

of those miracles your Worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old

woman, would come to be queen and my children infantes."

"Well, who doubts it?" said Don Quixote.

"I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza; "because for my part I am

persuaded that though God should shower down kingdoms upon earth, not

one of them would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you,

senor, she is not worth two maravedis for a queen; countess will fit

her better, and that only with God's help."

"Leave it to God, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for he will give her

what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself so much as to come

to be content with anything less than being governor of a province."

"I will not, senor," answered Sancho; "especially as I have a man of

such quality for master in your Worship, who will be able to give me

all that will be suitable for me and that I can bear."

At this point they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills that

there are on that plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said

to his squire, "Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we

could have shaped our desires ourselves; for look there, friend Sancho

Panza, where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all

of whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we

shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and

it is God's good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of

the earth."

"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.

"Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the long arms;

and some have them nearly two leagues long."

"Look, your Worship," said Sancho; "what we see there are not giants

but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that

turned by the wind make the millstones go."

"It is easy to see," replied Don Quixote, "that thou art not used to

this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid,

away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer, while I

engage them in fierce and unequal combat."

So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rosinante, heedless of the

cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most

certainly they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack.

He however was so positive they were giants that he neither heard the

cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were; but

made at them, shouting, "Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for it is a

single knight that attacks you!"

A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to

move; seeing which, Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though ye flourish more

arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me."

So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady

Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance in

rest and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rosinante's fullest

gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of him; but as

he drove his lance-point into the sail the wind whirled it round with

such force that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it

horse and rider, who went rolling over on the plain in a sorry

condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could

go, and when he came up found him unable to move, with such a shock

had Rosinante fallen with him.

"God bless me!" said Sancho, "did I not tell your Worship to mind what

you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could have

made any mistake about it but one who had something of the same kind

in his head."

"Hush, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "the fortunes of war more

than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and moreover I

think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who carried

off my study and books has turned these giants into mills in order to

rob me of the glory of vanquishing them,--such is the enmity he bears

me; but in the end his wicked arts will avail but little against my

good sword."

"God order it as he may," said Sancho Panza; and helping him to rise,

got him up again on Rosinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then,

discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to Puerto

Lapice, for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find

adventures in abundance and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare.

SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA CONVERSE SHREWDLY

The translator of this history, when he comes to write this fifth

chapter, says that he considers it apocryphal, because in it Sancho

Panza speaks in a style unlike that which might have been expected

from his limited intelligence, and says things so subtle that he does

not think it possible he could have conceived them; however, desirous

of doing what his task imposed upon him, he was unwilling to leave it

untranslated, and therefore he went on to say:--

Sancho came home in such glee and spirits that his wife noticed his

happiness a bowshot off, so much so that it made her ask him, "What

have you got, Sancho friend, that you are so glad?"

To which he replied, "Wife, if it were God's will, I should be very

glad not to be so well pleased as I show myself."

"I don't understand you, husband," said she, "and I don't know what

you mean by saying you would be glad, if it were God's will, not to be

well pleased; for fool as I am, I don't know how one can find pleasure

in not having it."

"Hark ye, Teresa," replied Sancho, "I am glad because I have made up

my mind to go back to the service of my master Don Quixote, who means

to go out a third time to seek for adventures; and I am going with him

again, for my necessities will have it so, and also the hope that

cheers me with the thought that I may find another hundred crowns like

those we have spent; though it makes me sad to have to leave thee and

the children; and if God would be pleased to let me have my daily

bread, dry-shod and at home, without taking me out into the byways and

cross-roads--and he could do it at small cost by merely willing it--it

is clear my happiness would be more solid and lasting, for the

happiness I have is mingled with sorrow at leaving thee; so that I was

right in saying I would be glad, if it were God's will, not to be well

pleased."

"Look here, Sancho," said Teresa; "ever since you joined on to a

knight-errant you talk in such a roundabout way that there is no

understanding you."

"It is enough that God understands me, wife," replied Sancho; "for he

is the understander of all things; that will do: but mind, sister, you

must look to Dapple carefully for the next three days, so that he may

be fit to take arms; double his feed, and see to the pack-saddle and

other harness, for it is not to a wedding we are bound, but to go

round the world, and play at give-and-take with giants and dragons and

monsters, and hear hissings and roarings and bellowings and howlings;

and even all this would be lavender, if we had not to reckon with

Yanguesans and enchanted Moors."

"I know well enough, husband," said Teresa, "that squires-errant don't

eat their bread for nothing, and so I will be always praying to our

Lord to deliver you speedily from all that hard fortune."

"I can tell you, wife," said Sancho, "if I did not expect to see

myself governor of an island before long, I would drop down dead on

the spot."

"Nay then, husband," said Teresa, "let the hen live, though it be with

her pip; live, and let the devil take all the governments in the

world: you came out of your mother's womb without a government, you

have lived until now without a government, and when it is God's will

you will go, or be carried, to your grave without a government. How

many there are in the world who live without a government, and

continue to live all the same, and are reckoned in the number of the

people. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and as the poor are

never without that, they always eat with a relish. But mind, Sancho,

if by good luck you should find yourself with some government, don't

forget me and your children. Remember that Sanchico is now full

fifteen, and it is right he should go to school, if his uncle the

abbot has a mind to have him trained for the Church. Consider, too,

that your daughter Maria-Sancha will not die of grief if we marry her;

for I have my suspicions that she is as eager to get a husband as you

to get a government; and after all, a daughter looks better ill

married than well kept."

"By my faith," replied Sancho, "if God brings me to get any sort of a

government, I intend, wife, to make such a high match for Maria-Sancha

that there will be no approaching her without calling her 'my lady.'"

"Nay, Sancho," returned Teresa, "marry her to her equal, that is the

safest plan; for if you put her out of wooden clogs into high-heeled

shoes, out of her gray flannel petticoat into hoops and silk gowns,

out of the plain 'Marica' and 'thou' into 'Dona So-and-so' and 'my

lady,' the girl won't know where she is, and at every turn she will

fall into a thousand blunders that will show the thread of her coarse

homespun stuff."

"Tut, you fool," said Sancho; "it will be only to practice it for two

or three years, and then dignity and decorum will fit her as easily as

a glove, and if not, what matter? Let her be 'my lady,' and never mind

what happens."

"Keep to your own station, Sancho," replied Teresa; "don't try to

raise yourself higher, and bear in mind the proverb that says, 'Wipe

the nose of your neighbor's son, and take him into your house.' A fine

thing it would be, indeed, to marry our Maria to some great count or

grand gentleman who when the humor took him would abuse her, and call

her 'clown-bred' and 'clodhopper's daughter' and 'spinning-wench.' I

have not been bringing up my daughter for that all this time, I can

tell you, husband. Do you bring home money, Sancho, and leave marrying

her to my care: there is Lope Tocho, Juan Tocho's son, a stout, sturdy

young fellow that we know, and I can see he does not look sour at the

girl; and with him, one of our own sort, she will be well married, and

we shall have her always under our eyes, and be all one family,

parents and children, grandchildren and sons-in-law, and the peace and

blessing of God will dwell among us; so don't you go marrying her in

those courts and grand palaces where they won't know what to make of

her, or she what to make of herself."

"Why, you idiot and wife for Barabbas," said Sancho, "what do you mean

by trying, without why or wherefore, to keep me from marrying my

daughter to one who will give me grandchildren that will be called

'your Lordship'? Look ye, Teresa, I have always heard my elders say

that he who does not know how to take advantage of luck when it comes

to him, has no right to complain if it gives him the go-by; and now

that it is knocking at our door, it will not do to shut it out; let us

go with the favoring breeze that blows upon us." (It is this sort of

talk, and what Sancho says lower down, that made the translator of the

history say he considered this chapter apocryphal.) "Don't you see,

you animal," continued Sancho, "that it will be well for me to drop

into some profitable government that will lift us out of the mire, and

marry Mari-Sancha to whom I like; and you yourself will find yourself

called 'Dona Teresa Panza,' and sitting in church on a fine carpet and

cushions and draperies, in spite and in defiance of all the born

ladies of the town? No, stay as you are, growing neither greater nor

less, like a tapestry figure.--Let us say no more about it, for

Sanchica shall be a countess, say what you will."

"Are you sure of all you say, husband?" replied Teresa. "Well, for all

that, I am afraid this rank of countess for my daughter will be her

ruin. You do as you like, make a duchess or a princess of her, but I

can tell you it will not be with my will and consent. I was always a

lover of equality, brother, and I can't bear to see people give

themselves airs without any right. They called me Teresa at my

baptism,--a plain, simple name, without any additions or tags or

fringes of Dons or Donas; Cascajo was my father's name, and as I am

your wife, I am called Teresa Panza, though by right I ought to be

called Teresa Cascajo; but 'kings go where laws like,' and I am

content with this name without having the 'Don' put on top of it to

make it so heavy that I cannot carry it; and I don't want to make

people talk about me when they see me go dressed like a countess or

governor's wife; for they will say at once, 'See what airs the slut

gives herself! Only yesterday she was always spinning flax, and used

to go to mass with the tail of her petticoat over her head instead of

a mantle; and there she goes to-day in a hooped gown with her brooches

and airs, as if we didn't know her!' If God keeps me in my seven

senses, or five, or whatever number I have, I am not going to bring

myself to such a pass; go you, brother, and be a government or an

island man, and swagger as much as you like; for by the soul of my

mother, neither my daughter nor I are going to stir a step from our

village; a respectable woman should have a broken leg and keep at

home, and to be busy at something is a virtuous damsel's holiday; be

off to your adventures, along with your Don Quixote, and leave us to

our misadventures, for God will mend them for us according as we

deserve it. I don't know, I'm sure, who fixed the 'Don' to him, what

neither his father nor grandfather ever had."

"I declare, thou hast a devil of some sort in thy body!" said Sancho.

"God help thee, woman, what a lot of things thou hast strung together,

one after the other, without head or tail! What have Cascajo, and the

brooches and the proverbs and the airs, to do with what I say? Look

here, fool and dolt (for so I may call you when you don't understand

my words and run away from good fortune), if I had said that my

daughter was to throw herself down from a tower, or go roaming the

world, as the Infanta Dona Urraca wanted to do, you would be right in

not giving way to my will; but if in an instant, in less than the

twinkling of an eye, I put the 'Don' and 'my lady' on her back, and

take her out of the stubble and place her under a canopy, on a dais,

and on a couch with more velvet cushions than all the Almohades of

Morocco ever had in their family, why won't you consent and fall in

with my wishes?"

"Do you know why, husband?" replied Teresa; "because of the proverb

that says, 'Who covers thee, discovers thee.' At the poor man people

only throw a hasty glance; on the rich man they fix their eyes; and if

the said rich man was once on a time poor, it is then there is the

sneering and the tattle and spite of backbiters; and in the streets

here they swarm as thick as bees."

"Look here, Teresa," said Sancho, "and listen to what I am now going

to say to you; maybe you never heard it in all your life; and I do not

give my own notions, for what I am about to say are the opinions of

his Reverence the preacher who preached in this town last Lent, and

who said, if I remember rightly, that all things present that our eyes

behold, bring themselves before us and remain and fix themselves on

our memory much better and more forcibly than things past." (These

observations which Sancho makes here are the other ones on account of

which the translator says he regards this chapter as apocryphal,

inasmuch as they are beyond Sancho's capacity.) "Whence it arises," he

continued, "that when we see any person well dressed and making a

figure with rich garments and retinue of servants, it seems to lead

and impel us perforce to respect him, though memory may at the same

time recall to us some lowly condition in which we have seen him, but

which, whether it may have been poverty or low birth, being now a

thing of the past has no existence; while the only thing that has any

existence is what we see before us; and if this person whom fortune

has raised from his original lowly state (these were the very words

the padre used) to his present height of prosperity, be well-bred,

generous, courteous to all, without seeking to vie with those whose

nobility is of ancient date,--depend upon it, Teresa, no one will

remember what he was, and every one will respect what he is, except

indeed the envious, from whom no fair fortune is safe."

"I do not understand you, husband," replied Teresa; "do as you like,

and don't break my head with any more speechifying and rhetoric; and

if you have revolved to do what you say--"

"Resolved, you should say, woman," said Sancho, "not revolved."

"Don't set yourself to wrangle with me, husband," said Teresa; "I

speak as God pleases, and don't deal in out-of-the-way phrases; and I

say if you are bent upon having a government, take your son Sancho

with you, and teach him from this time on how to hold a government;

for sons ought to inherit and learn the trades of their fathers."

"As soon as I have the government," said Sancho, "I will send for him

by post, and I will send thee money, of which I shall have no lack,

for there is never any want of people to lend it to governors when

they have not got it; and do thou dress him so as to hide what he is

and make him look what he is to be."

"You send the money," said Teresa, "and I'll dress him up for you as

fine as you please."

"Then we are agreed that our daughter is to be a countess," said

Sancho.

"The day that I see her a countess," replied Teresa, "it will be the

same to me as if I was burying her; but once more I say do as you

please, for we women are born to this burden of being obedient to our

husbands, though they be dogs;" and with this she began to weep in

downright earnest, as if she already saw Sanchica dead and buried.

Sancho consoled her by saying that though he must make her a countess,

he would put it off as long as possible. Here their conversation came

to an end, and Sancho went back to see Don Quixote and make

arrangements for their departure.

OF SANCHO PANZA'S DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WITH THE DUCHESS

The history records that Sancho did not sleep that afternoon, but in

order to keep his word, came, before he had well done dinner, to visit

the duchess; who, finding enjoyment in listening to him, made him sit

down beside her on a low seat, though Sancho out of pure good breeding

wanted not to sit down; the duchess however told him he was to sit

down as governor and talk as squire, as in both respects he was worthy

of even the chair of Cid Ruy Diaz the Campeador. Sancho shrugged his

shoulders, obeyed, and sat down, and all the duchess's damsels and

duennas gathered round him, waiting in profound silence to hear what

he would say. It was the duchess however who spoke first,

saying,--"Now that we are alone, and that there is nobody here to

overhear us, I should be glad if the senor governor would relieve me

of certain doubts I have, rising out of the history of the great Don

Quixote that is now in print. One is: inasmuch as worthy Sancho never

saw Dulcinea,--I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso,--nor took Don

Quixote's letter to her,--for it was left in the memorandum-book in

the Sierra Morena, how did he dare to invent the answer and all that

about finding her sifting wheat,--the whole story being a deception

and falsehood, and so much to the prejudice of the peerless Dulcinea's

good name; a thing that is not at all becoming the character and

fidelity of a good squire?"

At these words, Sancho, without uttering one in reply, got up from his

chair, and with noiseless steps, with his body bent and his finger on

his lips, went all round the room lifting up the hangings; and this

done, he came back to his seat and said:--"Now, senora, that I have

seen that there is no one except the bystanders listening to us on the

sly, I will answer what you have asked me, and all you may ask me,

without fear or dread. And the first thing I have got to say is, that

for my own part I hold my master Don Quixote to be stark mad, though

sometimes he says things that to my mind, and indeed everybody's that

listens to him, are so wise and run in such a straight furrow that

Satan himself could not have said them better; but for all that,

really and beyond all question, it's my firm belief he is cracked.

Well, then, as this is clear to my mind, I can venture to make him

believe things that have neither head nor tail, like that affair of

the answer to the letter, and that other of six or eight days ago

which is not yet in history,--that is to say, the affair of the

enchantment of my lady Dulcinea; for I made him believe she is

enchanted, though there's no more truth in it than over the hills of

Ubeda."

The duchess begged him to tell her about the enchantment or deception,

so Sancho told the whole story exactly as it had happened, and his

hearers were not a little amused by it; and then resuming, the duchess

said:--"In consequence of what worthy Sancho has told me, a doubt

starts up in my mind, and there comes a kind of whisper to my ears

that says, 'If Don Quixote be mad, crazy, cracked, and Sancho his

squire knows it, and notwithstanding serves and follows him, and goes

trusting to his empty promises, there can be no doubt he must be still

madder and sillier than his master; and that being so, it will be cast

in your teeth, senora Duchess, if you give the said Sancho an island

to govern; for how will he who does not know how to govern himself

know how to govern others?'"

"My God, senora," said Sancho, "but that doubt comes timely; but your

Grace may say it out, and speak plainly, or as you like; for I know

what you say is true, and if I were wise I should have left my master

long ago: but this was my fate, this was my bad luck; I can't help it,

I must follow him; we're from the same village, I have eaten his

bread, I'm fond of him, I'm grateful, he gave me his ass-colts, and

above all I'm faithful; so it's quite impossible for anything to

separate us except the pick-axe and shovel. And if your Highness does

not like to give me the government you promised, God made me without

it and maybe your not giving it to me will be all the better for my

conscience; for fool as I am, I know the proverb 'To her hurt the ant

got wings,' and it may be that Sancho the squire will get to heaven

sooner than Sancho the governor. 'They make as good bread here as in

France'; and 'By night all cats are gray'; and 'A hard case enough

his, who hasn't broken his fast at two in the afternoon'; and 'There's

no stomach a hand's-breadth bigger than another'; and the same can be

filled 'with straw or hay,' as the saying is; and 'The little birds of

the field have God for their purveyor and caterer'; and 'Four yards of

Cuenca frieze keep one warmer than four of Segovia broadcloth'; and

'When we quit this world and are put underground, the prince travels

by as narrow a path as the journeyman'; and 'The Pope's body does not

take up more feet of earth than the sacristan's,' for all that the one

is higher than the other; for when we go to our graves we all pack

ourselves up and make ourselves small, or rather they pack us up and

make us small in spite of us, and then--good-night to us. And I say

once more, if your ladyship does not like to give me the island

because I'm a fool, like a wise man I will take care to give myself no

trouble about it; I have heard say that 'Behind the cross there's the

devil,' and that 'All that glitters is not gold,' and that from among

the oxen and the plows and the yokes, Wamba the husbandman was taken

to be made king of Spain; and from among brocades and pleasures and

riches, Roderick was taken to be devoured by adders, if the verses of

the old ballads don't lie."

"To be sure they don't lie!" exclaimed Dona Rodriguez, the duenna, who

was one of the listeners. "Why, there's a ballad that says they put

King Rodrigo alive into a tomb full of toads and adders and lizards,

and that two days afterwards the king, in a plaintive, feeble voice,

cried out from within the tomb--

'They gnaw me now, they gnaw me now,

There where I most did sin.'

And according to that, the gentleman has good reason to say he would

rather be a laboring man than a king, if vermin are to eat him."

The duchess could not help laughing at the simplicity of her duenna,

or wondering at the language and proverbs of Sancho, to whom she

said:--"Worthy Sancho knows very well that when once a knight has made

a promise he strives to keep it, though it should cost him his life.

My lord and husband the duke, though not one of the errant sort, is

none the less a knight for that reason, and will keep his word about

the promised island in spite of the envy and malice of the world. Let

Sancho be of good cheer; for when he least expects it he will find

himself seated on the throne of his island and seat of dignity, and

will take possession of his government that he may discard it for

another of three-bordered brocade. The charge I give him is, to be

careful how he governs his vassals, bearing in mind that they are all

loyal and well-born."

"As to governing them well," said Sancho, "there's no need of charging

me to do that, for I'm kind-hearted by nature, and full of compassion

for the poor; 'There's no stealing the loaf from him who kneads and

bakes'; and by my faith, it won't do to throw false dice with me; I am

an old dog, and I know all about 'tus, tus'; I can be wide awake if

need be, and I don't let clouds come before my eyes, for I know where

the shoe pinches me; I say so, because with me the good will have

support and protection, and the bad neither footing nor access. And it

seems to me that in governments, to make a beginning is everything;

and maybe after having been governor a fortnight, I'll take kindly to

the work and know more about it than the field labor I have been

brought up to."

"You are right, Sancho," said the duchess; "for no one is born ready

taught, and the bishops are made out of men and not out of stones. But

to return to the subject we were discussing just now, the enchantment

of the lady Dulcinea: I look upon it as certain, and something more

than evident, that Sancho's idea of practicing a deception upon his

master, making him believe that the peasant girl was Dulcinea and that

if he did not recognize her it must be because she was enchanted, was

all a device of one of the enchanters that persecute Don Quixote. For

in truth and earnest, I know from good authority that the coarse

country wench who jumped up on the ass was and is Dulcinea del Toboso,

and that worthy Sancho, though he fancies himself the deceiver, is the

one that is deceived; and that there is no more reason to doubt the

truth of this, than of anything else we never saw. Senor Sancho Panza

must know that we too have enchanters here, that are well disposed to

us, and tell us what goes on in the world, plainly and distinctly,

without subterfuge or deception; and believe me, Sancho, that agile

country lass was and is Dulcinea del Toboso, who is as much enchanted

as the mother that bore her; and when we least expect it, we shall see

her in her own proper form, and then Sancho will be disabused of the

error he is under at present."

"All that's very possible," said Sancho Panza; "and now I'm willing to

believe what my master says about what he saw in the cave of

Montesinos, where he says he saw the lady Dulcinea del Toboso in the

very same dress and apparel that I said I had seen her in when I

enchanted her all to please myself. It must be all exactly the other

way, as your ladyship says; because it is impossible to suppose that

out of my poor wit such a cunning trick could be concocted in a

moment, nor do I think my master is so mad that by my weak and feeble

persuasion he could be made to believe a thing so out of all reason.

But, senora, your Excellence must not therefore think me ill-disposed,

for a dolt like me is not bound to see into the thoughts and plots of

those vile enchanters. I invented all that to escape my master's

scolding, and not with any intention of hurting him; and if it has

turned out differently, there is a God in heaven who judges our

hearts."

"That is true," said the duchess; "but tell me, Sancho, what is this

you say about the cave of Montesinos, for I should like to know."

Sancho, upon this, related to her word for word what has been said

already touching that adventure; and having heard it, the duchess

said:--"From this occurrence it may be inferred that as the great Don

Quixote says he saw there the same country wench Sancho saw on the way

from El Toboso, it is no doubt Dulcinea, and there are some very

active and exceedingly busy enchanters about."

"So I say," said Sancho; "and if my lady Dulcinea is enchanted, so

much the worse for her, and I'm not going to pick a quarrel with my

master's enemies, who seem to be many and spiteful. The truth is that

the one I saw was a country wench, and I set her down to be a country

wench; and if that was Dulcinea it must not be laid at my door, nor

should I be called to answer for it or take the consequences. But they

must go nagging at me at every step--'Sancho said it, Sancho did it;

Sancho here, Sancho there,' as if Sancho was nobody at all, and not

that same Sancho Panza that's now going all over the world in books,

so Samson Carrasco told me, and he's at any rate one that's a bachelor

of Salamanca; and people of that sort can't lie, except when the whim

seizes them or they have some very good reason for it. So there's no

occasion for anybody to quarrel with me; and then I have a good

character, and as I have heard my master say, 'A good name is better

than great riches'; let them only stick me into this government and

they'll see wonders, for one who has been a good squire will be a good

governor."

"All worthy Sancho's observations," said the duchess, "are Catonian

sentences, or at any rate out of the very heart of Michael Verino

himself, who _florentibus occidit annis_. In fact, to speak in his own

style, 'Under a bad cloak there's often a good drinker.'"

"Indeed, senora," said Sancho, "I never yet drank out of wickedness;

from thirst I have, very likely, for I have nothing of the hypocrite

in me; I drink when I'm inclined, or, if I'm not inclined, when they

offer it to me, so as not to look either strait-laced or ill-bred; for

when a friend drinks one's health, what heart can be so hard as not to

return it? But if I put on my shoes I don't dirty them; besides,

squires to knights-errant mostly drink water, for they are always

wandering among woods, forests, and meadows, mountains and crags,

without a drop of wine to be had if they gave their eyes for it."

"So I believe," said the duchess; "and now let Sancho go and take his

sleep, and we will talk by-and-by at greater length, and settle how he

may soon go and stick himself into the government, as he says."

Sancho once more kissed the duchess's hand, and entreated her to be so

kind as to let good care be taken of his Dapple, for he was the light

of his eyes.

"What is Dapple?" said the duchess.

"My ass," said Sancho, "which, not to mention him by that name, I'm

accustomed to call Dapple; I begged this lady duenna here to take care

of him when I came into the castle, and she got as angry as if I had

said she was ugly or old, though it ought to be more natural and

proper for duennas to feed asses than to ornament chambers. God bless

me! what a spite a gentleman of my village had against these ladies!"

"He must have been some clown," said Dona Rodriguez, the duenna; "for

if he had been a gentleman and well-born he would have exalted them

higher than the horns of the moon."

"That will do," said the duchess; "no more of this; hush, Dona

Rodriguez, and let Senor Panza rest easy and leave the treatment of

Dapple in my charge; for as he is a treasure of Sancho's, I'll put him

on the apple of my eye."

"It will be enough for him to be in the stable," said Sancho, "for

neither he nor I are worthy to rest a moment in the apple of your

Highness's eye, and I'd as soon stab myself as consent to it; for

though my master says that in civilities it is better to lose by a

card too many than a card too few, when it comes to civilities to

asses we must mind what we are about and keep within due bounds."

"Take him to your government, Sancho," said the duchess, "and there

you will be able to make as much of him as you like, and even release

him from work and pension him off."

"Don't think, senora duchess, that you have said anything absurd,"

said Sancho: "I have seen more than two asses go to governments, and

for me to take mine with me would be nothing new."

Sancho's words made the duchess laugh again, and gave her fresh

amusement, and dismissing him to sleep she went away to tell the duke

the conversation she had had with him.

SANCHO PANZA AS GOVERNOR

The history says that from the justice court they carried Sancho to a

sumptuous palace, where in a spacious chamber there was a table laid

out with royal magnificence. The clarions sounded as Sancho entered

the room, and four pages came forward to present him with water for

his hands, which Sancho received with great dignity. The music ceased,

and Sancho seated himself at the head of the table; for there was only

that seat placed, and no more than the one cover laid. A personage,

who it appeared afterwards was a physician, placed himself standing by

his side, with a whalebone wand in his hand. They then lifted up a

fine white cloth covering fruit and a great variety of dishes of

different sorts; one who looked like a student said grace, and a page

put a laced bib on Sancho, while another who played the part of head

carver placed a dish of fruit before him. But hardly had he tasted a

morsel when the man with the wand touched the plate with it, and they

took it away from before him with the utmost celerity. The carver

however brought him another dish, and Sancho proceeded to try it; but

before he could get at it, not to say taste it, already the wand had

touched it and a page had carried it off with the same promptitude as

the fruit. Sancho seeing this was puzzled, and looking from one to

another, asked if this dinner was to be eaten after the fashion of a

jugglery trick.

To this he with the wand replied:--"It is not to be eaten, senor

governor, except as is usual and customary in other islands where

there are governors. I, senor, am a physician, and I am paid a salary

in this island to serve its governors as such; and I have a much

greater regard for their health than for my own, studying day and

night and making myself acquainted with the governor's constitution,

in order to be able to cure him when he falls sick. The chief thing I

have to do is to attend at his dinners and suppers, and allow him to

eat what appears to me to be fit for him, and keep from him what I

think will do him harm and be injurious to his stomach: and therefore

I ordered that plate of fruit to be removed as being too moist, and

that other dish I ordered to be removed as being too hot and

containing many spices that stimulate thirst; for he who drinks much

kills and consumes the radical moisture wherein life consists."

"Well then," said Sancho, "that dish of roast partridges there that

seems so savory will not do me any harm."

To this the physician replied, "Of those my lord the governor shall

not eat so long as I live."

"Why so?" said Sancho.

"Because," replied the doctor, "our master Hippocrates, the pole-star

and beacon of medicine, says in one of his aphorisms, _Omnis saturatio

mala, perdicis autem pessima_; which means, 'All repletion is bad, but

that of partridge is the worst of all.'"

"In that case," said Sancho, "let senor doctor see among the dishes

that are on the table what will do me most good and least harm, and

let me eat it, without tapping it with his stick: for by the life of

the governor, and so may God suffer me to enjoy it, but I'm dying of

hunger; and in spite of the doctor and all he may say, to deny me food

is the way to take my life instead of prolonging it."

"Your worship is right, senor governor," said the physician; "and

therefore your worship, I consider, should not eat of those stewed

rabbits there, because it is a furry kind of food: if that veal were

not roasted and served with pickles, you might try it; but it is out

of the question."

"That big dish that is smoking farther off," said Sancho, "seems to me

to be an olla-podrida; and out of the diversity of things in such

ollas, I can't fail to light upon something tasty and good for me."

"_Absit_," said the doctor; "far from us be any such base thought!

There is nothing in the world less nourishing than an olla-podrida; to

canons, or rectors of colleges, or peasants' weddings with your

ollas-podridas, but let us have none of them on the tables of

governors, where everything that is present should be delicate and

refined: and the reason is that always, everywhere and by everybody,

simple medicines are more esteemed than compound ones; for we cannot

go wrong in those that are simple, while in the compound we may, by

merely altering the quantity of the things composing them. But what I

am of opinion the governor should eat now, in order to preserve and

fortify his health, is a hundred or so of wafer cakes and a few thin

slices of conserve of quinces, which will settle his stomach and help

his digestion."

Sancho on hearing this threw himself back in his chair and surveyed

the doctor steadily, and in a solemn tone asked him what his name was

and where he had studied.

He replied, "My name, senor governor, is Doctor Pedro Recio de Aguero;

I am a native of a place called Tirteafuera, which lies between

Caracuel and Almodovar del Campo, on the right-hand side; and I have

the degree of doctor from the university of Osuna."

To which Sancho, glowing all over with rage, returned, "Then let

Doctor Pedro Recio de Mal-aguero, native of Tirteafuera, a place

that's on the right-hand side as we go from Caracuel to Almodovar del

Campo, graduate of Osuna, get out of my presence at once! or I swear

by the sun I'll take a cudgel, and by dint of blows, beginning with

him, I'll not leave a doctor in the whole island: at least of those I

know to be ignorant; for as to learned, wise, sensible physicians,

them I will reverence and honor as divine persons. Once more I say,

let Pedro Recio get out this, or I'll take this chair I am sitting on

and break it over his head. And if they call me to account for it,

I'll clear myself by saying I served God in killing a bad doctor--a

general executioner. And now give me something to eat, or else take

your government; for a trade that does not feed its master is not

worth two beans...."

* * * * *

Sancho, fool, boor, and clown as he was, held his own against them

all, saying to those round him, and to Doctor Pedro Recio, who as soon

as the private business of the duke's letter was disposed of had

returned to the room:--"Now I see plainly enough that judges and

governors ought to be and must be made of brass, not to feel the

importunities of the applicants that at all times and all seasons

insist on being heard and having their business dispatched, and their

own affairs and no others attended to, come what may; and if the poor

judge does not hear them and settle the matter,--either because he

cannot or because that is not the time set apart for hearing

them,--forthwith they abuse him, run him down, and gnaw at his bones,

and even pick holes in his pedigree. You silly stupid applicant, don't

be in a hurry; wait for the proper time and season for doing business;

don't come at dinner-hour or at bedtime: for judges are only flesh and

blood, and must give to Nature what she naturally demands of them; all

except myself, for in my case I give her nothing to eat, thanks to

Senor Doctor Pedro Recio Tirteafuera here, who would have me die of

hunger, and declares that death to be life; and the same sort of life

may God give him and all his kind--I mean the bad doctors; for the

good ones deserve palms and laurels."

All who knew Sancho Panza were astonished to hear him speak so

elegantly, and did not know what to attribute it to, unless it were

that office and grave responsibility either smarten or stupefy men's

wits. At last Doctor Pedro Recio Aguero of Tirteafuera promised to let

him have supper that night, though it might be in contravention of all

the aphorisms of Hippocrates. With this the governor was satisfied,

and looked forward to the approach of night and supper-time with great

anxiety; and though time to his mind stood still and made no progress,

nevertheless the hour he so longed for came, and they gave him a beef

salad with onions, and some boiled calves' feet rather far gone.

At this he fell to with greater relish than if they had given him

francolins from Milan, pheasants from Rome, veal from Sorrento,

partridges from Moron, or geese from Lavajos; and turning to the

doctor at supper he said to him:--"Look here, senor doctor, for the

future don't trouble yourself about giving me dainty things or choice

dishes to eat, for it will be only taking my stomach off its hinges:

it is accustomed to goat, cow, bacon, hung beef, turnips and onions;

and if by any chance it is given these palace dishes, it receives them

squeamishly, and sometimes with loathing. What the head carver had

best do is to serve me with what they call ollas-podridas (and the

rottener they are the better they smell); and he can put whatever he

likes into them, so long as it is good to eat, and I'll be obliged to

him, and will requite him some day. But let nobody play pranks on me,

for either we are or we are not; let us live and eat in peace and

good-fellowship; for when God sends the dawn, he sends it for all. I

mean to govern this island without giving up a right or taking a

bribe: let every one keep his eye open and look out for the arrow; for

I can tell them 'the Devil's in Cantillana,' and if they drive me to

it they'll see something that will astonish them. Nay! make yourself

honey and the flies will eat you."

"Of a truth, senor governor," said the carver, "your worship is in the

right of it in everything you have said; and I promise you in the name

of all the inhabitants of this island that they will serve your

worship with all zeal, affection, and good-will, for the mild kind of

government you have given a sample of to begin with, leaves them no

ground for doing or thinking anything to your worship's disadvantage."

"That I believe," said Sancho; "and they would be great fools if they

did or thought otherwise; once more I say, see to my feeding and my

Dapple's, for that is the great point and what is most to the purpose;

and when the hour comes let us go the rounds: for it is my intention

to purge this island of all manner of uncleanness and of all idle

good-for-nothing vagabonds; for I would have you know, my friends,

that lazy idlers are the same thing in a State as the drones in a

hive, and eat up the honey the industrious bees make. I mean to

protect the husbandman, to preserve to the gentleman his privileges,

to reward the virtuous, and above all to respect religion and honor

its ministers. What say you to that, my friends? Is there anything in

what I say, or am I talking to no purpose?"

"There is so much in what your worship says, senor governor," said the

major-domo, "that I am filled with wonder when I see a man like your

worship, entirely without learning (for I believe you have none at

all), say such things, and so full of sound maxims and sage remarks,

very different from what was expected of your worship's intelligence

by those who sent us or by us who came here. Every day we see

something new in this world; jokes become realities, and the jokers

find the tables turned upon them."

* * * * *

Day came after the night of the governor's round: a night which the

head carver passed without sleeping, so full were his thoughts of the

face and air and beauty of the disguised damsel, while the major-domo

spent what was left of it in writing an account to his lord and lady

of all Sancho said and did, being as much amazed at his sayings as at

his doings; for there was a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity in

all his words and deeds. The senor governor got up, and by Doctor

Pedro Recio's directions they made him break his fast on a little

conserve and four sups of cold water, which Sancho would have readily

exchanged for a piece of bread and a bunch of grapes: but seeing there

was no help for it, he submitted with no little sorrow of heart and

discomfort of stomach; Pedro Recio having persuaded him that light and

delicate diet enlivened the wits, and that was what was most essential

for persons placed in command and in responsible situations, where

they have to employ not only the bodily powers but those of the mind

also.

By means of this sophistry Sancho was made to endure hunger, and

hunger so keen that in his heart he cursed the government and even him

who had given it to him. However, with his hunger and his conserve he

undertook to deliver judgments that day; and the first thing that came

before him was a question that was submitted to him by a stranger in

the presence of the major-domo and the other attendants, and it was in

these words:--"Senor, a large river separated two districts of one and

the same lordship--will your worship please to pay attention? for the

case is an important and a rather knotty one. Well then, on this river

there was a bridge, and at one end of it a gallows, and a sort of

tribunal, where four judges commonly sat to administer the law which

the lord of the river bridge and the lordship had enacted, and which

was to this effect: 'If any one crosses by this bridge from one side

to the other, he shall declare on oath where he is going and with what

object; and if he swears truly, he shall be allowed to pass; but if

falsely, he shall be put to death for it by hanging on the gallows

erected there, without any remission.' Though the law and its severe

penalty were known, many persons crossed; but in their declarations it

was easy to see at once they were telling the truth, and the judges

let them pass free. It happened however that one man, when they came

to take his declaration, swore and said that by the oath he took, he

was going to die upon that gallows that stood there, and nothing else.

The judges held a consultation over the oath, and they said:--'If we

let this man pass free, he has sworn falsely, and by the law he ought

to die; but if we hang him, as he swore he was going to die on that

gallows, and therefore swore the truth, by the same law he ought to go

free.' It is asked of your lordship, senor governor, what are the

judges to do with this man? For they are still in doubt and

perplexity; and having heard of your worship's acute and exalted

intellect, they have sent me to entreat your worship on their behalf

to give your opinion on this very intricate and puzzling case."

To this Sancho made answer:--"Indeed, those gentlemen the judges that

send you to me might have spared themselves the trouble, for I have

more of the obtuse than the acute in me; however, repeat the case over

again so that I may understand it, and then perhaps I may be able to

hit the point."

The querist repeated again and again what he had said before, and then

Sancho said:--"It seems to me I can set the matter right in a moment,

and in this way: the man swears that he is going to die upon the

gallows; but if he dies upon it, he has sworn the truth, and by the

law enacted deserves to go free and pass over the bridge; but if they

don't hang him, then he has sworn falsely, and by the same law

deserves to be hanged."

"It is as the senor governor says," said the messenger; "and as

regards a complete comprehension of the case, there is nothing left to

desire or hesitate about."

"Well then, I say," said Sancho, "that of this man they should let

pass the part that has sworn truly, and hang the part that has lied;

and in this way the conditions of the passage will be fully complied

with."

"But then, senor governor," replied the querist, "the man will have to

be divided into two parts; and if he is divided, of course he will

die; and so none of the requirements of the law will be carried out,

and it is absolutely necessary to comply with it."

"Look here, my good sir," said Sancho; "either I'm a numskull or else

there is the same reason for this passenger dying as for his living

and passing over the bridge; for if the truth saves him, the falsehood

equally condemns him; and that being the case, it is my opinion you

should say to the gentlemen who sent you to me, that as the arguments

for condemning him and for absolving him are exactly balanced, they

should let him pass freely, as it is always more praiseworthy to do

good than to do evil; this I would give signed with my name if I knew

how to sign; and what I have said in this case is not out of my own

head, but one of the many precepts my master Don Quixote gave me the

night before I left to become governor of this island, that came into

my mind, and it was this: that when there was any doubt about the

justice of a case I should lean to mercy; and it is God's will that I

should recollect it now, for it fits this case as if it was made for

it."

"That is true," said the major-domo; "and I maintain that Lycurgus

himself, who gave laws to the Lacedaemonians, could not have pronounced

a better decision than the great Panza has given; let the morning's

audience close with this, and I will see that the senor governor has

dinner entirely to his liking."

"That's all I ask for--fair play," said Sancho; "give me my dinner,

and then let it rain cases and questions on me, and I'll dispatch them

in a twinkling."

The major-domo kept his word, for he felt it against his conscience to

kill so wise a governor by hunger; particularly as he intended to have

done with him that same night, playing off the last joke he was

commissioned to practice upon him.

It came to pass then, that after he had dined that day in opposition

to the rules and aphorisms of Doctor Tirteafuera, as they were taking

away the cloth there came a courier with a letter from Don Quixote for

the governor. Sancho ordered the secretary to read it to himself, and

if there was nothing in it that demanded secrecy, to read it aloud.

The secretary did so, and after he had skimmed the contents he said,

"It may well be read aloud, for what Senor Don Quixote writes to your

worship deserves to be printed or written in letters of gold, and it

is as follows."

DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA'S LETTER TO SANCHA PANZA, GOVERNOR OF THE

ISLAND OF BARATARIA

"When I was expecting to hear of thy stupidities and blunders, friend

Sancho, I have received intelligence of thy displays of good sense;

for which I give special thanks to Heaven, that can raise the poor

from the dunghill and of fools to make wise men. They tell me thou

dost govern as if thou wert a man, and art a man as if thou wert a

beast, so great is the humility wherewith thou dost comport thyself.

But I would have thee bear in mind, Sancho, that very often it is

fitting and necessary for the authority of office to resist the

humility of the heart; for the seemly array of one who is invested

with grave duties should be such as they require, and not measured by

what his own humble tastes may lead him to prefer. Dress well; a stick

dressed up does not look like a stick: I do not say thou shouldst wear

trinkets or fine raiment, or that being a judge thou shouldst dress

like a soldier, but that thou shouldst array thyself in the apparel

thy office requires, and that at the same time it be neat and

handsome. To win the good-will of the people thou governest, there are

two things among others that thou must do: one is to be civil to all

(this however I told thee before), and the other to take care that

food be abundant; for there is nothing that vexes the heart of the

poor more than hunger and high prices. Make not many proclamations;

but those thou makest take care that they be good ones, and above all

that they be observed and carried out: for proclamations that are not

observed are the same as if they did not exist; nay, they encourage

the idea that the prince who had the wisdom and authority to make them

had not the power to enforce them; and laws that threaten and are not

enforced come to be like the log, the king of the frogs, that

frightened them at first, but that in time they despised and mounted

upon. Be a father to virtue and a stepfather to vice. Be not always

strict, nor yet always lenient, but observe a mean between these two

extremes, for in that is the aim of wisdom. Visit the jails, the

slaughter-houses, and the market-places; for the presence of the

governor is of great importance in such places: it comforts the

prisoners who are in hopes of a speedy release; it is the bugbear of

the butchers, who have then to give just weight; and it is the terror

of the market-women for the same reason. Let it not be seen that thou

art (even if perchance thou art, which I do not believe) covetous, a

follower of women, or a glutton; for when the people and those that

have dealings with thee become aware of thy special weakness they will

bring their batteries to bear upon thee in that quarter, till they

have brought thee down to the depths of perdition. Consider and

reconsider, con and con over again the advice and the instructions I

gave thee before thy departure hence to thy government, and thou wilt

see that in them, if thou dost follow them, thou hast a help at hand

that will lighten for thee the troubles and difficulties that beset

governors at every step. Write to thy lord and lady, and show thyself

grateful to them: for ingratitude is the daughter of pride, and one of

the greatest sins we know of; and he who is grateful to those who have

been good to him shows that he will be so to God also, who has

bestowed and still bestows so many blessings upon him.

"My lady the duchess sent off a messenger with thy suit and another

present to thy wife Teresa Panza; we expect the answer every moment. I

have been a little indisposed through a certain scratching I came in

for, not very much to the benefit of my nose: but it was nothing; for

if there are enchanters who maltreat me, there are also some who

defend me. Let me know if the major-domo who is with thee had any

share in the Trifaldi performance, as thou didst suspect: and keep me

informed of everything that happens thee, as the distance is so short;

all the more as I am thinking of giving over very shortly this idle

life I am now leading, for I was not born for it. A thing has occurred

to me which I am inclined to think will put me out of favor with the

duke and duchess; but though I am sorry for it, I do not care, for

after all I must obey my calling rather than their pleasure, in

accordance with the common saying, _Amicus Plato, sed magis amica

veritas_. I quote this Latin to thee because I conclude that since

thou hast been a governor thou wilt have learned it. Adieu; God keep

thee from being an object of pity to any one.

"Thy friend

"DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA."

Sancho listened to the letter with great attention, and it was praised

and considered wise by all who heard it: he then rose up from table,

and calling his secretary, shut himself in with him in his own room,

and without putting it off any longer set about answering his master

Don Quixote at once; and he bade the secretary write down what he told

him, without adding or suppressing anything, which he did; and the

answer was to the following effect.

SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA

"The pressure of business is so great upon me that I have no time to

scratch my head or even to cut my nails; and I have them so long--God

send a remedy for it. I say this, master of my soul, that you may not

be surprised if I have not until now sent you word of how I fare, well

or ill, in this government, in which I am suffering more hunger than

when we two were wandering through the woods and wastes.

"My lord the duke wrote to me the other day to warn me that certain

spies had got into this island to kill me: but up to the present I

have not found out any except a certain doctor who receives a salary

in this town for killing all the governors that come here; he is

called Doctor Pedro Recio, and is from Tirteafuera; so you see what a

name he has to make me dread dying under his hands. This doctor says

of himself that he does not cure diseases when there are any, but

prevents them coming, and the medicines he uses are diet and more

diet, until he brings one down to bare bones; as if leanness was not

worse than fever.

"In short, he is killing me with hunger, and I am dying myself of

vexation: for when I thought I was coming to this government to get my

meat hot and my drink cool, and take my ease between holland sheets on

feather-beds, I find I have come to do penance as if I was a hermit;

and as I don't do it willingly, I suspect that in the end the Devil

will carry me off.

"So far I have not handled any dues or taken any bribes, and I don't

know what to think of it: for here they tell me that the governors

that come to this island, before entering it, have plenty of money

either given to them or lent to them by the people of the town; and

that this is the usual custom, not only here but with all who enter

upon governments.

"Last night going the rounds I came upon a fair damsel in man's

clothes, and a brother of hers dressed as a woman: my head carver has

fallen in love with the girl, and has in his own mind chosen her for a

wife, so he says, and I have chosen the youth for a son-in-law; to-day

we are going to explain our intentions to the father of the pair, who

is one Diego de la Llana, a gentleman and an old Christian as much as

you please.

"I have visited the market-places, as your worship advises me, and

yesterday I found a stall-keeper selling new hazel-nuts, and proved

her to have mixed a bushel of old empty rotten nuts with a bushel of

new; I confiscated the whole for the children of the charity school,

who will know how to distinguish them well enough, and I sentenced her

not to come into the market-place for a fortnight: they told me I did

bravely. I can tell your worship it is commonly said in this town that

there are no people worse than the market-women, for they are all

barefaced, unconscionable, and impudent; and I can well believe it

from what I have seen of them in other towns.

"I am very glad my lady the duchess has written to my wife Teresa

Panza and sent her the present your worship speaks of; and I will try

to show myself grateful when the time comes: kiss her hands for me,

and tell her I say she has not thrown it into a sack with a hole in

it, as she will see in the end. I should not like your worship to have

any difference with my lord and lady; for if you fall out with them it

is plain it must do me harm; and as you give me advice to be grateful,

it will not do for your worship not to be so yourself to those who

have shown you such kindness, and by whom you have been treated so

hospitably in their castle.

"That about the scratching I don't understand; but I suppose it must

be one of the ill turns the wicked enchanters are always doing your

worship; when we meet I shall know all about it. I wish I could send

your worship something; but I don't know what to send, unless it be

some very curious clyster pipes to work with bladders, that they make

in this island; but if the office remains with me I'll find out

something to send, one way or another. If my wife Teresa Panza writes

to me, pay the postage and send me the letter, for I have a very great

desire to hear how my house and wife and children are going on. And

so, may God deliver your worship from evil-minded enchanters, and

bring me well and peacefully out of this government; which I doubt,

for I expect to take leave of it and my life together, from the way

Doctor Pedro Recio treats me.

"Your worship's servant,

"SANCHO PANZA THE GOVERNOR."

The secretary sealed the letter and immediately dismissed the courier;

and those who were carrying on the joke against Sancho, putting their

heads together, arranged how he was to be dismissed from the

government. Sancho spent the afternoon in drawing up certain

ordinances relating to the good government of what he fancied the

island.... He reduced the prices of shoes, boots, and stockings, but

of shoes in particular, as they seemed to him to run extravagantly

high. He established a fixed rate for servants' wages, which were

becoming recklessly exorbitant. He laid extremely heavy penalties upon

those who sang lewd or loose songs either by day or night. He decreed

that no blind man should sing of any miracle in verse unless he could

produce authentic evidence that it was true; for it was his opinion

that most of those the blind men sing are trumped up, to the detriment

of the true ones. He established and created an _alguacil_ of the

poor, not to harass them, but to examine them and see whether they

really were so; for many a sturdy thief or drunkard goes about under

cover of a make-believe crippled limb or a sham sore. In a word, he

made so many good rules that to this day they are preserved there, and

are called _The constitutions of the great governor Sancho Panza_.

THE ENDING OF ALL DON QUIXOTE'S ADVENTURES

OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED

As nothing that is man's can last forever, but all tends ever

downwards from its beginning to its end, and above all, man's life;

and as Don Quixote's enjoyed no special dispensation from Heaven to

stay its course,--its end and close came when he least looked for it.

For--whether it was of the dejection the thought of his defeat

produced, or of Heaven's will that so ordered it--a fever settled upon

him and kept him in his bed for six days, during which he was often

visited by his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, while

his good squire Sancho Panza never quitted his bedside. They,

persuaded that it was grief at finding himself vanquished, and the

object of his heart, the liberation and disenchantment of Dulcinea,

unattained, that kept him in this state, strove by all the means in

their power to cheer him up: the bachelor bidding him take heart and

get up to begin his pastoral life; for which he himself, he said, had

already composed an eclogue that would take the shine out of all

Sannazaro[A] had ever written, and had bought with his own money two

famous dogs to guard the flock, one called Barcino and the other

Butron, which a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him.

[A] Jacopo Sannazaro, the Neapolitan poet, author of the

'Arcadia.'

But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His

friends called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well

satisfied with it, and said that in any case it would be well for him

to attend to the health of his soul, as that of his body was in a bad

way. Don Quixote heard this calmly; but not so his housekeeper, his

niece, and his squire, who fell weeping bitterly, as if they had him

lying dead before them. The doctor's opinion was that melancholy and

depression were bringing him to his end. Don Quixote begged them to

leave him to himself, as he had a wish to sleep a little. They obeyed,

and he slept at one stretch, as the saying is, more than six hours, so

that the housekeeper and niece thought he was going to sleep forever.

But at the end of that time he woke up, and in a loud voice exclaimed,

"Blessed be Almighty God, who has shown me such goodness! In truth

his mercies are boundless, and the sins of men can neither limit them

nor keep them back!"

The niece listened with attention to her uncle's words, and they

struck her as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at least

during his illness, so she asked: "What are you saying, senor? Has

anything strange occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are you

talking of?"

"The mercies, niece," said Don Quixote, "are those that God has this

moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to

them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of

ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books of

chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities and

deceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my

illusions has come so late that it leaves me no time to make some

amends by reading other books that might be a light to my soul. Niece,

I feel myself at the point of death, and I would fain meet it in such

a way as to show that my life has not been so ill that I should leave

behind me the name of a madman; for though I have been one, I would

not that the fact should be made plainer at my death. Call in to me,

my dear, my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and

Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will."

But his niece was saved the trouble by the entrance of the three. The

instant Don Quixote saw them he exclaimed:--"Good news for you, good

sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote of La Mancha, but Alonso

Quixano, whose way of life won for him the name of Good. Now am I the

enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless troop of his

descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories of

knight-errantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into which

reading them brought me; now, by God's mercy schooled into my right

senses, I loathe them."

When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt whatever

that some new craze had taken possession of him; and said Samson,

"What! Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the lady

Dulcinea being disenchanted, are you taking this line? now, just as we

are on the point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives singing,

like princes, are you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for heaven's

sake; be rational, and let's have no more nonsense."

"All that nonsense," said Don Quixote, "that until now has been a

reality to my hurt, my death will with heaven's help turn to my good.

I feel, sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death: a truce to

jesting; let me have a confessor to confess me, and a notary to make

my will; for in extremities like this, man must not trifle with his

soul; and while the curate is confessing me, let some one, I beg, go

for the notary."

They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote's words; but

though uncertain they were inclined to believe him, and one of the

signs by which they came to the conclusion he was dying, was this so

sudden and complete return to his senses after having been mad; for to

the words already quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so

devout, and so rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that

he was sound of mind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone

with him, confessed him. The bachelor went for the notary, and

returned shortly afterwards with him and with Sancho, who, having

already learned from the bachelor the condition his master was in, and

finding the housekeeper and niece weeping, began to blubber and shed

tears.

The confession over, the curate came out saying:--"Alonso Quixano the

Good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go

in to him, while he makes his will."

This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the

housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears

burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of a

truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso

Quixano the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was

always of a gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence

he was beloved not only by those of his own house, but by all who knew

him."

The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the

will had been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God

with all the devout formalities that are usual, coming to the

bequests, he said:--"_Item_: It is my will that, touching certain

moneys in the hands of Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my

squire), inasmuch as between him and me there have been certain

accounts and debits and credits, no claim be made against him, nor any

account demanded of him in respect of them; but that if anything

remain over and above, after he has paid himself what I owe him, the

balance, which will be but little, shall be his, and much good may it

do him; and if as when I was mad I had a share in giving him the

government of an island, so now that I am in my senses I could give

him that of a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his

character and the fidelity of his conduct deserve it." And then

turning to Sancho, he said, "Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to

seem as mad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself

fell into, that there were and still are knights-errant in the world."

"Ah!" said Sancho weeping; "don't die, master, but take my advice and

live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is

to let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody killing

him, or any hands but melancholy's making an end of him. Come, don't

be lazy, but get up from your bed and let us take to the fields in

shepherd's trim as we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find

the lady Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that

you are dying of vexation at having been vanquished, lay the blame on

me, and say you were overthrown because I had girthed Rosinante badly;

besides, you must have seen in your books of chivalry that it is a

common thing for knights to upset one another, and for him who is

conquered to-day to be conqueror to-morrow."

"Very true," said Samson, "and good Sancho Panza's view of these cases

is quite right."

"Sirs, not so fast," said Don Quixote. "In last year's nests there are

no birds this year. I was mad--now I am in my senses; I was Don

Quixote of La Mancha--I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good;

and may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used

to have for me; and now let Master Notary proceed.

"_Item_--I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my

niece, here present, after all has been deducted from the most

available portion of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I

have made. And the first disbursement I desire to be made is the

payment of the wages I owe for the time my housekeeper has served me,

with twenty ducats, over and above, for a gown. The curate and the

bachelor Samson Carrasco, now present, I appoint my executors.

"_Item_--It is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to

marry, she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all

ascertained by information taken that he does not know what books of

chivalry are; and if it should be proved that he does, and if in spite

of this my niece insists upon marrying him and does marry him, then

she shall forfeit the whole of what I have left her, which my

executors shall devote to works of charity as they please.

"_Item_--I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that if any

happy chance should lead them to discover the author who is said to

have written a history now going about under the title of 'Second Part

of the Achievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha,' they beg of him on

my behalf as earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been,

without intending it, the cause of his writing so many and such

monstrous absurdities as he has written in it; for I am leaving the

world with a feeling of compunction at having provoked him to write

them."

With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over him, he

stretched himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutter

and made haste to relieve him, and during the three days he lived

after that on which he made his will, he fainted away very often.

The house was all in confusion; but still the niece ate and the

housekeeper drank and Sancho Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting

property wipes out or softens down in the heir the feeling of grief

the dead man might be expected to leave behind him.

At last Don Quixote's end came, after he had received all the

sacraments, and had in full and forcible terms expressed his

detestation of books of chivalry. The notary was there at the time,

and he said that in no book of chivalry had he ever read of any

knight-errant dying in his bed so calmly and so like a Christian as

Don Quixote, who amid the tears and lamentations of all present

yielded up his spirit,--that is to say, died. On perceiving it, the

curate begged the notary to bear witness that Alonso Quixano the Good,

commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed away from this

present life, and died naturally; and said he desired this testimony

in order to remove the possibility of any other author save Cid Hamet

Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and making interminable

stories out of his achievements.

Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose

village Cid Hamet would not indicate precisely, in order to leave all

the towns and villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves for

the right to adopt him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities of

Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece

and housekeeper are omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his

tomb; Samson Carrasco, however, put the following:--

"A doughty gentleman lies here,

A stranger all his life to fear;

Nor in his death could Death prevail,

In that last hour, to make him quail.

He for the world but little cared,

And at his feats the world was scared;

A crazy man his life he passed,

But in his senses died at last."

And said most sage Cid Hamet to his pen:--

"Rest here, hung up by this brass wire, upon this shelf. O my pen!

whether of skillful make or clumsy cut I know not; here shalt thou

remain long ages hence, unless presumptuous or malignant story-tellers

take thee down to profane thee. But ere they touch thee warn them, and

as best thou canst, say to them:--

'Hold off! ye weaklings; hold your hands!

Adventure it let none,

For this enterprise, my lord the King,

Was meant for me alone.'

For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act,

mine to write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in

spite of that pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or

would venture with his great coarse ill-trimmed ostrich quill to write

the achievements of my valiant knight;--no burden for his shoulders,

nor subject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou shouldst come

to know him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they lie the weary

moldering bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to carry him off,

in opposition to all the privileges of death, to Old Castile, making

him rise from the grave where in reality and truth he lies stretched

at full length, powerless to make any third expedition or new sally;

for the two that he has already made, so much to the enjoyment and

approval of everybody to whom they have become known, in this as well

as in foreign countries, are quite sufficient for the purpose of

turning into ridicule the whole of those made by the whole set of the

knights-errant; and so doing shalt thou discharge thy Christian

calling, giving good counsel to one that bears ill-will to thee. And I

shall remain satisfied, and proud to have been the first who has ever

enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully as he could desire; for my

desire has been no other than to deliver over to the detestation of

mankind the false and foolish tales of the books of chivalry, which,

thanks to that of my true Don Quixote, are even now tottering, and

doubtless doomed to fall forever. Farewell."

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

2. Images and footnotes have been moved from the middle of a paragraph

to the closest paragraph break.

3. The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version

these letters have been replaced with transliterations.

4. The original text has certain words which use "oe" ligature. These

are "Coelum", "Phoenician", "Phoebus", "mythopoeic" and "phoenix".

5. The word McGIFFERT has "c" as superscript in the original which has

been changed to lower case in this text version.

6. The footnote [7] in "The Lusiads" does not refer to anything in the

text.

7. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies

in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been

retained.