The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha

The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote  

de la Mancha  

by Miguel de Cervantes [Saavedra]    

Translated by John Ormsby    

Edited by Patricia Garrison 

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THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE 

Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would this book, as it is 

the child of my brain, were the fairest, gayest, and cleverest that could be imagined. 

But I could not counteract Nature’s law that everything shall beget its like; and what, 

then, could this sterile, ill-tilled wit of mine beget but the story of a dry, shriveled, 

whimsical offspring, full of thoughts of all sorts and such as never came into any 

other imagination – just what might be begotten in a prison, where every misery is 

lodged and every doleful sound makes its dwelling? Tranquility, a cheerful retreat, 

pleasant fields, bright skies, murmuring brooks, peace of mind, these are the things 

that go far to make even the most barren muses fertile, and bring into the world 

births that fill it with wonder and delight. Sometimes when a father has an ugly, 

loutish son, the love he bears him so blindfolds his eyes that he does not see his 

defects, or, rather, takes them for gifts and charms of mind and body, and talks of 

them to his friends as wit and grace. I, however – for though I pass for the father, I 

am but the stepfather to “Don Quixote” – have no desire to go with the current of 

custom, or to implore thee, dearest reader, almost with tears in my eyes, as others 

do, to pardon or excuse the defects thou wilt perceive in this child of mine. Thou art 

neither its kinsman nor its friend, thy soul is thine own and thy will as free as any 

man’s, whate’er he be, thou art in thine own house and master of it as much as the 

king of his taxes and thou knowest the common saying, “Under my cloak I kill the 

king;” all which exempts and frees thee from every consideration and obligation, 

and thou canst say what thou wilt of the story without fear of being abused for any 

ill or rewarded for any good thou mayest say of it. 

My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and unadorned, without any 

embellishment of preface or uncountable muster of customary sonnets, epigrams, 

and eulogies, such as are commonly put at the beginning of books. For I can tell thee, 

though composing it cost me some labour, I found none greater than the making of 

this Preface thou art now reading. Many times did I take up my pen to write it, and 

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many did I lay it down again, not knowing what to write. One of these times, as I was  

pondering with the paper before me, a pen in my ear, my elbow on the desk, and my  

cheek in my hand, thinking of what I should say, there came in unexpectedly a  

certain lively, clever friend of mine, who, seeing me so deep in thought, asked the  

reason; to which I, making no mystery of it, answered that I was thinking of the  

Preface I had to make for the story of “Don Quixote,” which so troubled me that I had  

a mind not to make any at all, nor even publish the achievements of so noble a  

knight.  

“For, how could you expect me not to feel uneasy about what that ancient lawgiver  

they call the Public will say when it sees me, after slumbering so many years in the  

silence of oblivion, coming out now with all my years upon my back, and with a book  

as dry as a rush, devoid of invention, meager in style, poor in thoughts, wholly  

wanting in learning and wisdom, without quotations in the margin or annotations at  

the end, after the fashion of other books I see, which, though all fables and profanity,  

are so full of maxims from Aristotle, and Plato, and the whole herd of philosophers,  

that they fill the readers with amazement and convince them that the authors are  

men of learning, erudition, and eloquence.  And then, when they quote the Holy  

Scriptures! – anyone would say they are St. Thomases or other doctors of the  

Church, observing as they do a decorum so ingenious that in one sentence they  

describe a distracted lover and in the next deliver a devout little sermon that it is a  

pleasure and a treat to hear and read. Of all this there will be nothing in my book, for  

I have nothing to quote in the margin or to note at the end, and still less do I know  

what authors I follow in it, to place them at the beginning, as all do, under the letters  

A, B, C, beginning with Aristotle and ending with Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis,  

though one was a slanderer and the other a painter. Also my book must do without  

sonnets at the beginning, at least sonnets whose authors are dukes, marquises,  

counts, bishops, ladies, or famous poets. Though if I were to ask two or three  

obliging friends, I know they would give me them, and such as the productions of  

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those that have the highest reputation in our Spain could not equal.  

“In short, my friend,” I continued, “I am determined that Señor Don Quixote shall  

remain buried in the archives of his own La Mancha until Heaven provide some one  

to garnish him with all those things he stands in need of; because I find myself,  

through my shallowness and want of learning, unequal to supplying them, and  

because I am by nature shy and careless about hunting for authors to say what I  

myself can say without them. Hence the cogitation and abstraction you found me in,  

and reason enough, what you have heard from me.”  

Hearing this, my friend, giving himself a slap on the forehead and breaking into a  

hearty laugh, exclaimed, “Before God, Brother, now am I disabused of an error in  

which I have been living all this long time I have known you, all through which I  

have taken you to be shrewd and sensible in all you do; but now I see you are as far  

from that as the heaven is from the earth. It is possible that things of so little  

moment and so easy to set right can occupy and perplex a ripe wit like yours, fit to  

break through and crush far greater obstacles? By my faith, this comes, not of any  

want of ability, but of too much indolence and too little knowledge of life. Do you  

want to know if I am telling the truth? Well, then, attend to me, and you will see how,  

in the opening and shutting of an eye, I sweep away all your difficulties, and supply  

all those deficiencies which you say check and discourage you from bringing before  

the world the story of your famous Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight‐ 

errantry.”  

“Say on,” said I, listening to his talk; “how do you propose to make up for my  

diffidence, and reduce to order this chaos of perplexity I am in?”  

To which he made answer, “Your first difficulty about the sonnets, epigrams, or  

complimentary verses which you want for the beginning, and which ought to be by  

persons of importance and rank, can be removed if you yourself take a little trouble  

to make them; you can afterwards baptize them, and put any name you like to them,  

fathering them on Prester John of the Indies or the Emperor of Trebizond, who, to  

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my knowledge, were said to have been famous poets: and even if they were not, and  

any pedants or bachelors should attack you and question the fact, never care two  

maravedis for that, for even if they prove a lie against you they cannot cut off the  

hand you wrote it with.  

“As to references in the margin to the books and authors from whom you take the  

aphorisms and sayings you put into your story, it is only contriving to fit in nicely  

any sentences or scraps of Latin you may happen to have by heart, or at any rate  

that will not give you much trouble to look up; so as, when you speak of freedom  

and captivity, to insert  

Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro;  

and then refer in the margin to Horace, or whoever said it; or, if you allude to the  

power of death, to come in with   

Pallida mors Aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,  

Regumque turres.  

“If it be friendship and the love God bids us bear to our enemy, go at once to the Holy  

Scriptures, which you can do with a very small amount of research, and quote no  

less than the words of God himself: Ego autem dico vobis: diligite inimicos vestros. If  

you speak of evil thoughts, turn to the Gospel: De corde exeunt cogitationes malae. If  

of the fickleness of friends, there is Cato, who will give you his distich:  

Donec eris felix multos numerabis amicos,  

Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris.   

“With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for a grammarian at all  

events, and that now‐a‐days is no small honour and profit.  

“With regard to adding annotations at the end of the book, you may safely do it in  

this way. If you mention any giant in your book contrive that it shall be the giant  

Goliath, and with this alone, which will cost you almost nothing, you have a grand  

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note, for you can put—The giant Golias or Goliath was a Philistine whom the  

shepherd David slew by a mighty stone‐cast in the Terebinth valley, as is related in  

the Book of Kings—in the chapter where you find it written.  

  

“Next, to prove yourself a man of erudition in polite literature and cosmography,  

manage that the river Tagus shall be named in your story, and there you are at once  

with another famous annotation, setting forth—The river Tagus was so called after a  

King of Spain: it has its source in such and such a place and falls into the ocean,  

kissing the walls of the famous city of Lisbon, and it is a common belief that it has  

golden sands, etc. If you should have anything to do with robbers, I will give you the  

story of Cacus, for I have it by heart; if with loose women, there is the Bishop of  

Mondonedo, who will give you the loan of Lamia, Laida, and Flora, any reference to  

whom will bring you great credit; if with hard‐hearted ones, Ovid will furnish you  

with Medea; if with witches or enchantresses, Homer has Calypso, and Virgil Circe; if  

with valiant captains, Julius Caesar himself will lend you himself in his own  

‘Commentaries,’ and Plutarch will give you a thousand Alexanders. If you should  

deal with love, with two ounces you may know of Tuscan you can go to Leon the  

Hebrew, who will supply you to your heart’s content; or if you should not care to go  

to foreign countries you have at home Fonseca’s ‘Of the Love of God,’ in which is  

condensed all that you or the most imaginative mind can want on the subject. In  

short, all you have to do is to manage to quote these names, or refer to these stories  

I have mentioned, and leave it to me to insert the annotations and quotations, and I  

swear by all that’s good to fill your margins and use up four sheets at the end of the  

book.  

“Now let us come to those references to authors which other books have, and you  

want for yours. The remedy for this is very simple: You have only to look out for  

some book that quotes them all, from A to Z as you say yourself, and then insert the  

very same alphabet in your book, and though the imposition may be plain to see,  

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ecause you have so little need to borrow from them, that is no matter; there will  

probably be some simple enough to believe that you have made use of them all in  

this plain, artless story of yours. At any rate, if it answers no other purpose, this long  

catalogue of authors will serve to give a surprising look of authority to your book.  

Besides, no one will trouble himself to verify whether you have followed them or  

whether you have not, being no way concerned in it; especially as, if I mistake not,  

this book of yours has no need of any one of those things you say it wants, for it is,  

from beginning to end, an attack upon the books of chivalry, of which Aristotle never  

dreamt, nor St. Basil said a word, nor Cicero had any knowledge; nor do the niceties  

of truth nor the observations of astrology come within the range of its fanciful  

vagaries; nor have geometrical measurements or refutations of the arguments used  

in rhetoric anything to do with it; nor does it mean to preach to anybody, mixing up  

things human and divine, a sort of motley in which no Christian understanding  

should dress itself. It has only to avail itself of truth to nature in its composition, and  

the more perfect the imitation the better the work will be. And as this piece of yours  

aims at nothing more than to destroy the authority and influence which books of  

chivalry have in the world and with the public, there is no need for you to go a‐ 

begging for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts from Holy Scripture, fables from  

poets, speeches from orators, or miracles from saints; but merely to take care that  

your style and diction run musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and  

well‐placed words, setting forth your purpose to the best of your power, and putting  

your ideas intelligibly, without confusion or obscurity. Strive, too, that in reading  

your story the melancholy may be moved to laughter, and the merry made merrier  

still; that the simple shall not be wearied, that the judicious shall admire the  

invention, that the grave shall not despise it, nor the wise fail to praise it. Finally,  

keep your aim fixed on the destruction of that ill‐founded edifice of the books of  

chivalry, hated by some and praised by many more; for if you succeed in this you  

will have achieved no small success.”  

In profound silence I listened to what my friend said, and his observations made  

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such an impression on me that, without attempting to question them, I admitted  

their soundness, and out of them I determined to make this Preface; wherein, gentle  

reader, thou wilt perceive my friend’s good sense, my good fortune in finding such  

an adviser in such a time of need, and what thou hast gained in receiving, without  

addition or alteration, the story of the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, who is  

held by all the inhabitants of the district of the Campo de Montiel to have been the  

chastest lover and the bravest knight that has for many years been seen in that  

neighborhood. I have no desire to magnify the service I render thee in making thee  

acquainted with so renowned and honored a knight, but I do desire thy thanks for  

the acquaintance thou wilt make with the famous Sancho Panza, his squire, in  

whom, to my thinking, I have given thee condensed all the squirely drolleries that  

are scattered through the swarm of the vain books of chivalry. And so – may God  

give thee health, and not forget me. Vale.  

  

DEDICATION OF VOLUME I  

TO THE DUKE OF BEJAR, MARQUIS OF GIBRALEON, COUNT OF BENALCAZAR AND  

BANARES, VICECOUNT OF THE PUEBLA DE ALCOCER, MASTER OF THE TOWNS OF  

CAPILLA, CURIEL AND BURGUILLOS  

In belief of the good reception and honors that Your Excellency bestows on all sort  

of books, as prince so inclined to favor good arts, chiefly those who by their  

nobleness do not submit to the service and bribery of the vulgar, I have determined  

bringing to light The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la Mancha, in shelter of  

Your Excellency’s glamorous name, to whom, with the obeisance I owe to such  

grandeur, I pray to receive it agreeably under his protection, so that in this shadow,  

though deprived of that precious ornament of elegance and erudition that clothe the  

works composed in the houses of those who know, it dares appear with assurance in  

the judgment of some who, trespassing the bounds of their own ignorance, use to  

‐ix‐

condemn with more rigor and less justice the writings of others. It is my earnest  

hope that Your Excellency’s good counsel in regard to my honorable purpose, will  

not disdain the littleness of so humble a service.  

Miguel de Cervantes  

  

  

‐x‐

VOLUME I  

  

CHAPTER I  

Don Quixote de la Mancha  1  

  

WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS  

GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA  

  

  

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

lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance‐rack, an  

old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef  

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

pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three‐quarters of his income. The  

rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for  

holidays, while on week‐days he made a brave figure in his best homespun. He had  

in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field  

and market‐place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill‐hook. The  

age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare,  

gaunt‐featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his  

surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion  

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

it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance  

to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling  

of it.  

  

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

(which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to reading books of chivalry  

with such 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 

2  Don Quixote de la Mancha  

  

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 1   

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 that  

could compare with him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because  

he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no finical 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  

                                                         

1  A sixteenth‐century author of romances; the quotation that follows is from his Don  

Florisel de Niquea 


  

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 2 , availing himself  

of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antaeus 3  the son of Terra in his arms.  

He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because, although of the giant breed  

which is always arrogant and ill‐conditioned, he alone was affable and well‐bred.  

But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him  

sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond the  

seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as his history says, was entirely of gold.  

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

housekeeper, and his niece into the bargain.  

  

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

madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was right and  

requisite, as well for the support of his own 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.  

                                                         

2  Roland had the magic gift of invulnerability  

3  The mythological Antaeus was invulnerable as long as he maintained contact with  

his mother, the Earth. 


  

  

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 4  and  

more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that "tantum pellis et ossa fuit, 5 " surpassed  

in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were  

spent in thinking what name to give him, because (as he said to himself) it was not  

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

own, should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so as to  

indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight‐errant, and what he then  

was; for it was only reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he should  

take a new name, and that it should be a distinguished and full‐sounding one,  

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

composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names  

out of his memory and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his  

                                                         

4  A coin (about five cents); a quarto was one eighth of a real.  

5  Was so much skin and bones. 


  

thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack 6  before he  

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

  

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

himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this point, till at last he made  

up his mind to call himself "Don Quixote," whence, as has been already said, the  

authors of this veracious history have inferred that his name must have been  

beyond a doubt Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting,  

however, that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself curtly Amadis and  

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

and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the  

name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, he considered,  

he described accurately his origin and country, and did 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!  

                                                         

6  A nag; in Spanish, a rocin. 


  

There was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very good‐looking farm‐girl  

with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never  

knew it nor gave a thought to the matter.  Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon  

her he thought fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search  

for a name which should not be out of harmony with her own, and should suggest  

and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea  

del Toboso – she being of El Toboso – a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and  

significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself and the things  

belonging to him.    

 

CHAPTER II  


  

WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE  

FROM HOME  

  

  

These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the execution of his  

design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world was losing by his delay, seeing  

what wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses  

to remove, and duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his intention to  

anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning of the  

day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit of armor,  

mounted Rocinante with his patched‐up helmet on, braced his buckler, took his  

lance, and by the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the highest  

contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had made a beginning  

with his grand purpose. But scarcely did he find himself upon the open plain, when a  

terrible thought struck him, one all but enough to make him abandon the enterprise  

at the very outset. It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight, and that  

according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to bear arms against any  

knight; and that even if he had been, still he ought, as a novice knight, to wear white  

armor, without a device upon the shield until by his prowess he had earned one.  

These reflections made him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than  

any reasoning, he made up his mind to have himself dubbed a knight by the first one  

he came across, following the example of others in the same case, as he had read in  

the books that brought him to this pass. As for white armor, he resolved, on the first  

opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter than an ermine; and so comforting  

himself he pursued his way, taking that which his horse chose, for in this he believed  

lay the essence of adventures.  

  

Thus setting out, our new‐fledged adventurer paced along, talking to himself and  

saying, "Who knows but that in time to come, when the veracious history of my 


  

famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes it, when he has to set forth my  

first sally in the early morning, will do it after this fashion? 'Scarce had the rubicund  

Apollo spread o'er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads of his  

bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their notes to hail  

with dulcet and mellifluous harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting  

the soft couch of her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and  

balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote of La  

Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated steed Rocinante and began  

to traverse the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel; 7 '" which in fact he was  

actually traversing. "Happy the age, happy the time," he continued, "in which shall  

be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be molded in brass, carved in marble,  

limned in pictures, for a memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician, whoever  

thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this wondrous history, forget  

not, I entreat thee, my good Rocinante, the constant companion of my ways and  

wanderings." Presently he broke out again, as if he were love‐stricken in earnest, "O  

Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to  

drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy banish me from the  

presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in remembrance this heart, thy vassal,  

that thus in anguish pines for love of thee."  

  

So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in the style of those  

his books had taught him, imitating their language as well as he could; and all the  

while he rode so slowly and the sun mounted so rapidly and with such fervor that it  

was enough to melt his brains if he had any. Nearly all day he traveled without  

anything remarkable happening to him, at which he was in despair, for he was  

anxious to encounter some one at once upon whom to try the might of his strong  

arm.  

  

                                                         

7  Famous because it had been the scene of a battle in 1369. 


  

Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that of Puerto Lapice;  

others say it was that of the windmills; but what I have ascertained on this point,  

and what I have found written in the annals of La Mancha, is that he was on the road  

all day, and towards nightfall his hack and he found themselves dead tired and  

hungry, when, looking all around to see if he could discover any castle or shepherd's  

shanty where he might refresh himself and relieve his sore wants, he perceived not  

far out of his road an inn, which was as welcome as a star guiding him to the portals,  

if not the palaces, of his redemption; and quickening his pace he reached it just as  

night was setting in. At the door were standing two young women, girls of the  

district as they call them, on their way to Seville with some carriers who had  

chanced to halt that night at the inn; and as, happen what might to our adventurer,  

everything he saw or imaged seemed to him to be and to happen after the fashion of  

what he read of, the moment he saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with  

its four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the drawbridge and  

moat and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles of the sort. To this inn, which  

to him seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a short distance from it he checked  

Rocinante, hoping that some dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and  

by sound of trumpet give notice that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing  

that they were slow about it, and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable,  

he made for the inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were standing  

there, and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely ladies taking their  

ease at the castle gate.  

  

At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through the  

stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology, that is what they are  

called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them together, and forthwith it seemed to  

Don Quixote to be what he was expecting, the signal of some dwarf announcing his  

arrival; and so with prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the ladies,  

who, seeing a man of this sort approaching in full armor and with lance and buckler,  

were turning in dismay into the inn, when Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their  

flight, raising his pasteboard visor, disclosed his dry dusty visage, and with 


  

courteous bearing and gentle voice addressed them, "Your ladyships need not fly or  

fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of knighthood which I profess  

to offer to anyone, much less to highborn maidens as your appearance proclaims  

you to be." The girls were looking at him and straining their eyes to make out the  

features which the clumsy visor obscured, but when they heard themselves called  

maidens, a thing so much out of their line, they could not restrain their laughter,  

which made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say, "Modesty becomes the fair, and  

moreover laughter that has little cause is great silliness; this, however, I say not to  

pain or anger you, for my desire is none other than to serve you."  

  

The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our cavalier only  

increased the ladies' laughter, and that increased his irritation, and matters might  

have gone farther if at that moment the landlord had not come out, who, being a  

very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, seeing this grotesque figure clad in armor  

that did not match any more than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was  

not at all indisposed to join the damsels in their manifestations of amusement; but,  

in truth, standing in awe of such a complicated armament, he thought it best to  

speak him fairly, so he said, "Señor Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, bating  

the bed (for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of everything else here." Don  

Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of the Alcaide of the fortress (for so  

innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes), made answer, "Sir Castellan 8 , for me  

anything will suffice, for  

  

  

'My armor is my only wear,  

My only rest the fight.'"  

The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a "worthy of  

Castile," though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from the strand of San Lucar,  

                                                         

8  The original castellano, meant both “castellan” and “Castilian.” 


  

as crafty a thief as Cacus 9  and as full of tricks as a student or a page. "In that case,"  

said he,  

  

  

"'Your bed is on the flinty rock,  

Your sleep to watch all night;'  

and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of sleeplessness  

under this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a single night." So saying, he  

advanced to hold the stirrup for Don Quixote, who got down with great difficulty  

and exertion (for he had not broken his fast all day), and then charged the host to  

take great care of his horse, as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate bread in this  

world. The landlord eyed him over but did not find him as good as Don Quixote said,  

nor even half as good; and putting him up in the stable, he returned to see what  

might be wanted by his guest, whom the damsels, who had by this time made their  

peace with him, were now relieving of his armor. They had taken off his breastplate  

and backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his gorget or remove his  

make‐shift helmet, for he had fastened it with green ribbons, which, as there was no  

untying the knots, required to be cut. This, however, he would not by any means  

consent to, so he remained all the evening with his helmet on, the drollest and  

oddest figure that can be imagined; and while they were removing his armor, taking  

the baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree belonging to the castle, he  

said to them with great sprightliness:  

  

"Oh, never, surely, was there knight  

  So served by hand of dame,  

As served was he, Don Quixote hight,  

  When from his town he came;  

With maidens waiting on himself,  

  Princesses on his hack –   

                                                         

9  In Roman mythology, he stole some of the cattle of Hercules, concealing the theft  

by having them walk backward into his cave, but was finally discovered and slain. 


  

  

or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse's name, and Don Quixote of La  

Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of declaring myself until my  

achievements in your service and honor had made me known, the necessity of  

adapting that old ballad of Lancelot to the present occasion has given you the  

knowledge of my name altogether prematurely. A time, however, will come for your  

ladyships to command and me to obey, and then the might of my arm will show my  

desire to serve you."  

  

The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had nothing to say in  

reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything to eat. "I would gladly eat a bit of  

something," said Don Quixote, "for I feel it would come very seasonably." The day  

happened to be a Friday, and in the whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of  

the fish they call in Castile "abadejo," in Andalusia "bacallao," and in some places  

"curadillo," and in others "troutlet;" so they asked him if he thought he could eat  

troutlet, for there was no other fish to give him. "If there be troutlets enough," said  

Don Quixote, "they will be the same thing as a trout; for it is all one to me whether I  

am given eight reals in small change or a piece of eight; moreover, it may be that  

these troutlets are like veal, which is better than beef, or kid, which is better than  

goat. But whatever it be let it come quickly, for the burden and pressure of arms  

cannot be borne without support to the inside." They laid a table for him at the door  

of the inn for the sake of the air, and the host brought him a portion of ill‐soaked and  

worse cooked stockfish, and a piece of bread as black and moldy as his own armor;  

but a laughable sight it was to see him eating, for having his helmet on and the  

beaver up, he could not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless  

some one else placed it there, and this service one of the ladies rendered him. But to  

give him anything to drink was impossible, or would have been so had not the  

landlord bored a reed, and putting one end in his mouth poured the wine into him  

through the other; all which he bore with patience rather than sever the ribbons of  

his helmet.  

 


  

While this was going on there came up to the inn a sow gelder, who, as he  

approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and thereby completely  

convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous castle, and that they were  

regaling him with music, and that the stockfish was trout, the bread the whitest, the  

wenches ladies, and the landlord the castellan of the castle; and consequently he  

held that his enterprise and sally had been to some purpose. But still it distressed  

him to think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him he could not  

lawfully engage in any adventure without receiving the order of knighthood.  


  

  

CHAPTER III  

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF  

DUBBED A KNIGHT  

  

  

Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty pothouse supper, and  

having finished it called the landlord, and shutting himself into the stable with him,  

fell on his knees before him, saying, "From this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until  

your courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one that will redound to your praise and  

the benefit of the human race." The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing  

a speech of this kind, stood staring at him in bewilderment, not knowing what to do  

or say, and entreating him to rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed to grant  

the boon demanded of him. "I looked for no less, my lord, from your High  

Magnificence," replied Don Quixote, "and I have to tell you that the boon I have  

asked and your liberality has granted is that you shall dub me knight to‐morrow  

morning, and that to‐night I shall watch my arms in the chapel of this your castle;  

thus tomorrow, as I have said, will be accomplished what I so much desire, enabling  

me lawfully to roam through all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures  

on behalf of those in distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights‐errant like  

myself, whose ambition is directed to such deeds."  

  

The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag, and had already  

some suspicion of his guest's want of wits, was quite convinced of it on hearing talk  

of this kind from him, and to make sport for the night he determined to fall in with  

his humor. So he told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in view,  

and that such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers as distinguished as he  

seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to be; and that he himself in his younger  

days had followed the same honorable calling, roaming in quest of adventures in  

various parts of the world, among others the Curing‐grounds of Malaga, the Isles of 


  

Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the Olivera of Valencia,  

the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar, the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of  

Toledo, and divers other quarters 10 , where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet  

and the lightness of his fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining  

maids and swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself under the notice of  

almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at last he had retired to this  

castle of his, where he was living upon his property and upon that of others; and  

where he received all knights‐errant of whatever rank or condition they might be,  

all for the great love he bore them and that they might share their substance with  

him in return for his benevolence. He told him, moreover, that in this castle of his  

there was no chapel in which he could watch his armor, as it had been pulled down  

in order to be rebuilt, but that in a case of necessity it might, he knew, be watched  

anywhere, and he might watch it that night in a courtyard of the castle, and in the  

morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies might be performed so as to have  

him dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so. He  

asked if he had any money with him, to which Don Quixote replied that he had not a  

farthing, as in the histories of knights‐errant he had never read of any of them  

carrying any. On this point the landlord told him he was mistaken; for, though not  

recorded in the histories, because in the author's opinion there was no need to  

mention anything so obvious and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to  

be supposed therefore that they did not carry them, and he might regard it as  

certain and established that all knights‐errant (about whom there were so many full  

and unimpeachable books) carried well‐furnished purses in case of emergency, and  

likewise carried shirts and a little box of ointment to cure the wounds they received.  

For in those plains and deserts where they engaged in combat and came out  

wounded, it was not always that there was some one to cure them, unless indeed  

they had for a friend some sage magician to succor them at once by fetching through  

the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial of water of such virtue that by  

tasting one drop of it they were cured of their hurts and wounds in an instant and  

                                                         

10   All the places mentioned were reputed to be the haunts of robbers and rogues. 


  

left as sound as if they had not received any damage whatever. But in case this  

should not occur, the knights of old took care to see that their squires were provided  

with money and other requisites, such as lint and ointments for healing purposes;  

and when it happened that knights had no squires (which was rarely and seldom the  

case) they themselves carried everything in cunning saddle‐bags that were hardly  

seen on the horse's croup, as if it were something else of more importance, because,  

unless for some such reason, carrying saddle‐bags was not very favorably regarded  

among knights‐errant. He therefore advised him (and, as his godson so soon to be,  

he might even command him) never from that time forth to travel without money  

and the usual requirements, and he would find the advantage of them when he least  

expected it.  

  

Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was arranged  

forthwith that he should watch his armor in a large yard at one side of the inn; so,  

collecting it all together, Don Quixote placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a  

well, and bracing his buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a  

stately air to march up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his march  

night began to fall.  

  

The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze of his guest, the  

watching of the armor, and the dubbing ceremony he contemplated. Full of wonder  

at so strange a form of madness, they flocked to see it from a distance, and observed  

with what composure he sometimes paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on  

his lance, gazed on his armor without taking his eyes off it for ever so long; and as  

the night closed in with a light from the moon so brilliant that it might vie with his  

that lent it, everything the novice knight did was plainly seen by all.  

  

Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to water his team, and  

it was necessary to remove Don Quixote's armor as it lay on the trough; but he  

seeing the other approach hailed him in a loud voice, "O thou, whoever thou art,  

rash knight that comest to lay hands on the armor of the most valorous errant that 


  

ever girt on sword, have a care what thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst lay  

down thy life as the penalty of thy rashness." The carrier gave no heed to these  

words (and he would have done better to heed them if he had been heedful of his  

health), but seizing it by the straps flung the armor some distance from him. Seeing  

this, Don Quixote raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently,  

upon his lady Dulcinea, exclaimed, "Aid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter  

that presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection; let not thy favor  

and protection fail me in this first jeopardy;" and, with these words and others to  

the same purpose, dropping his buckler he lifted his lance with both hands and with  

it smote such a blow on the carrier's head that he stretched him on the ground, so  

stunned that had he followed it up with a second there would have been no need of  

a surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armor and returned to his vigil  

with the same serenity as before.  

    

Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for the carrier still lay  

senseless), came with the same object of giving water to his mules, and was  

proceeding to remove the armor in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote,  

without uttering a word or imploring aid from anyone, once more dropped his  

buckler and once more lifted his lance, and without actually breaking the second  

carrier's head into pieces, made more than three of it, for he laid it open in four.  11  At  

the noise all the people of the inn ran to the spot, and among them the landlord.  

Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and with his hand on his  

sword exclaimed, "O Lady of Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it is  

time for thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight on the brink  

of so mighty an adventure." By this he felt himself so inspired that he would not  

have flinched if all the carriers in the world had assailed him. The comrades of the  

wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from a distance to shower stones  

on Don Quixote, who screened himself as best he could with his buckler, not daring  

to quit the trough and leave his armor unprotected. The landlord shouted to them to  

                                                         

11  This is a figure of speech; as when we say somebody “kicked butt,” we don’t mean  

it literally. 


  

leave him alone, for he had already told them that he was mad, and as a madman he  

would not be accountable even if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don  

Quixote, calling them knaves and traitors, and the lord of the castle, who allowed  

knights‐errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and a low‐born knight whom,  

had he received the order of knighthood, he would call to account for his treachery.  

"But of you," he cried, "base and vile rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come  

on, do all ye can against me, ye shall see what the reward of your folly and insolence  

will be." This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness that he filled his assailants  

with a terrible fear, and as much for this reason as at the persuasion of the landlord  

they left off stoning him, and he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with  

the same calmness and composure as before resumed the watch over his armor.   

But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the landlord, so he  

determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at once the unlucky order of  

knighthood before any further misadventure could occur; so, going up to him, he  

apologized for the rudeness which, without his knowledge, had been offered to him  

by these low people, who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he  

had already told him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was it needed  

for what remained to be done, for, as he understood the ceremonial of the order, the  

whole point of being dubbed a knight lay in the accolade and in the slap on the  

shoulder, and that could be administered in the middle of a field; and that he had  

now done all that was needful as to watching the armor, for all requirements were  

satisfied by a watch of two hours only, while he had been more than four about it.  

Don Quixote believed it all, and told him he stood there ready to obey him, and to  

make an end of it with as much despatch 12  as possible; for, if he were again attacked,  

and felt himself to be dubbed knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in  

the castle, except such as out of respect he might spare at his bidding.  

  

Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a book in which he  

used to enter the straw and barley he served out to the carriers, and, with a lad  

                                                         

12  Efficiency  


  

carrying a candle‐end, and the two damsels already mentioned, he returned to  

where Don Quixote stood, and bade him kneel down. Then, reading from his  

account‐book as if he were repeating some devout prayer, in the middle of his  

delivery he raised his hand and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with  

his own sword, a smart slap on the shoulder, all the while muttering between his  

teeth as if he was saying his prayers. Having done this, he directed one of the ladies  

to gird on his sword, which she did with great self‐possession and gravity, and not a  

little was required to prevent a burst of laughter at each stage of the ceremony; but  

what they had already seen of the novice knight's prowess kept their laughter  

within bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy lady said to him, "May  

God make your worship a very fortunate knight, and grant you success in battle."  

Don Quixote asked her name in order that he might from that time forward know to  

whom he was beholden for the favor he had received, as he meant to confer upon  

her some portion of the honor he acquired by the might of his arm. She answered  

with great humility that she was called La Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a  

cobbler of Toledo who lived in the stalls of Sanchobienaya 13 , and that wherever she  

might be she would serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote said in reply that  

she would do him a favor if thenceforward she assumed the "Don" and called herself  

Dona Tolosa. She promised she would, and then the other buckled on his spur, and  

with her followed almost the same conversation as with the lady of the sword. He  

asked her name, and she said it was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a  

respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote requested that she  

would adopt the "Don" and call herself Dona Molinera, making offers to her further  

services and favors.  

  

Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these never‐till‐now‐ 

seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw himself on horseback  

sallying forth in quest of adventures; and saddling Rocinante at once he mounted,  

and embracing his host, as he returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he  

                                                         

13   An old square in Toledo. 


  

addressed him in language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of  

it or report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no less rhetoric  

though with shorter words, and without calling upon him to pay the reckoning let  

him go with a Godspeed.  

  

  

  

  

  

 

CHAPTER IV  

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN  

  


  

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

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

horse‐girths. However, recalling the advice of his host as to the requisites he ought  

to carry with him, especially that referring to money and shirts, he determined to go  

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

securing a farm‐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 Rocinante, thus reminded of his old quarters, stepped  

out so briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.  

  

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

cries as of 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 Rocinante in the  

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

wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the  

waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor  

were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him with a belt and  

following up every blow with scoldings and commands, repeating, "Your mouth shut  

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

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

another time."  

 


  

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

it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot defend himself; mount your steed and  

take your lance" (for there was a lance leaning against the oak to which the mare  

was tied), "and I will make you know that you are behaving as a coward." The  

farmer, seeing before him this figure in full 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. 14   

  

                                                         

14   Barbers were also surgeons. 


  

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

stand as a setoff against the blows you have given him without any cause; for if he  

spoiled the leather of the shoes you paid for, you have damaged that of his body, and  

if the barber took blood from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was  

sound; so on that score he owes you nothing."  

  

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

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

  

"I go with him!" said the youth. "Nay, God forbid! No, señor, not for the world; for  

once alone with me, he would ray me like a Saint Bartholomew."  

  

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

will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the order of knighthood which he has  

received, I leave him free, and I guarantee the payment."  

  

"Consider what you are saying, señor," said the youth; "this master of mine is not a  

knight, nor has he received any order of knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich,  

of Quintanar."  

  

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

moreover, everyone is the son of his works."  

  

"That is true," said Andres; "but this master of mine – of what works is he the son,  

when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and 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 be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the  

valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices; and so,  

God be with you, and keep in mind what you have promised and sworn under those  

penalties that have been already declared to you."  

  

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

followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared the wood and was  

no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres, and said, "Come here, my son, I want  

to pay you what I owe you, as that undoer of wrongs has commanded me."  

  

"My oath on it," said Andres, "your worship will be well advised to obey the  

command of that good knight – may he live a thousand years – for, as he is a valiant  

and just judge, by Roque 15 , if you do not pay me, he will come back and do as he  

said."  

  

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

to add to the debt in order to add to the payment;" and seizing him by the arm, he  

tied him up again, and gave him such a flogging that he left him for dead.  

  

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

he won't undo that, though I am not sure that I have quite done with you, for I have a  

good mind to flay you alive." But at last he untied him, and gave him leave to go look  

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

  

                                                         

15   The origin of this oath is unknown. 


  

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

valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly what had happened, and that  

all would have to be repaid him sevenfold; but for all that, he went off weeping,  

while his master stood laughing.  

  

Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly satisfied with  

what had taken place, as he considered he had made a very happy and noble  

beginning with his knighthood, he took the road towards his village in perfect self‐ 

content, saying in a low voice, "Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate  

above all on earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen to thy  

lot to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and pleasure a knight so renowned  

as is and will be Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as all the world knows, yesterday  

received the order of knighthood, and hath to‐day righted the greatest wrong and  

grievance that ever injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to‐day  

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

that tender child."  

  

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

reminded of those cross‐roads where knights‐errant used to stop to consider which  

road they should take. In imitation of them he halted for a while, and after having  

deeply considered it, he gave Rocinante his head, submitting his own will to that of  

his hack, who followed out his first intention, which was to make straight for his  

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

of people, who, as afterwards appeared, were some Toledo traders, on their way to  

buy silk at Murcia. There were six of them coming along under their sunshades, with  

four servants mounted, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely had Don Quixote  

descried them when the fancy possessed him that this must be some new  

adventure; and to help him to imitate as far as he could those passages he had read  

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

attempt. So with a lofty bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in his  

stirrups, got his lance ready, brought his buckler before his breast, and planting 


  

himself in the middle of the road, stood waiting the approach of these knights‐ 

errant, for such he now considered and held them to be; and when they had come  

near enough to see and hear, he exclaimed with a haughty gesture, "All the world  

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

than the Empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso."  

  

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

that uttered it, and from both figure and language at once guessed the craze of their  

owner; they wished, however, to learn quietly what was the object of this confession  

that was demanded of them, and one of them, who was rather fond of a joke and was  

very sharp‐witted, said to him, "Sir Knight, we do not know who this good lady is  

that you speak of; show her to us, for, if she be of such beauty as you suggest, with  

all our hearts and without any pressure we will confess the truth that is on your part  

required of us."  

  

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

confessing a truth so manifest? The essential point is that without seeing her you  

must believe, confess, affirm, swear, and defend it; else ye have to do with me in  

battle, ill‐conditioned, arrogant rabble that ye are; and come ye on, one by one as the  

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

breed, here do I bide and await you relying on the justice of the cause I maintain."  

  

"Sir Knight," replied the trader, "I entreat your worship in the name of this present  

company of princes, that, to save us from charging our consciences with the  

confession of a thing we have never seen or heard of, and one moreover so much to  

the prejudice of the Empresses and Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura 16 , 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  

                                                         

16  Ironical, since both places were known as especially backward regions. 


  

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 distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble," said Don Quixote, burning with rage,  

"nothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and civet 17  in cotton; nor is she one‐eyed  

or humpbacked, but straighter than a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the  

blasphemy ye have uttered against beauty like that of my lady."  

  

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

such fury and fierceness that, if luck had not contrived that Rocinante should  

stumble midway and come down, it would have gone hard with the rash trader.  

Down went Rocinante, and over went his master, rolling along the ground for some  

distance; and when he tried to rise he was unable, so encumbered was he with lance,  

buckler, spurs, helmet, and the weight of his old 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  

muleteers blood was up, and he did not care to drop the game until he had vented  

the rest of his wrath, and gathering up the remaining fragments of the lance he  

finished with a discharge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the storm of  

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

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

                                                         

17  A musky substance used in perfume, imported from Africa in cotton packing. 


  

traders continued their journey, taking with them matter for talk about the poor  

fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he found himself alone made another  

effort to rise; but if he was unable when whole and sound, how was he to rise after  

having been thrashed and well‐nigh knocked to pieces? And yet he esteemed himself  

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

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

to rise was beyond his power.  

 

  

CHAPTER V  


  

IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT'S MISHAP IS CONTINUED  

  

Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself of having recourse  

to his usual remedy, which was to think of some passage in his books, and his craze  

brought to his mind that about Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto  

left him wounded on the mountain side 18 , a story known by heart by the children,  

not forgotten by the young men, and lauded and even believed by the old folk; and  

for all that not a whit truer than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to him to fit  

exactly the case in which he found himself, so, making a show of severe suffering, he  

began to roll on the ground and with feeble breath repeat the very words which the  

wounded knight of the wood is said to have uttered:  

  

  

Where art thou, lady mine, that thou  

  My sorrow dost not rue?  

Thou canst not know it, lady mine,  

  Or else thou art untrue.  

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

  

  

O noble Marquis of Mantua,  

  My Uncle and liege lord!  

As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there happened to come by a  

peasant from his own village, a neighbor of his, who had been with a load of wheat  

                                                         

18  The allusion is to an old ballad about Charlemagne’s son Charlot (Carloto)  

wounding Baldwin, nephew of the Marquis of Mantua. 


  

to the mill, and he, seeing the man stretched there, came up to him and asked who  

he was and what was the matter with him that he complained so dolefully.  

  

Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of Mantua, his uncle, so  

the only answer he made was to go on with his ballad, in which he told the tale of his  

misfortune, and of the loves of the Emperor's son and his wife all exactly as the  

ballad sings it.  

  

The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and relieving him of the visor,  

already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his face, which was covered with dust,  

and as soon as he had done so he recognized him and said, "Señor Quixada" (for so  

he appears to have been called when he was in his senses and had not yet changed  

from a quiet country gentleman into a knight‐errant), "who has brought your  

worship to this pass?" But to all questions the other only went on with his ballad.  

  

Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his breastplate and backpiece  

to see if he had any wound, but he could perceive no blood nor any mark whatever.  

He then contrived to raise him from the ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted  

him upon his ass, which seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and  

collecting the arms, even to the splinters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and  

leading him by the bridle and the ass by the halter he took the road for the village,  

very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote was talking.  

  

Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could not sit  

upright on the ass, and from time to time he sent up sighs to heaven, so that once  

more he drove the peasant to ask what ailed him. And it could have been only the  

devil himself that put into his head tales to match his own adventures, for now,  

forgetting Baldwin, he bethought himself of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide  

of Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him away to his  

castle; so that when the peasant again asked him how he was and what ailed him, he  

gave him for reply the same words and phrases that the captive Abindarraez gave to 


  

Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read the story in the Diana of Jorge de  

Montemayor 19  where it is written, applying it to his own case so aptly that the  

peasant went along cursing his fate that he had to listen to such a lot of nonsense;  

from which, however, he came to the conclusion that his neighbor was mad, and so  

made all haste to reach the village to escape the wearisomeness of this harangue of  

Don Quixote's; who, at the end of it, said, "Señor Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your  

worship must know that this fair Xarifa I have mentioned is now the lovely Dulcinea  

del Toboso, for whom I have done, am doing, and will do the most famous deeds of  

chivalry that in this world have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen."  

  

To this the peasant answered, "Señor – sinner that I am! – cannot your worship see  

that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonso  

your neighbor, and that your worship is neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the  

worthy gentleman Señor Quixada?"   

  

"I know who I am," replied Don Quixote, "and I know who I may be if I choose; not  

only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and even all the Nine  

Worthies, 20  since my achievements surpass all that they have done all together and  

each of them on his own account."  

  

With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village just as night was  

beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it was a little later that the belabored  

gentleman might not be seen riding in such a miserable trim. When it was what  

seemed to him the proper time he entered the village and went to Don Quixote's  

house, which he found all in confusion, and there were the curate and the village  

                                                         

19   The reference is to the tale of the love of Abindarraez,  a captive Moor, for the  

beautiful Jarifa (mentioned in the following paragraph), contained in the second  

edition of Diana, the pastoral romance by Jorge de Montemayor.  

20  In the French medieval epics the Twelve Peers (Roland, Olivier, etc.) were  

warriors all equal in rank forming a sort of guard of honor around Charelmagne.   

The Nine Worthies, in a tradition originating in France, were nine figures, three  

biblical, three classical, and three Christian (David, Hector, Alexander, etc.) 


  

barber, who were great friends of Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was saying to  

them in a loud voice, "What does your worship think can have befallen my master,  

Señor Licentiate Pero Perez?" for so the curate was called; "it is three days now  

since anything has been seen of him, or the hack, or the buckler, lance, or armor.  

Miserable me! I am certain of it, and it is as true as that I was born to die, that these  

accursed books of chivalry he has, and has got into the way of reading so constantly,  

have upset his reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying to himself  

that he would turn knight‐errant and go all over the world in quest of adventures.  

To the devil and Barabbas 21  with such books, that have brought to ruin in this way  

the finest understanding there was in all La Mancha!"  

  

The niece said the same, and, more: "You must know, Master Nicholas" – for that  

was the name of the barber – "it was often my uncle's way to stay two days and  

nights together poring over these unholy books of misadventures, after which he  

would fling the book away and snatch up his sword and fall to slashing the walls;  

and when he was tired out he would say he had killed four giants like four towers;  

and the sweat that flowed from him when he was weary he said was the blood of the  

wounds he had received in battle; and then he would drink a great jug of cold water  

and become calm and quiet, saying that this water was a most precious potion  

which the sage Esquife, a great magician and friend of his, had brought him. But I  

take all the blame upon myself for never having told your worships of my uncle's  

vagaries, that you might put a stop to them before things had come to this pass, and  

burn all these accursed books – for he has a great number – that richly deserve to be  

burned like heretics."  

  

"So say I too," said the curate, "and by my faith tomorrow shall not pass without  

public judgment upon them, and may they be condemned to the flames lest they  

lead those that read to behave as my good friend seems to have behaved."  

  

                                                         

21  the thief Pontius Pilate released to the crowd, rather than Jesus. 


  

All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what was the matter  

with his neighbor, so he began calling aloud, "Open, your worships, to Señor  

Baldwin and to Señor the Marquis of Mantua, who comes badly wounded, and to  

Señor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of  

Antequera, brings captive."  

  

At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognized their friend, master,  

and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the ass because he could not, they ran  

to embrace him.  

  

"Hold!" said he, "for I am badly wounded through my horse's fault; carry me to bed,  

and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and see to my wounds."  

  

"See there! plague on it!" cried the housekeeper at this: "did not my heart tell the  

truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To bed with your worship at once,  

and we will contrive to cure you here without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say  

once more, and a hundred times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought  

your worship to such a pass."  

  

They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his wounds could find none,  

but he said they were all bruises from having had a severe fall with his horse  

Rocinante when in combat with ten giants, the biggest and the boldest to be found  

on earth.  

  

"So, so!" said the curate, "are there giants in the dance? By the sign of the Cross I will  

burn them to‐morrow before the day over."  

  

They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer to all was – give  

him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for that was what he needed most.  

They did so, and the curate questioned the peasant at great length as to how he had  

found Don Quixote. He told him, and the nonsense he had talked when found and on 


  

the way home, all which made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did the  

next day, which was to summon his friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with  

him to Don Quixote's house.   

CHAPTER VII  


  

OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR GOOD KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA  

  

 . . . In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quietly without showing  

any signs of a desire to take up with his former delusions, and during this time he  

held lively discussions with his two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the point  

he maintained, that knights‐errant were what the world stood most in need of, and  

that in him was to be accomplished the revival of knight‐errantry. The curate  

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

this precaution he would have been unable to bring him to reason.  

  

Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm 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 head. 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  

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

him gladly, because any moment an adventure might occur that might win an island  

in the twinkling of an eye and leave him governor of it. On these and the like  

promises Sancho Panza (for so the laborer was called) left wife and children, and  

engaged himself as squire 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 22  with him. The  

other said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good ass he had, as he  

                                                         

22  Saddle bags 


  

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 squire  

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 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 23 , 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, Señor  

Knight‐errant, not to forget about the island you have promised me, for be it ever so  

big I'll be equal to governing it."  

  

To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was a  

practice very much in vogue with the knights‐errant of old to make their squires  

governors of the islands or kingdoms they won, and I am determined that there  

shall be no failure on my part in so liberal a custom; on the contrary, I mean to  

improve upon it, for they sometimes, and perhaps most frequently, waited until  

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

                                                         

23  Flask  


  

and worse nights, they gave them some title or other, of count, or at the most  

marquis, of some valley or province more or less; but if thou livest and I live, it may  

well be that before six days are over, I may have won some kingdom that has others  

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

one of them. Nor needst thou count this wonderful, for things and chances fall to the  

lot of such knights in ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might easily give  

thee even more than I promise thee."  

  

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

your worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old woman, would come to be  

queen and my children infantes."  

  

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

  

"I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "because for my part I am persuaded that though  

God should shower down kingdoms upon earth, not one of them would fit the head  

of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you, señor, she is not worth two maravedis 24  for a  

queen; countess will fit her better, and that only with God's help."  

  

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

best; but do not undervalue thyself so much as to come to be content with anything  

less than being governor of a province."  

  

"I will not, señor," answered Sancho, "specially as I have a man of such quality for a  

master in your worship, who will know how to give me all that will be suitable for  

me and that I can bear."  

  

                                                         

24  A coin worth one‐thirty‐fourth of a real. 


  

CHAPTER VIII  

OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE  

TERRIBLE AND UNDREAMT‐OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER  

OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO BE FITLY RECORDED  

  

At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that there are on plain, and  

as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire, "Fortune is arranging  

matters for us better than we could have shaped our desires ourselves, for look  

there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous giants present  

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

we shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God's  

good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth."  

  

"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.  

  

"Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the long arms, and some have  

them nearly two leagues long."  

  

"Look, your worship," said Sancho; "what we see there are not giants but windmills,  

and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned by the wind make the  

millstone go."  

  

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

adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid, away with thee out of this and  

betake thyself to prayer while I engage them in fierce and unequal combat."  

  

So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the cries his squire  

Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly they were windmills and not  

giants he was going to attack. He, however, was so positive they were giants that he  

neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were, 


  

but made at them shouting, "Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight  

attacks you."  

  

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

which Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though ye flourish more arms than the giant  

Briareus, 25  ye have to reckon with me."  

  

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

her to support him in such a peril, with lance in rest and covered by his buckler, he  

charged at Rocinante's fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of  

him; but as he drove his lance‐point into the sail the wind whirled it round with such  

force that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse and rider, who went  

rolling over on the plain, in a sorry condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as  

fast as his ass could go, and when he came up found him unable to move, with such a  

shock had Rocinante fallen with him.  

  

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

about, for they were only windmills? and no one could have made any mistake about  

it but one who had mills 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, 26  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."  

                                                         

25   A mythological giant with a hundred arms.  

26  After the barber and the curate had burned all his books and walled up his study,  

Quixote promptly attributed the disappearance to an evil sorcerer named Friston,  

who, naturally, held a grudge against him. 


  

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

again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then, discussing the late  

adventure, they followed the road to Puerto Lapice, for there, said Don Quixote, they  

could not fail to find adventures in abundance and variety, as it was a great  

thoroughfare. For all that, he was much grieved at the loss of his lance, and saying so  

to his squire, he added, "I remember having read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez  

de Vargas by name, having broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a ponderous  

bough or branch, and with it did such things that day, and pounded so many Moors,  

that he got the surname of Machuca 27 , and he and his descendants from that day  

forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I mention this because from the first oak I see I  

mean to rend such another branch, large and stout like that, with which I am  

determined and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest deem thyself very  

fortunate in being found worthy to come and see them, and be an eyewitness of  

things that will with difficulty be believed."  

  

"Be that as God will," said Sancho, "I believe it all as your worship says it; but  

straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on one side, may be from the shaking of  

the fall."  

  

"That is the truth," said Don Quixote, "and if I make no complaint of the pain it is  

because knights‐errant are not permitted to complain of any wound, even though  

their bowels be coming out through it."  

  

"If so," said Sancho, "I have nothing to say; but God knows I would rather your  

worship complained when anything ailed you. For my part, I confess I must  

complain, however small the ache may be; unless this rule about not complaining  

extends to the squires of knights‐errant also."  

  

                                                         

27  Machuca, meaning “The Crusher,” was the hero of a folk balad. 


  

Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire's simplicity, and he assured him  

he might complain whenever and however he chose, just as he liked, for, so far, he  

had never read of anything to the contrary in the order of knighthood.  

  

Sancho bade him remember it was dinner‐time, to which his master answered that  

he wanted nothing himself just then, but that he might eat when he had a mind. With  

this permission Sancho settled himself as comfortably as he could on his beast, and  

taking out of the alforjas what he had stowed away in them, he jogged along behind  

his master munching deliberately, and from time to time taking a pull at the bota  

with a relish that the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied; and while he  

went on in this way, gulping down draught after draught, he never gave a thought to  

any of the promises his master had made him, nor did he rate it as hardship but  

rather as recreation going in quest of adventures, however dangerous they might be.  

Finally they passed the night among some trees, from one of which Don Quixote  

plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a lance, and fixed on it the head  

he had removed from the broken one. All that night Don Quixote lay awake thinking  

of his lady Dulcinea, in order to conform to what he had read in his books, how  

many a night in the forests and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported by  

the memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza spend it, for having his  

stomach full of something stronger than chicory water he made but one sleep of it,  

and, if his master had not called him, neither the rays of the sun beating on his face  

nor all the cheery notes of the birds welcoming the approach of day would have had  

power to waken him. On getting up he tried the bota and found it somewhat less full  

than the night before, which grieved his heart because they did not seem to be on  

the way to remedy the deficiency readily. Don Quixote did not care to break his fast,  

for, as has been already said, he confined himself to savory recollections for  

nourishment.  

  

They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto Lapice, and at  

three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. "Here, brother Sancho Panza," said  

Don Quixote when he saw it, "we may plunge our hands up to the elbows in what 


  

they call adventures; but observe, even shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger  

in the world, thou must not put a hand to thy sword in my defense, unless indeed  

thou perceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base folk; for in that case  

thou mayest very properly aid me; but if they be knights it is on no account  

permitted or allowed thee by the laws of knighthood to help me until thou hast been  

dubbed a knight."  

  

"Most certainly, señor," replied Sancho, "your worship shall be fully obeyed in this  

matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful and no friend to mixing in strife and  

quarrels: it is true that as regards the defense of my own person I shall not give  

much heed to those laws, for laws human and divine allow each one to defend  

himself against any assailant whatever."  

  

"That I grant," said Don Quixote, "but in this matter of aiding me against knights  

thou must put a restraint upon thy natural impetuosity."  

  

"I will do so, I promise you," answered Sancho, "and will keep this precept as  

carefully as Sunday."  

  

While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two friars of the order of  

St. Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, for not less tall were the two mules they  

rode on. They wore traveling spectacles and carried sunshades; and behind them  

came a coach attended by four or five persons on horseback and two muleteers on  

foot. In the coach there was, as afterwards appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to  

Seville, where her husband was about to take passage for the Indies with an  

appointment of high honor. The friars, though going the same road, were not in her  

company; but the moment Don Quixote perceived them he said to his squire, "Either  

I am mistaken, or this is going to be the most famous adventure that has ever been  

seen, for those black bodies we see there must be, and doubtless are, magicians who  

are carrying off some stolen princess in that coach, and with all my might I must  

undo this wrong." 

  


  

"This will be worse than the windmills," said Sancho. "Look, señor; those are friars  

of St. Benedict, and the coach plainly belongs to some travelers: I tell you to mind  

well what you are about and don't let the devil mislead you."  

  

"I have told thee already, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that on the subject of  

adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the truth, as thou shalt see presently."  

  

So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the road along which the  

friars were coming, and as soon as he thought they had come near enough to hear  

what he said, he cried aloud, "Devilish and unnatural beings, release instantly the  

highborn princesses whom you are carrying off by force in this coach, else prepare  

to meet a speedy death as the just punishment of your evil deeds."  

  

The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of Don Quixote as well  

as at his words, to which they replied, "Señor Caballero, we are not devilish or  

unnatural, but two brothers of St. Benedict following our road, nor do we know  

whether or not there are any captive princesses coming in this coach."  

  

"No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble," said Don Quixote, and without  

waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with leveled lance charged the first  

friar with such fury and determination, that, if the friar had not flung himself off the  

mule, he would have brought him to the ground against his will, and sore wounded,  

if not killed outright. The second brother, seeing how his comrade was treated,  

drove his heels into his castle of a mule and made off across the country faster than  

the wind.  

  

Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting briskly from his  

ass, rushed towards him and began to strip off his gown. At that instant the friars’  

muleteers came up and asked what he was stripping him for. Sancho answered them  

that this fell to him lawfully as spoil of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had 


  

won. The muleteers, who had no idea of a joke and did not understand all this about  

battles and spoils, seeing that Don Quixote was some distance off talking to the  

travelers in the coach, fell upon Sancho, knocked him down, and leaving hardly a  

hair in his beard, belabored him with kicks and left him stretched breathless and  

senseless on the ground; and without any more delay helped the friar to mount,  

who, trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon as he found himself in the saddle,  

spurred after his companion, who was standing at a distance looking on, watching  

the result of the onslaught; then, not caring to wait for the end of the affair just  

begun, they pursued their journey making more crosses than if they had the devil  

after them.  

  

Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the coach: "Your beauty,  

lady mine," said he, "may now dispose of your person as may be most in accordance  

with your pleasure, for the pride of your ravishers lies prostrate on the ground  

through this strong arm of mine; and lest you should be pining to know the name of  

your deliverer, know that I am called Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight‐errant and  

adventurer, and captive to the peerless and beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso: and  

in return for the service you have received of me I ask no more than that you should  

return to El Toboso, and on my behalf present yourself before that lady and tell her  

what I have done to set you free."  

  

One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, 28  was listening to all  

Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that he would not allow the coach to go on,  

but was saying it must return at once to El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing his  

lance addressed him in bad Castilian and worse Biscayan after his fashion, "Begone,  

caballero, and ill go with thee; by the God that made me, unless thou quittest coach,  

slayest thee as art here a Biscayan."  

  

                                                         

28  From the Bosque region in northeastern Spain. 


  

Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him very quietly, "If thou  

wert a knight, as thou art none, I should have already chastised thy folly and  

rashness, miserable creature." To which the Biscayan returned, "I no gentleman! – I  

swear to God thou liest as I am Christian: if thou droppest lance and drawest sword,  

soon shalt thou see thou art carrying water to the cat 29 :  Biscayan on land, hidalgo at  

sea, hidalgo in spite of the devil, and look, if thou sayest otherwise thou liest."  

  

"'"You will see presently," said Agrajes,'" replied Don Quixote; and throwing his  

lance on the ground he drew his sword, braced his buckler on his arm, and attacked  

the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life.  

  

The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished to dismount from his  

mule, in which, being one of those sorry ones let out for hire, he had no confidence,  

had no choice but to draw his sword; it was lucky for him, however, that he was near  

the coach, from which he was able to snatch a cushion that served him for a shield;  

and they went at one another as if they had been two mortal enemies. The others  

strove to make peace between them, but could not, for the Biscayan declared in his  

disjointed phrase that if they did not let him finish his battle he would kill his  

mistress and everyone that strove to prevent him. The lady in the coach, amazed  

and terrified at what she saw, ordered the coachman to draw aside a little, and set  

herself to watch this severe struggle, in the course of which the Biscayan smote Don  

Quixote a mighty stroke on the shoulder over the top of his buckler, which, given to  

one without armor, would have cleft him to the waist. Don Quixote, feeling the  

weight of this prodigious blow, cried aloud, saying, "O lady of my soul, Dulcinea,  

flower of beauty, come to the aid of this your knight, who, in fulfilling his obligations  

to your beauty, finds himself in this extreme peril." To say this, to lift his sword, to  

shelter himself well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan was the work of  

an instant, determined as he was to venture all upon a single blow. The Biscayan,  

seeing him come on in this way, was convinced of his courage by his spirited  

                                                         

29  An inversion of the proverbial phrase, “carrying the cat to water,” a not altogether  

pleasant task. 


  

bearing, and resolved to follow his example, so he waited for him keeping well  

under cover of his cushion, being unable to execute any sort of maneuver with his  

mule, which, dead tired and never meant for this kind of game, could not stir a step.  

  

On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary Biscayan, with uplifted  

sword and a firm intention of splitting him in half, while on his side the Biscayan  

waited for him sword in hand, and under the protection of his cushion; and all  

present stood trembling, waiting in suspense the result of blows such as threatened  

to fall, and the lady in the coach and the rest of her following were making a  

thousand vows and offerings to all the images and shrines of Spain, that God might  

deliver her squire and all of them from this great peril in which they found  

themselves. But it spoils all, that at this point and crisis the author of the history  

leaves this battle impending, giving as excuse that he could find nothing more  

written about these achievements of Don Quixote than what has been already set  

forth. It is true the second author 30  of this work was unwilling to believe that a  

history so curious could have been allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivion, or  

that the wits of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to preserve in  

their archives or registries some documents referring to this famous knight; and this  

being his persuasion, he did not despair of finding the conclusion of this pleasant  

history . . . .  

   

  

  

                                                         

30  Cervantes himself, adopting here – with tongue in cheek – a device used in the  

romances of chivalry to create suspense. 

CHAPTER IX  


  

IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE  

GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN  

  

. . . we left the valiant Biscayan and the renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords  

uplifted, ready to deliver two such furious slashing blows that if they had fallen full  

and fair they would at least have split and cleft them asunder from top to toe and  

laid them open like a pomegranate; and at this so critical point the delightful history  

came to a stop and stood cut short without any intimation from the author where  

what was missing was to be found.  

  

This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived from having read such a  

small portion turned to vexation at the thought of the poor chance that presented  

itself of finding the large part that, so it seemed to me, was missing of such an  

interesting tale. It appeared to me to be a thing impossible and contrary to all  

precedent that so good a knight should have been without some sage to undertake  

the task of writing his marvelous achievements; a thing that was never wanting to  

any of those knights‐errant who, they say, went after adventures; for every one of  

them had one or two sages as if made on purpose, who not only recorded their  

deeds but described their most trifling thoughts and follies, however secret they  

might be; and such a good knight could not have been so unfortunate as not to have  

what Platir and others like him had in abundance. And so I could not bring myself to  

believe that such a gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilated, and I laid the  

blame on Time, the devourer and destroyer of all things, that had either concealed  

or consumed it.  

  

On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his books there had been  

found such modern ones as The Enlightenment of Jealousy and the Nymphs and  

Shepherds of Henares, his story must likewise be modern, and that though it might  

not be written, it might exist in the memory of the people of his village and of those 


  

in the neighborhood. This reflection kept me perplexed and longing to know the  

whole story, the true story, of the life and wondrous deeds of our famous Spaniard,  

Don Quixote of La Mancha, light and mirror of chivalry in La Mancha, and the first in  

our age and in these calamitous times to have devoted himself to the labor and  

exercise of knight‐errantry, righting wrongs, succoring widows, and protecting  

damsels of that sort that used to ride about, whip in hand, on their palfreys, with all  

their virginity about them, from mountain to mountain and valley to valley – for, if it  

were not for some ruffian, or boor with a hood and hatchet, or monstrous giant, that  

forced them, there were in days of yore damsels that at the end of eighty years, in all  

which time they had never slept a day under a roof, went to their graves as much  

maids as the mothers that bore them.  I say, then, that in these and other respects  

our gallant Don Quixote is worthy of everlasting and notable praise, nor should such  

praise be withheld even from me for the labor and pains spent in searching for the  

conclusion of this delightful history; though I know well that if Heaven, chance and  

good fortune had not helped me, the world would have remained deprived of an  

entertainment and pleasure that for a couple of hours or so may well occupy him  

who shall read it attentively. The discovery of it occurred in this way.  

  

One day, as I was in the Alcana of Toledo, a boy came up to sell some pamphlets and  

old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I am fond of reading even the very scraps of  

paper in the streets, led by this natural bent of mine I took up one of the pamphlets  

the boy had for sale, and saw that it was in characters which I recognized as Arabic,  

and as I was unable to read them though I could recognize them, I looked about to  

see if there were any Spanish‐speaking Morisco at hand to read them for me; nor  

was there any great difficulty in finding such an interpreter, for even had I sought  

one for an older and better language 31  I should have found him. In short, chance  

provided me with one, who when I told him what I wanted and put the book into his  

hands, opened it in the middle and after reading a little in it began to laugh. I asked  

him what he was laughing at, and he replied that it was at something the book had  

                                                         

31   i.e., Hebrew 


  

written in the margin by way of a note. I bade him tell it to me; and he still laughing  

said, "In the margin, as I told you, this is written: 'This Dulcinea del Toboso so often  

mentioned in this history, had, they say, the best hand of any woman in all La  

Mancha for salting pigs.'"  

  

When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck with surprise and  

amazement, for it occurred to me at once that these pamphlets contained the history  

of Don Quixote. With this idea I pressed him to read the beginning, and doing so,  

turning the Arabic offhand into Castilian, he told me it meant, History of Don Quixote  

of La Mancha, written by Cide Hamete Benengeli 32 , an Arab historian. It required  

great caution to hide the joy I felt when the title of the book reached my ears, and  

snatching it from the silk mercer, I bought all the papers and pamphlets from the  

boy for half a real; and if he had had his wits about him and had known how eager I  

was for them, he might have safely calculated on making more than six reals by the  

bargain. I withdrew at once with the Morisco into the cloister of the cathedral, and  

begged him to turn all these pamphlets that related to Don Quixote into the Castilian  

tongue, without omitting or adding anything to them, offering him whatever  

payment he pleased. He was satisfied with two arrobas of raisins 33  and two bushels  

of wheat, and promised to translate them faithfully and with all dispatch; but to  

make the matter easier, and not to let such a precious find out of my hands, I took  

him to my house, where in little more than a month and a half he translated the  

whole just as it is set down here.  

  

In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and the Biscayan was drawn to  

the very life, they planted in the same attitude as the history describes, their swords  

raised, and the one protected by his buckler, the other by his cushion, and the  

Biscayan's mule so true to nature that it could be seen to be a hired one a bowshot  

off. The Biscayan had an inscription under his feet which said, "Don Sancho de  

                                                         

32  Citing some ancient chronicle as the author’s source and authority is very much in  

the tradition of the romances.  Benengeli, incidentally, means “eggplant.”  

33  About 50 pounds. 


  

Azpeitia," which no doubt must have been his name; and at the feet of Rocinante  

was another that said, "Don Quixote." Rocinante was marvelously portrayed, so long  

and thin, so lank and lean, with so much backbone and so far gone in consumption,  

that he showed plainly with what judgment and propriety the name of Rocinante  

had been bestowed upon him. Near him was Sancho Panza holding the halter of his  

ass, at whose feet was another label that said, "Sancho Zancas," and according to the  

picture, he must have had a big belly, a short body, and long shanks, for which  

reason, no doubt, the names of Panza and Zancas 34  were given him, for by these two  

surnames the history several times calls him. Some other trifling particulars might  

be mentioned, but they are all of slight importance and have nothing to do with the  

true relation of the history; and no history can be bad so long as it is true.  

  

If against the present one any objection be raised on the score of its truth, it can only  

be that its author was an Arab, as lying is a very common propensity with those of  

that nation; though, as they are such enemies of ours, it is conceivable that there  

were omissions rather than additions made in the course of it. And this is my own  

opinion; for, where he could and should give freedom to his pen in praise of so  

worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately to pass it over in silence; which is ill  

done and worse contrived, for it is the business and duty of historians to be exact,  

truthful, and wholly free from passion, and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor love,  

should make them swerve from the path of truth, whose mother is history, rival of  

time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the past, example and counsel for the present,  

and warning for the future. In this I know will be found all that can be desired in the  

pleasantest, and if it be wanting in any good quality, I maintain it is the fault of its  

hound of an author and not the fault of the subject. To be brief, its Second Part,  

according to the translation, began in this way:  

  

With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it seemed as though the two  

valiant and wrathful combatants stood threatening heaven, and earth, and hell, with  

                                                         

34  i.e., Paunch and Shanks 


  

such resolution and determination did they bear themselves. The fiery Biscayan was  

the first to strike a blow, which was delivered with such force and fury that had not  

the sword turned in its course, that single stroke would have sufficed to put an end  

to the bitter struggle and to all the adventures of our knight; but that good fortune  

which reserved him for greater things, turned aside the sword of his adversary, so  

that although it smote him upon the left shoulder, it did him no more harm than to  

strip all that side of its armor, carrying away a great part of his helmet with half of  

his ear, all which with fearful ruin fell to the ground, leaving him in a sorry plight.  

  

Good God! Who is there that could properly describe the rage that filled the heart of  

our Manchegan when he saw himself dealt with in this fashion? All that can be said  

is, it was such that he again raised himself in his stirrups, and, grasping his sword  

more firmly with both hands, he came down on the Biscayan with such fury, smiting  

him full over the cushion and over the head, that – even so good a shield proving  

useless – as if a mountain had fallen on him, he began to bleed from nose, mouth,  

and ears, reeling as if about to fall backwards from his mule, as no doubt he would  

have done had he not flung his arms about its neck; at the same time, however, he  

slipped his feet out of the stirrups and then unclasped his arms, and the mule, taking  

fright at the terrible blow, made off across the plain, and with a few plunges flung its  

master to the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on very calmly, and, when he saw  

him fall, leaped from his horse and with great briskness ran to him, and, presenting  

the point of his sword to his eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut his head off.  

The Biscayan was so bewildered that he was unable to answer a word, and it would  

have gone hard with him, so blind was Don Quixote, had not the ladies in the coach,  

who had hitherto been watching the combat in great terror, hastened to where he  

stood and implored him with earnest entreaties to grant them the great grace and  

favor of sparing their squire's life; to which Don Quixote replied with much gravity  

and dignity, "In truth, fair ladies, I am well content to do what ye ask of me; but it  

must be on one condition and understanding, which is that this knight promise me  

to go to the village of El Toboso, and on my behalf present himself before the  

peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal with him as shall be most pleasing to her." 


  

  

The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing Don Quixote's demand or  

asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that their squire should do all that had  

been commanded.  

  

"Then, on the faith of that promise," said Don Quixote, "I shall do him no further  

harm, though he well deserves it of me."   

  

  

  

 

CHAPTER X  


  

OF THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS  

SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA  

  

Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for the handling of the friars'  

muleteers, and stood watching the battle of his master, Don Quixote, and praying to  

God in his heart that it might be his will to grant him the victory, and that he might  

thereby win some island to make him governor of, as he had promised. Seeing,  

therefore, that the struggle was now over, and that his master was returning to  

mount Rocinante, he approached to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he could  

mount, he went on his knees before him, and taking his hand, kissed it saying, "May  

it please your worship, Señor Don Quixote, to give me the government of that island  

which has been won in this hard fight, for be it ever so big I feel myself in sufficient  

force to be able to govern it as much and as well as anyone in the world who has  

ever governed islands."  

  

To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must take notice, brother Sancho, that this  

adventure and those like it are not adventures of islands, but of cross‐roads, in  

which nothing is got except a broken head or an ear the less: have patience, for  

adventures will present themselves from which I may make you, not only a  

governor, but something more."  

  

Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand and the skirt of his  

hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante, and mounting his ass himself, proceeded  

to follow his master, who at a brisk pace, without taking leave, or saying anything  

further to the ladies belonging to the coach, turned into a wood that was hard by.  

Sancho followed him at his ass's best trot, but Rocinante stepped out so that, seeing  

himself left behind, he was forced to call to his master to wait for him. Don Quixote  

did so, reining in Rocinante until his weary squire came up, who on reaching him  

said, "It seems to me, señor, it would be prudent in us to go and take refuge in some 


  

church, for, seeing how mauled he with whom you fought has been left, it will be no  

wonder if they give information of the affair to the Holy Brotherhood and arrest us,  

and, faith, if they do, before we come out of jail we shall have to sweat for it."  

  

"Peace," said Don Quixote; "where hast thou ever seen or heard that a knight‐errant  

has been arraigned before a court of justice, however many homicides he may have  

committed?"  

  

"I know nothing about omecils, 35 " answered Sancho, "nor in my life have had  

anything to do with one; I only know that the Holy Brotherhood looks after those  

who fight in the fields, and in that other matter I do not meddle."  

  

"Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend," said Don Quixote, "for I will  

deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, much more out of those of the  

Brotherhood. But tell me, as thou livest, hast thou seen a more valiant knight than I  

in all the known world; hast thou read in history of any who has or had higher  

mettle in attack, more spirit in maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding or skill in  

overthrowing?"  

  

"The truth is," answered Sancho, "that I have never read any history, for I can  

neither read nor write, but what I will venture to bet is that a more daring master  

than your worship I have never served in all the days of my life, and God grant that  

this daring be not paid for where I have said; what I beg of your worship is to dress  

your wound, for a great deal of blood flows from that ear, and I have here some lint  

and a little white ointment in the alforjas."  

  

"All that might be well dispensed with," said Don Quixote, "if I had remembered to  

make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras, for time and medicine are saved by one single  

drop."  

                                                         

35  grudges 

  

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

  


  

"It is a balsam," answered Don Quixote, "the receipt of which I have in my memory,  

with which one need have no fear of death, or dread dying of any wound; and so  

when I make it and give it to thee thou hast nothing to do when in some battle thou  

seest they have cut me in half through the middle of the body – as is wont to happen  

frequently, – but neatly and with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that  

portion of the body which shall have fallen to the ground upon the other half which  

remains in the saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly. Then thou shalt give  

me to drink but two drops of the balsam I have mentioned, and thou shalt see me  

become sounder than an apple."  

  

"If that be so," said Panza, "I renounce henceforth the government of the promised  

island, and desire nothing more in payment of my many and faithful services than  

that your worship give me the receipt of this supreme liquor, for I am persuaded it  

will be worth more than two reals an ounce anywhere, and I want no more than to  

pass the rest of my life in ease and honor; but it remains to be told if it costs much to  

make it."  

  

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

  

"Sinner that I am!" said Sancho, "then why does your worship put off making it and  

teaching it to me?"  

  

"Peace, friend," answered Don Quixote; "greater secrets I mean to teach thee and  

greater favors to bestow upon thee; and for the present let us see to the dressing, for  

my ear pains me more than I could wish."  

  

Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but when Don Quixote  

came to see his helmet shattered, he was like to lose his senses, and clapping his 


  

hand upon his sword and raising his eyes to heaven, be said, "I swear by the Creator  

of all things and the four Gospels in their fullest extent, to do as the great Marquis of  

Mantua did when he swore to avenge the death of his nephew Baldwin (and that  

was not to eat bread from a table‐cloth, nor embrace his wife, and other points  

which, though I cannot now call them to mind, I here grant as expressed) until I take  

complete vengeance upon him who has committed such an offence against me."  

  

Hearing this, Sancho said to him, "Your worship should bear in mind, Señor Don  

Quixote, that if the knight has done what was commanded him in going to present  

himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done all that he was bound  

to do, and does not deserve further punishment unless he commits some new  

offence."  

  

"Thou hast said well and hit the point," answered Don Quixote; and so I recall the  

oath in so far as relates to taking fresh vengeance on him, but I make and confirm it  

anew to lead the life I have said until such time as I take by force from some knight  

another helmet such as this and as good; and think not, Sancho, that I am raising  

smoke with straw in doing so, for I have one to imitate in the matter, since the very  

same thing to a hair happened in the case of Mambrino's helmet, which cost  

Sacripante so dear." 36   

  

"Señor," replied Sancho, "let your worship send all such oaths to the devil, for they  

are very pernicious to salvation and prejudicial to the conscience; just tell me now, if  

for several days to come we fall in with no man armed with a helmet, what are we to  

do? Is the oath to be observed in spite of all the inconvenience and discomfort it will  

be to sleep in your clothes, and not to sleep in a house, and a thousand other  

mortifications contained in the oath of that old fool the Marquis of Mantua, which  

your worship is now wanting to revive? Let your worship observe that there are no  

                                                         

36  The enchanted helmet of Mambrino, a Moorish king, is stolen by Rinaldo in the  

15 th  century epic poem Orlando Innamorato (“Roland in Love”) by Matteo Maria  

Boiardo. 


  

men in armor traveling on any of these roads, nothing but carriers and carters, who  

not only do not wear helmets, but perhaps never heard tell of them all their lives."  

  

"Thou art wrong there," said Don Quixote, "for we shall not have been above two  

hours among these cross‐roads before we see more men in armor than came to  

Albraca to win the fair Angelica." 37   

  

"Enough," said Sancho; "so be it then, and God grant us success, and that the time for  

winning that island which is costing me so dear may soon come, and then let me  

die."  

  

"I have already told thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "not to give thyself any  

uneasiness on that score; for if an island should fail, there is the kingdom of  

Denmark, or of Sobradisa, 38  which will fit thee as a ring fits the finger, and all the  

more that, being on terra firma 39 , thou wilt all the better enjoy thyself.  But let us  

leave that to its own time; see if thou hast anything for us to eat in those alforjas,  

because we must presently go in quest of some castle where we may lodge to‐night  

and make the balsam I told thee of, for I swear to thee by God, this ear is giving me  

great pain."  

  

"I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of bread," said Sancho,  

"but they are not victuals fit for a valiant knight like your worship."  

  

"How little thou knowest about it," answered Don Quixote; "I would have thee to  

know, Sancho, that it is the glory of knights‐errant to go without eating for a month,  

and even when they do eat, that it should be of what comes first to hand; and this  

would have been clear to thee hadst thou read as many histories as I have, for,  

                                                         

37  Another allusion to Boiardo’s poem.  

38  An imaginary realm.  

39  Solid earth, here also Firm Island, an imaginary final destination for squires of  

knights errant. 


  

though they are very many, among them all I have found no mention made of  

knights‐errant eating, unless by accident or at some sumptuous banquets prepared  

for them, and the rest of the time they passed in dalliance. And though it is plain  

they could not do without eating and performing all the other natural functions,  

because, in fact, they were men like ourselves, it is plain too that, wandering as they  

did the most part of their lives through woods and wilds and without a cook, their  

most usual fare would be rustic viands such as those thou now offer me; so that,  

friend Sancho, let not that distress thee which pleases me, and do not seek to make a  

new world or pervert knight‐errantry."  

  

"Pardon me, your worship," said Sancho, "for, as I cannot read or write, as I said just  

now, I neither know nor comprehend the rules of the profession of chivalry:  

henceforward I will stock the alforjas with every kind of dry fruit for your worship,  

as you are a knight; and for myself, as I am not one, I will furnish them with poultry  

and other things more substantial."  

  

"I do not say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that it is imperative on knights‐errant  

not to eat anything else but the fruits thou speakest of; only that their more usual  

diet must be those, and certain herbs they found in the fields which they knew and I  

know too."  

  

"A good thing it is," answered Sancho, "to know those herbs, for to my thinking it  

will be needful some day to put that knowledge into practice."  

  

And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair made their repast  

peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find quarters for the night, they with all  

despatch made an end of their poor dry fare, mounted at once, and made haste to  

reach some habitation before night set in; but daylight and the hope of succeeding in  

their object failed them close by the huts of some goatherds, so they determined to  

pass the night there, and it was as much to Sancho's discontent not to have reached  

a house, as it was to his master's satisfaction to sleep under the open heaven, for he 


  

fancied that each time this happened to him he performed an act of ownership that  

helped to prove his chivalry.  

  

  

  

  

 


  

  

CHAPTER XI  

WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS  

  

He was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho, having as best he could  

put up Rocinante and the ass, drew towards the fragrance that came from some  

pieces of salted goat simmering in a pot on the fire; and though he would have liked  

at once to try if they were ready to be transferred from the pot to the stomach, he  

refrained from doing so as the goatherds removed them from the fire, and laying  

sheepskins on the ground, quickly spread their rude table, and with signs of hearty  

good‐will invited them both to share what they had. Round the skins six of the men  

belonging to the fold seated themselves, having first with rough politeness pressed  

Don Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which they placed for him upside down.  

Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho remained standing to serve the cup, which  

was made of horn. Seeing him standing, his master said to him:  

  

"That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight‐errantry contains in itself, and  

how those who fill any office in it are on the high road to be speedily honoured and  

esteemed by the world, I desire that thou seat thyself here at my side and in the  

company of these worthy people, and that thou be one with me who am thy master  

and natural lord, and that thou eat from my plate and drink from whatever I drink  

from; for the same may be said of knight‐errantry as of love, that it levels all."  

  

"Great thanks," said Sancho, "but I may tell your worship that provided I have  

enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or better, standing, and by myself, than seated  

alongside of an emperor. And indeed, if the truth is to be told, what I eat in my  

corner without form or fuss has much more relish for me, even though it be bread  

and onions, than the turkeys of those other tables where I am forced to chew slowly,  

drink little, wipe my mouth every minute, and cannot sneeze or cough if I want or do 


  

other things that are the privileges of liberty and solitude. So, señor, as for these  

honors which your worship would put upon me as a servant and follower of knight‐ 

errantry, exchange them for other things which may be of more use and advantage  

to me; for these, though I fully acknowledge them as received, I renounce from this  

moment to the end of the world."  

  

"For all that," said Don Quixote, "thou must seat thyself, because him who humbleth  

himself God exalteth;" and seizing him by the arm he forced him to sit down beside  

himself.  

  

The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires and knights‐errant, and  

all they did was to eat in silence and stare at their guests, who with great elegance  

and appetite were stowing away pieces as big as one's fist. The course of meat  

finished, they spread upon the sheepskins a great heap of parched acorns, and with  

them they put down a half cheese harder than if it had been made of mortar. All this  

while the horn was not idle, for it went round so constantly, now full, now empty,  

like the bucket of a water‐wheel, that it soon drained one of the two wine‐skins that  

were in sight. When Don Quixote had quite appeased his appetite he took up a  

handful of the acorns, and contemplating them attentively delivered himself  

somewhat in this fashion:  

  

"Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the name of golden, not  

because in that fortunate age the gold so coveted in this our iron one was gained  

without toil, but because they that lived in it knew not the two words "mine" and  

"thine"! In that blessed age all things were in common; to win the daily food no labor  

was required of any save to stretch forth his hand and gather it from the sturdy oaks  

that stood generously inviting him with their sweet ripe fruit. The clear streams and  

running brooks yielded their savory limpid waters in noble abundance. The busy  

and sagacious bees fixed their republic in the clefts of the rocks and hollows of the  

trees, offering without usance the plenteous produce of their fragrant toil to every  

hand. The mighty cork trees, unenforced save of their own courtesy, shed the broad 


  

light bark that served at first to roof the houses supported by rude stakes, a  

protection against the inclemency of heaven alone. Then all was peace, all  

friendship, all concord; as yet the dull share of the crooked plough had not dared to  

rend and pierce the tender bowels of our first mother that without compulsion  

yielded from every portion of her broad fertile bosom all that could satisfy, sustain,  

and delight the children that then possessed her. Then was it that the innocent and  

fair young shepherdess roamed from vale to vale and hill to hill, with flowing locks,  

and no more garments than were needful modestly to cover what modesty seeks  

and ever sought to hide. Nor were their ornaments like those in use to‐day, set off by  

Tyrian purple, and silk tortured in endless fashions, but the wreathed leaves of the  

green dock and ivy, wherewith they went as bravely and becomingly decked as our  

Court dames with all the rare and far‐fetched artifices that idle curiosity has taught  

them. Then the love‐thoughts of the heart clothed themselves simply and naturally  

as the heart conceived them, nor sought to commend themselves by forced and  

rambling verbiage. Fraud, deceit, or malice had then not yet mingled with truth and  

sincerity. Justice held her ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the efforts of favor  

and of interest, that now so much impair, pervert, and beset her. Arbitrary law had  

not yet established itself in the mind of the judge, for then there was no cause to  

judge and no one to be judged. Maidens and modesty, as I have said, wandered at  

will alone and unattended, without fear of insult from lawlessness or libertine  

assault, and if they were undone it was of their own will and pleasure. But now in  

this hateful age of ours not one is safe, not though some new labyrinth like that of  

Crete conceal and surround her; even there the pestilence of gallantry will make its  

way to them through chinks or on the air by the zeal of its accursed importunity,  

and, despite of all seclusion, lead them to ruin. In defense of these, as time advanced  

and wickedness increased, the order of knights‐errant was instituted, to defend  

maidens, to protect widows and to succor the orphans and the needy. To this order I  

belong, brother goatherds, to whom I return thanks for the hospitality and kindly  

welcome ye offer me and my squire; for though by natural law all living are bound to  

show favor to knights‐errant, yet, seeing that without knowing this obligation ye 


  

have welcomed and feasted me, it is right that with all the good‐will in my power I  

should thank you for yours."  

  

All this long harangue (which might very well have been spared) our knight  

delivered because the acorns they gave him reminded him of the golden age; and the  

whim seized him to address all this unnecessary argument to the goatherds, who  

listened to him gaping in amazement without saying a word in reply. Sancho  

likewise held his peace and ate acorns, and paid repeated visits to the second wine‐ 

skin, which they had hung up on a cork tree to keep the wine cool.  

  

Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finishing, at the end of which  

one of the goatherds said, "That your worship, señor knight‐errant, may say with  

more truth that we show you hospitality with ready good‐will, we will give you  

amusement and pleasure by making one of our comrades sing: he will be here  

before long, and he is a very intelligent youth and deep in love, and what is more he  

can read and write and play on the rebeck 40  to perfection."  

  

The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes of the rebeck reached their  

ears; and shortly after, the player came up, a very good‐looking young man of about  

two‐and‐twenty. His comrades asked him if he had supped, and on his replying that  

he had, he who had already made the offer said to him:  

  

"In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us the pleasure of singing a little, that  

the gentleman, our guest, may see that even in the mountains and woods there are  

musicians: we have told him of thy accomplishments, and we want thee to show  

them and prove that we say true; so, as thou livest, pray sit down and sing that  

ballad about thy love that thy uncle the prebendary 41  made thee, and that was so  

much liked in the town."  

                                                         

40  A pear‐shaped, two or three‐stringed medieval instrument, played with a bow.  

41  a canon or member of the chapter of a cathedral or collegiate church who holds a  

prebend – that is, a stipend or a grant. 


  

  

"With all my heart," said the young man, and without waiting for more pressing he  

seated himself on the trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his rebeck, presently began to  

sing to these words.  

  

ANTONIO'S BALLAD  

  

     I know well that thou does love me,   

My Olalla, even though  

Eyes of thine have never spoken –   

Love’s mute tongues – to tell me so.  

     Since I know thou knowest my passion,   

Of thy love I am more sure;   

No love every was unhappy  

When  it was both frank and pure.    

     True it is, Olalla, sometimes  

Thou a heart of bronze hast shown,  

And it seemed to me that bosom,   

White and fair, was made of stone.  

     Yet in spite of all repulses  

And a chastity so cold,   

It appeared that I Hope’s garment   

By the hem did clutch and hold.  

     For my faith I ever cherished;   

It would rise to meet the bait;   

Spurned, it never did diminish;   

Favored, it preferred to wait.   

     Love, they say, hath gentle manners:  

Thus it is it shows its face;  

                                                                                                                                                                      

 

  

Then may I take hope, Olalla,   

Trust to win a longed for grace.  

     If  devotion hath the power  

Hearts to move and make them kind,   

Let the loyalty I’ve shown thee  

Plead my cause, be kept in mind.    

     For if thou didst note my costume,  

More than once thou must have seen,   

Worn upon a simple Monday  

Sunday’s garb so bright and clean.  

     Love and brightness go together.  

Dost thou ask the reason why  

I thus deck myself on Monday?  

It is but to catch thine eye.    

     I say nothing of the dances  

I have danced for thy sweet sake;  

Nor the serenades I’ve sung thee  

Till the first cock did awake.  

     Nor will I repeat my praises  

Of that beauty all can see;   

True, my words but oft unwelcome –  

Many lasses hated me.  

     For Teresa of the hillside  

At my praise of thee was sore;  

Said, "You think you love an angel;  

It's a monkey you adore;   

     "Caught by all her glittering trinkets,  

And her artificial hair,  

And her many aids to beauty,   

That would Love himself ensnare."  


 


  

     'T was a lie, and so I told her,  

  

And her cousin, very bold,  

Challenged me upon my honor;  

What ensued need not be told. 42   

     High‐flown words do not become me;   

I’m a plain and simple man.  

Pure the love that I would offer,  

Serving thee as best I can.   

     Silken are the bonds of marriage,   

When two hearts do intertwine;   

Mother Church the yoke will fasten;   

Bow your neck and I’ll bow mine.  

     Or if not, my word I’ll give thee,  

From these mountains I’ll come down –  

Saint most hold be my witness –   

Wearing a Capuchin gown.  43    

Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though Don Quixote entreated  

him to sing more, Sancho had no mind that way, being more inclined for sleep than  

for listening to songs; so said he to his master, "Your worship will do well to settle at  

once where you mean to pass the night, for the labor these good men are at all day  

does not allow them to spend the night in singing."  

  

"I understand thee, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "I perceive clearly that those visits  

to the wine‐skin demand compensation in sleep rather than in music."  

  

"It's sweet to us all, blessed be God," said Sancho.  

  

                                                         

42  Essentially, he killed the cousin in a duel.  

43  In other words, he’ll become a monk. 


  

"I do not deny it," replied Don Quixote; "but settle thyself where thou wilt; those of  

my calling are more becomingly employed in watching than in sleeping; still it  

would be as well if thou wert to dress this ear for me again, for it is giving me more  

pain than it need."  

  

Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds, seeing the wound, told him not  

to be uneasy, as he would apply a remedy with which it would be soon healed; and  

gathering some leaves of rosemary, of which there was a great quantity there, he  

chewed them and mixed them with a little salt, and applying them to the ear he  

secured them firmly with a bandage, assuring him that no other treatment would be  

required, and so it proved.    

  

  

 


  

CHAPTER XII.  

OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE  

  

Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their provisions from the  

village, came up and said, "Do you know what is going on in the village, comrades?"  

  

"How could we know it?" replied one of them.  

  

"Well, then, you must know," continued the young man, "this morning that famous  

student‐shepherd called Chrysostomo died, and it is rumored that he died of love for  

that devil of a village girl the daughter of Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders about  

the wolds 44  here in the dress of a shepherdess."  

  

"You mean Marcela?" said one.  

  

"Her I mean," answered the goatherd; "and the best of it is, he has directed in his  

will that he is to be buried in the fields like a Moor, and at the foot of the rock where  

the Cork‐tree spring is, because, as the story goes (and they say he himself said so),  

that was the place where he first saw her. And he has also left other directions  

which the clergy of the village say should not and must not be obeyed because they  

savor of paganism. To all which his great friend Ambrosio the student, he who, like  

him, also went dressed as a shepherd, replies that everything must be done without  

any omission according to the directions left by Chrysostomo, and about this the  

village is all in commotion; however, report says that, after all, what Ambrosio and  

all the shepherds his friends desire will be done, and to‐morrow they are coming to  

bury him with great ceremony where I said. I am sure it will be something worth  

seeing; at least I will not fail to go and see it even if I knew I should not return to the  

village tomorrow."  

                                                         

44   Unforested rolling plains; a moor. 

  


  

"We will do the same," answered the goatherds, "and cast lots to see who must stay  

to mind the goats of all."  

  

"Thou sayest well, Pedro," said one, "though there will be no need of taking that  

trouble, for I will stay behind for all; and don't suppose it is virtue or want of  

curiosity in me; it is that the splinter that ran into my foot the other day will not let  

me walk."  

  

"For all that, we thank thee," answered Pedro.  

  

Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was and who the  

shepherdess, to which Pedro replied that all he knew was that the dead man was a  

wealthy gentleman belonging to a village in those mountains, who had been a  

student at Salamanca for many years, at the end of which he returned to his village  

with the reputation of being very learned and deeply read. "Above all, they said, he  

was learned in the science of the stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens  

and the sun and the moon, for he told us of the clips of the sun and moon to exact  

time."  

  

"Eclipse it is called, friend, not clips, the darkening of those two luminaries," said  

Don Quixote; but Pedro, not troubling himself with trifles, went on with his story,  

saying, "Also he foretold when the year was going to be one of abundance or  

estility."  

  

"Sterility, you mean," said Don Quixote.  

  

"Sterility or estility," answered Pedro, "it is all the same in the end. And I can tell you  

that by this his father and friends who believed him grew very rich because they did  

as he advised them, bidding them 'sow barley this year, not wheat; this year you 


  

may sow pulse and not barley; the next there will be a full oil crop, and the three  

following not a drop will be got.'"  

  

"That science is called astrology," said Don Quixote.  

  

"I do not know what it is called," replied Pedro, "but I know that he knew all this and  

more besides. But, to make an end, not many months had passed after he returned  

from Salamanca, when one day he appeared dressed as a shepherd with his crook  

and sheepskin, having put off the long gown he wore as a scholar; and at the same  

time his great friend, Ambrosio by name, who had been his companion in his  

studies, took to the shepherd's dress with him. I forgot to say that Chrysostomo,  

who is dead, was a great man for writing verses, so much so that he made carols for  

Christmas Eve, and plays for Corpus Christi, which the young men of our village  

acted, and all said they were excellent. When the villagers saw the two scholars so  

unexpectedly appearing in shepherd's dress, they were lost in wonder, and could  

not guess what had led them to make so extraordinary a change. About this time the  

father of our Chrysostomo died, and he was left heir to a large amount of property in  

chattels as well as in land, no small number of cattle and sheep, and a large sum of  

money, of all of which the young man was left dissolute owner, and indeed he was  

deserving of it all, for he was a very good comrade, and kind‐hearted, and a friend of  

worthy folk, and had a countenance like a benediction. Presently it came to be  

known that he had changed his dress with no other object than to wander about  

these wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned a while ago, with  

whom the deceased Chrysostomo had fallen in love. And I must tell you now, for it is  

well you should know it, who this girl is; perhaps, and even without any perhaps,  

you will not have heard anything like it all the days of your life, though you should  

live more years than sarna 45 ."  

  

"Say Sara," said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goatherd's confusion of words.  

                                                         

45   Sarna means “itch.”  “Older than the itch” was a proverbial expression. 

  


  

"The sarna lives long enough," answered Pedro; "and if, señor, you must go finding  

fault with words at every step, we shall not make an end of it this twelvemonth."  

  

"Pardon me, friend," said Don Quixote; "but, as there is such a difference between  

sarna and Sara, I told you of it; however, you have answered very rightly, for sarna  

lives longer than Sara: so continue your story, and I will not object any more to  

anything."  

  

"I say then, my dear sir," said the goatherd, "that in our village there was a farmer  

even richer than the father of Chrysostomo, who was named Guillermo, and upon  

whom God bestowed, over and above great wealth, a daughter at whose birth her  

mother died, the most respected woman there was in this neighborhood; I fancy I  

can see her now with that countenance which had the sun on one side and the moon  

on the other; and moreover active, and kind to the poor, for which I trust that at the  

present moment her soul is in bliss with God in the other world. Her husband  

Guillermo died of grief at the death of so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcela, a  

child and rich, to the care of an uncle of hers, a priest and prebendary in our village.  

The girl grew up with such beauty that it reminded us of her mother's, which was  

very great, and yet it was thought that the daughter's would exceed it; and so when  

she reached the age of fourteen to fifteen years nobody beheld her but blessed God  

that had made her so beautiful, and the greater number were in love with her past  

redemption. Her uncle kept her in great seclusion and retirement, but for all that the  

fame of her great beauty spread so that, as well for it as for her great wealth, her  

uncle was asked, solicited, and importuned, to give her in marriage not only by those  

of our town but of those many leagues round, and by the persons of highest quality  

in them. But he, being a good Christian man, though he desired to give her in  

marriage at once, seeing her to be old enough, was unwilling to do so without her  

consent, not that he had any eye to the gain and profit which the custody of the girl's  

property brought him while he put off her marriage; and, faith, this was said in  

praise of the good priest in more than one set in the town. For I would have you 


  

know, Sir Knight, that in these little villages everything is talked about and  

everything is carped at, and rest assured, as I am, that the priest must be over and  

above good who forces his parishioners to speak well of him, especially in villages."  

  

"That is the truth," said Don Quixote; "but go on, for the story is very good, and you,  

good Pedro, tell it with very good grace."  

  

"May that of the Lord not be wanting to me," said Pedro; "that is the one to have. To  

proceed; you must know that though the uncle put before his niece and described to  

her the qualities of each one in particular of the many who had asked her in  

marriage, begging her to marry and make a choice according to her own taste, she  

never gave any other answer than that she had no desire to marry just yet, and that  

being so young she did not think herself fit to bear the burden of matrimony. At  

these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses that she made, her uncle ceased to urge  

her, and waited till she was somewhat more advanced in age and could mate herself  

to her own liking. For, said he – and he said quite right – parents are not to settle  

children in life against their will. But when one least looked for it, lo and behold! one  

day the demure Marcela makes her appearance turned shepherdess; and, in spite of  

her uncle and all those of the town that strove to dissuade her, took to going a‐field  

with the other shepherd‐lasses of the village, and tending her own flock. And so,  

since she appeared in public, and her beauty came to be seen openly, I could not  

well tell you how many rich youths, gentlemen and peasants, have adopted the  

costume of Chrysostomo, and go about these fields making love to her. One of these,  

as has been already said, was our deceased friend, of whom they say that he did not  

love but adore her. But you must not suppose, because Marcela chose a life of such  

liberty and independence, and of so little or rather no retirement, that she has given  

any occasion, or even the semblance of one, for disparagement of her purity and  

modesty; on the contrary, such and so great is the vigilance with which she watches  

over her honor, that of all those that court and woo her not one has boasted, or can  

with truth boast, that she has given him any hope however small of obtaining his  

desire. For although she does not avoid or shun the society and conversation of the 


  

shepherds, and treats them courteously and kindly, should any one of them come to  

declare his intention to her, though it be one as proper and holy as that of  

matrimony, she flings him from her like a catapult. And with this kind of disposition  

she does more harm in this country than if the plague had got into it, for her  

affability and her beauty draw on the hearts of those that associate with her to love  

her and to court her, but her scorn and her frankness bring them to the brink of  

despair; and so they know not what to say save to proclaim her aloud cruel and  

hard‐hearted, and other names of the same sort which well describe the nature of  

her character; and if you should remain here any time, señor, you would hear these  

hills and valleys resounding with the laments of the rejected ones who pursue her.  

Not far from this there is a spot where there are a couple of dozen of tall beeches,  

and there is not one of them but has carved and written on its smooth bark the  

name of Marcela, and above some a crown carved on the same tree as though her  

lover would say more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that of all human  

beauty. Here one shepherd is sighing, there another is lamenting; there love songs  

are heard, here despairing elegies. One will pass all the hours of the night seated at  

the foot of some oak or rock, and there, without having closed his weeping eyes, the  

sun finds him in the morning bemused and bereft of sense; and another without  

relief or respite to his sighs, stretched on the burning sand in the full heat of the  

sultry summer noontide, makes his appeal to the compassionate heavens, and over  

one and the other, over these and all, the beautiful Marcela triumphs free and  

careless. And all of us that know her are waiting to see what her pride will come to,  

and who is to be the happy man that will succeed in taming a nature so formidable  

and gaining possession of a beauty so supreme. All that I have told you being such  

well‐established truth, I am persuaded that what they say of the cause of  

Chrysostomo's death, as our lad told us, is the same. And so I advise you, señor, fail  

not to be present to‐morrow at his burial, which will be well worth seeing, for  

Chrysostomo had many friends, and it is not half a league from this place to where  

he directed he should be buried."  

 


  

"I will make a point of it," said Don Quixote, "and I thank you for the pleasure you  

have given me by relating so interesting a tale."  

  

"Oh," said the goatherd, "I do not know even the half of what has happened to the  

lovers of Marcela, but perhaps to‐morrow we may fall in with some shepherd on the  

road who can tell us; and now it will be well for you to go and sleep under cover, for  

the night air may hurt your wound, though with the remedy I have applied to you  

there is no fear of an untoward result."  

  

Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd's loquacity at the devil, on his part  

begged his master to go into Pedro's hut to sleep. He did so, and passed all the rest  

of the night in thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of the lovers of Marcela.  

Sancho Panza settled himself between Rocinante and his ass, and slept, not like a  

lover who had been discarded, but like a man who had been soundly kicked.  

 

CHAPTER XIII.  


  

IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER  

INCIDENTS  

  

Day had barely begun to show itself through the balconies of the east, when five of  

the six goatherds came to rouse Don Quixote and tell him that if he was still of a  

mind to go and see the famous burial of Chrysostomo they would bear him  

company. Don Quixote, who desired nothing better, rose and ordered Sancho to  

saddle at once, which he did with all despatch, and with the same they all set out  

forthwith. They had not gone a quarter of a league when at the meeting of two paths  

they saw coming towards them some six shepherds dressed in black sheepskins and  

with their heads crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter oleander. Each of them  

carried a stout holly staff in his hand, and along with them there came two men of  

quality on horseback in handsome traveling dress, with three servants on foot  

accompanying them. Courteous salutations were exchanged on meeting, and  

inquiring one of the other which way each party was going, they learned that all  

were bound for the scene of the burial, so they went on all together.  

  

One of those on horseback addressing his companion said to him, "It seems to me,  

Señor Vivaldo, that we may reckon as well spent the delay we shall incur in seeing  

this remarkable funeral, for remarkable it cannot but be judging by the strange  

things these shepherds have told us, of both the dead shepherd and homicide  

shepherdess."  

  

"So I think too," replied Vivaldo, "and I would delay not to say a day, but four, for the  

sake of seeing it."  

  

Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of Marcela and Chrysostomo.  

The traveler answered that the same morning they had met these shepherds, and  

seeing them dressed in this mournful fashion they had asked them the reason of 


  

their appearing in such a guise; which one of them gave, describing the strange  

behavior and beauty of a shepherdess called Marcela, and the loves of many who  

courted her, together with the death of that Chrysostomo to whose burial they were  

going. In short, he repeated all that Pedro had related to Don Quixote.  

  

This conversation dropped, and another was commenced by him who was called  

Vivaldo asking Don Quixote what was the reason that led him to go armed in that  

fashion in a country so peaceful. To which Don Quixote replied, "The pursuit of my  

calling does not allow or permit me to go in any other fashion; easy life, enjoyment,  

and repose were invented for soft courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms were invented  

and made for those alone whom the world calls knights‐errant, of whom I, though  

unworthy, am the least of all."  

  

The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and the better to settle the  

point and discover what kind of madness his was, Vivaldo proceeded to ask him  

what knights‐errant meant.  

  

"Have not your worships," replied Don Quixote, "read the annals and histories of  

England, in which are recorded the famous deeds of King Arthur, whom we in our  

popular Castilian invariably call King Artus, with regard to whom it is an ancient  

tradition, and commonly received all over that kingdom of Great Britain, that this  

king did not die, but was changed by magic art into a raven, and that in process of  

time he is to return to reign and recover his kingdom and scepter; for which reason  

it cannot be proved that from that time to this any Englishman ever killed a raven?  

Well, then, in the time of this good king that famous order of chivalry of the Knights  

of the Round Table was instituted, and the amour of Don Lancelot of the Lake with  

the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely as is there related, the go‐between and  

confidante therein being the highly honorable dame Quintanona, whence came that  

ballad so well known and widely spread in our Spain  –   

  

 

  

O never surely was there knight  

  So served by hand of dame,  

As the one they call Sir Lancelot  

  When he from Britain came  –   


  

with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements in love and war.  

Handed down from that time, then, this order of chivalry went on extending and  

spreading itself over many and various parts of the world; and in it, famous and  

renowned for their deeds, were the mighty Amadis of Gaul with all his sons and  

descendants to the fifth generation, and the valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the  

never sufficiently praised Tirante el Blanco, and in our own days almost we have  

seen and heard and talked with the invincible knight Don Belianis of Greece. This,  

then, sirs, is to be a knight‐errant, and what I have spoken of is the order of his  

chivalry, of which, as I have already said, I, though a sinner, have made profession,  

and what the aforesaid knights professed that same do I profess, and so I go through  

these solitudes and wilds seeking adventures, resolved in soul to oppose my arm  

and person to the most perilous that fortune may offer me in aid of the weak and  

needy."  

  

By these words of his the travelers were able to satisfy themselves of Don Quixote's  

being out of his senses and of the form of madness that overmastered him, at which  

they felt the same astonishment that all felt on first becoming acquainted with it;  

and Vivaldo, who was a person of great shrewdness and of a lively temperament, in  

order to beguile the short journey which they said was required to reach the  

mountain, the scene of the burial, sought to give him an opportunity of going on  

with his absurdities. So he said to him, "It seems to me, Señor Knight‐errant, that  

your worship has made choice of one of the most austere professions in the world,  

and I imagine even that of the Carthusian monks is not so austere."  

  

"As austere it may perhaps be," replied our Don Quixote, "but so necessary for the  

world I am very much inclined to doubt. For, if the truth is to be told, the soldier 


  

who executes what his captain orders does no less than the captain himself who  

gives the order. My meaning, is, that churchmen in peace and quiet pray to Heaven  

for the welfare of the world, but we soldiers and knights carry into effect what they  

pray for, defending it with the might of our arms and the edge of our swords, not  

under shelter but in the open air, a target for the intolerable rays of the sun in  

summer and the piercing frosts of winter. Thus are we God's ministers on earth and  

the arms by which his justice is done therein. And as the business of war and all that  

relates and belongs to it cannot be conducted without exceeding great sweat, toil,  

and exertion, it follows that those who make it their profession have undoubtedly  

more labor than those who in tranquil peace and quiet are engaged in praying to  

God to help the weak. I do not mean to say, nor does it enter into my thoughts, that  

the knight‐errant's calling is as good as that of the monk in his cell; I would merely  

infer from what I endure myself that it is beyond a doubt a more laborious and a  

more belabored one, a hungrier and thirstier, a wretcheder, raggeder, and lousier;  

for there is no reason to doubt that the knights‐errant of yore endured much  

hardship in the course of their lives. And if some of them by the might of their arms  

did rise to be emperors, in faith it cost them dear in the matter of blood and sweat;  

and if those who attained to that rank had not had magicians and sages to help them  

they would have been completely baulked in their ambition and disappointed in  

their hopes."  

  

"That is my own opinion," replied the traveler; "but one thing among many others  

seems to me very wrong in knights‐errant, and that is that when they find  

themselves about to engage in some mighty and perilous adventure in which there  

is manifest danger of losing their lives, they never at the moment of engaging in it  

think of commending themselves to God, as is the duty of every good Christian in  

like peril; instead of which they commend themselves to their ladies with as much  

devotion as if these were their gods, a thing which seems to me to savor somewhat  

of heathenism."  

 


  

"Sir," answered Don Quixote, "that cannot be on any account omitted, and the  

knight‐errant would be disgraced who acted otherwise: for it is usual and customary  

in knight‐errantry that the knight‐errant, who on engaging in any great feat of arms  

has his lady before him, should turn his eyes towards her softly and lovingly, as  

though with them entreating her to favor and protect him in the hazardous venture  

he is about to undertake, and even though no one hear him, he is bound to say  

certain words between his teeth, commending himself to her with all his heart, and  

of this we have innumerable instances in the histories. Nor is it to be supposed from  

this that they are to omit commending themselves to God, for there will be time and  

opportunity for doing so while they are engaged in their task."  

  

"For all that," answered the traveler, "I feel some doubt still, because often I have  

read how words will arise between two knights‐errant, and from one thing to  

another it comes about that their anger kindles and they wheel their horses round  

and take a good stretch of field, and then without any more ado at the top of their  

speed they come to the charge, and in mid‐career they are wont to commend  

themselves to their ladies; and what commonly comes of the encounter is that one  

falls over the haunches of his horse pierced through and through by his antagonist's  

lance, and as for the other, it is only by holding on to the mane of his horse that he  

can help falling to the ground; but I know not how the dead man had time to  

commend himself to God in the course of such rapid work as this; it would have  

been better if those words which he spent in commending himself to his lady in the  

midst of his career had been devoted to his duty and obligation as a Christian.  

Moreover, it is my belief that all knights‐errant have not ladies to commend  

themselves to, for they are not all in love."  

  

"That is impossible," said Don Quixote: "I say it is impossible that there could be a  

knight‐errant without a lady, because to such it is as natural and proper to be in love  

as to the heavens to have stars: most certainly no history has been seen in which  

there is to be found a knight‐errant without an amour, and for the simple reason  

that without one he would be held no legitimate knight but a bastard, and one who 


  

had gained entrance into the stronghold of the said knighthood, not by the door, but  

over the wall like a thief and a robber."  

  

"Nevertheless," said the traveler, "if I remember rightly, I think I have read that Don  

Galaor, the brother of the valiant Amadis of Gaul, never had any special lady to  

whom he might commend himself, and yet he was not the less esteemed, and was a  

very stout and famous knight."  

  

To which our Don Quixote made answer, "Sir, one solitary swallow does not make  

summer; moreover, I know that knight was in secret very deeply in love; besides  

which, that way of falling in love with all that took his fancy was a natural  

propensity which he could not control. But, in short, it is very manifest that he had  

one alone whom he made mistress of his will, to whom he commended himself very  

frequently and very secretly, for he prided himself on being a reticent knight."  

  

"Then if it be essential that every knight‐errant should be in love," said the traveler,  

"it may be fairly supposed that your worship is so, as you are of the order; and if you  

do not pride yourself on being as reticent as Don Galaor, I entreat you as earnestly  

as I can, in the name of all this company and in my own, to inform us of the name,  

country, rank, and beauty of your lady, for she will esteem herself fortunate if all the  

world knows that she is loved and served by such a knight as your worship seems to  

be."  

  

At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and said, "I cannot say positively whether  

my sweet enemy is pleased or not that the world should know I serve her; I can only  

say in answer to what has been so courteously asked of me, that her name is  

Dulcinea, her country El Toboso, a village of La Mancha, her rank must be at least  

that of a princess, since she is my queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman, since  

all the impossible and fanciful attributes of beauty which the poets apply to their  

ladies are verified in her; for her hairs are gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her  

eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, 


  

her neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her fairness snow, and what  

modesty conceals from sight such, I think and imagine, as rational reflection can  

only extol, not compare."  

  

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

  

To which Don Quixote replied, "She is not of the ancient Roman Curtii, Caii, or  

Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas or Orsini, nor of the Moncadas or Requesenes of  

Catalonia, nor yet of the Rebellas or Villanovas of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nuzas,  

Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or Gurreas of Aragon; Cerdas,  

Manriques, Mendozas, or Guzmans of Castile; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of  

Portugal; but she is of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage that though  

modern, may furnish a source of gentle blood for the most illustrious families of the  

ages that are to come, and this let none dispute with me save on the condition that  

Zerbino placed at the foot of the trophy of Orlando's arms, saying,  

  

    'These let none move  

  Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.'" 46   

  

"Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo," said the traveler, "I will not venture  

to compare it with that of El Toboso of La Mancha, though, to tell the truth, no such  

surname has until now ever reached my ears."  

  

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

  

The rest of the party went along listening with great attention to the conversation of  

the pair, and even the very goatherds and shepherds perceived how exceedingly out  

of his wits our Don Quixote was.  Sancho Panza alone thought that what his master  

said was the truth, knowing who he was and having known him from his birth; and  

                                                         

46   From Lodovico Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso. 


  

all that he felt any difficulty in believing was that about the fair Dulcinea del Toboso,  

because neither any such name nor any such princess had ever come to his  

knowledge though he lived so close to El Toboso. They were going along conversing  

in this way, when they saw descending a gap between two high mountains some  

twenty shepherds, all clad in sheepskins of black wool, and crowned with garlands  

which, as afterwards appeared, were, some of them of yew, some of cypress. Six of  

the number were carrying a bier covered with a great variety of flowers and  

branches, on seeing which one of the goatherds said, "Those who come there are the  

bearers of Chrysostomo's body, and the foot of that mountain is the place where he  

ordered them to bury him." They therefore made haste to reach the spot, and did so  

by the time those who came had laid the bier upon the ground, and four of them  

with sharp pickaxes were digging a grave by the side of a hard rock. They greeted  

each other courteously, and then Don Quixote and those who accompanied him  

turned to examine the bier, and on it, covered with flowers, they saw a dead body in  

the dress of a shepherd, to all appearance of one thirty years of age, and showing  

even in death that in life he had been of comely features and gallant bearing. Around  

him on the bier itself were laid some books, and several papers open and folded; and  

those who were looking on as well as those who were opening the grave and all the  

others who were there preserved a strange silence, until one of those who had  

borne the body said to another, "Observe carefully, Ambrosio if this is the place  

Chrysostomo spoke of, since you are anxious that what he directed in his will should  

be so strictly complied with."  

  

"This is the place," answered Ambrosio "for in it many a time did my poor friend tell  

me the story of his hard fortune. Here it was, he told me, that he saw for the first  

time that mortal enemy of the human race, and here, too, for the first time he  

declared to her his passion, as honorable as it was devoted, and here it was that at  

last Marcela ended by scorning and rejecting him so as to bring the tragedy of his  

wretched life to a close; here, in memory of misfortunes so great, he desired to be  

laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion." Then turning to Don Quixote and the  

travelers he went on to say, "That body, sirs, on which you are looking with 


  

compassionate eyes, was the abode of a soul on which Heaven bestowed a vast  

share of its riches. That is the body of Chrysostomo, who was unrivaled in wit,  

unequaled in courtesy, supreme in gentleness of bearing, a model of friendship,  

generous without limit, grave without arrogance, gay without vulgarity, and, in  

short, first in all that constitutes goodness and second to none in all that makes up  

misfortune. He loved deeply, he was hated; he adored, he was scorned; he wooed a  

wild beast, he pleaded with marble, he pursued the wind, he cried to the wilderness,  

he served ingratitude, and for reward was made the prey of death in the mid‐course  

of his life, cut short by a shepherdess whom he sought to immortalize in the memory  

of man, as these papers which you see could fully prove, had he not commanded me  

to consign them to the fire after having consigned his body to the earth."  

  

"You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than their owner himself," said  

Vivaldo, "for it is neither right nor proper to do the will of one who enjoins what is  

wholly unreasonable; it would not have been reasonable in Augustus Caesar had he  

permitted the directions left by the divine Mantuan in his will to be carried into  

effect. So that, Señor Ambrosio while you consign your friend's body to the earth,  

you should not consign his writings to oblivion, for if he gave the order in bitterness  

of heart, it is not right that you should irrationally obey it. On the contrary, by  

granting life to those papers, let the cruelty of Marcela live for ever, to serve as a  

warning in ages to come to all men to shun and avoid falling into like danger; or I  

and all of us who have come here know already the story of this your love‐stricken  

and heart‐broken friend, and we know, too, your friendship, and the cause of his  

death, and the directions he gave at the close of his life; from which sad story may be  

gathered how great was the cruelty of Marcela, the love of Chrysostomo, and the  

loyalty of your friendship, together with the end awaiting those who pursue rashly  

the path that insane passion opens to their eyes. Last night we learned the death of  

Chrysostomo and that he was to be buried here, and out of curiosity and pity we left  

our direct road and resolved to come and see with our eyes that which when heard  

of had so moved our compassion, and in consideration of that compassion and our  

desire to prove it if we might by condolence, we beg of you, excellent Ambrosio, or 


  

at least I on my own account entreat you, that instead of burning those papers you  

allow me to carry away some of them."  

  

And without waiting for the shepherd's answer, he stretched out his hand and took  

up some of those that were nearest to him; seeing which Ambrosio said, "Out of  

courtesy, señor, I will grant your request as to those you have taken, but it is idle to  

expect me to abstain from burning the remainder."  

  

Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, opened one of them at  

once, and saw that its title was "Lay of Despair."  

  

Ambrosio hearing it said, "That is the last paper the unhappy man wrote; and that  

you may see, señor, to what an end his misfortunes brought him, read it so that you  

may be heard, for you will have time enough for that while we are waiting for the  

grave to be dug."  

  

"I will do so very willingly," said Vivaldo; and as all the bystanders were equally  

eager they gathered round him, and he, reading in a loud voice, found that it ran as  

follows.  

  

  

  

 

CHAPTER XIV.  


  

WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD,  

TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR  

  

THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOMO  

  

  Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire  

The ruthless rigor of thy tyranny  

From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed,  

The very Hell will I constrain to lend  

This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe  

To serve my need of fitting utterance.  

And as I strive to body forth the tale  

Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done,  

Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along  

Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain.  

Then listen, not to dulcet harmony,  

But to a discord wrung by mad despair  

Out of this bosom's depths of bitterness,  

To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.  

  

  The lion's roar, the fierce wolf's savage howl,  

The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,  

The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed,  

The crow's ill‐boding croak, the hollow moan  

Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea,  

The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull,  

The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove,  

The envied owl's sad note, the wail of woe  

That rises from the dreary choir of Hell, 


  

Commingled in one sound, confusing sense,  

Let all these come to aid my soul's complaint,  

For pain like mine demands new modes of song.  

  

  No echoes of that discord shall be heard  

Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks  

Of olive‐bordered Betis; to the rocks  

Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told,  

And by a lifeless tongue in living words;  

Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores,  

Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls;  

Or in among the poison‐breathing swarms  

Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile.  

For, though it be to solitudes remote  

The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound  

Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate  

Shall carry them to all the spacious world.  

  

  Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies  

Slain by suspicion, be it false or true;  

And deadly is the force of jealousy;  

Long absence makes of life a dreary void;  

No hope of happiness can give repose  

To him that ever fears to be forgot;  

And death, inevitable, waits in hall.  

But I, by some strange miracle, live on  

A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain;  

Racked by suspicion as by certainty;  

Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone.  

And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray  

Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom; 

Nor do I look for it in my despair;  

But rather clinging to a cureless woe,  

All hope do I abjure for evermore.  

  

  Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well,  

When far more certain are the grounds of fear?  

Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy,  

If through a thousand heart‐wounds it appears?  

Who would not give free access to distrust,  

Seeing disdain unveiled, and – bitter change! –   

All his suspicions turned to certainties,  

And the fair truth transformed into a lie?  

Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love,  

Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands,  

And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain.  

But, woe is me! triumphant over all,  

My sufferings drown the memory of you.  

  

  And now I die, and since there is no hope  

Of happiness for me in life or death,  

Still to my fantasy I'll fondly cling.  

I'll say that he is wise who loveth well,  

And that the soul most free is that most bound  

In thralldom to the ancient tyrant Love.  

I'll say that she who is mine enemy  

In that fair body hath as fair a mind,  

And that her coldness is but my desert,  

And that by virtue of the pain he sends  

Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.  

Thus, self‐deluding, and in bondage sore,  

And wearing out the wretched shred of life  


 


  

To which I am reduced by her disdain,  

I'll give this soul and body to the winds,  

All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.  

  

  Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause  

That makes me quit the weary life I loathe,  

As by this wounded bosom thou canst see  

How willingly thy victim I become,  

Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,  

Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes;  

I would not have thee expiate in aught  

The crime of having made my heart thy prey;  

But rather let thy laughter gaily ring  

And prove my death to be thy festival.  

Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know  

Thy glory gains by my untimely end.  

  

  And now it is the time; from Hell's abyss  

Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus  

Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus  

With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come,  

And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil;  

And all into this breast transfer their pains,  

And (if such tribute to despair be due)  

Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge  

Over a corpse unworthy of a shroud.  

Let the three‐headed guardian of the gate,  

And all the monstrous progeny of hell,  

The doleful concert join: a lover dead  

Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.  

 

  Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone  

Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery  

Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth;  

Then banish sadness even in the tomb.  

  


  

The "Lay of Chrysostomo" met with the approbation 47  of the listeners, though the  

reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he had heard of Marcela's  

reserve and propriety, for Chrysostomo complained in it of jealousy, suspicion, and  

absence, all to the prejudice of the good name and fame of Marcela; to which  

Ambrosio replied as one who knew well his friend's most secret thoughts, "Señor, to  

remove that doubt I should tell you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he  

was away from Marcela, from whom he had voluntarily separated himself, to see if  

absence would act with him as it is wont; and as everything distresses and every  

fear haunts the banished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as if  

they were true, tormented Chrysostomo; and thus the truth of what report declares  

of the virtue of Marcela remains unshaken, and with her envy itself should not and  

cannot find any fault save that of being cruel, somewhat haughty, and very scornful."  

  

"That is true," said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read another paper of those he  

had preserved from the fire, he was stopped by a marvelous vision (for such it  

seemed) that unexpectedly presented itself to their eyes; for on the summit of the  

rock where they were digging the grave there appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so  

beautiful that her beauty exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then  

beheld her gazed upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were accustomed  

to see her were not less amazed than those who had never seen her before. But the  

instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her, with manifest indignation:  

  

                                                         

47  Official approval 


  

"Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk 48  of these mountains, to see if in thy  

presence blood will flow from the wounds of this wretched being thy cruelty has  

robbed of life 49 ; or is it to exult over the cruel work of thy humors that thou art  

come; or like another pitiless Nero to look down from that height upon the ruin of  

his Rome in embers 50 ; or in thy arrogance to trample on this ill‐fated corpse, as the  

ungrateful daughter trampled on her father Tarquinius? 51  Tell us quickly for what  

thou art come, or what it is thou wouldst have, for, as I know the thoughts of  

Chrysostomo never failed to obey thee in life, I will make all these who call  

themselves his friends obey thee, though he be dead."  

  

"I come not, Ambrosio, for any of the purposes thou hast named," replied Marcela,  

"but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable are all those who blame me  

for their sorrow and for Chrysostomo's death; and therefore I ask all of you that are  

here to give me your attention, for will not take much time or many words to bring  

the truth home to persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and  

so much so that in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and for the  

love you show me you say, and even urge, that I am bound to love you. By that  

natural understanding which God has given me I know that everything beautiful  

attracts love, but I cannot see how, by reason of being loved, that which is loved for  

its beauty is bound to love that which loves it; besides, it may happen that the lover  

of that which is beautiful may be ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is very  

absurd to say, "I love thee because thou art beautiful, thou must love me though I be  

ugly." But supposing the beauty equal on both sides, it does not follow that the  

inclinations must be therefore alike, for it is not every beauty that excites love, some  

but pleasing the eye without winning the affection; and if every sort of beauty  

                                                         

48  A mythical lizard‐like creature whose looks could kill.  

49  According to folklore, the corpse of a murder victim would bleed in the presence  

of the murderer.  

50  The Roman emperor Nero was said to have watched while his city burned – as  

part of his own plan for urban renewal.  

51  Tula, the wife of the last of the early kings of Rome; Tarquinius was her husband,  

not her father, but she did let her carriage run over the body of her father, Servius  

Tullius, whom her husband had killed. 


  

excited love and won the heart, the will would wander vaguely to and fro unable to  

make choice of any; for as there is an infinity of beautiful objects there must be an  

infinity of inclinations, and true love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and must be  

voluntary and not compelled. If this be so, as I believe it to be, why do you desire me  

to bend my will by force, for no other reason but that you say you love me? Nay  –   

tell me  –  had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me beautiful, could I with  

justice complain of you for not loving me? Moreover, you must remember that the  

beauty I possess was no choice of mine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty  

gave it me without my asking or choosing it; and as the viper, though it kills with it,  

does not deserve to be blamed for the poison it carries, as it is a gift of nature,  

neither do I deserve reproach for being beautiful; for beauty in a modest woman is  

like fire at a distance or a sharp sword; the one does not burn, the other does not  

cut, those who do not come too near. Honor and virtue are the ornaments of the  

mind, without which the body, though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful; but  

if modesty is one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and charm to mind and  

body, why should she who is loved for her beauty part with it to gratify one who for  

his pleasure alone strives with all his might and energy to rob her of it? I was born  

free, and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of  

the mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to  

the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a  

sword laid aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by letting them see me, I  

have by words undeceived, and if their longings live on hope  –  and I have given  

none to Chrysostomo or to any other  –  it cannot justly be said that the death of any  

is my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty that killed him; and  

if it be made a charge against me that his wishes were honorable, and that therefore  

I was bound to yield to them, I answer that when on this very spot where now his  

grave is made he declared to me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to  

live in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my  

retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal, he chose to  

persist against hope and steer against the wind, what wonder is it that he should  

sink in the depths of his infatuation? If I had encouraged him, I should be false; if I 


  

had gratified him, I should have acted against my own better resolution and  

purpose. He was persistent in spite of warning, he despaired without being hated.  

Bethink you now if it be reasonable that his suffering should be laid to my charge.  

Let him who has been deceived complain, let him give way to despair whose  

encouraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter himself whom I shall entice, let  

him boast whom I shall receive; but let not him call me cruel or homicide to whom I  

make no promise, upon whom I practice no deception, whom I neither entice nor  

receive. It has not been so far the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to  

expect me to love by choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve for each of my  

suitors on his own account, and let it be understood from this time forth that if  

anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he dies, for she who loves no one  

can give no cause for jealousy to any, and candor is not to be confounded with scorn.  

Let him who calls me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as something noxious  

and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his service; who calls me  

wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me cruel, pursue me not; for this  

wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire  

to seek, serve, know, or follow them. If Chrysostomo's impatience and violent  

passion killed him, why should my modest behavior and circumspection be blamed?  

If I preserve my purity in the society of the trees, why should he who would have me  

preserve it among men, seek to rob me of it? I have, as you know, wealth of my own,  

and I covet not that of others; my taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for  

constraint; I neither love nor hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or  

trifle with one or play with another. The modest converse of the shepherd girls of  

these hamlets and the care of my goats are my recreations; my desires are bounded  

by these mountains, and if they ever wander hence it is to contemplate the beauty of  

the heavens, steps by which the soul travels to its primeval abode."  

  

With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and passed into the  

thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving all who were there lost in  

admiration as much of her good sense as of her beauty. Some – those wounded by  

the irresistible shafts launched by her bright eyes – made as though they would 


  

follow her, heedless of the frank declaration they had heard; seeing which, and  

deeming this a fitting occasion for the exercise of his chivalry in aid of distressed  

damsels, Don Quixote, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, exclaimed in a loud  

and distinct voice:  

  

"Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow the beautiful Marcela,  

under pain of incurring my fierce indignation. She has shown by clear and  

satisfactory arguments that little or no fault is to be found with her for the death of  

Chrysostomo, and also how far she is from yielding to the wishes of any of her  

lovers, for which reason, instead of being followed and persecuted, she should in  

justice be honored and esteemed by all the good people of the world, for she shows  

that she is the only woman in it that holds to such a virtuous resolution."  

  

Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixote, or because Ambrosio told  

them to fulfill their duty to their good friend, none of the shepherds moved or  

stirred from the spot until, having finished the grave and burned Chrysostomo's  

papers, they laid his body in it, not without many tears from those who stood by.  

They closed the grave with a heavy stone until a slab was ready which Ambrosio  

said he meant to have prepared, with an epitaph which was to be to this effect:  

  

  

Beneath the stone before your eyes  

The body of a lover lies;  

In life he was a shepherd swain,  

In death a victim to disdain.  

Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair,  

Was she that drove him to despair,  

And Love hath made her his ally  

For spreading wide his tyranny.  

They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and branches, and all  

expressing their condolence with his friend Ambrosio; Vivaldo and his companion 


  

did the same; and Don Quixote bade farewell to his hosts and to the travelers, who  

pressed him to come with them to Seville, as being such a convenient place for  

finding adventures, for they presented themselves in every street and round every  

corner oftener than anywhere else. Don Quixote thanked them for their advice and  

for the disposition they showed to do him a favor, and said that for the present he  

would not, and must not go to Seville until he had cleared all these mountains of  

highwaymen and robbers, of whom report said they were full. Seeing his good  

intention, the travelers were unwilling to press him further, and once more bidding  

him farewell, they left him and pursued their journey, in the course of which they  

did not fail to discuss the story of Marcela and Chrysostomo as well as the madness  

of Don Quixote.  He, on his part, resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcela,  

and make offer to her of all the service he could render her; but things did not fall  

out with him as he expected, according to what is related in the course of this  

veracious history . . . .  

 

  

CHAPTER XVIII  


  

IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER,  

DON QUIXOTE, AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING  

  

. . . Don Quixote and his squire were going along, when, on the road they were  

following, Don Quixote perceived approaching them a large and thick cloud of dust,  

on seeing which he turned to Sancho and said:  

  

"This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my fortune is reserving for  

me; this, I say, is the day on which as much as on any other shall be displayed the  

might of my arm, and on which I shall do deeds that shall remain written in the book  

of fame for all ages to come. Seest thou that cloud of dust which rises yonder? Well,  

then, all that is churned up by a vast army composed of various and countless  

nations that comes marching there."  

  

"According to that there must be two," said Sancho, "for on this opposite side also  

there rises just such another cloud of dust."  

  

Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and rejoicing exceedingly, he  

concluded that they were two armies about to engage and encounter in the midst of  

that broad plain; for at all times and seasons his fancy was full of the battles,  

enchantments, adventures, crazy feats, loves, and defiances that are recorded in the  

books of chivalry, and everything he said, thought, or did had reference to such  

things. Now the cloud of dust he had seen was raised by two great droves of sheep  

coming along the same road in opposite directions, which, because of the dust, did  

not become visible until they drew near, but Don Quixote asserted so positively that  

they were armies that Sancho was led to believe it and say, "Well, and what are we  

to do, señor?"  

 


  

"What?" said Don Quixote: "give aid and assistance to the weak and those  

who need it; and thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes opposite  

to us is conducted and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the  

great isle of Trapobana; this other that marches behind me is that of his  

enemy the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, for he  

always goes into battle with his right arm bare."  

  

"But why are these two lords such enemies?"  

  

"They are at enmity," replied Don Quixote, "because this Alifanfaron is a furious  

pagan and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolin, who is a very beautiful and  

moreover gracious lady, and a Christian, and her father is unwilling to bestow her  

upon the pagan king unless he first abandons the religion of his false prophet  

Mahomet, and adopts his own."  

  

"By my beard," said Sancho, "but Pentapolin does quite right, and I will help him as  

much as I can."  

  

"In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for to engage in  

battles of this sort it is not requisite to be a dubbed knight."  

  

"That I can well understand," answered Sancho; "but where shall we put this ass  

where we may be sure to find him after the fray is over? for I believe it has not been  

the custom so far to go into battle on a beast of this kind."  

  

"That is true," said Don Quixote, "and what you had best do with him is to leave him  

to take his chance whether he be lost or not, for the horses we shall have when we  

come out victors will be so many that even Rocinante will run a risk of being  

changed for another. But attend to me and observe, for I wish to give thee some  

account of the chief knights who accompany these two armies; and that thou mayest 


  

the better see and mark, let us withdraw to that hillock which rises yonder, whence  

both armies may be seen."  

  

They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from which the two droves  

that Don Quixote made armies of might have been plainly seen if the clouds of dust  

they raised had not obscured them and blinded the sight; nevertheless, seeing in his  

imagination what he did not see and what did not exist, he began thus in a loud  

voice:  

  

"That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armor, who bears upon his shield a  

lion crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the valiant Laurcalco, lord of the  

Silver Bridge; that one in armor with flowers of gold, who bears on his shield three  

crowns argent on an azure field, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of  

Quirocia; that other of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever dauntless  

Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias, who for armor wears that  

serpent skin, and has for shield a gate which, according to tradition, is one of those  

of the temple that Sanson brought to the ground when by his death he revenged  

himself upon his enemies. But turn thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in  

front and in the van of this other army the ever victorious and never vanquished  

Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes in armor with arms  

quartered azure, vert, white, and yellow, and bears on his shield a cat or on a field  

tawny with a motto which says Miau, which is the beginning of the name of his lady,  

who according to report is the peerless Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of  

the Algarve; the other, who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful charger  

and bears arms white as snow and a shield blank and without any device, is a novice  

knight, a Frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin by name, lord of the baronies of Utrique;  

that other, who with iron‐shod heels strikes the flanks of that nimble parti‐coloured  

zebra, and for arms bears azure vair, is the mighty duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo del  

Bosque, who bears for device on his shield an asparagus plant with a motto in 


  

Castilian that says, Rastrea mi suerte. 52 " And so he went on naming a number of  

knights of one squadron or the other out of his imagination, and to all he assigned  

off‐hand their arms, colors, devices, and mottoes, carried away by the illusions of his  

unheard‐of craze; and without a pause, he continued, "People of divers nations  

compose this squadron in front; here are those that drink of the sweet waters of the  

famous Xanthus, those that scour the woody Massilian plains, those that sift the pure  

fine gold of Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the famed cool banks of the crystal  

Thermodon, those that in many and various ways divert the streams of the golden  

Pactolus, the Numidians, faithless in their promises, the Persians renowned in  

archery, the Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly, the Arabs that ever shift  

their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they are fair, the Ethiopians with pierced  

lips, and an infinity of other nations whose features I recognize and descry, though I  

cannot recall their names. In this other squadron there come those that drink of the  

crystal streams of the olive‐bearing Betis, those that make smooth their  

countenances with the water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice in  

the fertilizing flow of the divine Genil, those that roam the Tartesian plains  

abounding in pasture, those that take their pleasure in the Elysian meadows of Jerez,  

the rich Manchegans crowned with ruddy ears of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics  

of the Gothic race, those that bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for its gentle current,  

those that feed their herds along the spreading pastures of the winding Guadiana  

famed for its hidden course, those that tremble with the cold of the pineclad  

Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apennine; in a word, as many as all  

Europe includes and contains."  

  

Good God! what a number of countries and nations he named! giving to each its  

proper attributes with marvelous readiness; brimful and saturated with what he  

had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza hung upon his words without speaking,  

and from time to time turned to try if he could see the knights and giants his master  

was describing, and as he could not make out one of them he said to him:  

                                                         

52  The meaning is ambiguous.  It could mean, “look into my fate,” “my fate creeps  

along,” or, “follow [the trail of] my fate.” 

  


  

"Señor, devil take it if there's a sign of any man you talk of, knight or giant, in the  

whole thing; maybe it's all enchantment, like the phantoms last night."  

  

"How canst thou say that!" answered Don Quixote; "dost thou not hear the neighing  

of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of the drums?"  

  

"I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep," said Sancho; which was true,  

for by this time the two flocks had come close.  

  

"The fear thou art in, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "prevents thee from seeing or  

hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to derange the senses and make  

things appear different from what they are; if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one  

side and leave me to myself, for alone I suffice to bring victory to that side to which I  

shall give my aid;" and so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and putting the lance in  

rest, shot down the slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted after him, crying,  

"Come back, Señor Don Quixote; I vow to God they are sheep and ewes you are  

charging! Come back! Unlucky the father that begot me! what madness is this! Look,  

there is no giant, nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or whole, nor  

vair azure or bedevilled. What are you about? Sinner that I am before God!" But not  

for all these entreaties did Don Quixote turn back; on the contrary he went on  

shouting out, "Ho, knights, ye who follow and fight under the banners of the valiant  

emperor Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, follow me all; ye shall see how easily I shall  

give him his revenge over his enemy Alifanfaron of the Trapobana."  

  

So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, and began spearing  

them with as much spirit and intrepidity as if he were transfixing mortal enemies in  

earnest. The shepherds and drovers accompanying the flock shouted to him to  

desist; seeing it was no use, they ungirt their slings and began to salute his ears with  

stones as big as one's fist. Don Quixote gave no heed to the stones, but, letting drive  

right and left kept saying: 


  

  

"Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a single knight who  

would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand, and make thee yield thy life a penalty  

for the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin Garamanta." Here came a sugar‐ 

plum from the brook that struck him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his  

body. Feeling himself so smitten, he imagined himself slain or badly wounded for  

certain, and recollecting his liquor he drew out his flask, and putting it to his mouth  

began to pour the contents into his stomach; but ere he had succeeded in  

swallowing what seemed to him enough, there came another almond which struck  

him on the hand and on the flask so fairly that it smashed it to pieces, knocking three  

or four teeth and grinders out of his mouth in its course, and sorely crushing two  

fingers of his hand. Such was the force of the first blow and of the second, that the  

poor knight in spite of himself came down backwards off his horse. The shepherds  

came up, and felt sure they had killed him; so in all haste they collected their flock  

together, took up the dead beasts, of which there were more than seven, and made  

off without waiting to ascertain anything further.  

  

All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats his master was  

performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the hour and the occasion when  

fortune had made him acquainted with him. Seeing him, then, brought to the ground,  

and that the shepherds had taken themselves off, he ran to him and found him in  

very a very bad state, though not unconscious; and said he:  

  

"Did I not tell you to come back, Señor Don Quixote; and that what you were going to  

attack were not armies but droves of sheep?"  

  

"That's how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and falsify things," answered  

Don Quixote; "thou must know, Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for those of his  

sort to make us believe what they choose; and this malignant being who persecutes  

me, envious of the glory he knew I was to win in this battle, has turned the  

squadrons of the enemy into droves of sheep.  At any rate, do this much, I beg of 


  

thee, Sancho, to undeceive thyself, and see that what I say is true; mount thy ass and  

follow them quietly, and thou shalt see that when they have gone some little  

distance from this they will return to their original shape and, ceasing to be sheep,  

become men in all respects as I described them to thee at first. But go not just yet,  

for I want thy help and assistance; come hither, and see how many of my teeth and  

grinders are missing, for I feel as if there was not one left in my mouth."  

 


  

  

CHAPTER XXII.  

OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES  

WHO AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH  

TO GO  

  

Cide Hamete Benengeli, the Arab and Manchegan 53  author, relates in this most  

grave, high‐sounding, minute, delightful, and original history that after the  

discussion between the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha and his squire Sancho  

Panza which is set down at the end of chapter twenty‐one, Don Quixote raised his  

eyes and saw coming along the road he was following some dozen men on foot  

strung together by the neck, like beads, on a great iron chain, and all with manacles  

on their hands. With them there came also two men on horseback and two on foot;  

those on horseback with wheel‐lock muskets, those on foot with javelins and  

swords, and as soon as Sancho saw them he said:  

  

"That is a chain of galley slaves, on the way to the galleys by force of the king's  

orders."  

  

"How by force?" asked Don Quixote; "is it possible that the king uses force against  

anyone?"  

  

"I do not say that," answered Sancho, "but that these are people condemned for their  

crimes to serve by force in the king's galleys."  

  

"In fact," replied Don Quixote, "however it may be, these people are going where  

they are taking them by force, and not of their own will."  

  

"Just so," said Sancho.  

                                                         

53  From la Mancha. 

  


  

"Then if so," said Don Quixote, "here is a case for the exercise of my office, to put  

down force and to succor and help the wretched."  

  

"Recollect, your worship," said Sancho, "Justice, which is the king himself, is not  

using force or doing wrong to such persons, but punishing them for their crimes."  

  

The chain of galley slaves had by this time come up, and Don Quixote in very  

courteous language asked those who were in custody of it to be good enough to tell  

him the reason or reasons for which they were conducting these people in this  

manner. One of the guards on horseback answered that they were galley slaves  

belonging to his majesty, that they were going to the galleys, and that was all that  

was to be said and all he had any business to know.  

  

"Nevertheless," replied Don Quixote, "I should like to know from each of them  

separately the reason of his misfortune;" to this he added more to the same effect to  

induce them to tell him what he wanted so civilly that the other mounted guard said  

to him:  

  

"Though we have here the register and certificate of the sentence of every one of  

these wretches, this is no time to take them out or read them; come and ask  

themselves; they can tell if they choose, and they will, for these fellows take a  

pleasure in doing and talking about rascalities."  

  

With this permission, which Don Quixote would have taken even had they not  

granted it, he approached the chain and asked the first for what offences he was  

now in such a sorry case.  

  

He made answer that it was for being a lover.  

 


  

"For that only?" replied Don Quixote; "why, if for being lovers they send people to  

the galleys I might have been rowing in them long ago."  

  

"The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of," said the galley slave; "mine  

was that I loved a washerwoman's basket of clean linen so well, and held it so close  

in my embrace, that if the arm of the law had not forced it from me, I should never  

have let it go of my own will to this moment; I was caught in the act, there was no  

occasion for torture, the case was settled, they treated me to a hundred lashes on  

the back, and three years of gurapas besides, and that was the end of it."  

"What are gurapas?" asked Don Quixote.  

  

"Gurapas are galleys," answered the galley slave, who was a young man of about  

four‐and‐twenty, and said he was a native of Piedrahita.  

  

Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who made no reply, so  

downcast and melancholy was he; but the first answered for him, and said, "He, sir,  

goes as a canary, I mean as a musician and a singer."  

  

"What!" said Don Quixote, "for being musicians and singers are people sent to the  

galleys too?"  

  

"Yes, sir," answered the galley slave, "for there is nothing worse than singing under  

suffering."  

  

"On the contrary, I have heard say," said Don Quixote, "that he who sings scares  

away his woes."  

  

"Here it is the reverse," said the galley slave; "for he who sings once weeps all his  

life."  

 


  

"I do not understand it," said Don Quixote; but one of the guards said to him, "Sir, to  

sing under suffering means with the non sancta 54  fraternity to confess under  

torture; they put this sinner to the torture and he confessed his crime, which was  

being a cuatrero, that is a cattle thief, and on his confession they sentenced him to  

six years in the galleys, besides two hundred lashes that he has already had on the  

back; and he is always dejected and downcast because the other thieves that were  

left behind and that march here ill‐treat, and snub, and jeer, and despise him for  

confessing and not having spirit enough to say nay; for, say they, 'nay' has no more  

letters in it than 'yea,' and a culprit is well off when life or death with him depends  

on his own tongue and not on that of witnesses or evidence; and to my thinking they  

are not very far wrong."  

  

"And I think so too," answered Don Quixote; then passing on to the third he asked  

him what he had asked the others, and the man answered very readily and  

unconcernedly, "I am going for five years to their ladyships the gurapas for the want  

of ten ducats."  

  

"I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that trouble," said Don Quixote.  

  

"That," said the galley slave, "is like a man having money at sea when he is dying of  

hunger and has no way of buying what he wants; I say so because if at the right time  

I had had those twenty ducats that your worship now offers me, I would have  

greased the notary's pen and freshened up the attorney's wit with them, so that to‐ 

day I should be in the middle of the plaza of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on this  

road coupled like a greyhound. But God is great; patience – there, that's enough of  

it."  

  

Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable aspect with a white beard  

falling below his breast, who on hearing himself asked the reason of his being there  

                                                         

54  Unholy 


  

began to weep without answering a word, but the fifth acted as his tongue and said,  

"This worthy man is going to the galleys for four years, after having gone the rounds  

in ceremony and on horseback. 55 "  

  

"That means," said Sancho Panza, "as I take it, to have been exposed to shame in  

public."  

  

"Just so," replied the galley slave, "and the offence for which they gave him that  

punishment was having been an ear‐broker, nay body‐broker; I mean, in short, that  

this gentleman goes as a pimp, and for having besides a certain touch of the sorcerer  

about him."  

  

"If that touch had not been thrown in," said Don Quixote, "he would not deserve, for  

mere pimping, to row in the galleys, but rather to command and be admiral of them;  

for the office of pimp is no ordinary one, being the office of persons of discretion,  

one very necessary in a well‐ordered state, and only to be exercised by persons of  

good birth; nay, there ought to be an inspector and overseer of them, as in other  

offices, and recognized number, as with the brokers on change; in this way many of  

the evils would be avoided which are caused by this office and calling being in the  

hands of stupid and ignorant people, such as women more or less silly, and pages  

and jesters of little standing and experience, who on the most urgent occasions, and  

when ingenuity of contrivance is needed, let the crumbs freeze on the way to their  

mouths, and know not which is their right hand. I should like to go farther, and give  

reasons to show that it is advisable to choose those who are to hold so necessary an  

office in the state, but this is not the fit place for it; some day I will expound the  

matter to some one able to see to and rectify it; all I say now is, that the additional  

fact of his being a sorcerer has removed the sorrow it gave me to see these white  

hairs and this venerable countenance in so painful a position on account of his being  

a pimp; though I know well there are no sorceries in the world that can move or  

                                                         

55  After having been flogged in public, with all the ceremony that went with it. 


  

compel the will as some simple folk fancy, for our will is free, nor is there herb or  

charm that can force it 56 . All that certain silly women and quacks do is to turn men  

mad with potions and poisons, pretending that they have power to cause love, for, as  

I say, it is an impossibility to compel the will."  

  

"It is true," said the good old man, "and indeed, sir, as far as the charge of sorcery  

goes I was not guilty; as to that of being a pimp I cannot deny it; but I never thought  

I was doing any harm by it, for my only object was that all the world should enjoy  

itself and live in peace and quiet, without quarrels or troubles; but my good  

intentions were unavailing to save me from going where I never expect to come  

back from, with this weight of years upon me and a urinary ailment that never gives  

me a moment's ease;" and again he fell to weeping as before, and such compassion  

did Sancho feel for him that he took out a real of four from his bosom and gave it to  

him in alms.  

  

Don Quixote went on and asked another what his crime was, and the man answered  

with no less but rather much more sprightliness than the last one.  

  

"I am here because I carried the joke too far with a couple of cousins of mine, and  

with a couple of other cousins who were none of mine; in short, I carried the joke so  

far with them all that it ended in such a complicated increase of kindred that no  

accountant could make it clear: it was all proved against me, I got no favor, I had no  

money, I was near having my neck stretched, they sentenced me to the galleys for  

six years, I accepted my fate, it is the punishment of my fault; I am a young man; let  

life only last, and with that all will come right. If you, sir, have anything wherewith to  

help the poor, God will repay it to you in heaven, and we on earth will take care in  

our petitions to him to pray for the life and health of your worship, that they may be  

as long and as good as your amiable appearance deserves."  

  

                                                         

56  Here, Quixote denies the existence of sorcerers who can make people act against  

their will, though he accepts enchantments and spells as part of his own world view. 


  

This one was in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he was a great  

talker and a very elegant Latin scholar.  

  

Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very personable fellow, except that  

when he looked, his eyes turned in a little one towards the other. He was bound  

differently from the rest, for he had to his leg a chain so long that it was wound all  

round his body, and two rings on his neck, one attached to the chain, the other to  

what they call a "keep‐friend" or "friend's foot," from which hung two irons reaching  

to his waist with two manacles fixed to them in which his hands were secured by a  

big padlock, so that he could neither raise his hands to his mouth nor lower his head  

to his hands. Don Quixote asked why this man carried so many more chains than the  

others. The guard replied that it was because he alone had committed more crimes  

than all the rest put together, and was so daring and such a villain, that though they  

marched him in that fashion they did not feel sure of him, but were in dread of his  

making his escape.  

  

"What crimes can he have committed," said Don Quixote, "if they have not deserved  

a heavier punishment than being sent to the galleys?"  

  

"He goes for ten years," replied the guard, "which is the same thing as civil death,  

and all that need be said is that this good fellow is the famous Gines de Pasamonte,  

otherwise called Ginesillo de Parapilla."  

  

"Gently, señor commissary," said the galley slave at this, "let us have no fixing of  

names or surnames; my name is Gines, not Ginesillo, and my family name is  

Pasamonte, not Parapilla as you say; let each one mind his own business, and he will  

be doing enough."  

  

"Speak with less impertinence, master thief of extra measure," replied the  

commissary, "if you don't want me to make you hold your tongue in spite of your  

teeth." 

  


  

"It is easy to see," returned the galley slave, "that man goes as God pleases, but some  

one shall know some day whether I am called Ginesillo de Parapilla or not."  

  

"Don't they call you so, you liar?" said the guard.  

  

"They do," returned Gines, "but I will make them give over calling me so, or I will be  

shaved, where, I only say behind my teeth. If you, sir, have anything to give us, give it  

to us at once, and God speed you, for you are becoming tiresome with all this  

inquisitiveness about the lives of others; if you want to know about mine, let me tell  

you I am Gines de Pasamonte, whose life is written by these fingers."  

  

"He says true," said the commissary, "for he has himself written his story as grand as  

you please, and has left the book in the prison in pawn for two hundred reals."  

  

"And I mean to take it out of pawn," said Gines, "though it were in for two hundred  

ducats."  

  

"Is it so good?" said Don Quixote.  

  

"So good is it," replied Gines, "that a fig for Lazarillo de Tormes, 57  and all of that kind  

that have been written, or shall be written compared with it: all I will say about it is  

that it deals with facts, and facts so neat and diverting that no lies could match  

them."  

  

"And how is the book entitled?" asked Don Quixote.  

  

"The Life of Gines de Pasamonte," replied the subject of it.  

  

                                                         

57  A picaresque or rogue novel, published anonymously about the middle of the 15 th   

century. 


  

"And is it finished?" asked Don Quixote.  

  

"How can it be finished," said the other, "when my life is not yet finished? All that is  

written is from my birth down to the point when they sent me to the galleys this last  

time."  

  

"Then you have been there before?" said Don Quixote.  

  

"In the service of God and the king I have been there for four years before now, and I  

know by this time what the biscuit and courbash 58  are like," replied Gines; "and it is  

no great grievance to me to go back to them, for there I shall have time to finish my  

book; I have still many things left to say, and in the galleys of Spain there is more  

than enough leisure; though I do not want much for what I have to write, for I have it  

by heart."  

  

"You seem a clever fellow," said Don Quixote.  

  

"And an unfortunate one," replied Gines, "for misfortune always persecutes good  

wit."  

  

"It persecutes rogues," said the commissary.  

  

"I told you already to go gently, master commissary," said Pasamonte; "their  

lordships yonder never gave you that staff to ill‐treat us wretches here, but to  

conduct and take us where his majesty orders you; if not, by the life of‐never mind‐;  

it may be that some day the stains made in the inn will come out in the scouring; let  

everyone hold his tongue and behave well and speak better; and now let us march  

on, for we have had quite enough of this entertainment."  

  

                                                         

58  A whip or strap about three feet long, commonly used as punishment or in  

torture. 


  

The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in return for his threats, but Don  

Quixote came between them, and begged him not to ill‐use him, as it was not too  

much to allow one who had his hands tied to have his tongue a trifle free; and  

turning to the whole chain of them he said:  

  

"From all you have told me, dear brethren, make out clearly that though they have  

punished you for your faults, the punishments you are about to endure do not give  

you much pleasure, and that you go to them very much against the grain and against  

your will, and that perhaps this one's want of courage under torture, that one's want  

of money, the other's want of advocacy, and lastly the perverted judgment of the  

judge may have been the cause of your ruin and of your failure to obtain the justice  

you had on your side. All which presents itself now to my mind, urging, persuading,  

and even compelling me to demonstrate in your case the purpose for which Heaven  

sent me into the world and caused me to make profession of the order of chivalry to  

which I belong, and the vow I took therein to give aid to those in need and under the  

oppression of the strong.  But as I know that it is a mark of prudence not to do by  

foul means what may be done by fair, I will ask these gentlemen, the guards and  

commissary, to be so good as to release you and let you go in peace, as there will be  

no lack of others to serve the king under more favorable circumstances; for it seems  

to me a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and nature have made free.  

Moreover, sirs of the guard," added Don Quixote, "these poor fellows have done  

nothing to you; let each answer for his own sins yonder; there is a God in Heaven  

who will not forget to punish the wicked or reward the good; and it is not fitting that  

honest men should be the instruments of punishment to others, they being therein  

no way concerned. This request I make thus gently and quietly, that, if you comply  

with it, I may have reason for thanking you; and, if you will not voluntarily, this  

lance and sword together with the might of my arm shall compel you to comply with  

it by force."  

  

"Nice nonsense!" said the commissary; "a fine piece of pleasantry he has come out  

with at last! He wants us to let the king's prisoners go, as if we had any authority to 


  

release them, or he to order us to do so! Go your way, sir, and good luck to you; put  

that basin 59  straight that you've got on your head, and don't go looking for three feet  

on a cat. 60 "  

  

"'Tis you that are the cat, rat, and rascal," replied Don Quixote, and acting on the  

word he fell upon him so suddenly that without giving him time to defend himself he  

brought him to the ground sorely wounded with a lance‐thrust; and lucky it was for  

him that it was the one that had the musket. The other guards stood thunderstruck  

and amazed at this unexpected event, but recovering presence of mind, those on  

horseback seized their swords, and those on foot their javelins, and attacked Don  

Quixote, who was waiting for them with great calmness; and no doubt it would have  

gone badly with him if the galley slaves, seeing the chance before them of liberating  

themselves, had not effected it by contriving to break the chain on which they were  

strung. Such was the confusion, that the guards, now rushing at the galley slaves  

who were breaking loose, now to attack Don Quixote who was waiting for them, did  

nothing at all that was of any use. Sancho, on his part, gave a helping hand to release  

Gines de Pasamonte, who was the first to leap forth upon the plain free and  

unfettered, and who, attacking the prostrate commissary, took from him his sword  

and the musket, with which, aiming at one and leveling at another, he, without ever  

discharging it, drove every one of the guards off the field, for they took to flight, as  

well to escape Pasamonte's musket, as the showers of stones the now released  

galley slaves were raining upon them. Sancho was greatly grieved at the affair,  

because he anticipated that those who had fled would report the matter to the Holy  

Brotherhood, who at the summons of the alarm‐bell would at once sally forth in  

quest of the offenders; and he said so to his master, and entreated him to leave the  

place at once, and go into hiding in the sierra that was close by.  

  

                                                         

59  A shaving basin, which Don Quixote has appropriated for a helmet, thinking it to  

be the famous enchanted helmet of Mambrino.  

60  The more usual form of the proverb is “five feet on a cat.” 


  

"That is all very well," said Don Quixote, "but I know what must be done now;" and  

calling together all the galley slaves, who were now running riot, and had stripped  

the commissary to the skin, he collected them round him to hear what he had to say,  

and addressed them as follows: "To be grateful for benefits received is the part of  

persons of good birth, and one of the sins most offensive to God is ingratitude; I say  

so because, sirs, ye have already seen by manifest proof the benefit ye have received  

of me; in return for which I desire, and it is my good pleasure that, laden with that  

chain which I have taken off your necks, ye at once set out and proceed to the city of  

El Toboso, and there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and  

say to her that her knight, he of the Mournful Countenance, sends to commend  

himself to her; and that ye recount to her in full detail all the particulars of this  

notable adventure, up to the recovery of your longed‐for liberty; and this done ye  

may go where ye will, and good fortune attend you."  

  

Gines de Pasamonte made answer for all, saying, "That which you, sir, our deliverer,  

demand of us, is of all impossibilities the most impossible to comply with, because  

we cannot go together along the roads, but only singly and separate, and each one  

his own way, endeavoring to hide ourselves in the bowels of the earth to escape the  

Holy Brotherhood, which, no doubt, will come out in search of us. What your  

worship may do, and fairly do, is to change this service and tribute as regards the  

lady Dulcinea del Toboso for a certain quantity of ave‐marias and credos which we  

will say for your worship's intention, and this is a condition that can be complied  

with by night as by day, running or resting, in peace or in war; but to imagine that  

we are going now to return to the flesh‐pots of Egypt, I mean to take up our chain  

and set out for El Toboso, is to imagine that it is now night, though it is not yet ten in  

the morning, and to ask this of us is like asking pears of the elm tree."  

  

"Then by all that's good," said Don Quixote (now stirred to wrath), "Don son of a  

bitch, Don Ginesillo de Paropillo, or whatever your name is, you will have to go  

yourself alone, with your tail between your legs and the whole chain on your back."  

 


  

Pasamonte, who was anything but meek (being by this time thoroughly convinced  

that Don Quixote was not quite right in his head as he had committed such a vagary  

as to set them free), finding himself abused in this fashion, gave the wink to his  

companions, and falling back they began to shower stones on Don Quixote at such a  

rate that he was quite unable to protect himself with his buckler, and poor  

Rocinante no more heeded the spur than if he had been made of brass. Sancho  

planted himself behind his ass, and with him sheltered himself from the hailstorm  

that poured on both of them. Don Quixote was unable to shield himself so well but  

that more pebbles than I could count struck him full on the body with such force  

that they brought him to the ground; and the instant he fell the student pounced  

upon him, snatched the basin from his head, and with it struck three or four blows  

on his shoulders, and as many more on the ground, knocking it almost to pieces.  

They then stripped him of a jacket that he wore over his armor, and they would have  

stripped off his stockings if his greaves had not prevented them. From Sancho they  

took his coat, leaving him in his shirt‐sleeves; and dividing among themselves the  

remaining spoils of the battle, they went each one his own way, more solicitous  

about keeping clear of the Holy Brotherhood they dreaded, than about burdening  

themselves with the chain, or going to present themselves before the lady Dulcinea  

del Toboso. The ass and Rocinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, were all that were left  

upon the spot; the ass with drooping head, serious, shaking his ears from time to  

time as if he thought the storm of stones that assailed them was not yet over;  

Rocinante stretched beside his master, for he too had been brought to the ground by  

a stone; Sancho stripped, and trembling with fear of the Holy Brotherhood; and Don  

Quixote fuming to find himself so served by the very persons for whom he had done  

so much.    

 

CHAPTER LII 61   


  

OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD, TOGETHER  

WITH THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN  

EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION  

  

  

The goatherd's tale gave great satisfaction to all the hearers, and the canon 62   

especially enjoyed it, for he had remarked with particular attention the manner in  

which it had been told, which was as unlike the manner of a clownish goatherd as it  

was like that of a polished city wit; and he observed that the curate had been quite  

right in saying that the woods bred men of learning. They all offered their services  

to Eugenio but he who showed himself most liberal in this way was Don Quixote,  

who said to him, "Most assuredly, brother goatherd, if I found myself in a position to  

attempt any adventure, I would, this very instant, set out on your behalf, and would  

rescue Leandra from that convent (where no doubt she is kept against her will), in  

spite of the abbess and all who might try to prevent me, and would place her in your  

hands to deal with her according to your will and pleasure, observing, however, the  

laws of chivalry which lay down that no violence of any kind is to be offered to any  

damsel. But I trust in God our Lord that the might of one malignant enchanter may  

not prove so great but that the power of another better disposed may prove  

superior to it, and then I promise you my support and assistance, as I am bound to  

do by my profession, which is none other than to give aid to the weak and needy."  

  

                                                         

61   The last chapter of Part One.  Through various devices, including the use of Don  

Quixote’s own belief in enchantments and spells, the curate and the barber have  

persuaded the knight to let  himself be taken home in an ox cart.    

62  A canon from Toledo who has joined Don Quixote and his guardians on the way;  

conversing about chivalry with the knight, he has had cause to be “astonished at Don  

Quixote’s well‐reasoned nonsense.” 


  

The goatherd eyed him, and noticing Don Quixote's sorry appearance and looks, he  

was filled with wonder, and asked the barber, who was next him, "Señor, who is this  

man who makes such a figure and talks in such a strain?"  

  

"Who should it be," said the barber, "but the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the  

undoer of injustice, the righter of wrongs, the protector of damsels, the terror of  

giants, and the winner of battles?"  

  

"That," said the goatherd, "sounds like what one reads in the books of the knights‐ 

errant, who did all that you say this man does; though it is my belief that either you  

are joking, or else this gentleman has empty lodgings in his head."  

  

"You are a great scoundrel," said Don Quixote, "and it is you who are empty and a  

fool. I am fuller than ever was the whoreson bitch that bore you;" and passing from  

words to deeds, he caught up a loaf that was near him and sent it full in the  

goatherd's face, with such force that he flattened his nose; but the goatherd, who did  

not understand jokes, and found himself roughly handled in such good earnest,  

paying no respect to carpet, tablecloth, or diners, sprang upon Don Quixote, and  

seizing him by the throat with both hands would no doubt have throttled him, had  

not Sancho Panza that instant come to the rescue, and grasping him by the  

shoulders flung him down on the table, smashing plates, breaking glasses, and  

upsetting and scattering everything on it. Don Quixote, finding himself free, strove to  

get on top of the goatherd, who, with his face covered with blood, and soundly  

kicked by Sancho, was on all fours feeling about for one of the table‐knives to take a  

bloody revenge with. The canon and the curate, however, prevented him, but the  

barber so contrived it that he got Don Quixote under him, and rained down upon  

him such a shower of fisticuffs that the poor knight's face streamed with blood as  

freely as his own. The canon and the curate were bursting with laughter, the  

officers 63  were capering with delight, and both the one and the other hissed them on  

                                                         

63  Law officers from the Holy Brotherhood.  They had wanted to arrest Don Quixote 


  

as they do dogs that are worrying one another in a fight. Sancho alone was frantic,  

for he could not free himself from the grasp of one of the canon's servants, who kept  

him from going to his master's assistance.  

  

At last, while they were all, with the exception of the two bruisers who were  

mauling each other, in high glee and enjoyment, they heard a trumpet sound a note  

so doleful that it made them all look in the direction whence the sound seemed to  

come. But the one that was most excited by hearing it was Don Quixote, who though  

sorely against his will he was under the goatherd, and something more than pretty  

well pummeled, said to him, "Brother devil (for it is impossible but that thou must  

be one since thou hast had might and strength enough to overcome mine), I ask thee  

to agree to a truce for but one hour for the solemn note of yonder trumpet that falls  

on our ears seems to me to summon me to some new adventure." The goatherd, who  

was by this time tired of pummeling and being pummeled, released him at once, and  

Don Quixote rising to his feet and turning his eyes to the quarter where the sound  

had been heard, suddenly saw coming down the slope of a hill several men clad in  

white like penitents.  

  

The fact was that the clouds had that year withheld their moisture from the earth,  

and in all the villages of the district they were organizing processions, rogations, and  

penances, imploring God to open the hands of his mercy and send the rain; and to  

this end the people of a village that was hard by were going in procession to a holy  

hermitage there was on one side of that valley. Don Quixote when he saw the  

strange garb of the penitents, without reflecting how often he had seen it before,  

took it into his head that this was a case of adventure, and that it fell to him alone as  

a knight‐errant to engage in it; and he was all the more confirmed in this notion, by  

the idea that an image draped in black they had with them was some illustrious lady  

that these villains and discourteous thieves were carrying off by force. As soon as  

this occurred to him he ran with all speed to Rocinante who was grazing at large,  

                                                                                                                                                                      

for trying to free the galley slaves but had been persuaded to let him go, due to his  

insanity. 


  

and taking the bridle and the buckler from the saddle‐bow, he had him bridled in an  

instant, and calling to Sancho for his sword he mounted Rocinante, braced his  

buckler on his arm, and in a loud voice exclaimed to those who stood by, "Now,  

noble company, ye shall see how important it is that there should be knights in the  

world professing the of knight‐errantry; now, I say, ye shall see, by the deliverance  

of that worthy lady who is borne captive there, whether knights‐errant deserve to  

be held in estimation," and so saying he brought his legs to bear on Rocinante – for  

he had no spurs – and at a full canter (for in all this veracious history we never read  

of Rocinante fairly galloping) set off to encounter the penitents, though the curate,  

the canon, and the barber ran to prevent him. But it was out of their power, nor did  

he even stop for the shouts of Sancho calling after him, "Where are you going, Señor  

Don Quixote? What devils have possessed you to set you on against our Catholic  

faith? Plague take me! mind, that is a procession of penitents, and the lady they are  

carrying on that stand there is the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin. Take care  

what you are doing, señor, for this time it may be safely said you don't know what  

you are about." Sancho labored in vain, for his master was so bent on coming to  

quarters with these sheeted figures and releasing the lady in black that he did not  

hear a word; and even had he heard, he would not have turned back if the king had  

ordered him. He came up with the procession and reined in Rocinante, who was  

already anxious enough to slacken speed a little, and in a hoarse, excited voice he  

exclaimed, "You who hide your faces, perhaps because you are not good subjects,  

pay attention and listen to what I am about to say to you." The first to halt were  

those who were carrying the image, and one of the four ecclesiastics who were  

chanting the Litany, struck by the strange figure of Don Quixote, the leanness of  

Rocinante, and the other ludicrous peculiarities he observed, said in reply to him,  

"Brother, if you have anything to say to us say it quickly, for these brethren are  

whipping themselves, and we cannot stop, nor is it reasonable we should stop to  

hear anything, unless indeed it is short enough to be said in two words."  

  

"I will say it in one," replied Don Quixote, "and it is this; that at once, this very  

instant, ye release that fair lady whose tears and sad aspect show plainly that ye are 


  

carrying her off against her will, and that ye have committed some scandalous  

outrage against her; and I, who was born into the world to redress all such like  

wrongs, will not permit you to advance another step until you have restored to her  

the liberty she pines for and deserves."  

  

From these words all the hearers concluded that he must be a madman, and began  

to laugh heartily, and their laughter acted like gunpowder on Don Quixote's fury, for  

drawing his sword without another word he made a rush at the stand. One of those  

who supported it, leaving the burden to his comrades, advanced to meet him,  

flourishing a forked stick that he had for propping up the stand when resting, and  

with this he caught a mighty cut Don Quixote made at him that severed it in two; but  

with the portion that remained in his hand he dealt such a thwack on the shoulder of  

Don Quixote's sword arm (which the buckler could not protect against the clownish  

assault) that poor Don Quixote came to the ground in a sad plight.  

  

Sancho Panza, who was coming on close behind puffing and blowing, seeing him fall,  

cried out to his assailant not to strike him again, for he was poor enchanted knight,  

who had never harmed anyone all the days of his life; but what checked the clown  

was, not Sancho's shouting, but seeing that Don Quixote did not stir hand or foot;  

and so, fancying he had killed him, he hastily hitched up his tunic under his girdle  

and took to his heels across the country like a deer.  

  

By this time all Don Quixote's companions had come up to where he lay; but the  

processionists seeing them come running, and with them the officers of the  

Brotherhood with their crossbows, apprehended mischief, and clustering round the  

image, raised their hoods, and grasped their scourges, as the priests did their tapers,  

and awaited the attack, resolved to defend themselves and even to take the offensive  

against their assailants if they could. Fortune, however, arranged the matter better  

than they expected, for all Sancho did was to fling himself on his master's body,  

raising over him the most doleful and laughable lamentation that ever was heard,  

for he believed he was dead. The curate was known to another curate who walked in 


  

the procession, and their recognition of one another set at rest the apprehensions of  

both parties; the first then told the other in two words who Don Quixote was, and he  

and the whole troop of penitents went to see if the poor gentleman was dead, and  

heard Sancho Panza saying, with tears in his eyes, "Oh flower of chivalry, 64  that with  

one blow of a stick hast ended the course of thy well‐spent life! Oh pride of thy race,  

honor and glory of all La Mancha, nay, of all the world, that for want of thee will be  

full of evil‐doers, no longer in fear of punishment for their misdeeds! Oh thou,  

generous above all the Alexanders, since for only eight months of service thou hast  

given me the best island the sea girds or surrounds! Humble with the proud,  

haughty with the humble, encounterer of dangers, endurer of outrages, enamored  

without reason, imitator of the good, scourge of the wicked, enemy of the mean, in  

short, knight‐errant, which is all that can be said!"  

  

At the cries and moans of Sancho, Don Quixote came to himself, and the first word  

he said was, "He who lives separated from you, sweetest Dulcinea, has greater  

miseries to endure than these. Aid me, friend Sancho, to mount the enchanted cart,  

for I am not in a condition to press the saddle of Rocinante, as this shoulder is all  

knocked to pieces."  

  

"That I will do with all my heart, señor," said Sancho; "and let us return to our village  

with these gentlemen, who seek your good, and there we will prepare for making  

another sally, which may turn out more profitable and creditable to us."  

  

"Thou art right, Sancho," returned Don Quixote; "It will be wise to let the malign  

influence of the stars which now prevails pass off."  

  

The canon, the curate, and the barber told him he would act very wisely in doing as  

he said; and so, highly amused at Sancho Panza's simplicities, they placed Don  

Quixote in the cart as before. The procession once more formed itself in order and  

                                                         

64  Note that by this time Sancho has absorbed some of his master’s courtly speech. 


  

proceeded on its road; the goatherd took his leave of the party; the officers of the  

Brotherhood declined to go any farther, and the curate paid them what was due to  

them; the canon begged the curate to let him know how Don Quixote did, whether  

he was cured of his madness or still suffered from it, and then begged leave to  

continue his journey; in short, they all separated and went their ways, leaving to  

themselves the curate and the barber, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the good  

Rocinante, who regarded everything with as great resignation as his master. The  

carter yoked his oxen and made Don Quixote comfortable on a truss of hay, and at  

his usual deliberate pace took the road the curate directed, and at the end of six days  

they reached Don Quixote's village, and entered it about the middle of the day,  

which it so happened was a Sunday, and the people were all in the plaza, through  

which Don Quixote's cart passed. They all flocked to see what was in the cart, and  

when they recognized their townsman they were filled with amazement, and a boy  

ran off to bring the news to his housekeeper and his niece that their master and  

uncle had come back all lean and yellow and stretched on a truss of hay on an ox‐ 

cart. It was piteous to hear the cries the two good ladies raised, how they beat their  

breasts and poured out fresh maledictions on those accursed books of chivalry; all  

which was renewed when they saw Don Quixote coming in at the gate.  

  

At the news of Don Quixote's arrival Sancho Panza's wife came running, for she by  

this time knew that her husband had gone away with him as his squire, and on  

seeing Sancho, the first thing she asked him was if the ass was well. Sancho replied  

that he was, better than his master was.  

  

"Thanks be to God," said she, "for being so good to me; but now tell me, my friend,  

what have you made by your squirings? What gown have you brought me back?  

What shoes for your children?"  

  

"I bring nothing of that sort, wife," said Sancho; "though I bring other things of more  

consequence and value."  

 


  

"I am very glad of that," returned his wife; "show me these things of more value and  

consequence, my friend; for I want to see them to cheer my heart that has been so  

sad and heavy all these ages that you have been away."  

  

"I will show them to you at home, wife," said Sancho; "be content for the present; for  

if it please God that we should again go on our travels in search of adventures, you  

will soon see me a count, or governor of an island, and that not one of those  

everyday ones, but the best that is to be had."  

  

"Heaven grant it, husband," said she, "for indeed we have need of it. But tell me,  

what's this about islands, for I don't understand it?"  

  

"Honey is not for the mouth of the ass," returned Sancho; "all in good time thou shalt  

see, wife  –  nay, thou wilt be surprised to hear thyself called 'your ladyship' by all  

thy vassals."  

  

"What are you talking about, Sancho, with your ladyships, islands, and vassals?"  

returned Teresa Panza  –  for so Sancho's wife was called, though they were not  

relations, for in La Mancha it is customary for wives to take their husbands'  

surnames.  

  

"Don't be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa," said Sancho; "it is enough that I  

am telling you the truth, so shut your mouth. But I may tell you this much by the  

way, that there is nothing in the world more delightful than to be a person of  

consideration, squire to a knight‐errant, and a seeker of adventures. To be sure most  

of those one finds do not end as pleasantly as one could wish, for out of a hundred,  

ninety‐nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it by experience, for out of some  

I came blanketed, and out of others belabored. Still, for all that, it is a fine thing to be  

on the look‐out for what may happen, crossing mountains, searching woods,  

climbing rocks, visiting castles, putting up at inns, all at free quarters, and devil take  

the maravedi to pay." 

  


  

While this conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife, Don Quixote's  

housekeeper and niece took him in and undressed him and laid him in his old bed.  

He eyed them askance, and could not make out where he was. The curate charged  

his niece to be very careful to make her uncle comfortable and to keep a watch over  

him lest he should make his escape from them again, telling her what they had been  

obliged to do to bring him home. On this the pair once more lifted up their voices  

and renewed their maledictions upon the books of chivalry, and implored heaven to  

plunge the authors of such lies and nonsense into the midst of the bottomless pit.  

They were, in short, kept in anxiety and dread lest their uncle and master should  

give them the slip the moment he found himself somewhat better, and as they  

feared so it fell out.  

 


  

  

VOLUME II  

CHAPTER I  

  

OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE  

ABOUT HIS MALADY  

  

Cide Hamete Benengeli, in the Second Part of this history, and third sally of Don  

Quixote, says that the curate and the barber remained nearly a month without  

seeing him, lest they should recall or bring back to his recollection what had taken  

place. They did not, however, omit to visit his niece and housekeeper, and charge  

them to be careful to treat him with attention, and give him comforting things to eat,  

and such as were good for the heart and the brain, whence, it was plain to see, all his  

misfortune proceeded. The niece and housekeeper replied that they did so, and  

meant to do so with all possible care and assiduity, for they could perceive that their  

master was now and then beginning to show signs of being in his right mind. This  

gave great satisfaction to the curate and the barber, for they concluded they had  

taken the right course in carrying him off enchanted on the ox‐cart, as has been  

described in the First Part of this great as well as accurate history, in the last chapter  

thereof. So they resolved to pay him a visit and test the improvement in his  

condition, although they thought it almost impossible that there could be any; and  

they agreed not to touch upon any point connected with knight‐errantry so as not to  

run the risk of reopening wounds which were still so tender.  

  

They came to see him consequently, and found him sitting up in bed in a green baize  

waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and so withered and dried up that he looked as if he  

had been turned into a mummy. They were very cordially received by him; they  

asked him after his health, and he talked to them about himself very naturally and in  

very well‐chosen language. In the course of their conversation they fell to discussing 


  

what they call State‐craft and systems of government, correcting this abuse and  

condemning that, reforming one practice and abolishing another, each of the three  

setting up for a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus 1 , or a brand‐new Solon 2 ; and so  

completely did they remodel the State, that they seemed to have thrust it into a  

furnace and taken out something quite different from what they had put in; and on  

all the subjects they dealt with, Don Quixote spoke with such good sense that the  

pair of examiners were fully convinced that he was quite recovered and in his full  

senses.  

  

The niece and housekeeper were present at the conversation and could not find  

words enough to express their thanks to God at seeing their master so clear in his  

mind; the curate, however, changing his original plan, which was to avoid touching  

upon matters of chivalry, resolved to test Don Quixote's recovery thoroughly, and  

see whether it were genuine or not; and so, from one subject to another, he came at  

last to talk of the news that had come from the capital, and, among other things, he  

said it was considered certain that the Turk 3  was coming down with a powerful  

fleet, and that no one knew what his purpose was, or when the great storm would  

burst; and that all Christendom was in apprehension of this, which almost every  

year calls us to arms, and that his Majesty had made provision for the security of the  

coasts of Naples and Sicily and the island of Malta.  

  

To this Don Quixote replied, "His Majesty has acted like a prudent warrior in  

providing for the safety of his realms in time, so that the enemy may not find him  

unprepared; but if my advice were taken I would recommend him to adopt a  

measure which at present, no doubt, his Majesty is very far from thinking of."  

  

                                                         

1  A Spartan lawgiver.  

2  Athenian statesman, lawmaker and poet.  

3  The Turkish army. 


  

The moment the curate heard this he said to himself, "God keep thee in his hand,  

poor Don Quixote, for it seems to me thou art precipitating thyself from the height of  

thy madness into the profound abyss of thy simplicity."  

  

But the barber, who had the same suspicion as the curate, asked Don Quixote what  

would be his advice as to the measures that he said ought to be adopted; for perhaps  

it might prove to be one that would have to be added to the list of the many  

impertinent suggestions that people were in the habit of offering to princes.  

  

"Mine, master shaver," said Don Quixote, "will not be impertinent, but, on the  

contrary, pertinent."  

  

"I don't mean that," said the barber, "but that experience has shown that all or most  

of the expedients which are proposed to his Majesty are either impossible, or  

absurd, or injurious to the King and to the kingdom."  

  

"Mine, however," replied Don Quixote, "is neither impossible nor absurd, but the  

easiest, the most reasonable, the readiest and most expeditious that could suggest  

itself to any projector's mind."  

  

"You take a long time to tell it, Señor Don Quixote," said the curate.  

  

"I don't choose to tell it here, now," said Don Quixote, "and have it reach the ears of  

the lords of the council to‐morrow morning, and some other carry off the thanks and  

rewards of my trouble."  

  

"For my part," said the barber, "I give my word here and before God that I will not  

repeat what your worship says, to King, Rook or earthly man – an oath I learned  

from the ballad of the curate, who, in the prelude, told the king of the thief who had  

robbed him of the hundred gold crowns and his pacing mule."  

 


  

"I am not versed in stories," said Don Quixote; "but I know the oath is a good one,  

because I know the barber to be an honest fellow."  

  

"Even if he were not," said the curate, "I will go bail and answer for him that in this  

matter he will be as silent as a dummy, under pain of paying any penalty that may be  

pronounced."  

  

"And who will be security for you, señor curate?" said Don Quixote.  

  

"My profession," replied the curate, "which is to keep secrets."  

  

"Ods body!" said Don Quixote at this, "what more has his Majesty to do but to  

command, by public proclamation, all the knights‐errant that are scattered over  

Spain to assemble on a fixed day in the capital, for even if no more than half a dozen  

come, there may be one among them who alone will suffice to destroy the entire  

might of the Turk. Give me your attention and follow me. Is it, pray, any new thing  

for a single knight‐errant to demolish an army of two hundred thousand men, as if  

they all had but one throat or were made of sugar paste? Nay, tell me, how many  

histories are there filled with these marvels? If only (in an evil hour for me: I don't  

speak for anyone else) the famous Don Belianis were alive now, or any one of the  

innumerable progeny of Amadis of Gaul! If any these were alive today, and were to  

come face to face with the Turk, by my faith, I would not give much for the Turk's  

chance. But God will have regard for his people, and will provide someone, who, if  

not so valiant as the knights‐errant of yore, at least will not be inferior to them in  

spirit; but God knows what I mean, and I say no more."  

  

"Alas!" exclaimed the niece at this, "may I die if my master does not want to turn  

knight‐errant again;" to which Don Quixote replied, "A knight‐errant I shall die, and  

let the Turk come down or go up when he likes, and in as strong force as he can,  

once more I say, God knows what I mean." But here the barber said, "I ask your  

worships to give me leave to tell a short story of something that happened in Seville, 


  

which comes so pat to the purpose just now that I should like greatly to tell it." Don  

Quixote gave him leave, and the rest prepared to listen, and he began thus:  

  

"In the madhouse at Seville there was a man whom his relations had placed there as  

being out of his mind. He was a graduate of Osuna 4  in canon law; but even if he had  

been of Salamanca 5 , it was the opinion of most people that he would have been mad  

all the same. This graduate, after some years of confinement, took it into his head  

that he was sane and in his full senses, and under this impression wrote to the  

Archbishop, entreating him earnestly, and in very correct language, to have him  

released from the misery in which he was living; for by God's mercy he had now  

recovered his lost reason, though his relations, in order to enjoy his property, kept  

him there, and, in spite of the truth, would make him out to be mad until his dying  

day. The Archbishop, moved by repeated sensible, well‐written letters, directed one  

of his chaplains to make inquiry of the madhouse as to the truth of the licentiate's 6   

statements, and to have an interview with the madman himself, and, if it should  

appear that he was in his senses, to take him out and restore him to liberty. The  

chaplain did so, and the governor assured him that the man was still mad, and that  

though he often spoke like a highly intelligent person, he would in the end break out  

into nonsense that in quantity and quality counterbalanced all the sensible things he  

had said before, as might be easily tested by talking to him. The chaplain resolved to  

try the experiment, and obtaining access to the madman conversed with him for an  

hour or more, during the whole of which time he never uttered a word that was  

incoherent or absurd, but, on the contrary, spoke so rationally that the chaplain was  

compelled to believe him to be sane. Among other things, he said the governor was  

against him, not to lose the presents his relations made him for reporting him still  

mad but with lucid intervals; and that the worst foe he had in his misfortune was his  

large property; for in order to enjoy it his enemies disparaged and threw doubts  

upon the mercy our Lord had shown him in turning him from a brute beast into a  

                                                         

4  The university of Osuna,  located in that town.  

5  A more prestigious university.  

6  A “licensed one”: ‐‐ i.e., a university graduate. 


  

man. In short, he spoke in such a way that he cast suspicion on the governor, and  

made his relations appear covetous and heartless, and himself so rational that the  

chaplain determined to take him away with him that the Archbishop might see him,  

and ascertain for himself the truth of the matter. Yielding to this conviction, the  

worthy chaplain begged the governor to have the clothes in which the licentiate had  

entered the house given to him. The governor again bade him beware of what he  

was doing, as the licentiate was beyond a doubt still mad; but all his cautions and  

warnings were unavailing to dissuade the chaplain from taking him away. The  

governor, seeing that it was the order of the Archbishop, obeyed, and they dressed  

the licentiate in his own clothes, which were new and decent. He, as soon as he saw  

himself clothed like one in his senses, and divested of the appearance of a madman,  

entreated the chaplain to permit him in charity to go and take leave of his comrades  

the madmen. The chaplain said he would go with him to see what madmen there  

were in the house; so they went upstairs, and with them some of those who were  

present. Approaching a cage in which there was a furious madman, though just at  

that moment calm and quiet, the licentiate said to him, 'Brother, think if you have  

any commands for me, for I am going home, as God has been pleased, in his infinite  

goodness and mercy, without any merit of mine, to restore me my reason. I am now  

cured and in my senses, for with God's power nothing is impossible. Have strong  

hope and trust in him, for as he has restored me to my original condition, so likewise  

he will restore you if you trust in him. I will take care to send you some good things  

to eat; and be sure you eat them; for I would have you know I am convinced, as one  

who has gone through it, that all this madness of ours comes of having the stomach  

empty and the brains full of wind. Take courage! take courage! for despondency in  

misfortune breaks down health and brings on death.'  

  

"To all these words of the licentiate another madman in a cage opposite that of the  

furious one was listening; and raising himself up from an old mat on which he lay  

stark naked, he asked in a loud voice who it was that was going away cured and in  

his senses. The licentiate answered, 'It is I, brother, who am going; I have now no 


  

need to remain here any longer, for which I return infinite thanks to Heaven that has  

had so great mercy upon me.'  

  

"'Mind what you are saying, licentiate; don't let the devil deceive you,' replied the  

madman. 'Keep quiet, stay where you are, and you will save yourself the trouble of  

coming back.'  

  

"'I know I am cured,' returned the licentiate, 'and that I shall not have to go stations  

again.'  

  

"'You cured!' said the madman; 'well, we shall see; God be with you; but I swear to  

you by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that for this crime alone, which  

Seville is committing to‐day in releasing you from this house, and treating you as if  

you were in your senses, I shall have to inflict such a punishment on it as will be  

remembered for ages and ages, amen. Dost thou not know, thou miserable little  

licentiate, that I can do it, being, as I say, Jupiter the Thunderer, who hold in my  

hands the fiery bolts with which I am able and am wont to threaten and lay waste  

the world? But in one way only will I punish this ignorant town, and that is by not  

raining upon it, nor on any part of its district or territory, for three whole years, to  

be reckoned from the day and moment when this threat is pronounced. Thou free,  

thou cured, thou in thy senses! and I mad, I disordered, I bound! I will as soon think  

of sending rain as of hanging myself.  

  

"Those present stood listening to the words and exclamations of the madman; but  

our licentiate, turning to the chaplain and seizing him by the hands, said to him, 'Be  

not uneasy, señor; attach no importance to what this madman has said; for if he is  

Jupiter and will not send rain, I, who am Neptune, the father and god of the waters,  

will rain as often as it pleases me and may be needful.'  

  

"The governor and the bystanders laughed, and at their laughter the chaplain was  

half ashamed, and he replied, 'For all that, Señor Neptune, it will not do to vex Señor 


  

Jupiter; remain where you are, and some other day, when there is a better  

opportunity and more time, we will come back for you.' So they stripped the  

licentiate, and he was left where he was; and that's the end of the story."  

  

"So that's the story, master barber," said Don Quixote, "which came in so pat to the  

purpose that you could not help telling it? Master shaver, master shaver! how blind  

is he who cannot see through a sieve. Is it possible that you do not know that  

comparisons of wit with wit, valor with valor, beauty with beauty, birth with birth,  

are always odious and unwelcome? I, master barber, am not Neptune, the god of the  

waters, nor do I try to make anyone take me for an astute man, for I am not one. My  

only endeavor is to convince the world of the mistake it makes in not reviving in  

itself the happy time when the order of knight‐errantry was in the field. But our  

depraved age does not deserve to enjoy such a blessing as those ages enjoyed when  

knights‐errant took upon their shoulders the defense of kingdoms, the protection of  

damsels, the succour of orphans and minors, the chastisement of the proud, and the  

recompense of the humble. With the knights of these days, for the most part, it is the  

damask, brocade, and rich stuffs they wear, that rustle as they go, not the chain mail  

of their armor; no knight now‐a‐days sleeps in the open field exposed to the  

inclemency of heaven, and in full panoply from head to foot; no one now takes a nap,  

as they call it, without drawing his feet out of the stirrups, and leaning upon his  

lance, as the knights‐errant used to do; no one now, issuing from the wood,  

penetrates yonder mountains, and then treads the barren, lonely shore of the sea –  

mostly a tempestuous and stormy one – and finding on the beach a little bark  

without oars, sail, mast, or tackling of any kind, in the intrepidity of his heart flings  

himself into it and commits himself to the wrathful billows of the deep sea, that one  

moment lift him up to heaven and the next plunge him into the depths; and  

opposing his breast to the irresistible gale, finds himself, when he least expects it,  

three thousand leagues and more away from the place where he embarked; and  

leaping ashore in a remote and unknown land has adventures that deserve to be  

written, not on parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over energy,  

indolence over exertion, vice over virtue, arrogance over courage, and theory over 


  

practice in arms, which flourished and shone only in the golden ages and in knights‐ 

errant. For tell me, who was more virtuous and more valiant than the famous  

Amadis of Gaul? Who more discreet than Palmerin of England? Who more gracious  

and easy than Tirante el Blanco? Who more courtly than Lisuarte of Greece? Who  

more slashed or slashing than Don Belianis? Who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul?  

Who more ready to face danger than Felixmarte of Hircania? Who more sincere than  

Esplandian? Who more impetuous than Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who more bold  

than Rodamonte? Who more prudent than King Sobrino? Who more daring than  

Reinaldos? Who more invincible than Roland? and who more gallant and courteous  

than Ruggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara of the present day are descended,  

according to Turpin in his 'Cosmography.' All these knights, and many more that I  

could name, señor curate, were knights‐errant, the light and glory of chivalry. These,  

or such as these, I would have to carry out my plan, and in that case his Majesty  

would find himself well served and would save great expense, and the Turk would  

be left tearing his beard. And so I will stay where I am, as the chaplain does not take  

me away; and if Jupiter, as the barber has told us, will not send rain, here am I, and I  

will rain when I please. I say this that Master Basin 7  may know that I understand  

him."  

  

"Indeed, Señor Don Quixote," said the barber, "I did not mean it in that way, and, so  

help me God, my intention was good, and your worship ought not to be vexed."  

  

"As to whether I ought to be vexed or not," returned Don Quixote, "I myself am the  

best judge."  

  

Hereupon the curate observed, "I have hardly said a word as yet; and I would gladly  

be relieved of a doubt, arising from what Don Quixote has said, that worries and  

works my conscience."  

  

                                                         

7  The barber. 


  

"The señor curate has leave for more than that," returned Don Quixote, "so he may  

declare his doubt, for it is not pleasant to have a doubt on one's conscience."  

  

"Well then, with that permission," said the curate, "I say my doubt is that, all I can  

do, I cannot persuade myself that the whole pack of knights‐errant you, Señor Don  

Quixote, have mentioned, were really and truly persons of flesh and blood, that ever  

lived in the world; on the contrary, I suspect it to be all fiction, fable, and falsehood,  

and dreams told by men awakened from sleep, or rather still half asleep."  

  

"That is another mistake," replied Don Quixote, "into which many have fallen who  

do not believe that there ever were such knights in the world, and I have often, with  

divers people and on divers occasions, tried to expose this almost universal error to  

the light of truth. Sometimes I have not been successful in my purpose, sometimes I  

have, supporting it upon the shoulders of the truth; which truth is so clear that I can  

almost say I have with my own eyes seen Amadis of Gaul, who was a man of lofty  

stature, fair complexion, with a handsome though black beard, of a countenance  

between gentle and stern in expression, sparing of words, slow to anger, and quick  

to put it away from him; and as I have depicted Amadis, so I could, I think, portray  

and describe all the knights‐errant that are in all the histories in the world; for by  

the perception I have that they were what their histories describe, and by the deeds  

they did and the dispositions they displayed, it is possible, with the aid of sound  

philosophy, to deduce their features, complexion, and stature."  

  

"How big, in your worship's opinion, may the giant Morgante have been, Señor Don  

Quixote?" asked the barber.  

  

"With regard to giants," replied Don Quixote, "opinions differ as to whether there  

ever were any or not in the world; but the Holy Scripture, which cannot err by a jot  

from the truth, shows us that there were, when it gives us the history of that big  

Philistine, Goliath, who was seven cubits and a half in height, which is a huge size.  

Likewise, in the island of Sicily, there have been found leg‐bones and arm‐bones so 


  

large that their size makes it plain that their owners were giants, and as tall as great  

towers; geometry puts this fact beyond a doubt. But, for all that, I cannot speak with  

certainty as to the size of Morgante, though I suspect he cannot have been very tall;  

and I am inclined to be of this opinion because I find in the history in which his  

deeds are particularly mentioned, that he frequently slept under a roof and as he  

found houses to contain him, it is clear that his bulk could not have been anything  

excessive."  

  

"That is true," said the curate, and yielding to the enjoyment of hearing such  

nonsense, he asked him what was his notion of the features of Reinaldos of  

Montalban, and Don Roland and the rest of the Twelve Peers of France, for they  

were all knights‐errant.  

  

"As for Reinaldos," replied Don Quixote, "I venture to say that he was broad‐faced, of  

ruddy complexion, with roguish and somewhat prominent eyes, excessively  

punctilious and touchy, and given to the society of thieves and scapegraces. With  

regard to Roland, or Rotolando, or Orlando (for the histories call him by all these  

names), I am of opinion, and hold, that he was of middle height, broad‐shouldered,  

rather bow‐legged, swarthy‐complexioned, red‐bearded, with a hairy body and a  

severe expression of countenance, a man of few words, but very polite and well‐ 

bred."  

  

"If Roland was not a more graceful person than your worship has described," said  

the curate, "it is no wonder that the fair Lady Angelica rejected him and left him for  

the gaiety, liveliness, and grace of that budding‐bearded little Moor to whom she  

surrendered herself; and she showed her sense in falling in love with the gentle  

softness of Medoro rather than the roughness of Roland."  

  

"That Angelica, señor curate," returned Don Quixote, "was a giddy damsel, flighty  

and somewhat wanton, and she left the world as full of her vagaries as of the fame of  

her beauty. She treated with scorn a thousand gentlemen, men of valour and 


  

wisdom, and took up with a smooth‐faced sprig of a page, without fortune or fame,  

except such reputation for gratitude as the affection he bore his friend got for him.  

The great poet who sang her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not caring to sing her  

adventures after her contemptible surrender (which probably were not over and  

above creditable), dropped her where he says:  

  

  

How she received the scepter of Cathay,  

Some bard of defter quill may sing someday;  

and this was no doubt a kind of prophecy, for poets are also called vates, that is to  

say diviners; and its truth was made plain; for since then a famous Andalusian poet  

has lamented and sung her tears, and another famous and rare poet, a Castilian, has  

sung her beauty."  

  

"Tell me, Señor Don Quixote," said the barber here, "among all those who praised  

her, has there been no poet to write a satire on this Lady Angelica?"  

  

"I can well believe," replied Don Quixote, "that if Sacripante or Roland had been  

poets they would have given the damsel a trimming; for it is naturally the way with  

poets who have been scorned and rejected by their ladies, whether fictitious or not,  

in short by those whom they select as the ladies of their thoughts, to avenge  

themselves in satires and libels – a vengeance, to be sure, unworthy of generous  

hearts; but up to the present I have not heard of any defamatory verse against the  

Lady Angelica, who turned the world upside down."  

  

"Strange," said the curate; but at this moment they heard the housekeeper and the  

niece, who had previously withdrawn from the conversation, exclaiming aloud in  

the courtyard, and at the noise they all ran out.  

  

 


  

CHAPTER II  

WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD  

WITH DON QUIXOTE'S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER  

DROLL MATTERS  

  

The history relates that the outcry Don Quixote, the curate, and the barber heard  

came from the niece and the housekeeper exclaiming to Sancho, who was striving to  

force his way in to see Don Quixote while they held the door against him, "What  

does the vagabond want in this house? Be off to your own, brother, for it is you, and  

no one else, that delude my master, and lead him astray, and take him tramping  

about the country."  

  

To which Sancho replied, "Devil's own housekeeper! it is I who am deluded, and led  

astray, and taken tramping about the country, and not thy master!  He has carried  

me all over the world, and you are mightily mistaken. He enticed me away from  

home by a trick, promising me an island, which I am still waiting for."  

  

"May evil islands choke thee, thou detestable Sancho," said the niece; "What are  

islands? Is it something to eat, glutton and gormandiser that thou art?"  

  

"It is not something to eat," replied Sancho, "but something to govern and rule, and  

better than four cities or four judgeships at court."  

  

"For all that," said the housekeeper, "you don't enter here, you bag of mischief and  

sack of knavery; go govern your house and dig your seed‐patch, and give over  

looking for islands or shylands."  

  

The curate and the barber listened with great amusement to the words of the three;  

but Don Quixote, uneasy lest Sancho should blab and blurt out a whole heap of  

mischievous stupidities, and touch upon points that might not be altogether to his 


  

credit, called to him and made the other two hold their tongues and let him come in.  

Sancho entered, and the curate and the barber took their leave of Don Quixote, of  

whose recovery they despaired when they saw how wedded he was to his crazy  

ideas, and how saturated with the nonsense of his unlucky chivalry; and said the  

curate to the barber, "You will see, gossip, that when we are least thinking of it, our  

gentleman will be off once more for another flight."  

  

"I have no doubt of it," returned the barber; "but I do not wonder so much at the  

madness of the knight as at the simplicity of the squire, who has such a firm belief in  

all that about the island, that I suppose all the exposures that could be imagined  

would not get it out of his head."  

  

"God help them," said the curate; "and let us be on the look‐out to see what comes of  

all these absurdities of the knight and squire, for it seems as if they had both been  

cast in the same mould, and the madness of the master without the simplicity of the  

man would not be worth a farthing."  

  

"That is true," said the barber, "and I should like very much to know what the pair  

are talking about at this moment."  

  

"I promise you," said the curate, "the niece or the housekeeper will tell us by‐and‐by,  

for they are not the ones to forget to listen."  

  

Meanwhile Don Quixote shut himself up in his room with Sancho, and when they  

were alone he said to him, "It grieves me greatly, Sancho, that thou shouldst have  

said, and sayest, that I took thee out of thy cottage, when thou knowest I did not  

remain in my house. We sallied forth together, we took the road together, we  

wandered abroad together; we have had the same fortune and the same luck; if they  

blanketed thee once, they belabored me a hundred times, and that is the only  

advantage I have of thee."  

 


  

"That was only reasonable," replied Sancho, "for, by what your worship says,  

misfortunes belong more properly to knights‐errant than to their squires."  

  

"Thou art mistaken, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "according to the maxim quando  

caput dolet, etc." 8   

  

"I don't understand any language but my own," said Sancho.   

  

"I mean to say," said Don Quixote, "that when the head suffers all the members  

suffer; and so, being thy lord and master, I am thy head, and thou a part of me as  

thou art my servant; and therefore any evil that affects or shall affect me should give  

thee pain, and what affects thee give pain to me."  

  

"It should be so," said Sancho; "but when I was blanketed as a member, my head was  

on the other side of the wall, looking on while I was flying through the air, and did  

not feel any pain whatever; and if the members are obliged to feel the suffering of  

the head, it should be obliged to feel their sufferings."  

  

"Dost thou mean to say now, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that I did not feel when  

they were blanketing thee? If thou dost, thou must not say so or think so, for I felt  

more pain then in spirit than thou didst in body. But let us put that aside for the  

present, for we shall have opportunities enough for considering and settling the  

point; tell me, Sancho my friend, what do they say about me in the village here?  

What do the common people think of me? What do the hidalgos? What do the  

caballeros? What do they say of my valor; of my achievements; of my courtesy? How  

do they treat the task I have undertaken in reviving and restoring to the world the  

now forgotten order of chivalry? In short, Sancho, I would have thee tell me all that  

has come to thine ears on this subject; and thou art to tell me, without adding  

anything to the good or taking away anything from the bad; for it is the duty of loyal  

                                                         

8  “When the head aches,” the saying goes, “the body languishes.” 


  

vassals to tell the truth to their lords just as it is and in its proper shape, not  

allowing flattery to add to it or any idle deference to lessen it. And I would have thee  

know, Sancho, that if the naked truth, undisguised by flattery, came to the ears of  

princes, times would be different, and other ages would be reckoned iron ages more  

than ours, which I hold to be the golden of these latter days. Profit by this advice,  

Sancho, and report to me clearly and faithfully the truth of what thou knowest  

touching what I have demanded of thee."  

  

"That I will do with all my heart, master," replied Sancho, "provided your worship  

will not be vexed at what I say, as you wish me to say it out in all its nakedness,  

without putting any more clothes on it than it came to my knowledge in."  

  

"I will not be vexed at all," returned Don Quixote; "thou mayest speak freely, Sancho,  

and without any beating about the bush."  

  

"Well then," said he, "first of all, I have to tell you that the common people consider  

your worship a mighty great madman, and me no less a fool. The hidalgos say that,  

not keeping within the bounds of your quality of gentleman, you have assumed the  

'Don,' and made a knight of yourself at a jump, with four vine‐stocks and a couple of  

acres of land, and never a shirt to your back. The caballeros say they do not want to  

have hidalgos setting up in opposition to them, particularly squire hidalgos who  

polish their own shoes and darn their black stockings with green silk."  

  

"That," said Don Quixote, "does not apply to me, for I always go well dressed and  

never patched; ragged I may be, but ragged more from the wear and tear of arms  

than of time."  

  

"As to your worship's valor, courtesy, accomplishments, and task, there is a variety  

of opinions. Some say, 'mad but droll;' others, 'valiant but unlucky;' others,  

'courteous but meddling,' and then they go into such a number of things that they  

don't leave a whole bone either in your worship or in myself." 


  

  

"Recollect, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that wherever virtue exists in an eminent  

degree it is persecuted. Few or none of the famous men that have lived escaped  

being calumniated by malice. Julius Caesar, the boldest, wisest, and bravest of  

captains, was charged with being ambitious, and not particularly cleanly in his  

dress, or pure in his morals. Of Alexander, whose deeds won him the name of Great,  

they say that he was somewhat of a drunkard. Of Hercules, him of the many labors, it  

is said that he was lewd and luxurious. Of Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul,  

it was whispered that he was over quarrelsome, and of his brother that he was  

lachrymose. So that, Sancho, amongst all these calumnies against good men, mine  

may be let pass, since they are no more than thou hast said."  

  

"That's just where it is, body of my father!"  

  

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

  

"There's the tail to be skinned yet," said Sancho; "all so far is cakes and fancy bread;  

but if your worship wants to know all about the calumnies they bring against you, I  

will fetch you one this instant who can tell you the whole of them without missing  

an atom; for last night the son of Bartholomew Carrasco, who has been studying at  

Salamanca, came home after having been made a bachelor 9 , and when I went to  

welcome him, he told me that your worship's history is already abroad in books,  

with the title of the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha; and he says they  

mention me in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, and the lady Dulcinea del  

Toboso too, and divers things that happened to us when we were alone; so that I  

crossed myself in my wonder how the historian who wrote them down could have  

known them."  

  

                                                         

9  Having been granted a Bachelor’s degree. 


  

"I promise thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "the author of our history will be some  

sage enchanter; for to such, nothing that they choose to write about is hidden."  

  

"What!" said Sancho, "a sage and an enchanter! Why, the bachelor Sanson Carrasco  

(that is the name of him I spoke of) says the author of the history is called Cide  

Hamete Berengena."  

  

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

  

"May be so," replied Sancho; "for I have heard say that the Moors are mostly great  

lovers of berengenas." 10   

  

"Thou must have mistaken the surname of this 'Cide' – which means in Arabic 'Lord'  

– Sancho," observed Don Quixote.  

  

"Very likely," replied Sancho, "but if your worship wishes me to fetch the bachelor I  

will go for him in a twinkling."  

  

"Thou wilt do me a great pleasure, my friend," said Don Quixote, "for what thou hast  

told me has amazed me, and I shall not eat a morsel that will agree with me until I  

have heard all about it."  

  

"Then I am off for him," said Sancho; and leaving his master he went in quest of the  

bachelor, with whom he returned in a short time, and, all three together, they had a  

very droll colloquy.  

  

  

  

                                                         

10  Another name for eggplant. 


  

CHAPTER III  

OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE,  

SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SANSON CARRASCO  

  

Don Quixote remained very deep in thought, waiting for the bachelor Carrasco, from  

whom he was to hear how he himself had been put into a book as Sancho said; and  

he could not persuade himself that any such history could be in existence, for the  

blood of the enemies he had slain was not yet dry on the blade of his sword, and  

now they wanted to make out that his mighty achievements were going about in  

print. For all that, he fancied some sage, either a friend or an enemy, might, by the  

aid of magic, have given them to the press; if a friend, in order to magnify and exalt  

them above the most famous ever achieved by any knight‐errant; if an enemy, to  

bring them to naught and degrade them below the meanest ever recorded of any  

low squire, though as he said to himself, the achievements of squires never were  

recorded. If, however, it were the fact that such a history were in existence, it must  

necessarily, being the story of a knight‐errant, be grandiloquent, lofty, imposing,  

grand and true. With this he comforted himself somewhat, though it made him  

uncomfortable to think that the author was a Moor, judging by the title of "Cide;"  

and that no truth was to be looked for from Moors, as they are all impostors, cheats,  

and schemers. He was afraid he might have dealt with his love affairs in some  

indecorous fashion, that might tend to the discredit and prejudice of the purity of his  

lady Dulcinea del Toboso; he would have had him set forth the fidelity and respect  

he had always observed towards her, spurning queens, empresses, and damsels of  

all sorts, and keeping in check the impetuosity of his natural impulses. Absorbed and  

wrapped up in these and divers other cogitations, he was found by Sancho and  

Carrasco, whom Don Quixote received with great courtesy.  

  

The bachelor, though he was called Sanson, was of no great bodily size, but he was a  

very great wag; he was of a sallow complexion, but very sharp‐witted, somewhere  

about four‐and‐twenty years of age, with a round face, a flat nose, and a large mouth, 


  

all indications of a mischievous disposition and a love of fun and jokes; and of this he  

gave a sample as soon as he saw Don Quixote, by falling on his knees before him and  

saying, "Let me kiss your mightiness's hand, Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, for, by  

the habit of St. Peter that I wear 11 , though I have no more than the first four orders,  

your worship is one of the most famous knights‐errant that have ever been, or will  

be, all the world over. A blessing on Cide Hamete Benengeli, who has written the  

history of your great deeds, and a double blessing on that connoisseur who took the  

trouble of having it translated out of the Arabic into our Castilian vulgar tongue for  

the universal entertainment of the people!"  

  

Don Quixote made him rise, and said, "So, then, it is true that there is a history of me,  

and that it was a Moor and a sage who wrote it?"  

  

"So true is it, señor," said Sanson, "that my belief is there are more than twelve  

thousand volumes of the said history in print this very day. Only ask Portugal,  

Barcelona, and Valencia, where they have been printed, and moreover there is a  

report that it is being printed at Antwerp, and I am persuaded there will not be a  

country or language in which there will not be a translation of it."  

  

"One of the things," here observed Don Quixote, "that ought to give most pleasure to  

a virtuous and eminent man is to find himself in his lifetime in print and in type,  

familiar in people's mouths with a good name; I say with a good name, for if it be the  

opposite, then there is no death to be compared to it."  

  

"If it goes by good name and fame," said the bachelor, "your worship alone bears  

away the palm from all the knights‐errant; for the Moor in his own language, and the  

Christian in his, have taken care to set before us your gallantry, your high courage in  

encountering dangers, your fortitude in adversity, your patience under misfortunes  

                                                         

11  The dress of one of the minor clerical orders. 


  

as well as wounds, the purity and continence of the platonic loves of your worship  

and my lady Doña Dulcinea del Toboso – "  

  

"I never heard my lady Dulcinea called Doña," observed Sancho here; "nothing more  

than the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so here already the history is wrong."  

  

"That is not an objection of any importance," replied Carrasco.  

  

"Certainly not," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, señor bachelor, what deeds of mine  

are they that are made most of in this history?"  

  

"On that point," replied the bachelor, "opinions differ, as tastes do; some swear by  

the adventure of the windmills that your worship took to be Briareuses and giants;  

others by that of the fulling mills; one cries up the description of the two armies that  

afterwards took the appearance of two droves of sheep; another that of the dead  

body on its way to be buried at Segovia; a third says the liberation of the galley  

slaves is the best of all, and a fourth that nothing comes up to the affair with the  

Benedictine giants, and the battle with the valiant Biscayan."  

  

"Tell me, señor bachelor," said Sancho at this point, "does the adventure with the  

Yanguesans come in, when our good Rocinante went hankering after dainties?" 12   

  

"The sage has left nothing in the ink‐bottle," replied Sanson; "he tells all and sets  

down everything, even to the capers that worthy Sancho cut in the blanket." 13   

                                                         

12  Yanguesans – inhabitants of the small town of Yanguas, in the province of Soria;  

they were pasturing a herd of mares that caught the eye of Rosinante; when he tried  

to approach them with amorous intent, the Yanguensans beat, him first, and then   

Quixote and Sancho when they tried to come to his rescue.  

13  Sancho and Quixote stayed the night at an inn, which Quixote, of course, took for a  

castle. The following morning, the innkeeper demanded payment, explaining that  

this was, in fact, an inn.  Quixote, citing chivalric tradition, refused to pay and rode  

off, leaving Sancho at the mercy of four Segovian wool carders, who, as punishment  

and amusement, tossed him in a blanket, while Quixote, now unable to rescue him, 

  


  

"I cut no capers in the blanket," returned Sancho; "in the air I did, and more of them  

than I liked."  

  

"There is no human history in the world, I suppose," said Don Quixote, "that has not  

its ups and downs, but more than others such as deal with chivalry, for they can  

never be entirely made up of prosperous adventures."  

  

"For all that," replied the bachelor, "there are those who have read the history who  

say they would have been glad if the author had left out some of the countless  

cudgellings that were inflicted on Señor Don Quixote in various encounters."  

  

"That's where the truth of the history comes in," said Sancho.  

  

"At the same time they might fairly have passed them over in silence," observed Don  

Quixote; "for there is no need of recording events which do not change or affect the  

truth of a history, if they tend to bring the hero of it into contempt. Aeneas was not  

in truth and earnest so pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so wise as Homer  

describes him."  

  

"That is true," said Sanson; "but it is one thing to write as a poet, another to write as  

a historian; the poet may describe or sing things, not as they were, but as they ought  

to have been; but the historian has to write them down, not as they ought to have  

been, but as they were, without adding anything to the truth or taking anything from  

it."  

  

"Well then," said Sancho, "if this señor Moor goes in for telling the truth, no doubt  

among my master's drubbings mine are to be found; for they never took the  

measure of his worship's shoulders without doing the same for my whole body; but  

                                                                                                                                                                      

was left with no recourse but to yell “malidictions and obdurations” at them until  

they finally let Sancho go. 


  

I have no right to wonder at that, for, as my master himself says, the members must  

share the pain of the head."  

  

"You are a sly dog, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "i' faith, you have no want of memory  

when you choose to remember."  

  

"If I were to try to forget the thwacks they gave me," said Sancho, "my welts would  

not let me, for they are still fresh on my ribs."  

  

"Hush, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and don't interrupt the bachelor, whom I entreat  

to go on and tell all that is said about me in this history."  

  

"And about me," said Sancho, "for they say, too, that I am one of the principal  

presonages in it."  

  

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

  

"What! Another word‐catcher!" said Sancho; "if that's to be the way we shall not  

make an end in a lifetime."  

  

"May God shorten mine, Sancho," returned the bachelor, "if you are not the second  

person in the history, and there are even some who would rather hear you talk than  

the cleverest in the whole book; though there are some, too, who say you showed  

yourself over‐credulous in believing there was any possibility in the government of  

that island offered you by Señor Don Quixote."  

  

"There is still sunshine on the wall," said Don Quixote; "and when Sancho is  

somewhat more advanced in life, with the experience that years bring, he will be  

fitter and better qualified for being a governor than he is at present."  

 


  

"By God, master," said Sancho, "the island that I cannot govern with the years I have,  

I'll not be able to govern with the years of Methuselah; the difficulty is that the said  

island keeps its distance somewhere, I know not where; and not that there is any  

want of head in me to govern it."  

  

"Leave it to God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for all will be and perhaps better than  

you think; no leaf on the tree stirs but by God's will."  

  

"That is true," said Sanson; "and if it be God's will, there will not be any want of a  

thousand islands, much less one, for Sancho to govern."  

  

"I have seen governors in these parts," said Sancho, "that are not to be compared to  

my shoe‐sole; and for all that they are called 'your lordship' and served on silver."  

  

"Those are not governors of islands," observed Sanson, "but of other governments of  

an easier kind: those that govern islands must at least know grammar."  

  

"I could manage the gram well enough," said Sancho; "but for the mar I have neither  

leaning nor liking, for I don't know what it is; but leaving this matter of the  

government in God's hands, to send me wherever it may be most to his service, I  

may tell you, señor bachelor Sanson Carrasco, it has pleased me beyond measure  

that the author of this history should have spoken of me in such a way that what is  

said of me gives no offence; for, on the faith of a true squire, if he had said anything  

about me that was at all unbecoming an old Christian, such as I am, the deaf would  

have heard of it."  

  

"That would be working miracles," said Sanson.  

  

"Miracles or no miracles," said Sancho, "let everyone mind how he speaks or writes  

about people, and not set down at random the first thing that comes into his head."  

 


  

"One of the faults they find with this history," said the bachelor, "is that its author  

inserted in it a novel called 'The Ill‐advised Curiosity;' 14  not that it is bad or ill‐told,  

but that it is out of place and has nothing to do with the history of his worship Señor  

Don Quixote."  

  

"I will bet the son of a dog has mixed the cabbages and the baskets," 15  said Sancho.  

  

"Then, I say," said Don Quixote, "the author of my history was no sage, but some  

ignorant chatterer, who, in a haphazard and heedless way, set about writing it, let it  

turn out as it might, just as Orbaneja, 16  the painter of Ubeda, used to do, who, when  

they asked him what he was painting, answered, 'What it may turn out.' Sometimes  

he would paint a cock in such a fashion, and so unlike, that he had to write alongside  

of it in Gothic letters, 'This is a cock; and so it will be with my history, which will  

require a commentary to make it intelligible."  

  

"No fear of that," returned Sanson, "for it is so plain that there is nothing in it to  

puzzle over; the children turn its leaves, the young people read it, the grown men  

understand it, the old folk praise it; in a word, it is so thumbed, and read, and got by  

heart by people of all sorts, that the instant they see any lean hack, they say, 'There  

goes Rocinante.' And those that are most given to reading it are the pages, for there  

is not a lord's ante‐chamber where there is not a 'Don Quixote' to be found; one  

takes it up if another lays it down; this one pounces upon it, and that begs for it. In  

short, the said history is the most delightful and least injurious entertainment that  

has been hitherto seen, for there is not to be found in the whole of it even the  

semblance of an immodest word, or a thought that is other than Catholic."  

  

                                                         

14  This story, a tragic tale of a jealous husband, occupies several chapters of Part I.   

Here Cervantes echoes criticism currently aimed at his book.  

15  Jumbled together things of different kinds.  

16  This painter is unknown except for this allusion in Don Quixote. 


  

"To write in any other way," said Don Quixote, "would not be to write truth, but  

falsehood, and historians who have recourse to falsehood ought to be burned, like  

those who coin false money; and I know not what could have led the author to have  

recourse to novels and irrelevant stories, when he had so much to write about in  

mine; no doubt he must have gone by the proverb 'with straw or with hay, 17  etc,' for  

by merely setting forth my thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my lofty purposes, my  

enterprises, he might have made a volume as large, or larger than all the works of El  

Tostado would make up. In fact, the conclusion I arrive at, señor bachelor, is, that to  

write histories, or books of any kind, there is need of great judgment and a ripe  

understanding. To give expression to humor, and write in a strain of graceful  

pleasantry, is the gift of great geniuses. The cleverest character in comedy is the  

clown, for he who would make people take him for a fool, must not be one. History is  

in a measure a sacred thing, for it should be true, and where the truth is, there God  

is; but notwithstanding this, there are some who write and fling books broadcast on  

the world as if they were fritters."  

  

"There is no book so bad but it has something good in it," said the bachelor.  

  

"No doubt of that," replied Don Quixote; "but it often happens that those who have  

acquired and attained a well‐deserved reputation by their writings, lose it entirely,  

or damage it in some degree, when they give them to the press."  

  

"The reason of that," said Sanson, "is, that as printed works are examined leisurely,  

their faults are easily seen; and the greater the fame of the writer, the more closely  

are they scrutinized. Men famous for their genius, great poets, illustrious historians,  

are always, or most commonly, envied by those who take a particular delight and  

pleasure in criticizing the writings of others, without having produced any of their  

own."  

  

                                                         

17  The proverb concludes: “the mattress is filled.” 


  

"That is no wonder," said Don Quixote; "for there are many divines who are no good  

for the pulpit, but excellent in detecting the defects or excesses of those who  

preach."  

  

"All that is true, Señor Don Quixote," said Carrasco; "but I wish such fault‐finders  

were more lenient and less exacting, and did not pay so much attention to the spots  

on the bright sun of the work they grumble at; for if aliquando bonus dormitat  

Homerus, 18  they should remember how long he remained awake to shed the light of  

his work with as little shade as possible; and perhaps it may be that what they find  

fault with may be moles, that sometimes heighten the beauty of the face that bears  

them; and so I say very great is the risk to which he who prints a book exposes  

himself, for of all impossibilities the greatest is to write one that will satisfy and  

please all readers."  

  

"That which treats of me must have pleased few," said Don Quixote.  

  

"Quite the contrary," said the bachelor; "for, as stultorum infinitum est numerus, 19   

innumerable are those who have relished the said history; but some have brought a  

charge against the author's memory, inasmuch as he forgot to say who the thief was  

who stole Sancho's Dapple; for it is not stated there, but only to be inferred from  

what is set down, that he was stolen, and a little farther on we see Sancho mounted  

on the same ass, without any reappearance of it. They say, too, that he forgot to state  

what Sancho did with those hundred crowns that he found in the valise in the Sierra  

Morena, as he never alludes to them again, and there are many who would be glad to  

know what he did with them, or what he spent them on, for it is one of the serious  

omissions of the work."  

  

"Señor Sanson, I am not in a humor now for going into accounts or explanations,"  

said Sancho; "for there's a sinking of the stomach come over me, and unless I doctor  

                                                         

18  “Even good Homer sometimes nods off.”  

19  “Infinite is the number of fools.” (Ecclesiastes 1:15) 


  

it with a couple of sups of the old stuff, it will put me on the thorn of Santa Lucia. 20  I  

have it at home, and my old woman is waiting for me; after dinner I'll come back,  

and will answer you and all the world every question you may choose to ask, as well  

about the loss of the ass as about the spending of the hundred crowns;" and without  

another word or waiting for a reply he made off home.  

  

Don Quixote begged and entreated the bachelor to stay and do penance with him.  

The bachelor accepted the invitation and remained, a couple of young pigeons were  

added to the ordinary fare, at dinner they talked chivalry, Carrasco fell in with his  

host's humor, the banquet came to an end, they took their afternoon sleep, Sancho  

returned, and their conversation was resumed.  

  

                                                         

20  It will make me weak and exhausted. 


  

CHAPTER XII  

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE  

WITH THE BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS 21   

  

The night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, Don Quixote and his  

squire passed under some tall shady trees 22 , and Don Quixote at Sancho's  

persuasion ate a little from the store carried by the Dapple, and over their supper  

Sancho said to his master, "Señor, what a fool I should have looked if I had chosen  

for my reward the spoils of the first adventure your worship achieved, instead of the  

foals of the three mares. After all, 'a sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on  

the wing.'" 23   

  

"At the same time, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "if thou hadst let me attack them as  

I wanted, at the very least the emperor's gold crown and Cupid's painted wings  

would have fallen to thee as spoils, for I should have taken them by force and given  

them into thy hands." 24   

  

"The scepters and crowns of those play‐actor emperors," said Sancho, "were never  

yet pure gold, but only brass foil or tin."  

  

                                                         

21  He will earn this title in Chapter 15; meanwhile he is referred to as the Knight of  

the Wood.  

22  Quixote and Sancho are not in the wooded area around El Toboso, where Dulcinea  

lives.  Sancho was sent to look for her and has saved the day by pretending to see  

the beautiful damsel in a “village wench.”  But by his imaginative lie he has triggered  

Quixote’s beliefs in magic spells and enemy sorcerers, who, envious of him, have  

hidden his lady’s beauty only from him.  While still reeling from this “insight,” the  

two then met a group of itinerant players dressed in costumes for a religious play,  

The Parliament of Death.  

23  A reward for bringing Quixote news of Dulcinea; the proverb corresponds, more  

or less, to “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”  

24  The emperor and Cupid were among the characters in The Parliament of Death. 


  

"That is true," said Don Quixote, "for it would not be right that the accessories of the  

drama should be real, instead of being mere fictions and semblances, like the drama  

itself; towards which, Sancho – and, as a necessary consequence, towards those who  

represent and produce it – I would that thou wert favorably disposed, for they are  

all instruments of great good to the State, placing before us at every step a mirror in  

which we may see vividly displayed what goes on in human life; nor is there any  

similitude that shows us more faithfully what we are and ought to be than the play  

and the players.  Come, tell me, hast thou not seen a play acted in which kings,  

emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and divers other personages were introduced?  

One plays the villain, another the knave, this one the merchant, that the soldier, one  

the sharp‐witted fool, another the foolish lover; and when the play is over, and they  

have put off the costumes they wore in it, all the actors become equal."  

  

"Yes, I have seen that," said Sancho.  

  

"Well then," said Don Quixote, "the same thing happens in the comedy and life of  

this world, where some play emperors, others popes, and, in short, all the characters  

that can be brought into a play; but when it is over, that is to say when life ends,  

death strips them all of the garments that distinguish one from the other, and all are  

equal in the grave."  

  

"A fine comparison!" said Sancho; "though not so new but that I have heard it many  

and many a time, as well as that other one of the game of chess; how, so long as the  

game lasts, each piece has its own particular office, and when the game is finished  

they are all mixed, jumbled up and shaken together, and stowed away in the bag,  

which is much like ending life in the grave."  

  

"Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho," said Don  

Quixote.  

 


  

"Ay," said Sancho; "it must be that some of your worship's shrewdness sticks to me;  

land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will come to yield good fruit if you fertilize it  

and till it; what I mean is that your worship's conversation has been the manure that  

has fallen on the barren soil of my dry wit, and the time I have been in your service  

and society has been the tilling; and with the help of this I hope to yield fruit in  

abundance that will not fall away or slide from those paths of good breeding that  

your worship has made in my parched understanding."  

  

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's affected phraseology, and perceived that what he  

said about his improvement was true, for now and then he spoke in a way that  

surprised him; though always, or mostly, when Sancho tried to talk fine and  

attempted polite language, he wound up by toppling over from the summit of his  

simplicity into the abyss of his ignorance; and where he showed his culture and his  

memory to the greatest advantage was in dragging in proverbs, no matter whether  

they had any bearing or not upon the subject in hand, as may have been seen  

already and will be noticed in the course of this history.  

  

In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night, but Sancho felt a  

desire to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he used to say when he wanted to go to  

sleep; and stripping the Dapple he left him at liberty to graze his fill. He did not  

remove Rocinante's saddle, as his master's express orders were, that so long as they  

were in the field or not sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be stripped – the  

ancient usage established and observed by knights‐errant being to take off the  

bridle and hang it on the saddle‐bow, but to remove the saddle from the horse –  

never! Sancho acted accordingly, and gave him the same liberty he had given the  

Dapple, between whom and Rocinante there was a friendship so unequalled and so  

strong, that it is handed down by tradition from father to son, that the author of this  

veracious history devoted some special chapters to it, which, in order to preserve  

the propriety and decorum due to a history so heroic, he did not insert therein;  

although at times he forgets this resolution of his and describes how eagerly the two  

beasts would scratch one another when they were together and how, when they 


  

were tired or full, Rocinante would lay his neck across the Dapple's, stretching half a  

yard or more on the other side, and the pair would stand thus, gazing thoughtfully  

on the ground, for three days, or at least so long as they were left alone, or hunger  

did not drive them to go and look for food. I may add that they say the author left it  

on record that he likened their friendship to that of Nisus and Euryalus, and Pylades  

and Orestes;  25 and if that be so, it may be perceived, to the admiration of mankind,  

how firm the friendship must have been between these two peaceful animals,  

shaming men, who preserve friendships with one another so badly. This was why it  

was said  –   

  

For friend no longer is there friend;   

The reeds turn lances now. 26   

  

And some one else has sung –   

  

Friend to friend the bug, etc. 27   

  

And let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he compared the  

friendship of these animals to that of men; for men have received many lessons from  

beasts, and learned many important things, as, for example, the clyster from the  

stork, vomit and gratitude from the dog, watchfulness from the crane, foresight from  

the ant, modesty from the elephant, and loyalty from the horse. 28   

  

Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don Quixote dozed at that of  

a sturdy oak; but a short time only had elapsed when a noise he heard behind him  

awoke him, and rising up startled, he listened and looked in the direction the noise  

came from, and perceived two men on horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop  

from the saddle, said to the other, "Dismount, my friend, and take the bridles off the  

horses, for, so far as I can see, this place will furnish grass for them, and the solitude  

                                                         

25  Famous friendships in Virgil’s Aeneid and in Greek tradition and drama.  

26  From a popular ballad.  

27  “a bug in the eye” implies keeping an eye on somebody.  

28  Folkloric beliefs about the “virtues” of animals. 


  

and silence my love‐sick thoughts need of." As he said this he stretched himself upon  

the ground, and as he flung himself down, the amour in which he was clad rattled,  

whereby Don Quixote perceived that he must be a knight‐errant; and going over to  

Sancho, who was asleep, he shook him by the arm and with no small difficulty  

brought him back to his senses, and said in a low voice to him, "Brother Sancho, we  

have got an adventure."  

  

"God send us a good one," said Sancho; "and where may her ladyship the adventure  

be?"  

  

"Where, Sancho?" replied Don Quixote; "turn thine eyes and look, and thou wilt see  

stretched there a knight‐errant, who, it strikes me, is not over and above happy, for I  

saw him fling himself off his horse and throw himself on the ground with a certain  

air of dejection, and his armor rattled as he fell."  

  

"Well," said Sancho, "how does your worship make out that to be an adventure?"  

  

"I do not mean to say," returned Don Quixote, "that it is a complete adventure, but  

that it is the beginning of one, for it is in this way adventures begin. But listen, for it  

seems he is tuning a lute or guitar, and from the way he is spitting and clearing his  

chest he must be getting ready to sing something."  

"Faith, you are right," said Sancho, "and no doubt he is some enamored knight."  

  

"There is no knight‐errant that is not," said Don Quixote; "but let us listen to him,  

for, if he sings, by that thread we shall extract the ball of his thoughts; because out of  

the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh."  

  

Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the Wood's voice, which  

was neither very bad nor very good, stopped him, and listening attentively the pair  

heard him sing this:  

 

  

  

  

SONNET  

Your pleasure, prithee, lady mine, unfold;  

  Declare the terms that I am to obey;  

My will to yours submissively I mould,  

  And from your law my feet shall never stray.  

  Would you I die, to silent grief a prey?  

Then count me even now as dead and cold;  

  Would you I tell my woes in some new way?  

Then shall my tale by Love itself be told.  

The unison of opposites to prove,  

  Of the soft wax and diamond hard am I;  

But still, obedient to the laws of love,  

  Here, hard or soft, I offer you my breast,  

  Whate'er you grave or stamp thereon shall rest  

    Indelible for all eternity. 29   


  

With an "Ah me!" that seemed to be drawn from the inmost recesses of his heart, the  

Knight of the Wood brought his lay to an end, and shortly afterwards exclaimed in a  

melancholy and piteous voice, "O fairest and most ungrateful woman on earth!  

What! can it be, most serene Casildea de Vandalia, 30  that thou wilt suffer this thy  

captive knight to waste away and perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and  

arduous toils? It is not enough that I have compelled all the knights of Navarre, all  

the Leonese, all the Tartesians, all the Castilians, and finally all the knights of La  

Mancha, to confess thee the most beautiful in the world?"  

  

"Not so," said Don Quixote at this, "for I am of La Mancha, and I have never  

confessed anything of the sort, nor could I nor should I confess a thing so much to  

                                                         

29  The poem intentionally follows the affected conventions of the time.  

30  The Knight of the Wood’s liege lady, counterpart to Dulcinea.  


  

the prejudice of my lady's beauty; thou seest how this knight is raving, Sancho. But  

let us listen, perhaps he will tell us more about himself."  

  

"That he will," returned Sancho, "for he seems in a mood to bewail himself for a  

month at a stretch."  

  

But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Wood, hearing voices near him,  

instead of continuing his lamentation, stood up and exclaimed in a distinct but  

courteous tone, "Who goes there? What are you? Do you belong to the number of the  

happy or of the miserable?" 31   

  

"Of the miserable," answered Don Quixote.  

  

"Then come to me," said he of the Wood, "and rest assured that it is to woe itself and  

affliction itself you come."  

  

Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous manner, went  

over to him, and so did Sancho.  

  

The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, "Sit down here, sir knight;  

for, that you are one, and of those that profess knight‐errantry, it is to me a sufficient  

proof to have found you in this place, where solitude and night, the natural couch  

and proper retreat of knights‐errant, keep you company." To which the Don made  

answer, "A knight I am of the profession you mention, and though sorrows,  

misfortunes, and calamities have made my heart their abode, the compassion I feel  

for the misfortunes of others has not been thereby banished from it. From what you  

have just now sung I gather that yours spring from love, I mean from the love you  

bear that fair ingrate you named in your lament."  

  

                                                         

31  Are you happy, or are you lovesick?” 


  

In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard ground peaceably  

and sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke, they were not going to break one  

another's heads.  

  

"Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?" asked he of the Wood of Don Quixote.  

  

"By mischance I am," replied Don Quixote; "though the ills arising from well‐ 

bestowed affections should be esteemed favors rather than misfortunes."  

  

"That is true," returned he of the Wood, "if scorn did not unsettle our reason and  

understanding, for if it be excessive it looks like revenge."  

  

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

  

"Certainly not," said Sancho, who stood close by, "for my lady is as a lamb, and softer  

than a roll of butter."  

  

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

  

"He is," said Don Quixote.  

  

"I never yet saw a squire," said he of the Wood, "who ventured to speak when his  

master was speaking; at least, there is mine, who is as big as his father, and it cannot  

be proved that he has ever opened his lips when I am speaking."  

  

"By my faith then," said Sancho, "I have spoken, and am fit to speak, in the presence  

of one as much, or even – but never mind – it only makes it worse to stir it."  

  

The squire of the Wood took Sancho by the arm, saying to him, "Let us two go where  

we can talk in squire style as much as we please, and leave these gentlemen our 


  

masters to fight it out over the story of their loves; and, depend upon it, daybreak  

will find them at it without having made an end of it."  

  

"So be it by all means," said Sancho; "and I will tell your worship who I am, that you  

may see whether I am to be reckoned among the number of the most talkative  

squires."  

  

With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between them there passed a  

conversation as droll as that which passed between their masters was serious.  

  

  

  

 

CHAPTER XIII.  


  

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD,  

TOGETHER WITH THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT  

PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO SQUIRES  

  

The knights and the squires made two parties, these telling the story of their lives,  

the others the story of their loves; but the history relates first of all the conversation  

of the servants, and afterwards takes up that of the masters; and it says that,  

withdrawing a little from the others, he of the Wood said to Sancho, "A hard life it is  

we lead and live, señor, we that are squires to knights‐errant; verily, we eat our  

bread in the sweat of our faces, which is one of the curses God laid on our first  

parents." 32   

  

"It may be said, too," added Sancho, "that we eat it in the chill of our bodies; for who  

gets more heat and cold than the miserable squires of knight‐errantry? Even so it  

would not be so bad if we had something to eat, for woes are lighter if there's bread;  

but sometimes we go a day or two without breaking our fast, except with the wind  

that blows."  

  

"All that," said he of the Wood, "may be endured and put up with when we have  

hopes of reward; for, unless the knight‐errant he serves is excessively unlucky, after  

a few turns the squire will at least find himself rewarded with a fine government of  

some island or some fair county."  

  

"I," said Sancho, "have already told my master that I shall be content with the  

government of some island, and he is so noble and generous that he has promised it  

to me ever so many times."  

  

                                                         

32  Cf. Genesis 3:19 


  

"I," said he of the Wood, "shall be satisfied with a canonry for my services, and my  

master has already assigned me one."  

  

"Your master," said Sancho, "no doubt is a knight in the Church line, and can bestow  

rewards of that sort on his good squire; but mine is only a layman; though I  

remember some clever, but, to my mind, designing people, strove to persuade him  

to try and become an archbishop. He, however, would not be anything but an  

emperor; but I was trembling all the time lest he should take a fancy to go into the  

Church, not finding myself fit to hold office in it; for I may tell you, though I seem a  

man, I am no better than a beast for the Church."  

  

"Well, then, you are wrong there," said he of the Wood; "for those island  

governments are not all satisfactory; some are awkward, some are poor, some are  

dull, and, in short, the highest and choicest brings with it a heavy burden of cares  

and troubles which the unhappy wight to whose lot it has fallen bears upon his  

shoulders. Far better would it be for us who have adopted this accursed service to  

go back to our own houses, and there employ ourselves in pleasanter occupations –  

in hunting or fishing, for instance; for what squire in the world is there so poor as  

not to have a hack and a couple of greyhounds and a fishing rod to amuse himself  

with in his own village?"  

  

"I am not in want of any of those things," said Sancho; "to be sure I have no hack, but  

I have an ass that is worth my master's horse twice over; God send me a bad Easter,  

and that the next one I am to see, if I would swap, even if I got four bushels of barley  

to boot. You will laugh at the value I put on my Dapple – for dapple is the color of my  

beast. As to greyhounds, I can't want for them, for there are enough and to spare in  

my town; and, moreover, there is more pleasure in sport when it is at other people's  

expense."  

 


  

"In truth and earnest, sir squire," said he of the Wood, "I have made up my mind and  

determined to have done with these drunken vagaries of these knights, and go back  

to my village, and bring up my children; for I have three, like three Oriental pearls."  

  

"I have two," said Sancho, "that might be presented before the Pope himself,  

especially a girl whom I am breeding up for a countess, please God, though in spite  

of her mother."  

  

"And how old is this lady that is being bred up for a countess?" asked he of the  

Wood.  

  

"Fifteen, a couple of years more or less," answered Sancho; "but she is as tall as a  

lance, and as fresh as an April morning, and as strong as a porter."  

  

"Those are gifts to fit her to be not only a countess but a nymph of the greenwood,"  

said he of the Wood; "whoreson strumpet! what pith the rogue must have!"  

  

To which Sancho made answer, somewhat sulkily, "She's no strumpet, nor was her  

mother, nor will either of them be, please God, while I live; speak more civilly; for  

one bred up among knights‐errant, who are courtesy itself, your words don't seem  

to me to be very becoming."  

  

"O how little you know about compliments, sir squire," returned he of the Wood.  

"What! don't you know that when a horseman delivers a good lance thrust at the  

bull in the plaza, or when anyone does anything very well, the people are wont to  

say, 'Ha, whoreson rip! how well he has done it!' and that what seems to be abuse in  

the expression is high praise? Disown sons and daughters, señor, who don't do what  

deserves that compliments of this sort should be paid to their parents."  

  

"I do disown them," replied Sancho, "and in this way, and by the same reasoning,  

you might call me and my children and my wife all the strumpets in the world, for all 


  

they do and say is of a kind that in the highest degree deserves the same praise; and  

to see them again I pray God to deliver me from mortal sin, or, what comes to the  

same thing, to deliver me from this perilous calling of squire into which I have fallen  

a second time, decayed and beguiled by a purse with a hundred ducats that I found  

one day in the heart of the Sierra Morena 33 ; and the devil is always putting a bag full  

of doubloons before my eyes, here, there, everywhere, until I fancy at every stop I  

am putting my hand on it, and hugging it, and carrying it home with me, and making  

investments, and getting interest, and living like a prince; and so long as I think of  

this I make light of all the hardships I endure with this simpleton of a master of  

mine, who, I well know, is more of a madman than a knight."  

  

"There's why they say that 'covetousness bursts the bag,'" said he of the Wood; "but  

if you come to talk of that sort, there is not a greater one in the world than my  

master, for he is one of those of whom they say, 'the cares of others kill the ass;' for,  

in order that another knight may recover the senses he has lost, he makes a  

madman of himself and goes looking for what, when found, may, for all I know, fly in  

his own face."   

  

"And is he in love perchance?" asked Sancho.  

  

"He is," said of the Wood, "with one Casildea de Vandalia, the rawest 34  and best  

roasted lady the whole world could produce; but that rawness is not the only foot he  

limps on, for he has greater schemes rumbling in his bowels, as will be seen before  

many hours are over."  

  

"There's no road so smooth but it has some hole or hindrance in it," said Sancho; "in  

other houses they cook beans, but in mine it's by the pot full; madness will have  

more followers and hangers‐on than sound sense; but if there be any truth in the  

                                                         

33  When Don Quixote retired there in Part I, Chapter 23.  

34  The original is a pun on the word crudo, which means both “raw” and “cruel.” 


  

common saying, that to have companions in trouble gives some relief, I may take  

consolation from you, inasmuch as you serve a master as crazy as my own."  

  

"Crazy but valiant," replied he of the Wood, "and more of a rogue than anything  

else.”  

  

"Mine is not that," said Sancho; "I mean he has nothing of the rogue in him; on the  

contrary, he is as open and aboveboard as a wine pitcher; he has no thought of doing  

harm to anyone, only good to all, nor has he any malice whatever in him; a child  

might persuade him that it is night at noonday; and for this simplicity I love him  

with all my heart, and I can't bring myself to leave him, let him do ever such foolish  

things."  

  

"For all that, brother and señor," said he of the Wood, "if the blind lead the blind,  

both are in danger of falling into the pit. It is better for us to beat a quiet retreat and  

get back to our own quarters; for those who seek adventures don't always find good  

ones."  

  

Sancho kept spitting from time to time, and his spittle seemed somewhat ropy and  

dry, observing which the compassionate squire of the Wood said, "It seems to me  

that with all this talk of ours our tongues are sticking to the roofs of our mouths; but  

I have a pretty good loosener hanging from the saddle‐bow of my horse," and  

getting up he came back the next minute with a large bota of wine and a pasty half a  

yard across; and this is no exaggeration, for it was made of a house rabbit so big that  

Sancho, as he handled it, took it to be made of a goat, not to say a kid, and looking at  

it he said, "And do you carry this with you, señor?"  

  

"Why, what are you thinking about?" said the other; "do you take me for some paltry  

squire? I carry a better larder on my horse's croup than a general takes with him  

when he goes on a march."  

 


  

Sancho ate without requiring to be pressed, and in the dark bolted mouthfuls like  

the knots on a tether, and said he, "You are a proper trusty squire, one of the right  

sort, sumptuous and grand, as this banquet shows, which, if it has not come here by  

magic art, at any rate has the look of it; not like me, unlucky beggar, that have  

nothing more in my alforjas than a scrap of cheese, so hard that one might brain a  

giant with it, and, to keep it company, a few dozen carobs and as many more filberts  

and walnuts; thanks to the austerity of my master, and the idea he has and the rule  

he follows, that knights‐errant must not live or sustain themselves on anything  

except dried fruits and the herbs of the field."  

  

"By my faith, brother," said he of the Wood, "my stomach is not made for thistles, or  

wild pears, or roots of the woods; let our masters do as they like, with their chivalry  

notions and laws, and eat what those enjoin; I carry my basket and this bota hanging  

to the saddle‐bow, whatever they may say; and it is such an object of worship with  

me, and I love it so, that there is hardly a moment but I am kissing and embracing it  

over and over again;" and so saying he thrust it into Sancho's hands, who raising it  

aloft pointed to his mouth, gazed at the stars for a quarter of an hour; and when he  

had done drinking let his head fall on one side, and giving a deep sigh, exclaimed,  

"Ah, whoreson rogue, how catholic it is!"  

  

"There, you see," said he of the Wood, hearing Sancho's exclamation, "how you have  

called this wine whoreson by way of praise."  

  

"Well," said Sancho, "I own it, and I grant it is no dishonor to call anyone whoreson  

when it is to be understood as praise. But tell me, señor, by what you love best, is  

this Ciudad Real 35  wine?"  

  

"O rare wine‐taster!" said he of the Wood; "nowhere else indeed does it come from,  

and it has some years' age too."  

                                                         

35  The main town in La Mancha and the center of a wine region. 

  


  

"Leave me alone for that," said Sancho; "never fear but I'll hit upon the place it came  

from somehow. What would you say, sir squire, to my having such a great natural  

instinct in judging wines that you have only to let me smell one and I can tell  

positively its country, its kind, its flavor and soundness, the changes it will undergo,  

and everything that appertains to a wine? But it is no wonder, for I have had in my  

family, on my father's side, the two best wine‐tasters that have been known in La  

Mancha for many a long year, and to prove it I'll tell you now a thing that happened  

them. They gave the two of them some wine out of a cask, to try, asking their  

opinion as to the condition, quality, goodness or badness of the wine. One of them  

tried it with the tip of his tongue, the other did no more than bring it to his nose. The  

first said the wine had a flavor of iron, the second said it had a stronger flavor of  

cordovan. The owner said the cask was clean, and that nothing had been added to  

the wine from which it could have got a flavor of either iron or leather. Nevertheless,  

these two great wine‐tasters held to what they had said. Time went by, the wine was  

sold, and when they came to clean out the cask, they found in it a small key hanging  

to a thong of cordovan; see now if one who comes of the same stock has not a right  

to give his opinion in such like cases."  

  

"Therefore, I say," said he of the Wood, "let us give up going in quest of adventures,  

and as we have loaves let us not go looking for cakes, but return to our cribs, for God  

will find us there if it be his will."  

  

"Until my master reaches Saragossa," said Sancho, "I'll remain in his service; after  

that we'll see."  

  

The end of it was that the two squires talked so much and drank so much that sleep  

had to tie their tongues and moderate their thirst, for to quench it was impossible;  

and so the pair of them fell asleep clinging to the now nearly empty bota and with  

half‐chewed morsels in their mouths; and there we will leave them for the present, 


  

to relate what passed between the Knight of the Wood and him of the Mournful  

Countenance.  

  

  

  

 

CHAPTER XIV.  


  

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD  

  

Among the things that passed between Don Quixote and the Knight of the Wood, the  

history tells us he of the Wood said to Don Quixote, "In fine, sir knight, I would have  

you know that my destiny, or, more properly speaking, my choice led me to fall in  

love with the peerless Casildea de Vandalia. I call her peerless because she has no  

peer, whether it be in bodily stature or in the supremacy of rank and beauty. This  

same Casildea, then, that I speak of, requited my honorable passion and gentle  

aspirations by compelling me, as his stepmother did Hercules, to engage in many  

perils of various sorts 36 , at the end of each promising me that, with the end of the  

next, the object of my hopes should be attained; but my labors have gone on  

increasing link by link until they are past counting, nor do I know what will be the  

last one that is to be the beginning of the accomplishment of my chaste desires. On  

one occasion she bade me go and challenge the famous giantess of Seville, La  

Giralda 37  by name, who is as mighty and strong as if made of brass, and though  

never stirring from one spot, is the most restless and changeable woman in the  

world. I came, I saw, I conquered, and I made her stay quiet and behave herself, for  

nothing but north winds blew for more than a week. Another time I was ordered to  

lift those ancient stones, the mighty bulls of Guisando 38 , an enterprise that might  

more fitly be entrusted to porters than to knights. Again, she bade me fling myself  

into the cavern of Cabra 39  – an unparalleled and awful peril – and bring her a minute  

account of all that is concealed in those gloomy depths. I stopped the motion of the  

Giralda, I lifted the bulls of Guisando, I flung myself into the cavern and brought to  

light the secrets of its abyss; and my hopes are as dead as dead can be, and her scorn  

                                                         

36  The son of Zeus and Alcmena, Hercules was persecuted by Zeus’s wife Hera.  

37  Actually, a brass statue on the Moorish belfry of the cathedral at Seville.  

38  More statues – these representing animals and supposedly marking a place where  

Cesar defeated Pompey.  

39  Possibly an ancient mine shaft in the Sierra de Cabra near Cordova. 


  

and her commands as lively as ever. To be brief, last of all she has commanded me to  

go through all the provinces of Spain and compel all the knights‐errant wandering  

therein to confess that she surpasses all women alive today in beauty, and that I am  

the most valiant and the most deeply enamored knight on earth; in support of which  

claim I have already travelled over the greater part of Spain, and have there  

vanquished several knights who have dared to contradict me; but what I most  

plume and pride myself upon is having vanquished in single combat that so famous  

knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, and made him confess that my Casildea is more  

beautiful than his Dulcinea; and in this one victory I hold myself to have conquered  

all the knights in the world; for this Don Quixote that I speak of has vanquished  

them all, and I having vanquished him, his glory, his fame, and his honor have  

passed and are transferred to my person; for  

  

  

  The more the vanquished hath of fair renown,  

  The greater glory gilds the victor's crown. 40   

Thus the innumerable achievements of the said Don Quixote are now set down to  

my account and have become mine."  

  

Don Quixote was amazed when he heard the Knight of the Wood, and was a  

thousand times on the point of telling him he lied, and had the lie direct already on  

the tip of his tongue; but he restrained himself as well as he could, in order to force  

him to confess the lie with his own lips; so he said to him quietly, "As to what you  

say, sir knight, about having vanquished most of the knights of Spain, or even of the  

whole world, I say nothing; but that you have vanquished Don Quixote of La Mancha  

I consider doubtful; it may have been some other that resembled him, although  

there are few like him."  

  

                                                         

40  From the Araucana, a poem by Alonzo de Ercilla y Zúñiga on the Spanish struggle  

against the Araucanian Indians of Chile. 


  

"How! not vanquished?" said he of the Wood; "by the heaven that is above us I  

fought Don Quixote and overcame him and made him yield; and he is a man of tall  

stature, gaunt features, long, lank limbs, with hair turning grey, an aquiline nose  

rather hooked, and large black drooping moustaches; he does battle under the name  

of 'The Knight of the Mournful Countenance,' and he has for squire a peasant called  

Sancho Panza; he presses the loins and rules the reins of a famous steed called  

Rocinante; and lastly, he has for the mistress of his will a certain Dulcinea del  

Toboso, once upon a time called Aldonza Lorenzo, just as I call mine Casildea de  

Vandalia because her name is Casilda and she is of Andalusia. If all these tokens are  

not enough to vindicate the truth of what I say, here is my sword, that will compel  

incredulity itself to give credence to it."  

  

"Calm yourself, sir knight," said Don Quixote, "and give ear to what I am about to say  

to you. I would have you know that this Don Quixote you speak of is the greatest  

friend I have in the world; so much so that I may say I regard him in the same light  

as my own person; and from the precise and clear indications you have given I  

cannot but think that he must be the very one you have vanquished. On the other  

hand, I see with my eyes and feel with my hands that it is impossible it can have  

been the same; unless indeed it be that, as he has many enemies who are  

enchanters, and one in particular who is always persecuting him, some one of these  

may have taken his shape in order to allow himself to be vanquished, so as to  

defraud him of the fame that his exalted achievements as a knight have earned and  

acquired for him throughout the known world. And in confirmation of this, I must  

tell you, too, that it is but ten hours since these said enchanters his enemies  

transformed the shape and person of the fair Dulcinea del Toboso into a foul and  

mean village lass, and in the same way they must have transformed Don Quixote;  

and if all this does not suffice to convince you of the truth of what I say, here is Don  

Quixote himself, who will maintain it by arms, on foot or on horseback or in any way  

you please."  

 


  

And so saying he stood up and laid his hand on his sword, waiting to see what the  

Knight of the Wood would do, who in an equally calm voice said in reply, "Pledges  

don't distress a good payer; he who has succeeded in vanquishing you once when  

transformed, Sir Don Quixote, may fairly hope to subdue you in your own proper  

shape; but as it is not becoming for knights to perform their feats of arms in the  

dark, like highwaymen and bullies, let us wait till daylight, that the sun may behold  

our deeds; and the conditions of our combat shall be that the vanquished shall be at  

the victor's disposal, to do all that he may enjoin, provided the injunction be such as  

shall be becoming a knight."  

  

"I am more than satisfied with these conditions and terms," replied Don Quixote;  

and so saying, they betook themselves to where their squires lay, and found them  

snoring, and in the same posture they were in when sleep fell upon them. They  

roused them up, and bade them get the horses ready, as at sunrise they were to  

engage in a bloody and arduous single combat; at which intelligence Sancho was  

aghast and thunderstruck, trembling for the safety of his master because of the  

mighty deeds he had heard the squire of the Wood ascribe to his; but without a  

word the two squires went in quest of their cattle; for by this time the three horses  

and the ass had smelt one another out, and were all together.  

  

On the way, he of the Wood said to Sancho, "You must know, brother, that it is the  

custom with the fighting men of Andalusia, when they are godfathers in any quarrel,  

not to stand idle with folded arms while their godsons fight; I say so to remind you  

that while our masters are fighting, we, too, have to fight, and knock one another to  

shivers."  

  

"That custom, sir squire," replied Sancho, "may hold good among those bullies and  

fighting men you talk of, but certainly not among the squires of knights‐errant; at  

least, I have never heard my master speak of any custom of the sort, and he knows  

all the laws of knight‐errantry by heart; but granting it true that there is an express  

law that squires are to fight while their masters are fighting, I don't mean to obey it, 


  

but to pay the penalty that may be laid on peacefully minded squires like myself; for  

I am sure it cannot be more than two pounds of wax 41 , and I would rather pay that,  

for I know it will cost me less than the bandages I will need to my head, which I look  

upon as broken and split already; there's another thing that makes it impossible for  

me to fight, that I have no sword, for I never carried one in my life."  

  

"I know a good remedy for that," said he of the Wood; "I have here two linen bags of  

the same size; you shall take one, and I the other, and we will fight at bag blows with  

equal arms."  

  

"If that's the way, so be it with all my heart," said Sancho, "for that sort of battle will  

serve to knock the dust out of us instead of hurting us."  

  

"That will not do," said the other, "for we must put into the bags, to keep the wind  

from blowing them away, half a dozen nice smooth pebbles, all of the same weight;  

and in this way we shall be able to baste one another without doing ourselves any  

harm or mischief."  

  

"Body of my father!" said Sancho, "see what marten and sable, and pads of carded  

cotton he is putting into the bags, that our heads may not be broken and our bones  

beaten to jelly! But even if they are filled with toss silk, I can tell you, señor, I am not  

going to fight; let our masters fight, that's their lookout, and let us drink and live; for  

time will take care to ease us of our lives, without our going to look for fillips so that  

they may be finished off before their proper time comes and they drop from  

ripeness."  

  

"Still," returned he of the Wood, "we must fight, if it be only for half an hour."  

  

                                                         

41  In some confraternities, penalties were paid in wax, presumably to make church  

candles. 


  

"By no means," said Sancho; "I am not going to be so discourteous or so ungrateful  

as to have any quarrel, be it ever so small, with one I have eaten and drunk with;  

besides, who the devil could bring himself to fight in cold blood, without anger or  

provocation?"  

  

"I can remedy that entirely," said he of the Wood, "and in this way: before we begin  

the battle, I will come up to your worship fair and softly, and give you three or four  

buffets, with which I shall stretch you at my feet and rouse your anger, though it  

were sleeping sounder than a dormouse."  

  

"To match that plan," said Sancho, "I have another that is not a whit behind it; I will  

take a cudgel, and before your worship comes near enough to waken my anger I will  

send yours so sound to sleep with whacks, that it won't waken unless it be in the  

other world, where it is known that I am not a man to let my face be handled by  

anyone; let each look out for the arrow 42  – though the surer way would be to let  

everyone's anger sleep, for nobody knows the heart of anyone, and a man may come  

for wool and go back shorn; God gave his blessing to peace and his curse to quarrels;  

if a hunted cat, surrounded and hard pressed, turns into a lion, God knows what I,  

who am a man, may turn into; and so from this time forth I warn you, sir squire, that  

all the harm and mischief that may come of our quarrel will be put down to your  

account."  

  

"Very good," said he of the Wood; "God will send the dawn and we shall be all right."  

  

And now gay‐plumaged birds of all sorts began to warble in the trees, and with their  

varied and gladsome notes seemed to welcome and salute the fresh morn that was  

beginning to show the beauty of her countenance at the gates and balconies of the  

east, shaking from her locks a profusion of liquid pearls; in which dulcet moisture  

bathed, the plants, too, seemed to shed and shower down a pearly spray, the willows  

                                                         

42   A proverbial expression from archery, let each one take care of his own arrow.   

Other clearly proverbial expressions follow, typical of Sancho’s speech. 


  

distilled sweet manna, the fountains laughed, the brooks babbled, the woods  

rejoiced, and the meadows arrayed themselves in all their glory at her coming. But  

hardly had the light of day made it possible to see and distinguish things, when the  

first object that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the squire of the  

Wood's nose, which was so big that it almost overshadowed his whole body. It is, in  

fact, stated, that it was of enormous size, hooked in the middle, covered with warts,  

and of a mulberry color like an eggplant; it hung down two fingers' length below his  

mouth, and the size, the color, the warts, and the bend of it, made his face so  

hideous, that Sancho, as he looked at him, began to tremble hand and foot like a  

child in convulsions, and he vowed in his heart to let himself be given two hundred  

buffets, sooner than be provoked to fight that monster. Don Quixote examined his  

adversary, and found that he already had his helmet on and visor lowered, so that he  

could not see his face; he observed, however, that he was a sturdily built man, but  

not very tall in stature. Over his armor he wore a surcoat or cassock of what seemed  

to be the finest cloth of gold, all bespangled with glittering mirrors like little moons,  

which gave him an extremely gallant and splendid appearance; above his helmet  

fluttered a great quantity of plumes, green, yellow, and white, and his lance, which  

was leaning against a tree, was very long and stout, and had a steel point more than  

a palm in length.  

  

Don Quixote observed all, and took note of all, and from what he saw and observed  

he concluded that the said knight must be a man of great strength, but he did not for  

all that give way to fear, like Sancho Panza; on the contrary, with a composed and  

dauntless air, he said to the Knight of the Mirrors, 43  "If, sir knight, your great  

eagerness to fight has not banished your courtesy, by it I would entreat you to raise  

your visor a little, in order that I may see if the comeliness of your countenance  

corresponds with that of your equipment."  

  

                                                         

43  The Knight of the Wood, now renamed in keeping with his attire. 


  

"Whether you come victorious or vanquished out of this emprise, sir knight," replied  

he of the Mirrors, "you will have more than enough time and leisure to see me; and if  

now I do not comply with your request, it is because it seems to me I should do a  

serious wrong to the fair Casildea de Vandalia in wasting time while I stopped to  

raise my visor before compelling you to confess what you are already aware I  

maintain."  

  

"Well then," said Don Quixote, "while we are mounting you can at least tell me if I  

am that Don Quixote whom you said you vanquished."    

  

"To that we answer you," said he of the Mirrors, "that you are as like the very knight  

I vanquished as one egg is like another, but as you say that enchanters persecute  

you, I will not venture to say positively whether you are the said person or not."  

  

"That," said Don Quixote, "is enough to convince me that you are under a deception;  

however, entirely to relieve you of it, let our horses be brought, and in less time than  

it would take you to raise your visor, if God, my lady, and my arm stand me in good  

stead, I shall see your face, and you shall see that I am not the vanquished Don  

Quixote you take me to be."  

  

With this, cutting short the colloquy, they mounted, and Don Quixote wheeled  

Rocinante round in order to take a proper distance to charge back upon his  

adversary, and he of the Mirrors did the same; but Don Quixote had not moved away  

twenty paces when he heard himself called by the other, and, each returning half‐ 

way, he of the Mirrors said to him, "Remember, sir knight, that the terms of our  

combat are, that the vanquished, as I said before, shall be at the victor's disposal."  

  

"I am aware of it already," said Don Quixote; "provided what is commanded and  

imposed upon the vanquished be things that do not transgress the limits of  

chivalry."  

 

"That is understood," replied he of the Mirrors.  

  


  

At this moment the extraordinary nose of the squire presented itself to Don  

Quixote's view, and he was no less amazed than Sancho at the sight; insomuch that  

he set him down as a monster of some kind, or a human being of some new species  

or unearthly breed. Sancho, seeing his master retiring to run his course, did not like  

to be left alone with the nosy man, fearing that with one flap of that nose on his own,  

the battle would be all over for him and he would be left stretched on the ground,  

either by the blow or with fright; so he ran after his master, holding on to  

Rocinante's stirrup‐leather, and when it seemed to him time to turn about, he said,  

"I implore of your worship, señor, before you turn to charge, to help me up into this  

cork tree, from which I will be able to witness the gallant encounter your worship is  

going to have with this knight, more to my taste and better than from the ground."  

  

"It seems to me rather, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou wouldst mount a  

scaffold in order to see the bulls without danger."  

  

"To tell the truth," returned Sancho, "the monstrous nose of that squire has filled me  

with fear and terror, and I dare not stay near him."  

  

"It is," said Don Quixote, "such a one that were I not who I am it would terrify me  

too; so, come, I will help thee up where thou wilt."  

  

While Don Quixote waited for Sancho to mount into the cork tree he of the Mirrors  

took as much ground as he considered requisite, and, supposing Don Quixote to  

have done the same, without waiting for any sound of trumpet or other signal to  

direct them, he wheeled his horse, which was not more agile or better‐looking than  

Rocinante, and at his top speed, which was an easy trot, he proceeded to charge his  

enemy; seeing him, however, engaged in putting Sancho up, he drew rein, and halted  

in mid career, for which his horse was very grateful, as he was already unable to go.  

Don Quixote, fancying that his foe was coming down upon him flying, drove his 


  

spurs vigorously into Rocinante's lean flanks and made him scud along in such style  

that the history tells us that on this occasion only was he known to break into  

something like a gallop, for on all others it was a simple trot with him; and with this  

unparalleled fury he bore down where he of the Mirrors stood digging his spurs into  

his horse up to buttons, without being able to make him stir a finger's length from  

the spot where he had come to a standstill in his course.  At this lucky moment and  

crisis, Don Quixote came upon his adversary, in trouble with his horse, and  

embarrassed with his lance, which he either could not manage, or had no time to lay  

in rest. Don Quixote, however, paid no attention to these difficulties, and in perfect  

safety to himself and without any risk encountered him of the Mirrors with such  

force that he brought him to the ground in spite of himself over the haunches of his  

horse, and with so heavy a fall that he lay to all appearance dead, not stirring hand  

or foot. The instant Sancho saw him fall he slid down from the cork tree, and made  

all haste to where his master was, who, dismounting from Rocinante, went and  

stood over him of the Mirrors, and unlacing his helmet to see if he was dead, and to  

give him air if he should happen to be alive, he saw – who can say what he saw,  

without filling all who hear it with astonishment, wonder, and awe? He saw, the  

history says, the very countenance, the very face, the very look, the very  

physiognomy, the very effigy, the very image of the bachelor Sanson Carrasco! As  

soon as he saw it he called out in a loud voice, "Make haste here, Sancho, and behold  

what thou art to see but not to believe; quick, my son, and learn what magic can do,  

and wizards and enchanters are capable of."  

  

Sancho came up, and when he saw the countenance of the bachelor Carrasco, he fell  

to crossing himself a thousand times, and blessing himself as many more. All this  

time the prostrate knight showed no signs of life, and Sancho said to Don Quixote, "It  

is my opinion, señor, that in any case your worship should take and thrust your  

sword down the throat of this one here that looks like the bachelor Sanson Carrasco;  

perhaps in him you will kill one of your enemies, the enchanters."  

 


  

"Thy advice is not bad," said Don Quixote, "for of enemies the fewer the better;" and  

he was drawing his sword to carry into effect Sancho's counsel and suggestion,  

when the squire of the Mirrors came up, now without the nose which had made him  

so hideous, and cried out in a loud voice, "Mind what you are about, Señor Don  

Quixote; that is your friend, the bachelor Sanson Carrasco, you have at your feet, and  

I am his squire."  

  

"And the nose?" said Sancho, seeing him without the hideous feature he had before;  

to which he replied, "I have it here in my pocket," and putting his hand into his right  

pocket, he pulled out a false nose of varnished pasteboard of the make already  

described; and Sancho, examining him more and more closely, exclaimed aloud in a  

voice of amazement, "Holy Mary be good to me! Isn't it Tomé Cecial, my neighbor  

and gossip?"  

  

"Why, to be sure I am!" returned the now un‐nosed squire; "Tomé Cecial I am, gossip  

and friend Sancho Panza; and I'll tell you presently the means and tricks and  

falsehoods by which I have been brought here; but in the meantime, beg and entreat  

of your master not to touch, maltreat, wound, or slay the Knight of the Mirrors  

whom he has at his feet; because, beyond all dispute, it is the rash and ill‐advised  

bachelor Sanson Carrasco, our fellow townsman."  

  

At this moment he of the Mirrors came to himself, and Don Quixote perceiving it,  

held the naked point of his sword over his face, and said to him, "You are a dead  

man, knight, unless you confess that the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels your  

Casildea de Vandalia in beauty; and in addition to this you must promise, if you  

should survive this encounter, to go to the city of El Toboso and present yourself  

before her on my behalf, that she deal with you according to her good pleasure; and  

if she leaves you free to do yours, you are in like manner to return and seek me out  

(for the trail of my mighty deeds will serve you as a guide to lead you to where I may  

be), and tell me what may have passed between you and her – conditions which, in 


  

accordance with what we stipulated before our combat, do not transgress the just  

limits of knight‐errantry."  

  

"I confess," said the fallen knight, "that the dirty tattered shoe of the lady Dulcinea  

del Toboso is better than the ill‐combed though clean beard of Casildea; and I  

promise to go and to return from her presence to yours, and to give you a full and  

particular account of all you demand of me."  

  

"You must also confess and believe," added Don Quixote, "that the knight you  

vanquished was not and could not be Don Quixote of La Mancha, but some one else  

in his likeness, just as I confess and believe that you, though you seem to be the  

bachelor Sanson Carrasco, are not so, but some other resembling him, whom my  

enemies have here put before me in his shape, in order that I may restrain and  

moderate the vehemence of my wrath, and make a gentle use of the glory of my  

victory."  

  

"I confess, think, and feel everything that  you feel, think, and believe," said the  

crippled knight; "let me rise, I entreat you; if, indeed, the shock of my fall will allow  

me, for I am in very bad shape."  

  

Don Quixote helped him to rise, with the assistance of his squire Tomé Cecial; from  

whom Sancho never took his eyes, and to whom he put questions, the replies to  

which furnished clear proof that he was really and truly the Tomé Cecial he said; but  

the impression made on Sancho's mind by what his master said about the  

enchanters having changed the face of the Knight of the Mirrors into that of the  

bachelor Sanson Carrasco, would not permit him to believe what he saw with his  

eyes.  In fine, both master and man remained under the delusion; and, down in the  

mouth, and out of luck, he of the Mirrors and his squire parted from Don Quixote  

and Sancho, he meaning to go look for some village where he could plaster and strap  

his ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho resumed their journey to Saragossa, and on it the 


  

history leaves them in order that it may tell who the Knight of the Mirrors and his  

long‐nosed squire were.    

 


  

CHAPTER XV.  

WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS  

SQUIRE WERE  

  

Don Quixote went off satisfied, elated, and vainglorious in the highest degree at  

having won a victory over such a valiant knight as he fancied him of the Mirrors to  

be, and one from whose knightly word he expected to learn whether the  

enchantment of his lady still continued; inasmuch as the said vanquished knight was  

bound, under the penalty of ceasing to be one, to return and render him an account  

of what took place between him and her. But Don Quixote was of one mind, he of the  

Mirrors of another, for he just then had no thought of anything but finding some  

village where he could plaster himself, as has been stated already.   

  

The history goes on to say, then, that when the bachelor Sanson Carrasco suggested  

to Don Quixote that he resume his knight‐errantry which he had laid aside, it was as  

a result of having previously met with the curate and the barber to decide how best  

to induce Don Quixote to stay at home in peace without worrying himself with his  

ill‐starred adventures.  At this consultation it was decided by the unanimous vote of  

all, and on the special advice of Carrasco, that Don Quixote should be allowed to go,  

as it seemed impossible to restrain him, and that Sanson should sally forth to meet  

him as a knight‐errant, and do battle with him, for there would be no difficulty in  

finding a cause, and vanquish him – that being looked upon as an easy matter; and  

that it should be agreed and settled that the vanquished was to be at the mercy of  

the victor.  Then, Don Quixote being vanquished, the bachelor knight was to  

command him to return to his village and his house, and not quit it for two years, or  

until he received further orders from him.  And it was assumed that Don Quixote  

would unhesitatingly obey, rather than contravene or fail to observe the laws of  

chivalry; and during the period of his seclusion he might perhaps forget his folly, or  

there might be an opportunity of discovering some remedy for his madness.  

Carrasco undertook the task, and Tomé Cecial, a gossip and neighbor of Sancho 


  

Panza's, a lively, feather‐headed fellow, offered himself as his squire. Carrasco  

armed himself in the fashion described, and Tomé Cecial, that he might not be  

known by his gossip when they met, fitted on over his own natural nose the false  

one that has been mentioned; and so they followed the same route Don Quixote  

took, and almost came up with him in time to be present at the adventure of the cart  

of Death and finally encountered them in the Wood, where all that the sagacious  

reader has been reading about took place; and had it not been for the extraordinary  

fancies of Don Quixote, and his conviction that the bachelor was not the bachelor,  

señor bachelor would have been incapacitated for ever from taking his degree of  

licentiate, all through not finding nests where he thought to find birds.  

  

Tomé Cecial, seeing how ill they had succeeded, and what a sorry end their  

expedition had come to, said to the bachelor, "Surely, Señor Sanson Carrasco, we are  

served right; it is easy enough to plan and set about an enterprise, but it is often a  

difficult matter to make it come out well.  Don Quixote a madman, and we sane; he  

goes off laughing, safe, and sound, and you are left sore and sorry!  I'd like to know  

now which is the crazier, he who is crazy because he cannot help it, or he who turns  

crazy of his own free will?"  

  

To which Sanson replied, "The difference between the two lies in this: that he who  

cannot help being crazy will always be so, whereas the one who is crazy by choice  

can leave off being crazy whenever he likes."  

  

"In that case," said Tomé Cecial, "I was a madman of my own free will when I  

volunteered to become your squire, and now, of my own free will, I'll leave off being  

one and go home."  

  

"That's your affair," returned Sanson, "but to suppose that I am going home until I  

have given Don Quixote a thrashing is absurd; and what will urge me on now is not  

any desire to see him recover his wits, but rather a thirst for vengeance, for the sore  

pain in my ribs won't let me entertain any more charitable thoughts." 


  

  

Thus discoursing, the pair proceeded until they reached a town where it was their  

good luck to find a bone‐setter, with whose help the unfortunate Sanson was cured.  

Tomé Cecial left him and went home, while he stayed behind meditating vengeance;  

and the history will return to him again at the proper time, so as not to omit making  

merry with Don Quixote now.   

CHAPTER XVI.  


  

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA  

  

Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spirits, satisfaction, and self‐ 

complacency already described, fancying himself the most valorous knight‐errant of  

the age in the world because of his late victory. All the adventures that could befall  

him from that time forth he regarded as already done and brought to a happy issue;  

he made light of enchantments and enchanters; he thought no more of the countless  

drubbings that had been administered to him in the course of his knight‐errantry,  

nor of the volley of stones that had leveled half his teeth, nor of the ingratitude of the  

galley slaves, nor of the audacity of the Yanguesans and the shower of stakes that  

fell upon him; in short, he said to himself that could he discover any means, mode, or  

way of disenchanting his lady Dulcinea, he would not envy the highest fortune that  

the most fortunate knight‐errant of yore ever reached or could reach.  

  

He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancies, when Sancho said to him,  

"Isn't it odd, señor, that I have still before my eyes that monstrous enormous nose of  

my gossip, Tomé Cecial?"  

  

"And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the Knight of the  

Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire Tomé Cecial thy gossip?"  

  

"I don't know what to say to that," replied Sancho; "all I know is that the tokens he  

gave me about my own house, wife and children, nobody else but himself could have  

given me; and the face, once the nose was off, was the very face of Tomé Cecial, as I  

have seen it many a time in my town and next door to my own house; and the sound  

of the voice was just the same."  

 


  

"Let us reason the matter, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Come now, by what process  

of thinking can it be supposed that the bachelor Sanson Carrasco would come as a  

knight‐errant, in arms offensive and defensive, to fight with me? Have I ever been by  

any chance his enemy? Have I ever given him any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am  

I his rival, or does he profess arms, that he should envy the fame I have acquired in  

them?"  

  

"Well, but what are we to say, señor," returned Sancho, "about that knight, whoever  

he is, being so like the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire so like my gossip, Tomé  

Cecial? And if that be enchantment, as your worship says, was there no other pair in  

the world for them to take the likeness of?"  

  

"It is all," said Don Quixote, "a scheme and plot of the malignant sorcerers that  

persecute me, who, foreseeing that I was to be victorious in the conflict, arranged  

that the vanquished knight should display the countenance of my friend the  

bachelor, in order that the friendship I bear him should interpose to stay the edge of  

my sword and might of my arm, and temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he  

who sought to take my life by fraud and falsehood should save his own.  And to  

prove it, thou knowest already, Sancho, by experience which cannot lie or deceive,  

how easy it is for enchanters to change one countenance into another, turning fair  

into foul, and foul into fair; for it is not two days since thou sawest with thine own  

eyes the beauty and elegance of the peerless Dulcinea in all its perfection and  

natural harmony, while I saw her in the repulsive and mean form of a coarse  

country wench, with cataracts in her eyes and a foul smell in her mouth; and when  

the perverse enchanter ventured to effect so wicked a transformation, it is no  

wonder if he effected that of Sanson Carrasco and thy gossip in order to snatch the  

glory of victory out of my grasp. For all that, however, I console myself, because,  

after all, in whatever shape he may have been, I have been victorious over my  

enemy."  

 


  

"God knows what's the truth of it all," said Sancho; and knowing as he did that the  

transformation of Dulcinea had been a device and imposition of his own, his  

master's illusions were not satisfactory to him; but he did not like to reply lest he  

should say something that might disclose his trickery.  

  

As they were engaged in this conversation they were overtaken by a man who was  

following the same road behind them, mounted on a very handsome flea‐bitten  

mare, and dressed in a gaban 44  of fine green cloth, trimmed with tawny velvet  

facings, and a montera 45  of the same velvet. The saddle of the mare was of the jineta  

fashion, 46  and of mulberry color and green. He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging  

from a broad green and gold baldric; the buskins were of the same make as the  

baldric; the spurs were not gilt, but lacquered green, and so brightly polished that,  

matching as they did the rest of his apparel, they looked better than if they had been  

of pure gold.  

  

When the traveler came up with them he saluted them courteously, and spurring his  

mare was passing them without stopping, but Don Quixote called out to him,  

"Gallant sir, if so be your worship is going our road, and has no occasion for speed, it  

would be a pleasure to me if we were to join company."  

  

"In truth," replied he on the mare, "I would not pass you so hastily but for fear that  

horse might turn restive in the company of my mare."  

  

"You may safely hold in your mare, señor," said Sancho in reply to this, "for our  

horse is the most virtuous and well‐behaved horse in the world; he never does  

anything wrong on such occasions, and the only time he misbehaved, my master and  

I suffered for it sevenfold; I say again your worship may pull up if you like; for if she  

was offered to him between two plates the horse would not hanker after her."  

                                                         

44  An overcoat.  

45  A kind of cap made of cloth.  

46  A saddle with a high pommel and short stirrups. 


  

  

The traveler drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of Don Quixote, who rode  

without his helmet, which Sancho carried like a valise in front of the Dapple's pack‐ 

saddle; and if the man in green examined Don Quixote closely, still more closely did  

Don Quixote examine the man in green, who struck him as being a man of  

intelligence. In appearance he was about fifty years of age, with but few grey hairs,  

an aquiline cast of features, and an expression between grave and gay; and his dress  

and accoutrements showed him to be a man of good condition. What he in green  

thought of Don Quixote of La Mancha was that a man of that sort and shape he had  

never yet seen; he marveled at the length of his hair, his lofty stature, the lankness  

and sallowness of his countenance, his armor, his bearing and his gravity – a figure  

and picture such as had not been seen in those regions for many a long day.  

  

Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the traveler was regarding  

him, and read his curiosity in his astonishment; and courteous as he was and ready  

to please everybody, before the other could ask him any question he anticipated him  

by saying, "The appearance I present to your worship being so strange and so out of  

the common, I should not be surprised if it filled you with wonder; but you will  

cease to wonder when I tell you, as I do, that I am one of those knights who, as  

people say, go seeking adventures. I have left my home, I have mortgaged my estate,  

I have given up my comforts, and committed myself to the arms of Fortune, to bear  

me whithersoever she may please. My desire was to bring to life again knight‐ 

errantry, now dead, and for some time past, stumbling here, falling there, now  

coming down headlong, now raising myself up again, I have carried out a great  

portion of my design, succoring widows, protecting maidens, and giving aid to  

wives, orphans, and minors, the proper and natural duty of knights‐errant; and,  

therefore, because of my many valiant and Christian achievements, I have been  

already found worthy to make my way in print to well‐nigh all, or most, of the  

nations of the earth. Thirty thousand volumes of my history have been printed, and  

it is on the high‐road to be printed thirty thousand thousands of times, if heaven  

does not put a stop to it.  In short, to sum up all in a few words, or in a single one, I 


  

may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called 'The Knight of the  

Mournful Countenance;' for though self‐praise is degrading, I must perforce sound  

my own horn sometimes, that is to say, when there is no one at hand to do it for me.  

So that, gentle sir, neither this horse, nor this lance, nor this shield, nor this squire,  

nor all these arms put together, nor the sallowness of my countenance, nor my  

gaunt leanness, will henceforth astonish you, now that you know who I am and what  

profession I follow."  

  

With these words Don Quixote held his peace, and, from the time he took to answer,  

the man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply; after a long pause, however, he  

said to him, "You were right when you saw curiosity in my amazement, sir knight;  

but you have not succeeded in removing the astonishment I feel at seeing you; for  

although you say, señor, that knowing who you are ought to remove it, it has not  

done so; on the contrary, now that I know, I am left more amazed and astonished  

than before. What! is it possible that there are knights‐errant in the world in these  

days, and histories of real chivalry printed? I cannot realize the fact that there can be  

anyone on earth nowadays who aids widows, or protects maidens, or defends wives,  

or succors orphans; nor should I believe it had I not seen it in your worship with my  

own eyes. Blessed be heaven! for by means of this history of your noble and genuine  

chivalrous deeds, which you say has been printed, the countless stories of fictitious  

knights‐errant with which the world is filled, so much to the injury of morality and  

the prejudice and discredit of good histories, will have been driven into oblivion."  

  

"There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Don Quixote, "as to whether the  

histories of the knights‐errant are fiction or not."  

  

"Why, is there anyone who doubts that those histories are false?" said the man in  

green.  

  

"I doubt it," said Don Quixote, "but never mind that just now; if our journey lasts  

long enough, I trust in God I shall show your worship that you do wrong in going 


  

with the stream of those who regard it as a matter of certainty that they are not  

true."  

  

From this last observation of Don Quixote's, the traveler began to have a suspicion  

that he was some crazy being, and was waiting him to confirm it by something  

further; but before they could turn to any new subject Don Quixote begged him to  

tell him who he was, since he himself had rendered account of his station and life. To  

this, he in the green gaban replied "I, Sir Knight of the Mournful Countenance, am a  

gentleman by birth, native of the village where, please God, we are going to dine  

today; I am more than fairly well off, and my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I pass  

my life with my wife, children, and friends; my pursuits are hunting and fishing, but  

I keep neither hawks nor greyhounds, nothing but a tame partridge 47  or a bold  

ferret or two; I have six dozen or so of books, some in our mother tongue, some  

Latin, some of them history, others devotional; those of chivalry have not as yet  

crossed the threshold of my door; I am more given to reading the profane than the  

devotional, so long as they are books of honest entertainment that charm by their  

style and attract and interest by the invention they display, though of these there are  

very few in Spain.  Sometimes I dine with my neighbors and friends, and often invite  

them; my entertainments are neat and well served without stint of anything.  I have  

no taste for tattle, nor do I allow tattling in my presence; I pry not into my  

neighbors’ lives, nor have I lynx‐eyes for what others do. I hear mass every day; I  

share my substance with the poor, making no display of good works, lest I let  

hypocrisy and vainglory, those enemies that subtly take possession of the most  

watchful heart, find an entrance into mine. I strive to make peace between those  

whom I know to be at variance; I am the devoted servant of Our Lady, and my trust  

is ever in the infinite mercy of God our Lord."  

  

Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of the gentleman's life and  

occupation; and thinking it a good and a holy life, and that he who led it ought to  

                                                         

47  Used as a decoy. 


  

work miracles, he threw himself off the Dapple, and running in haste seized his right  

stirrup and kissed his foot again and again with a devout heart and almost with  

tears.  

  

Seeing this the gentleman asked him, "What are you about, brother? What are these  

kisses for?"  

  

"Let me kiss," said Sancho, "for I think your worship is the first saint in the saddle I  

ever saw all the days of my life."  

  

"I am no saint," replied the gentleman, "but a great sinner; but you are, brother, for  

you must be a good fellow, as your simplicity shows."  

  

Sancho went back and regained his pack‐saddle, having extracted a laugh from his  

master's profound melancholy, and excited fresh amazement in Don Diego. Don  

Quixote then asked him how many children he had, and observed that one of the  

things wherein the ancient philosophers, who were without the true knowledge of  

God, placed the highest good was in the gifts of nature, in those of fortune, in having  

many friends, and many and good children.  

  

"I, Señor Don Quixote," answered the gentleman, "have one son, without whom,  

perhaps, I should count myself happier than I am, not because he is a bad son, but  

because he is not so good as I could wish. He is eighteen years of age; he has been for  

six at Salamanca studying Latin and Greek, and when I wished him to turn to the  

study of other sciences I found him so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that can be  

called a science) that there is no getting him to take kindly to the law, which I  

wished him to study, or to theology, the queen of them all. I would like him to be an  

honor to his family, as we live in days when our kings liberally reward learning that  

is virtuous and worthy; for learning without virtue is a pearl on a dunghill. He  

spends the whole day in settling whether Homer expressed himself correctly or not  

in such and such a line of the Iliad, whether Martial was indecent or not in such and 


  

such an epigram, whether such and such lines of Virgil are to be understood in this  

way or in that; in short, all his talk is of the works of these poets, and those of  

Horace, Perseus, Juvenal, and Tibullus; for of the moderns in our own language he  

makes no great account; but with all his seeming indifference to Spanish poetry, just  

now his thoughts are absorbed in making a gloss on four lines that have been sent  

him from Salamanca, which I suspect are for some poetical tournament."  

  

To all this Don Quixote said in reply, "Children, señor, are portions of their parents'  

bowels, and therefore, be they good or bad, are to be loved as we love the souls that  

give us life; it is for the parents to guide them from infancy in the ways of virtue,  

propriety, and worthy Christian conduct, so that when grown up they may be the  

staff of their parents' old age, and the glory of their posterity; and to force them to  

study this or that science I do not think wise, though it may be no harm to persuade  

them; and when there is no need to study for the sake of pane lucrando 48 , and it is  

the student's good fortune that heaven has given him parents who provide him with  

it, it would be my advice to them to let him pursue whatever science they may see  

him most inclined to; and though that of poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is  

not one of those that bring discredit upon the possessor.  Poetry, gentle sir, is, as I  

take it, like a tender young maiden of supreme beauty, to array, bedeck, and adorn  

whom is the task of several other maidens, who are all the rest of the sciences; and  

she must avail herself of the help of all, and all derive their luster from her. But this  

maiden will not bear to be handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed  

either at the corners of the market‐places, or in the closets of palaces.  She is the  

product of an Alchemy of such virtue that he who is able to practice it, will turn her  

into pure gold of inestimable worth. He that possesses her must keep her within  

bounds, not permitting her to break out in ribald satires or soulless sonnets. She  

must on no account be offered for sale, unless, indeed, it be in heroic poems, moving  

tragedies, or sprightly and ingenious comedies. She must not be touched by the  

buffoons, nor by the ignorant vulgar, incapable of comprehending or appreciating  

                                                         

48  Earning one’s bread. 


  

her hidden treasures. And do not suppose, señor, that I apply the term vulgar here  

merely to plebeians and the lower orders; for everyone who is ignorant, be he lord  

or prince, may and should be included among the vulgar. He, then, who shall  

embrace and cultivate poetry under the conditions I have named, shall become  

famous, and his name honored throughout all the civilized nations of the earth.  And  

with regard to what you say, señor, of your son having no great opinion of Spanish  

poetry, I am inclined to think that he is not quite right there, and for this reason: the  

great poet Homer did not write in Latin, because he was a Greek, nor did Virgil write  

in Greek, because he was a Latin; in short, all the ancient poets wrote in the  

language they imbibed with their mother's milk, and never went in quest of foreign  

ones to express their sublime conceptions; and that being so, the usage should in  

justice extend to all nations, and the German poet should not be undervalued  

because he writes in his own language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for  

writing in his. But your son, señor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against Spanish  

poetry, but against those poets who are mere Spanish verse writers, without any  

knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn and give life and vigor to their  

natural inspiration; and yet even in this he may be wrong; for, according to a true  

belief, a poet is born one; that is to say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from  

his mother's womb; and following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon him,  

without the aid of study or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke  

who said, 'Est Deus in nobis,' etc. 49   At the same time, I say that the poet by nature  

who calls in art to his aid will be a far better poet, and will surpass him who tries to  

be one relying upon his knowledge of art alone. The reason is, that art does not  

surpass nature, but only brings it to perfection; and thus, nature combined with art,  

and art with nature, will produce a perfect poet. To bring my argument to a close, I  

would say then, gentle sir, let your son go on as his star leads him, for being so  

studious as he seems to be, and having already successfully surmounted the first  

step of the sciences, which is that of the languages, with their help he will by his own  

exertions reach the summit of polite literature, which so well becomes an  

                                                         

49  There is a god in us. 


  

independent gentleman, and adorns, honors, and distinguishes him, as much as the  

miter does the bishop, or the gown the learned counselor. If your son write satires  

reflecting on the honor of others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he  

compose discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style of Horace, and  

with elegance like his, commend him; for it is legitimate for a poet to write against  

envy and lash the envious in his verse, and the other vices too, provided he does not  

single out individuals; there are, however, poets who, for the sake of saying  

something spiteful, would run the risk of being banished to the coast of Pontus. 50  If  

the poet be pure in his morals, he will be pure in his verses too; the pen is the  

tongue of the mind, and as the thought engendered there, so will be the things that it  

writes down. And when kings and princes observe this marvelous science of poetry  

in wise, virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they honor, value, exalt them, and even  

crown them with the leaves of that tree which the thunderbolt strikes not, 51  as if to  

show that they whose brows are honored and adorned with such a crown are not to  

be assailed by anyone."  

  

He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote's argument, so  

much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken up about his being crazy.  

But in the middle of the discourse, it being not very much to his taste, Sancho had  

turned aside out of the road to beg a little milk from some shepherds, who were  

milking their ewes hard by; and just as the gentleman, highly pleased, was about to  

renew the conversation, Don Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart covered  

with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling; and persuaded that this  

must be some new adventure, he called aloud to Sancho to come and bring him his  

helmet. Sancho, hearing himself called, quitted the shepherds, and, prodding the  

Dapple vigorously, came up to his master, to whom there fell a terrific and desperate  

adventure.    

  

                                                         

50  As was Ovid by Augustus  in 8 A.D.   

51  The laurel tree. 

CHAPTER XVII.  


  

WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE  

UNEXAMPLED COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH;  

TOGETHER WITH THE HAPPILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS  

  

The history tells that when Don Quixote called out to Sancho to bring him his  

helmet, Sancho was buying some curds the shepherds agreed to sell him, and  

flurried by the great haste his master was in did not know what to do with them or  

what to carry them in; so, not to lose them, for he had already paid for them, he  

thought it best to throw them into his master's helmet, and acting on this bright idea  

he went to see what his master wanted with him. He, as he approached, exclaimed to  

him:  

  

"Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of adventures, or what I  

observe yonder is one that will, and does, call upon me to arm myself."  

  

He of the green gaban, on hearing this, looked in all directions, but could perceive  

nothing, except a cart coming towards them with two or three small flags, which led  

him to conclude it must be carrying treasure of the King's, and he said so to Don  

Quixote. He, however, would not believe him, being always persuaded and  

convinced that all that happened to him must be adventures and still more  

adventures; so he replied to the gentleman, "He who is prepared has his battle half  

fought; nothing is lost by my preparing myself, for I know by experience that I have  

enemies, visible and invisible, and I know not when, or where, or at what moment,  

or in what shapes they will attack me;" and turning to Sancho he called for his  

helmet; and Sancho, as he had no time to take out the curds, had to give it just as it  

was. Don Quixote took it, and without perceiving what was in it thrust it down in hot  

haste upon his head; but as the curds were pressed and squeezed the whey began to  

run all over his face and beard, whereat he was so startled that he cried out to  

Sancho: 


  

  

"Sancho, what's this? I think my head is softening, or my brains are melting, or I am  

sweating from head to foot! If I am sweating it is not indeed from fear. I am  

convinced beyond a doubt that the adventure which is about to befall me is a  

terrible one. Give me something to wipe myself with, if thou hast it, for this profuse  

sweat is blinding me."  

  

Sancho held his tongue, and gave him a cloth, and gave thanks to God at the same  

time that his master had not found out what was the matter. Don Quixote then  

wiped himself, and took off his helmet to see what it was that made his head feel so  

cool, and seeing all that white mash inside his helmet he put it to his nose, and as  

soon as he had smelt it he exclaimed:  

  

"By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is curds thou hast put here, thou  

treacherous, impudent, ill‐mannered squire!"  

  

To which, with great composure and pretended innocence, Sancho replied, "If they  

are curds let me have them, your worship, and I'll eat them; but let the devil eat  

them, for it must have been he who put them there.  I, dare to dirty your helmet!   

You have guessed the offender finely!  Faith, sir, by the light God gives me, it seems I  

must have enchanters too, that persecute me as a creature and limb of your worship,  

and they must have put that nastiness there in order to provoke your patience to  

anger, and make you baste my ribs as you are wont to do.  Well, this time, indeed,  

they have missed their aim, for I trust to my master's good sense to see that I have  

got no curds or milk, or anything of the sort; and that if I had, it is in my stomach I  

would put it, and not in the helmet."  

  

"May be so," said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman was observing, and with  

astonishment, more especially when, after having wiped himself clean, his head,  

face, beard, and helmet, Don Quixote put it on, and settling himself firmly in his 


  

stirrups, easing his sword in the scabbard, and grasping his lance, he cried, "Now,  

come who will, here am I, ready to try conclusions with Satan himself in person!"  

  

By this time the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by anyone except the  

carter on a mule, and a man sitting in front. Don Quixote planted himself before it  

and said, "Whither are you going, brothers? What cart is this? What have you got in  

it? What flags are those?"  

  

To this the carter replied, "The cart is mine; what is in it is a pair of wild caged lions,  

which the governor of Oran is sending to court as a present to his Majesty; and the  

flags are our lord the King's, to show that what is here is his property."  

  

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

  

"So large," replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, "that larger, or as large,  

have never crossed from Africa to Spain; I am the keeper, and I have brought over  

others, but never any like these. They are male and female; the male is in that first  

cage and the female in the one behind, and they are hungry now, for they have eaten  

nothing today, so let your worship stand aside, for we must make haste to the place  

where we are to feed them."  

  

Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, "Lion whelps against me!  

Against me whelps of lions, and at such a time! Then, by God! those gentlemen who  

send them here shall see if I am a man to be frightened by lions. Get down, my good  

fellow, and as you are the keeper open the cages, and turn me out those beasts, and  

in the midst of this plain I will let them know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in  

spite and in the teeth of the enchanters who send them to me."  

  

"So," said the gentleman to himself at this; "our worthy knight has revealed himself;  

the curds, no doubt, have softened his skull and brought his brains to a head."  

 


  

At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, "Señor, for God's sake do something  

to keep my master, Don Quixote, from tackling these lions; for if he does they'll tear  

us all to pieces here."  

  

"Is your master then so crazy," asked the gentleman, "that you believe and are afraid  

he will engage such fierce animals?"  

  

"He is not crazy," said Sancho, "but he is foolhardy."  

  

"I will prevent it," said the gentleman; and going over to Don Quixote, who was  

insisting upon the keeper's opening the cages, he said to him, "Sir knight, knights  

errant should attempt only those adventures that afford the hope of a successful  

outcome, not those which are entirely hopeless; for valor that borders on temerity  

savors more of madness than of courage; moreover, these lions do not come to  

oppose you, nor do they dream of such a thing; they are going as presents to his  

Majesty, and it will not be right to stop them or delay their journey."  

  

"Gentle sir," replied Don Quixote, "you go and mind your tame partridge and your  

bold ferret, and leave everyone to manage his own business; this affair is mine, and I  

know whether these gentlemen the lions come to me or not;" and then turning to  

the keeper he exclaimed, "By all that's good, sir scoundrel, if you don't open the  

cages this very instant, I'll pin you to the cart with this lance."  

  

The carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in amour, said to him, "Please  

your worship, for charity's sake, señor, let me unyoke the mules and place myself in  

safety along with them before the lions are turned out; for if they kill them, I am  

ruined for life, for all I possess is this cart and mules."  

  

"O man of little faith," replied Don Quixote, "get down and unyoke; you will soon see  

that you are exerting yourself for nothing, and that you might have spared yourself  

the trouble." 

  


  

The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the keeper called  

out at the top of his voice, "I call all here to witness that against my will and under  

compulsion I open the cages and let the lions loose, and that I warn this gentleman  

that he will be accountable for all the harm and mischief which these beasts may do,  

and for my salary and dues as well. You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety  

before I open, for I know they will do me no harm."  

  

Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do such a mad  

thing, as it was tempting God to engage in such a piece of folly. To this, Don Quixote  

replied that he knew what he was doing. The gentleman in return entreated him to  

reflect, for he knew he was under a delusion.  "Well, señor," answered Don Quixote,  

"if you do not like to be a spectator of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, spur  

your flea‐bitten mare, and place yourself in safety."  

  

Hearing this, Sancho, with tears in his eyes, entreated him to give up an enterprise  

compared with which the one of the windmills, and the awful one of the fulling mills,  

and, in fact, all the feats he had attempted in the whole course of his life, were cakes  

and fancy bread. "Look ye, señor," said Sancho, "there's no enchantment here, nor  

anything of the sort, for between the bars and chinks of the cage I have seen the paw  

of a real lion, and judging by that I reckon the lion such a paw could belong to must  

be bigger than a mountain."  

  

"Fear at any rate," replied Don Quixote, "will make him look bigger to thee than half  

the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and if I die here thou knowest our old  

compact; thou wilt repair to Dulcinea – I say no more."  To these he added some  

further words that banished all hope of his giving up his insane project.  He of the  

green gaban would have offered resistance, but he found himself ill‐matched as to  

arms, and did not think it prudent to come to blows with a madman, for such Don  

Quixote now showed himself to be in every respect; and the latter, renewing his  

commands to the keeper and repeating his threats, gave warning to the gentleman 


  

to spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the carter his mules, all striving to get away  

from the cart as far as they could before the lions broke loose.  Sancho was weeping  

over his master's death, for this time he firmly believed it was in store for him from  

the claws of the lions; and he cursed his fate and called it an unlucky hour when he  

thought of taking service with him again; but with all his tears and lamentations he  

did not forget to thrash the Dapple so as to put a good space between himself and  

the cart. The keeper, seeing that the fugitives were now some distance off, once  

more entreated and warned him as before; but he replied that he heard him, and  

that he need not trouble himself with any further warnings or entreaties, as they  

would be fruitless, and bade him make haste.  

  

During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the first cage, Don  

Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do battle on foot, instead of  

on horseback, and finally resolved to fight on foot, fearing that Rocinante might take  

fright at the sight of the lions; he therefore sprang off his horse, flung his lance aside,  

braced his buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with  

marvelous intrepidity and resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the cart,  

commending himself with all his heart to God and to his lady Dulcinea.  

  

It is to be observed, that on coming to this passage, the author of this veracious  

history breaks out into exclamations. "O great‐souled Don Quixote! high‐mettled,  

past extolling!  Mirror, wherein all the heroes of the world may see themselves! A  

new and second Don Manuel de León, 52  once the glory and honor of Spanish  

knighthood!  In what words shall I describe this dread exploit, by what language  

shall I make it credible to ages to come, what eulogies are there unmeet for thee,  

though they be hyperboles piled on hyperboles! On foot, alone, undaunted, with but  

a simple sword, and that no trenchant blade of the Perrillo brand, a shield, but no  

bright polished steel one, there stoodst thou, biding and awaiting the two fiercest  

lions that Africa's forests ever bred!  Thy own deeds be thy praise, valiant  

                                                         

52  Don Manual Ponce de León, a paragon of gallantry and courtesy during the time of  

Ferdinand and Isabella. 


  

Manchegan, and here I leave them as they stand, wanting the words wherewith to  

glorify them!"  

  

Here the author's outburst came to an end, and he proceeded to take up the thread  

of his story, saying that the keeper, seeing that Don Quixote had taken up his  

position, and that it was impossible for him to avoid letting out the male without  

incurring the enmity of the fiery and daring knight, flung open the doors of the first  

cage, containing, as has been said, the lion, which was now seen to be of enormous  

size, and grim and hideous mien. The first thing he did was to turn round in the cage  

in which he lay, and protrude his claws, and stretch himself thoroughly; he next  

opened his mouth, and yawned very leisurely, and with near two palms' length of  

tongue that he had thrust forth, he licked the dust out of his eyes and washed his  

face; having done this, he put his head out of the cage and looked all round with eyes  

like glowing coals, a spectacle and demeanor to strike terror into temerity itself.   

Don Quixote merely observed him steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and  

come to close quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him in pieces.  

  

So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lion, more courteous than  

arrogant, not troubling himself about silly bravado, after having looked all round, as  

has been said, turned about and presented his hind‐quarters to Don Quixote, and  

very coolly and tranquilly lay down again in the cage.  Seeing this, Don Quixote  

ordered the keeper to take a stick to him and provoke him to make him come out.  

  

"That I won't," said the keeper; "for if I anger him, the first he'll tear in pieces will be  

myself.  Be satisfied, sir knight, with what you have done, which leaves nothing more  

to be said on the score of courage, and do not seek to tempt fortune a second time.  

The lion has the door open; he is free to come out or not to come out; but as he has  

not come out so far, he will not come out to‐day.  Your worship's great courage has  

been fully manifested already; no brave champion, so it strikes me, is bound to do  

more than challenge his enemy and wait for him on the field; if his adversary does 


  

not come, on him lies the disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off the crown of  

victory."  

  

"That is true," said Don Quixote; "close the door, my friend, and bear me witness as  

best you can with regard to what you have seen me do here.  I would have thee  

certify to wit, that thou didst open for the lion, that I waited for him, that he did not  

come out, that I still waited for him, and that still he did not come out, and lay down  

again. I am not bound to do more; enchantments away, and God uphold the right, the  

truth, and true chivalry!  Close the door as I bade thee, while I make signals to the  

fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this exploit from thy lips."  

  

The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of his lance the cloth he had  

wiped his face with after the deluge of curds, proceeded to recall the others, who  

still continued to fly, looking back at every step, all in a body, the gentleman bringing  

up the rear.  Sancho, however, happening to observe the signal of the white cloth,  

exclaimed, "May I die, if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is  

calling to us."  

  

They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote who was making signals,  

and shaking off their fears to some extent, they approached slowly until they were  

near enough to hear distinctly Don Quixote's voice calling to them. They returned at  

length to the cart, and as they came up, Don Quixote said to the carter, "Hitch up  

your mules once more, brother, and continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho,  

give him two gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to compensate for the delay  

they have incurred through me."  

  

"That will I give with all my heart," said Sancho; "but what has become of the lions?  

Are they dead or alive?"  

  

The keeper, then, in full detail, and bit by bit, described the end of the contest,  

exalting to the best of his power and ability the valor of Don Quixote, at the sight of 


  

whom the lion quailed, and would not and dared not come out of the cage, although  

he had held the door open ever so long; and showing how, in consequence of his  

having represented to the knight that it was tempting God to provoke the lion in  

order to force him out, which he wished to have done, he very reluctantly, and  

altogether against his will, had allowed the door to be closed.  

  

"What dost thou think of this, Sancho?" said Don Quixote. "Are there any  

enchantments that can prevail against true valor?  The enchanters may be able to  

rob me of good fortune, but of fortitude and courage they cannot."  

  

Sancho paid the crowns, the carter hitched his mules, the keeper kissed Don  

Quixote's hands for the bounty bestowed upon him, and promised to give an  

account of the valiant exploit to the King himself, as soon as he saw him at court.  

  

"Then," said Don Quixote, "if his Majesty should happen to ask who performed it,  

you must say THE KNIGHT OF THE LIONS; for it is my desire that into this the name  

I have hitherto borne of Knight of the Mournful Countenance be from this time  

forward changed, altered, transformed, and turned; and in this I follow the ancient  

usage of knights‐errant, who changed their names when they pleased, or when it  

suited their purpose."  

  

The cart went its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he of the green gaban went  

theirs.  All this time, Don Diego de Miranda had not spoken a word, being entirely  

taken up with observing and noting all that Don Quixote did and said, and the  

opinion he formed was that he was a man of brains gone mad, and a madman on the  

verge of rationality.  The first part of his history had not yet reached him, for, had he  

read it, the amazement with which his words and deeds filled him would have  

vanished, as he would then have understood the nature of his madness; but knowing  

nothing of it, he took him to be rational one moment, and crazy the next, for what he  

said was sensible, elegant, and well expressed, and what he did, absurd, rash, and  

foolish; and said he to himself, "What could be madder than putting on a helmet full 


  

of curds, and then persuading oneself that enchanters are softening one's skull; or  

what could be greater rashness and folly than wanting to fight lions by sheer  

strength alone?"  

  

Don Quixote roused him from these reflections and this soliloquy by saying, "No  

doubt, Señor Don Diego de Miranda, you must take me for a fool and a madman, and  

it would be no wonder if you did, for my deeds do not argue anything else. But for all  

that, I would have you take notice that I am neither so mad nor so foolish as I must  

have seemed to you.  A gallant knight looks good bringing his lance to bear adroitly  

upon a fierce bull under the eyes of his sovereign, in the midst of a spacious plaza; a  

knight shows to advantage arrayed in glittering armor, pacing the lists before the  

ladies in some joyous tournament, and all those knights show to advantage that  

entertain, divert, and, if we may say so, honor the courts of their princes by warlike  

exercises, or what resemble them; but the best showing of all is made by a knight‐ 

errant when he traverses deserts, solitudes, cross‐roads, forests, and mountains, in  

quest of perilous adventures, bent on bringing them to a happy and successful issue,  

all to win a glorious and lasting renown.   

  

More impressive, I maintain, is the knight‐errant bringing aid to some widow in  

some lonely waste, than the court knight dallying with some city damsel.  All knights  

have their own special parts to play; let the courtier devote himself to the ladies, let  

him add luster to his sovereign's court by his liveries, let him entertain poor  

gentlemen with the sumptuous fare of his table, let him arrange joustings, marshal  

tournaments, and prove himself noble, generous, and magnificent, and above all a  

good Christian, and so doing he will fulfill the duties that are especially his.  But let  

the knight‐errant explore the corners of the earth and penetrate the most intricate  

labyrinths, at each step let him attempt impossibilities, on desolate heaths let him  

endure the burning rays of the midsummer sun, and the bitter inclemency of the  

winter winds and frosts; let no lions daunt him, no monsters terrify him, no dragons  

make him quail; for to seek then out, to attack them, and to vanquish them all, are in  

truth his main duties.  I, then, as it has fallen to my lot to be a knight errant, cannot 


  

avoid attempting all that to me seems to come within the sphere of my duties; thus it  

was my duty to attack those lions, although I knew it to be an exceedingly rash thing  

to do.    

  

For well I know the meaning of valor: namely, a virtue that lies between the two  

extremes of cowardice on the one hand and temerity on the other.  It is, nonetheless,  

better for the brave man to carry his bravery to the point of rashness than for him to  

sink into cowardice; for, as it is easier for the prodigal to become a generous man  

than it is for the miser, so it is easier for the foolhardy to become truly brave for the  

coward to rise to true valor.   And believe me, Señor Don Diego, in this matter of  

adventures, it is better to lose by a card too many than by a card too few; for to hear  

it said that 'such a knight is rash and daring,' sounds better than 'such a knight is  

timid and a coward.'"  

  

"I must assure you, Señor Don Quixote," said Don Diego, "that everything you have  

said and done is proved correct by the test of reason itself; and I believe, if the laws  

and ordinances of knight‐errantry should be lost, they might be found again in your  

Grace;s bosom, which is their own proper depository and storehouse.   But let us  

make haste, and reach my village, where you shall take rest after your late exertions;  

for if the body is not tired, the spirit may be, and this sometimes tends to produce  

bodily fatigue."  

  

"I take the invitation as a great flavor and honor, Señor Don Diego," replied Don  

Quixote; and pressing forward at a better pace than before, at about two in the  

afternoon they reached the village and house of Don Diego, or, as Don Quixote called  

him, "The Knight of the Green Gaban."  

 


  

CHAPTER LXIV.  

TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE  

UNHAPPINESS THAN ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM  

  

. . . One morning as Don Quixote went out for a stroll along the beach, 53  arrayed in  

full armor (for, as he often said, this was "his only gear, his only rest the fray," and  

he never was without it for a moment), he saw coming towards him a knight, also in  

full armor, with a shining moon painted on his shield, who, on approaching  

sufficiently near to be heard, said in a loud voice, addressing himself to Don Quixote,  

"Illustrious knight, and never sufficiently extolled Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am  

the Knight of the White Moon, whose unheard‐of achievements will perhaps have  

recalled him to thy memory.  I come to do battle with thee and prove the might of  

thy arm, to the end that I make thee acknowledge and confess that my lady, let her  

be who she may, is incomparably fairer than thy Dulcinea del Toboso.  If thou dost  

acknowledge this fairly and openly, thou shalt escape death and save me the trouble  

of inflicting it upon thee; if thou fightest and I vanquish thee, I demand no other  

satisfaction than that, laying aside arms and abstaining from going in quest of  

adventures, thou withdraw and betake thyself to thine own village for the space of a  

year, and live there without putting hand to sword, in peace and quiet and beneficial  

repose, the same being needful for the increase of thy substance and the salvation of  

thy soul; and if thou dost vanquish me, my head shall be at thy disposal, my arms  

and horse thy spoils, and the renown of my deeds transferred and added to thine.  

Consider which will be thy best course, and give me thy answer speedily, for this day  

is all the time I have for the dispatching of this business."  

  

                                                         

53  Don Quixote and Sancho, after numerous encounters (such as Don Quixote’s  

descent into the cave of Montesinos and their stay with a playful Duke, who gave  

Sancho the “governorship of an island” for ten days), are now in Barcelona.  Famous  

as they are, they meet the viceroy and the nobles; their host is Don Antonio Moreno,  

“a gentleman of wealth and discernment who was fond of amusing himself in an  

innocent and kindly way.” 


  

Don Quixote was amazed and astonished, as well at the Knight of the White Moon's  

arrogance, as at his reason for delivering the defiance, and with calm dignity he  

answered him.   

  

"Knight of the White Moon, of whose achievements I have never heard until now, I  

will venture to swear you have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for had you seen  

her I know you would have taken care not to stake your all upon this issue, because  

the sight would have removed all doubt from your mind that there ever has been or  

can be a beauty to be compared with hers; and so, not saying you lie, but merely that  

you are not correct in what you state, I accept your challenge, with the conditions  

you have proposed, and at once, that the day you have fixed may not expire; and  

from your conditions I except only that of the renown of your achievements being  

transferred to me, for I know not of what sort they are nor what they may amount  

to; I am satisfied with my own, such as they be.  Take, therefore, the side of the field  

you choose, and I will do the same; and to whom God shall give it, may Saint Peter  

add his blessing."  

  

The Knight of the White Moon had been seen by some of the townspeople, who told  

the viceroy that he was talking with Don Quixote. The viceroy, fancying it must be  

some fresh adventure got up by Don Antonio Moreno or some other gentleman of  

the city, hurried out at once to the beach, accompanied by Don Antonio and several  

other gentlemen, just as Don Quixote was wheeling Rocinante round in order to take  

up the necessary distance.  The viceroy upon this, seeing that the pair of them were  

evidently preparing to come to the charge, put himself between them, asking them  

what it was that led them to engage in combat all of a sudden in this way. The Knight  

of the White Moon replied that it was a question of precedence of beauty; and briefly  

told him what he had said to Don Quixote, and how the conditions of the defiance  

agreed upon on both sides had been accepted. The viceroy went over to Don  

Antonio, and asked in a low voice if he knew who the Knight of the White Moon was,  

or was it some joke they were playing on Don Quixote.  Don Antonio replied that he  

neither knew who he was nor whether the defiance was in joke or in earnest. This 


  

answer left the viceroy in a state of perplexity, not knowing whether he ought to let  

the combat go on or not; but unable to persuade himself that it was anything but a  

joke he fell back, saying, "If there be no other way out of it, gallant knights, except to  

confess or die, and Don Quixote is inflexible, and your worship of the White Moon  

still more so, in God's hand be it, and fall on."  

  

He of the White Moon thanked the viceroy in courteous and well‐chosen words for  

the permission he gave them, and so did Don Quixote, who then, commending  

himself with all his heart to heaven and to his Dulcinea, as was his custom on the eve  

of any combat that awaited him, proceeded to take a little more distance, as he saw  

his antagonist was doing the same; then, without blast of trumpet or other warlike  

instrument to give them the signal to charge, both at the same instant wheeled their  

horses; and he of the White Moon, being the swifter, met Don Quixote after having  

traversed two‐thirds of the course, and there encountered him with such violence  

that, without touching him with his lance (for he held it high, to all appearance  

purposely), he hurled Don Quixote and Rocinante to the earth, a perilous fall. He  

sprang upon him at once, and placing the lance over his visor said to him, "You are  

vanquished, sir knight, nay dead, unless you confess, according to the terms of our  

combat.”    

  

Don Quixote, bruised and stupefied, without raising his visor, said in a weak feeble  

voice as if he were speaking out of a tomb, "Dulcinea del Toboso is the fairest  

woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate knight on earth; it is not fitting that  

this truth should suffer by my feebleness; drive your lance home, sir knight, and take  

my life, since you have already deprived me of my honor."  

  

"That will I most surely will not do,” said he of the White Moon; "Let the fame of the  

lady Dulcinea’s beauty live on undimmed; all I require is that the great Don Quixote  

retire to his own home for a year, or until such time as I shall specify,  as we agreed  

before joining battle."  

 


  

The viceroy, Don Antonio, and several others who were present heard all this, and  

heard too how Don Quixote replied, that so long as nothing in prejudice of Dulcinea  

was demanded of him, he would observe all the rest like a true and loyal knight. The  

engagement given, he of the White Moon wheeled about, and making obeisance to  

the viceroy with a movement of the head, rode away into the city at a half gallop.  

The viceroy bade Don Antonio hasten after him, and by some means or other find  

out who he was. They raised Don Quixote up and uncovered his face, and found him  

pale and bathed with sweat.  

  

Rocinante from the mere hard measure he had received lay unable to stir for the  

present.  Sancho, wholly dejected and woebegone, knew not what to say or do.  He  

fancied that all was a dream, that the whole business was a piece of enchantment.  

Here was his master, defeated, and bound not to take up arms for a year.  He saw the  

light of the glory of his achievements obscured; the hopes of the promises lately  

made him swept away like smoke before the wind; Rocinante, he feared, was  

crippled for life, and his master's bones dislocated; for if he were only jolted out of  

his madness 54  it would be no small luck.  In the end they carried him into the city in  

a litter which the viceroy sent for, and thither the viceroy himself returned to find  

out who this Knight of the White Moon was who had left Don Quixote in such a sad  

state.    

  

  

  

  

                                                         

54  The original has an untranslatable pun on deslocado, which means “out of joint”  

and also “cured of madness” (from loco, “mad”).  De‐crazied. 


  

CHAPTER LXV.  

WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS;  

LIKEWISE DON GREGORIO'S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS  

  

Don Antonia Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, and a number of boys  

followed him too, nay pursued him, until they found him fairly housed in a hostel in  

the heart of the city.  Don Antonio, eager to make his acquaintance, entered also; a  

squire came out to meet him and remove his amour, and he shut himself into a  

lower room, still attended by Don Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had  

found out who he was.  He of the White Moon, seeing then that the gentleman would  

not leave him, "I know very well, señor, what you have come for; it is to find out who  

I am; and as there is no reason why I should conceal it from you, while my servant  

here is taking off my amour I will tell you the true state of the case, without leaving  

out anything. You must know, señor, that I am called the bachelor Sanson Carrasco. I  

am of the same village as Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose craze and folly make all  

of us who know him feel pity for him, and I am one of those who have felt it most;  

and persuaded that his chance of recovery lay in quiet and keeping at home and in  

his own house, I hit upon a device for keeping him there.    

  

“Three months ago, therefore, I went out to meet him as a knight‐errant, under the  

assumed name of the Knight of the Mirrors, intending to engage him in combat and  

overcome him without hurting him, making it the condition of our combat that the  

vanquished should be at the disposal of the victor.  What I meant to demand of him  

(for I regarded him as vanquished already) was that he should return to his own  

village, and not leave it for a whole year, by which time he might be cured.  But fate  

ordered it otherwise, for he vanquished me and unhorsed me, and so my plan failed.  

He went his way, and I came back conquered, covered with shame, and sorely  

bruised by my fall, which was a particularly dangerous one.  But this did not quench  

my desire to meet him again and overcome him, as you have seen to‐day.  And as he  

is so scrupulous in his observance of the laws of knight‐errantry, he will, no doubt, 


  

in order to keep his word, obey the injunction I have laid upon him. This, señor, is  

how the matter stands, and I have nothing more to tell you.  I implore of you not to  

betray me, or tell Don Quixote who I am; so that my honest endeavors may be  

successful, and that a man of excellent wits – were he only rid of the fooleries of  

chivalry – may get them back again."  

  

"O señor," said Don Antonio, "may God forgive you the wrong you have done the  

whole world in trying to bring the most amusing madman in it back to his senses.   

Do you not see, señor, that the gain by Don Quixote's sanity can never equal the  

enjoyment his crazes give?  But my belief is that all the señor bachelor's pains will  

be of no avail to bring a man so hopelessly cracked to his senses again; and if it were  

not uncharitable, I would say may Don Quixote never be cured, for by his recovery  

we lose not only his own drolleries, but his squire Sancho Panza's too, any one of  

which is enough to turn melancholy itself into merriment.  However, I'll hold my  

peace and say nothing to him, and we'll see whether I am right in my suspicion that  

Señor Carrasco's efforts will be fruitless."  

  

The bachelor replied that at all events the affair promised well, and he hoped for a  

happy result from it; and putting his services at Don Antonio's commands he took  

his leave of him; and having had his amour packed at once upon a mule, he rode  

away from the city the same day on the horse he rode to battle, and returned to his  

own country without meeting any adventure calling for record in this veracious  

history.  

 


  

CHAPTER LXXIII.  

OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND  

OTHER INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOUR TO THIS GREAT  

HISTORY  

  

At the entrance of the village, so says Cide Hamete, Don Quixote saw two boys  

quarrelling on the village threshing‐floor one of whom said to the other, "Take it  

easy, Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again as long as thou livest."  

  

Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, "Dost thou not mark, friend, what  

that boy said, 'Thou shalt never see it 55  again as long as thou livest'?"  

  

"Well," said Sancho, "what does it matter if the boy said so?"  

  

"What!" said Don Quixote, "dost thou not see that, applied to the object of my  

desires, the words mean that I am never to see Dulcinea again?"  

  

Sancho was about to answer, when his attention was diverted by seeing a hare come  

flying across the plain pursued by several greyhounds and sportsmen. In its terror it  

ran to take shelter and hide itself under the Dapple.  Sancho caught it alive and  

presented it to Don Quixote, who was saying, "Malum signum, malum signum! 56  a  

hare flies, greyhounds chase it, Dulcinea appears not."  

  

"Your worship's a strange man," said Sancho; "let's take it for granted that this hare  

is Dulcinea, and these greyhounds chasing it the malignant enchanters who turned  

her into a country wench; she flies, and I catch her and put her into your worship's  

                                                         

55  In Spanish, nouns are feminine and masculine.  A cricket cage is feminine and is  

thus referred to as “her;” thus Quixote’s inference concerning Dulcinea.  

56  A bad sign. Meeting a hare is considered an ill omen. 


  

hands, and you hold her in your arms and cherish her; what bad sign is that, or what  

ill omen is there to be found here?"  

  

The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look at the hare, and Sancho  

asked one of them what their quarrel was about. He was answered by the one who  

had said, "Thou shalt never see it again as long as thou livest," that he had taken a  

cage full of crickets from the other boy, and did not mean to give it back to him as  

long as he lived.  Sancho took out four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to the  

boy for the cage, which he placed in Don Quixote's hands, saying, "There, señor!  

there are the omens broken and destroyed, and they have no more to do with our  

affairs, to my thinking, fool as I am, than with last year's clouds; and if I remember  

rightly I have heard the curate of our village say that it does not become Christians  

or sensible people to give any heed to these silly things; and even you yourself said  

the same to me some time ago, telling me that all Christians who minded omens  

were fools; but there's no need of making words about it; let us push on and go into  

our village."  

  

The sportsmen came up and asked for their hare, which Don Quixote gave them.  

They then went on, and upon the green at the entrance of the town they came upon  

the curate and the bachelor Sanson Carrasco busy reading their breviaries.  It should  

be mentioned that Sancho had thrown, by way of a sumpter‐cloth, over the Dapple  

and over the bundle of armor, the buckram robe painted with flames which they had  

put upon him at the duke's castle the night Altisidora came back to life. 57   He had  

also fixed the miter on the Dapple's head, the oddest transformation and decoration  

that ever an ass in the world underwent.  They were at once recognized by both the  

curate and the bachelor, who came towards them with open arms.  Don Quixote  

dismounted and received them with a close embrace; and the boys, who are like  

lynxes that nothing escapes, spied out the ass's miter and came running to see it,  

                                                         

57  Altisidora was a girl in the duke’s castle where Quixote and Sancho were guests  

for a time; she dramatically pretended to be in love with Don Quixote. 


  

calling out to one another, "Come here, boys, and see Sancho Panza's ass figged out  

finer than Mingo, and Don Quixote's beast leaner than ever."  

  

So at length, with the boys capering round them, and accompanied by the curate and  

the bachelor, they made their entrance into the town, and proceeded to Don  

Quixote's house, at the door of which they found his housekeeper and niece, whom  

the news of his arrival had already reached. It had been brought to Teresa Panza,  

Sancho's wife, as well, and she with her hair all loose and half naked, dragging  

Sanchica her daughter by the hand, ran out to meet her husband; but seeing him  

coming in by no means as good case as she thought a governor ought to be, she said  

to him, "How is it you come this way, husband? It seems to me you come tramping  

and footsore, and looking more like a disorderly vagabond than a governor."  

  

"Hold your tongue, Teresa," said Sancho; "often 'where there are stakes there is no  

bacon; let us go into the house and there you'll hear strange things. I bring money,  

and that's the main thing, got by my own industry without wronging anybody."  

  

"You bring the money, my good husband," said Teresa, "and no matter whether it  

was got this way or that; for, however you may have got it, you'll not have brought  

any new practice into the world."  

  

Sanchica then embraced her father and asked him if he brought her anything, for she  

had been looking out for him as for the showers of May; and she taking hold of him  

by the girdle on one side, and his wife by the hand, while the daughter led the  

Dapple, they made for their house, leaving Don Quixote in his, in the hands of his  

niece and housekeeper, and in the company of the curate and the bachelor.  

  

Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season, withdrew in private with  

the bachelor and the curate, and in a few words told them of his defeat, and of the  

engagement he was under not to quit his village for a year, which he meant to keep  

to the letter without departing a hair's breadth from it, as became a knight‐errant 


  

bound by scrupulous good faith and the laws of knight‐errantry; and of how he  

thought of turning shepherd for that year, and taking his diversion in the solitude of  

the fields, where he could with perfect freedom give range to his thoughts of love  

while he followed the virtuous pastoral calling; and he besought them, if they had  

not a great deal to do and were not prevented by more important business, to  

consent to be his companions, for he would buy sheep enough to qualify them for  

shepherds; and the most important point of the whole affair, he could tell them, was  

settled, for he had given them names that would fit them to a T.  The curate asked  

what they were.  Don Quixote replied that he himself was to be called the shepherd  

Quixotize and the bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd  

Curambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.  

  

Both were astounded at Don Quixote's new craze; however, lest he should once  

more make off out of the village from them in pursuit of his chivalry, they trusting  

that in the course of the year he might be cured, fell in with his new project,  

applauded his crazy idea as a bright one, and offered to share the life with him.   

"And what's more," said Sanson Carrasco, "I am, as all the world knows, a very  

famous poet, and I'll be always making verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it may come  

into my head, to pass away our time in those secluded regions where we shall be  

roaming.  But what is most needful, sirs, is that each of us should choose the name of  

the shepherdess he means to glorify in his verses, and that we should not leave a  

tree, be it ever so hard, without writing up and carving her name on it, as is the habit  

and custom of love‐smitten shepherds."  

  

"That's the very thing," said Don Quixote; "though I am relieved from looking for the  

name of an imaginary shepherdess, for there's the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the  

glory of these brook sides, the ornament of these meadows, the mainstay of beauty,  

the cream of all the graces, and, in a word, the being to whom all praise is  

appropriate, be it ever so hyperbolical."  

 


  

"Very true," said the curate; "but we the others must look about for accommodating  

shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way or another."  

  

"And," added Sanson Carrasco, "if they fail us, we can call them by the names of the  

ones in print that the world is filled with, Filidas, Amarilises, Dianas, Fleridas,  

Galateas, Belisardas; for as they sell them in the market‐places we may fairly buy  

them and make them our own.  If my lady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens  

to be called Ana, I'll sing her praises under the name of Anarda, and if Francisca, I'll  

call her Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it all comes to the same thing; and  

Sancho Panza, if he joins this fraternity, may glorify his wife Teresa Panza as  

Teresaina."  

  

Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the name, and the curate bestowed vast  

praise upon the worthy and honorable resolution he had made, and again offered to  

bear him company all the time that he could spare from his imperative duties. And  

so they took their leave of him, recommending and beseeching him to take care of  

his health and treat himself to a suitable diet.  

  

It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard all the three of them said;  

and as soon as they were gone they both of them came in to Don Quixote, and said  

the niece, "What's this, uncle? Now that we were thinking you had come back to stay  

at home and lead a quiet respectable life there, are you going to get into fresh  

entanglements, and turn 'young shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd  

going there?' 58   Nay! indeed 'the straw is too hard now to make pipes of.'" 59   

  

"And," added the housekeeper, "will your worship be able to bear, out in the fields,  

the heats of summer, and the chills of winter, and the howling of the wolves? Not  

you; for that's a life and a business for hardy men, bred and seasoned to such work  

almost from the time they were in swaddling‐clothes.  Why, to make choice of evils,  

                                                         

58  From a ballad.  

59  A proverb. 


  

it's better to be a knight‐errant than a shepherd!  Look here, señor; take my advice –  

and I'm not giving it to you full of bread and wine, but fasting, and with fifty years  

upon my head – stay at home, look after your affairs, go often to confession, be good  

to the poor, and upon my soul be it if any evil comes to you."  

  

"Hold your peace, my daughters," said Don Quixote; "I know very well what my duty  

is; help me to bed, for I don't feel very well; and rest assured that, knight‐errant now  

or wandering shepherd to be, I shall never fail to have a care for your interests, as  

you will see in the end."  And the good wenches (for that they undoubtedly were),  

the housekeeper and niece, helped him to bed, where they gave him something to  

eat and made him as comfortable as possible.  

  

  

  

 


  

CHAPTER LXXIV.  

OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE  

DIED  

  

As nothing that is man's can last for ever, 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 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.  

  

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 for ever. 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, señor?  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 Sanson 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 ‘the 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 Sanson, "What? Señor 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, heard his confession.  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 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 if it were within my power, for his simplicity of  

mind and the fidelity of his conduct deserve no less."  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 craziest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die without  

rhyme or reason, without anybody killing him, slain only by the hands of  

melancholy.  Come, don't be idle, 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 Rocinante 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 today to be conqueror tomorrow."  

  

"Very true," said Sanson," 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  

Sanson 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 The 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.  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 Cide Hamete Benengeli bringing him to life  

again falsely and making interminable stories out of his achievements. 60   

  

Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village Cide  

Hamete 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; Sanson Carrasco, however, put down the following lines:  

  

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;  

                                                         

60  It is commonly believed that Cervantes killed off his hero in order to prevent any  

more false sequels like the one that had obliged him to write Part Two. 


  

A crazy man his life he passed,  

  

But in his senses died at last.  

And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, "Rest here, hung up by this brass wire,  

upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful 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 emprise, 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 for ever.    

  

Farewell."

The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha

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