thc14two
thc14twof
Vol 14: The Classics - Part 2
He
showed me the house, and recounted to me all that befel at
the daughter's marriage, being a thing so public and known
in the city, as men made meetings of purpose to discourse
thereof.
'He said to me that the very night wherein Don Fernando
was espoused to Lucinda, after she had given her consent to
be his wife, she was instantly assailed by a terrible acci-
dent that struck her into a trance, and her spouse approach-
ing to unclasp her bosom that she might take the air, found
a paper folded in it, written with Lucinda's own hand,
wherein she said and declared that she could not be Don
Fernando's wife, because she was already Cardenio's, who
was, as the man told me, a very principal gentleman of the
same city ; and that if she had given her consent to Don
Fernando, it was only done because she would not disobey her
parents. In conclusion, he told me that the paper made also
mention how she had a resolution to kill herself presently
after the marriage, and did also lay down therein the motives
she had to do it; all which, as they say, was confirmed by a
poniard that was found hidden about her in her apparel.
DOROTHEA'S STORY 279
Which Don Fernando perceiving, presuming that Lucinda did
flout him, and hold him in little account^ he set upon her ere
she was come to herself, and attempted to kill her with the
very same poniard, and had done it, if her father and other
friends which were present had not opposed themselves and
hindered his determination. Moreover, they reported that
presently after Don Fernando absented himself from the city,
and that Lucinda turned not out of her agony until the
next day, and then recounted to her parents how she was
verily spouse to that Cardenio of whom we spake even now.
I learned besides that Cardenio, as it is rumoured, was pres-
ent at the marriage, and that as soon as he saw her married,
being a thing he would never have credited, departed out of
the city in a desperate mood, but first left behind him a let-
ter, wherein he showed at large the wrong Lucinda had done
to him, and that he himself meant to go to some place
where people should never after hear of him. All this was
notorious, and publicly bruited throughout the city, and every
one spoke thereof, but most of all having very soon after
understood that Lucinda was missing from her parents' house
and the city, for she could not be found in neither of both;
for which her parents were almost beside themselves, not
knowing what means to use to find her.
'These news reduced my hopes again to their ranks, and
I esteemed it better to find Don Fernando unmarried than
married, presuming that yet the gates of my remedy were
not wholly shut, I giving myself to understand that Heaven
had peradventure set that impediment on the second marriage
to make him understand what he ought to the first, and to re-
member how he was a Christian^ and that he was more
obliged to his soul than to human respects. I revolved
all these things in my mind, and comfortless did yet comfort
myself, by feigning large yet languishing hopes, to sustain
that life which I now do so much abhor. And whilst I
stayed thus in the city, ignorant what I might do, seeing
I found not Don Fernando, I heard a crier go about publicly,
promising great rewards to any one that could find me out,
giving signs of the very age and apparel I wore; and I like-
wise heard it was bruited abroad that the youth which came
with me had carried me away from my father's house — a
280 DON QUIXOTE
thing that touched my soul very nearly, to view my credit
so greatly wrecked, seeing that it was not sufficient to have
lost it by my coming away, without the addition [of] him
with whom I departed, being a subject so base and unworthy
of my loftier thoughts. Having heard this cry, I departed
out of the city with my servant, who even then began
to give tokens that he faltered in the fidelity he had promised
to me; and both of us together entered the very same night
into the most hidden parts of this mountain, fearing lest we
might be found. But, as it is commonly said that one evil
calls on another, and that the end of one disaster is the
beginning of a greater, so proved it with me ; for my good
servant, until then faithful and trusty, rather incited by his
villany than my beauty, thought to have taken the benefit of
the opportunity which these inhabitable places offered, and
solicited me of love, with little shame and less fear of God,
or respect of myself; and now seeing that I answered his
impudences with severe and reprehensive words, leaving the
entreaties aside wherewithal he thought first to have com-
passed his will, he began to use his force; but just Heaven,
which seldom or never neglects the just man's assistance,
did so favour my proceedings, as with my weak forces, and
very little labour, I threw him down a steep rock, and there
I left him, I know not whether alive or dead; and presently
I entered in among these mountains with more swiftness than
my fear and weariness required, having therein no other
project or design than to hide myself in them, and shun my
father and others, which by his entreaty and means sought for
me everywhere.
'Some months are past since my first coming here, where
I found a herdman, who carried me to a village seated in
the midst of these rocks, wherein he dwelt, and entertained
me, whom I have served as a shepherd ever since, procur-
ing as much as lay in me to abide still in the field, to cover
these hairs which have now so unexpectedly betrayed me ;
yet all my care and industry availed not, seeing my master
came at last to the notice that I was no man, but a woman,
which was an occasion that the like evil thought sprung in
him as before in my servant; and as fortune gives not al-
ways remedy for the difficulties which occur, I found neither
DOROTHEA'S STORY 281
rock nor downfall to cool and cure my master's infirmity,
as I had done for my man, and therefore I accounted it a
less inconvenience to depart thence, and hide myself again
among these deserts, than to adventure the trial of my
strength or reason v^ith him; therefore, as I say, I turned
to imbosk myself, and search out some place where, without
any encumbrance, I might entreat Heaven, with my sighs and
tears, to have compassion on my mishap, and lend me in-
dustry and favour, either to issue fortunately out of it, or
else to die amidst these solitudes, not leaving any memory of
a wretch, who hath ministered matter, although not through
her own default, that men may speak and murmur of her,
both in her own and in other countries.'
CHAPTER II
Which Treats of the Discretion of the Beautiful Doro-
thea, AND the Artificial Manner Used to Dissuade
the Amorous Knight From Continuing His Penance;
and How He Was Gotten Away; With Many Other
Delightful and Pleasant Occurrences
*f I ^HIS is, sirs, the true relation of my tragedy ; see
I therefore, now, and judge, whether the sighs you
-*- heard, the words to which you Hstened, and the tears
that gushed out at mine eyes, have not had sufficient occasion
to appear in greater abundance ; and, having considered
the quahty of my disgrace, you shall perceive all comfort
to be vain, seeing the remedy thereof is im.possible. Only
I will request at your hands one favour, which you ought
and may easily grant, and is, that you will address me unto
some place where I may live secure from the fear and sus-
picion I have to be found by those which I know do daily
travel in my pursuit ; for although I am sure that my parents'
great affection toward me doth warrant me to be kindly re-
ceived and entertained by them, yet the shame is so great
that possesseth me, only to think that I shall not return to
their presence in that state which they expect, as I account
it far better to banish myself from their sight for ever, than
once to behold their face with the least suspicion that they
again would behold mine, divorced from that honesty which
whilom my modest behaviour promised.' Here she ended,
and her face, suddenly overrun by a lovely scarlet, perspicu-
ously denoted the feeling and bashfulne.'fs of her soul.
The audients of her sad story felt great motions both of
pity and admiration for her misfortunes; and although the
curate thought to comfort and counsel her forthwith, yet was
he prevented by Cardenio, who, taking her first by the hand,
said at last, 'Lady, thou art the beautiful Dorothea, daughter
282
CARDENIO AND DOROTHEA 283
unto rich Clenardo.' Dorothea rested admired when she
heard her father's name, and saw of how little value he
seemed who had named him, for we have already recounted
how raggedly Cardenio was clothed ; and therefore she said
unto him, 'And who art thou, friend, that knowest so well
my father's name? for until this hour (if I have not forgotten
myself) I did not once name him throughout the whole dis-
course of my unfortunate tale.'
*I am,' answered Cardenio, 'the unlucky knight whom
Lucinda (as thou saidst) affirmed to be her husband. I am
the disastrous Cardenio, whom the v/icked proceeding of him
that hath also brought thee to those terms wherein thou art,
hath conducted me to the state in which I am, and thou mayst
behold — ragged, naked, abandoned by all human comfort, and,
what is worse, void of sense, seeing I only enjoy it but at
some few short times, and that when Heaven pleaseth to lend
it me. I am he, Dorothea, that was present at Don Fer-
nando's unreasonable wedding, and that heard the consent
which Lucinda gave him to be his wife. I was he that had
not the courage to stay and see the end of her trance, or
what became of the paper found in her bosom ; for my soul
had not power or sufferance to behold so many misfortunes
at once, and therefore abandoned the place and my patience
together, and only left a letter with mine host, whom I en-
treated to deliver it into Lucinda her own hands, and then
came into these deserts, with resolution to end in them my
miserable life, which, since that hour, I have hated as my
most mortal enemy; but fortune hath not pleased to deprive
me of it, thinking it sufficient to have impaired my wit, per-
haps reserving me for the good success befallen me now in
finding of yourself; for, that being true (as I believe it is)
which you have here discoursed, peradventure it may have
reserved yet better hap for us both in our disasters than we
expect.
'For, presupposing that Lucinda cannot marry with Don
Fernando, because she is mine, nor Don Fernando with her,
because yours, and that she hath declared so manifestly the
same, we may well hope that Heaven hath means to restore to
every one that which is his own, seeing it yet consists in
being not made away or annihilated. And seeing this com-
284 DON QUIXOTE
fort remains, not sprung from any very remote hope, nor
founded on idle surmises, I request thee, fair lady, to take
another -esolution in thine honourable thought, seeing I mean
to do it in mine, and let us accommodate ourselves to ex-
pect better success ; for I do vow unto thee, by the faith of a
gentleman and Christian, not to forsake thee until I see thee
in Don Fernando's possession; and when I shall not, by rea-
sons, be able to induce him to acknowledge how far he rests
indebted to thee, then will I use the liberty granted to me as
a gentleman, and with just title challenge him to the field
in respect of the wrong he hath done unto thee, forgetting
wholly mine own injuries, whose revenge I will leave to
Heaven, that I may be able to right yours on earth.'
Dorothea rested wonderfully admired, having known and
heard Cardenio, and, ignoring what competent thanks she
might return him in satisfaction of his large offers, she cast
herself down at his feet to have kissed them, which Cardenio
would not permit; and the licentiate answered for both,
praising greatly Cardenio's discourse, and chiefly entreated,
prayed, and counselled them, that they would go with him to
his village, where they might fit themselves with such things
as they wanted, and also take order how to search out Don
Fernando, or carry Dorothea to her father's house, or do
else what they deemed most convenient. Cardenio and Doro-
thea gratified his courtesies, and accepted the favour he pre-
ferred. The barber also, who had stood all the while silent
and suspended, made them a pretty discourse, with as friendly
an offer of himself and his service as master curate, and
likewise did briefly relate the occasion of their coming thither
with the extravagant kind of madness which Don Quixote
had, and how they expected now his squire's return, whom
they had sent to search for him. Cardenio having heard
him named, remembered presently, as in a dream, the con-
flict passed between them both, and recounted it unto them,
but could not in any wise call to mind the occasion thereof.
By this time they heard one call for them, and knew by
the voice that it was Sancho Panza's, who, because he found
them not in the place where he had left them, cried out for
them as loudly as he might. They went to meet him, and
demanding for Don Quixote, he answered that he found him
DOROTHEA AND DON QUIXOTE 285
all naked to his shirt, lean, yellow, almost dead for hunger,
and sighing for his Lady Dulcinea ; and, although he had told
him how she commanded him to repair presently to Toboso,
where she expected him, yet, notwithstanding, he answered
that he was determined never to appear before her beauty
until he had done feats that should make him worthy of her
gracious favour. And then the squire affirmed, if that hu-
mour passed on any further, he feared his lord would be in
danger never to become an emperor, as he was bound in
honour, no, nor a cardinal, which was the least that could be
expected of him.
The licentiate bid him be of good cheer, for they would
bring him from thence whether he would or no ; and re-
counted to Cardenio and Dorothea what they had bethought
for Don Quixote's remedy, or, at least, for the carrying him
home to his house. To that Dorothea answered that she
would counterfeit the distressed lady better than the barber,
and chiefly seeing she had apparel wherewithal to act it most
naturally, and therefore desired them to leave to her charge
the representing of all that which should be needful for the
achieving of their design ; for she had read many books of
knighthood, and knew well the style that distressed damsels
used when they requested any favour of knights-adventurers.
'And then need we nothing else,' quoth the curate, 'but only
to put our purpose presently in execution; for, questionless,
good success turns on our side, seeing it hath so unexpectedly
begun already to open the gates of your remedy, and hath
also facilitated for us that whereof we had most necessity in
this exigent.' Dorothea took forthwith out of her pillow-
bear a whole gown of very rich stuff, and a short mantle of
another green stuff, and a collar, and many other rich jewels
out of a box, wherewithal she adorned herself in a trice so
gorgeously as she seemed a very rich and goodly lady. All
which, and much more, she had brought with her, as she
said, from her house, to prevent what might happen, but
never had any use of them until then. Her grace, gesture,
and beauty liked them all extremely, and made them account
Don Fernando to be a man of little understanding, seeing
he contemned such feature. But he which was most of all
admired was Sancho Panza, because, as he thought (and it
286 DON QUIXOTE
was so indeed), that he had not in all the days of his life
before seen so fair a creature; and he requested the curate,
very seriously, to tell him who that beautiful lady was, and
what she sought among those thoroughfares. 'This fair
lady, friend Sancho,' answered the curate, 'is (as if a man
said nothing she is so great) heir-apparent, by direct line,
of the mighty kingdom of Micomicon, and comes in the search
of your lord, to demand a boon of him, which is, that he will
destroy and undo a great wrong done unto her by a wicked
giant; and, through the great fame which is spread over all
Guinea of your lord's prowess, this princess is come to find
him out.' *A happy searcher, and a fortunate finding !' quolii
Sancho ; 'and chiefly, if my master be so happy as to right
that injury and redress that wrong by killing that, O ! the
mighty lubber of a giant whom you say. Yes, he will kill
him, I am very certain, if he can once but meet him, and if
he be not a spirit; for my master hath no kind of power over
spirits. But I must request one favour of you among others
most earnestly, good master licentiate, and it is, that to the
end my lord may not take an humour of becoming a cardinal
(which is the thing I fear most in this world), that you
will give him counsel to marry this princess presently, and
by that means he shall remain incapable of the dignity of a
cardinal, and will come very easily by his empire, and I to the
end of my desires ; for I have thought well of the matter, and
have found that it is in no wise expedient that my lord should
become a cardinal ; for I am wholly unfit for any ecclesias-
tical dignity, seeing I am a married man, and therefore, to
trouble myself now with seeking of dispensations to enjoy
church livings, having, as I have, both wife and children,
were never to end. 'So that all my good consists in that my
lord do marry this princess instantly, whose name yet I
know not, and therefore I have not said it.' 'She is hight,'
quoth the curate, 'the Princess Micomicona; for her king-
dom being called Micomicon, it is evident she must be
termed so.'
'That is questionless,' quoth Sancho ; 'for I have known
many to take their denomination and surname from the place
of their birth, calling themselves Peter of Alcala, John of
Ubeda, and James of Valladolid; and perhaps in Guinea
DOROTHEA AND DON QUIXOTE 287
princes and queens use the same custom, and call themselves
by the names of their provinces.'
'So I think,' quoth the curate ; 'and as touching your mas-
ter's marriage with her, I will labour therein as much as lies
in my power.' Wherewithal Sancho remained as well sat-
isfied as the curate admired at his simplicity, and to see how
firmly he had fixed in his fantasy the very ravings of his
master, seeing he did believe without doubt that his lord
should become an emperor. Dorothea in this space had gotten
upon the curate's mule, and the barber had somewhat bet-
ter fitted the beard which he made of the ox's tail on his
face, and did after entreat Sancho to guide them to the
place where Don Quixote was, and advertised him withal that
he should in no wise take any notice of the curate or barber,
or confess in any sort that he knew them, for therein con-
sisted all the means of bringing Don Quixote to the mind to
become an emperor. Yet Cardenio would not go with them,
fearing lest thereby Don Quixote might call to mind their
contention ; and the curate, thinking also that his presence
was not expedient, remained with him, letting the others
go before, and these followed afar off fair and softly on foot;
and ere they departed, the curate instructed Dorothea anew
what she should say, who bid him to fear nothing, for she
would discharge her part to his satisfaction, and as books of
chivalry required and laid down.
They travelled about three-quarters of a league, as they
espied the knight, and at last they discovered him among a
number of intricate rocks, all apparelled, but not armed; and
as soon as Dorothea beheld him, she struck her palfrey, her
well-bearded barber following her; and as they approached
Don Quixote, the barber leaped lightly down from his mule
and ran towards Dorothea to take her down between his
arms, who, alighting, went with a very good grace towards
Don Quixote, and kneeled before him. And although he
strived to make her arise, yet she, remaining still on her
knees, spake to him in this manner : 'I will not arise from
hence, thrice valorous and approved knight, until your bounty
and courtesy shall grant unto me one boon, which shall much
redound unto your honour and prize of your person, and to
the profit of the most disconsolate and wronged damsel that
288 DON QUIXOTE
the sun hath ever seen. And if it be so that the valour of
your invincible arm be correspondent to the bruit of your im-
mortal fame, you are obliged to succour this comfortless
wight that comes from lands so remote, to the sound of your
famous name, searching you for to remedy her mishaps.'
*I will not answer you a word, fair lady,' quoth Don Qui-
xote, 'nor hear a jot of your affair, until you arise from
the ground.' 'I will not get up from hence, my lord,' quoth
the afflicted lady, 'if first, of your wonted bounty, you do
not grant to my request.' 'I do give and grant it,' said Don
Quixote, 'so that it be not a thing that may turn to the dam-
age or hindrance of my king, my country, or of her that keeps
the key of my heart and liberty.' 'It shall not turn to the
damage or hindrance of those you have said, good sir,' re-
plied the dolorous damsel; and, as she was saying this,
Sancho Panza rounded his lord in the ear, saying softly to
him, 'Sir, you may very well grant the request she asketh,
for it is a matter of nothing; is is only to kill a monstrous
giant, and she that demands it is the mighty Princess Mico-
micona, queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon in Ethi-
opia.' 'Let her be what she will,' quoth Don Quixote, 'for I
will accomplish what I am bound, and my conscience shall
inform me conformable to the state I have professed.' And
then, turning to the damsel, he said, 'Let your great beauty
arise; for I grant to you any boon which you shall please to
ask of me.' 'Why, then,' quoth the damsel, 'that which I de-
mand is that your magnanimous person come presently away
with me to the place where I shall carry you, and do likewise
make me a promise not to undertake any other adventure or
demand until you revenge me upon a traitor who hath, against
all laws, both divine and human, usurped my kingdom.' 'I
say that I grant you all that,' quoth Don Quixote; 'and
therefore, lady, you may cast away from this day forward all
the melancholy that troubles you, and labour that your lan-
guishing and dismayed hopes may recover again new strength
and courage ; for, by the help of God, and that of mine arm,
you shall see yourself shortly restored to your kingdom, and
enthroned in the chair of your ancient and great estate, in
despite and maugre the traitors that shall dare gainsay it : and
therefore, hands, to the work; for they say that danger al-
DOROTHEA AND DON QUIXOTE 289
ways follows delay.' The distressed damsel strove with much
ado to kiss his hand, but Don Quixote, who was a most ac-
complished knight for courtesy, would never condescend
thereunto ; but, making her arise, he embraced her with great
kindness and respect, and commanded Sancho to saddle Rozi-
nante, and help him to arm himself.
Sancho took down the arms forthwith, which hung on a
tree like trophies, and, searching the girths, armed his lord
in a moment, who, seeing himself armed, said, 'Let us, in
God's name, depart from hence to assist this great lady.' The
barber kneeled all this while, and could with much ado dis-
semble his laughter, or keep on his beard that threatened still
to fall off, with whose fall, perhaps, they should all have
remained without bringing their good purpose to pass. And
seeing that the boon was granted, and noted the diligence
wherewithal Don Quixote made himself ready to depart and
accomplish the same, he arose and took his lady by the
hand, and both of them together holp her upon her mule ; and
presently after Don Quixote leaped on Rozinante, and the
barber got on his beast, Sancho only remaining afoot, where
he afresh renewed the memory of the loss of his grey ass,
with the want procured to him thereby; but all this he bore
with very great patience, because he supposed that his lord
was now in the way and next degree to be an emperor; for
he made an infallible account that he would marry that
princess, and at least be king of Micomicon. But yet it
grieved him to think how that kingdom was in the country
of black Moors, and that therefore the nation which should
be given to him for his vassals should be all black, for
which difficulty his imagination coined presently a good
remedy, and he discoursed with himself in this manner:
'Why should I care though my subjects be all black Moors?
Is there any more to be done than to load them in a ship and
bring them into Spain, where I may sell them, and receive the
price of them in ready money? And with that money may
I buy some title or office, wherein I may after live at mine
ease all the days of my life. No! but sleep, and have no
wit or ability to dispose of things; and to sell thirty or ten
thousands vassals in the space that one would say. Give
me those straws. I will despatch them all ; they shall fly, the
290 DONT QUIXOTE
little with the great, or as I can best contrive the matter;
and be they ever so black, I will transform them into white or
yellow ones. Come near, and see whether I cannot suck well
my fingers' ends.' And thus he travelled, so solicitous and
glad as he quite forgot his pain of travelling afoot. Cardenio
and the curate stood in the meantime beholding all that passed
from behind some brambles where they lay lurking, and were
in doubt what means to use to issue and join in company with
them. But the curate, who was an ingenious and prompt
plotter, devised instantly what was to be done that they might
attain their desire. Thus, he took out of his case a pair of
shears, and cut off Cardenio's beard therewithal in a trice,
and then gave unto him to wear a riding capouch which he
himself had on, and a black cloak, and himself walked in a
doublet and hose. Cardenio, thus attired, looked so unlike
that he was before, as he would not have known himself in a
looking-glass. This being finished, and the others gone on
before whilst they disguised themselves, they sallied out with
facility to the highway before Don Quixote or his company;
for the rocks and many other bad passages did not permit
those that were a-horseback to make so speedy an end of their
journey as they. And having thoroughly passed the moun-
tain, they expected at the foot thereof for the knight and his
company, who when he appeared, the curate looked on him
very earnestly for a great space, with inkling that he began to
know him. And after he had a good while beheld him, he
ran towards him with his arms spread abroad, saying, 'In a
good hour be the mirror of all knighthood found, and my
noble countryman, Don Quixote of the Mancha ! the flower
and cream of gentility, the shadow and remedy of the afflicted,
and the quintessence of knights-errant !' and, saying this, he
held Don Quixote his left thigh embraced; who, admiring at
that which he heard that man to say and do, did also review
him with attention, and finally knew him, and, all amazed to
see him, made much ado to alight; but the curate would not
permit him. Wherefore Don Quixote said, 'Good master
licentiate, permit me to alight; for it is in no sort decent that
I be a-horseback, and so reverend a person as you go on foot.'
'I will never consent thereunto,' quoth the curate ; 'your high-
ness must needs stay on horseback, seeing that thereon you
LEAVING THE MOUNTAINS 291
are accustomed to achieve the greatest feats of chivalry and
adventures which were ever seen in our age. For it shall
suffice me, who am an unworthy priest, to get up behind some
one of these other gentlemen that ride in your company, if
they will not take it in bad part; yea, and I will make ac-
count that I ride on Pegasus, or the zebra of the famous
Moor Muzaraque, who lies yet enchanted in the steep roci:
of Zulema, near unto Alcala of Henares.'
'Truly, I did not think upon it, good master licentiate,' an-
swered Don Quixote; 'yet, I presume, my lady the princess
will be well apaid, for my sake, to command her squire to lend
you the use of his saddle, and to get up himself on the crup-
per, if so it be that the beast will bear double.' 'Yes, that it
will,' said the princess, 'for aught I know; and likewise, I
am sure, it will not be necessary to command my squire to
alight, for he is of himself so courteous and courtly as he will
in no wise condescend that an ecclesiastical man should go
on foot when he may help him to a horse.'
'That is most certain,' quoth the barber; and, saying so, he
alighted, and entreated the curate to take the saddle, to which
courtesy he did easily condescend. But, by evil fortune, as
the barber thought to leap up behind him, the mule, which
was in effect a hired one, and that is sufficient to say it was
unhappy, did lift a little her hinder quarters, and bestowed
two or three flings on the air, which had they hit on Master
Nicholas his breast or pate, he would have bequeathed the
quest of Don Quixote upon the devil. But, notwithstanding,
the barber was so affrighted as he fell on the ground, with so
little heed of his beard as it fell quite off and lay spread upon
the ground; and, perceiving himself without it, he had no
other shift but to cover his face with both his hands, and com-
plain that all his cheek teeth were strucken out. Don Quixote,
beholding such a great sheaf of a beard fallen away, without
jaw or blood, from the face, he said, 'I vow this is one of
the greatest miracles that ever I saw in my life ; it hath taken
and plucked away his beard as smoothly as if it were done of
purpose.' The curate beholding the danger which their in-
vention was like to incur if it were detected, went forthwith,
and, taking up the beard, came to Master Nicholas, that lay
still a-playing, and, with one push, bringing his head towards
HC XIV — lO
292 DON QUIXOTE
his own breast, he set it on again, murmuring the while over
him certain words, which he said were a certain prayer ap-
propriated to the setting on of fallen beards, as they should
soon perceive ; and so, having set it on handsomely, the squire
remained as well bearded and whole as ever he was in his
life. Whereat Don Quixote rested marvellously admired, and
requested the curate to teach him that prayer when they were
at leisure; for he supposed that the virtue thereof extended
itself further than to the fastening on of beards, since it was
manifest that the place whence the beard was torn must have
remained without flesh, wounded, and ill dight, and, seeing it
cured all, it must of force serve for more than the beard. 'It
is true,' replied master curate ; and then promised to instruct
him with the secret with the first opportunity that was
presented.
Then they agreed that the curate should ride first on the
mule, and after him the other two, each one by turns, until
they arrived to the inn, which was about some two leagues
thence. Three being thus mounted (to wit, Don Quixote, the
princess, and curate), and the other three on foot (Cardenio,
the barber, and Sancho Panza), Don Quixote said to the
damsel, 'Madam, let me entreat your highness to lead me the
way that most pleaseth you.' And before she could answer,
the licentiate said, 'Towards what kingdom would you travel ?
Is it, by fortune, towards that of Micomicon? I suppose it
should be thitherwards, or else I know but little of kingdoms.'
She, who knew very well the curate's meaning, and was her-
self no babe, answered, saying, 'Yes, sir, my way lies towards
that kingdom.' 'If it be so,' quoth the curate, 'you must pass
through the village where I dwell, and from thence direct
your course towards Carthagena, where you may luckily em-
bark yourselves. And if you have a prosperous wind, and a
quiet and calm sea, you may come within the space of nine
years to the sight of the Lake Meona, I mean Meolidas, which
stands on this side of your highness's kingdom some hundred
days' journey, or more.' 'I take you to be deceived, good sir,'
quoth she, 'for it is not yet fully two years since I departed
from thence, and, truly, I never almost had any fair weather,
and yet, notwithstanding, I have arrived, and come to see
that which I so much longed for, to wit, the presence of the
THE KINGDOM OF MICOMICON 293
worthy Don Quixote of the Mancha, whose renown came to
my notice as soon as I touched the earth of Spain with my
foot, and moved me to search for him, to commend myself
to his courtesy, and commit the justice of my cause to the
valour of his invincible arm.'
'No more,' quoth Don Quixote; 'I cannot abide to hear
myself praised, for I am a sworn enemy of all adulation; and
although this be not such, yet notwithstanding the like dis-
courses do offend my chaste ears. What I can say to you,
fair princess, is that whether I have valour or not, that which
I have, or have not, shall be employed in your service, even
to the very loss of my life. And so, omitting that till this
time, let me entreat good master licentiate to tell me the oc-
casion which hath brought him here to these quarters, so
alone, without attendants, and so slightly attired, as it strikes
me in no little admiration?' 'To this I will answer with
brevity,' quoth the curate. 'You shall understand that Master
Nicholas the barber, our very good friend, and myself, trav-
elled towards Seville to recover certain sums of money which
a kinsman of mine, who hath dwelt these many years in the
Indies, hath sent unto me. The sum is not a little one, for
it surmounted seventy thousand reals of eight, all of good
weight — see if it was not a rich gift. And passing yesterday
through this way, we were set upon by four robbers, which
despoiled us of all, even to our very beards, and that in such
sort as the barber was forced to set on a counterfeit one;
and this young man that goeth here with us' (meaning Car-
denio) 'was transformed by them anew. And the best of it is
that it is publicly bruited about all this commark that those
which surprised us were galley-salves who were set at liberty,
as is reported, much about this same place, by so valiant a
knight as, in despite of the commissary and the guard, he
freed them all. And, questionless, he either was wood, or else
as great a knave as themselves, or some one that wanted both
soul and conscience, seeing he let slip the wolves amidst the
sheep, the fox among the hens, and flies hard by honey, and
did frustrate justice, rebel against his natural lord and king;
for he did so by oppugning his just commandments; and hath
deprived the galleys of their feet, and set all the holy brother-
hood in an uproar, which hath reposed these many years past;
294 DON QUIXOTE
and finally, would do an act by which he should lose his soul,
and yet not gain his body.' Sancho had rehearsed to the
curate and barber the adventure of the slaves, which his lord
had accomplished with such glory; and therefore the curate
did use this vehemence as he repeated it, to see what Don
Quixote would say or do, whose colour changed at every
word, and durst not confess that he was himself the deliverer
of that good people. 'And these,' quoth the curate, 'were they
that have robbed us. And God, of His infinite mercy, pardon
him who hindered their going to receive the punishment they
had so well deserved!'
CHAPTER III
Of Many Pleasant Discourses Passed Between Don
Quixote and Those of His Company, After He Had
Abandoned the Rigorous Place of His Penance
SCARCE had the curate finished his speech thoroughly,
when Sancho said, 'By my faith, master licentiate, he
that did that feat was my lord, and that not for want
of warning, for I told him beforehand, and advised him that
he should see well what he did, and that it was a sin to de-
liver them, because they were all sent to the galleys for very
great villanies they had played.'
'You bottlehead,' replied Don Quixote, hearing him speak,
'it concerneth not knights-errant to examine whether the
afflicted, the enchained, and oppressed, which they en-
counter by the way, be carried in that fashion, or are
plunged in that distress, through their own default or dis-
grace, but only are obliged to assist them as needy and op-
pressed, setting their eyes upon their pains, and not on
their crimes. I met with a rosary or beads of inserted peo-
ple, sorrowful and unfortunate, and I did for them that
which my religion exacts; as for the rest, let them verify
it elsewhere: and to whosoever else, the holy dignity and
honourable person of master licentiate excepted, it shall
seem evil, I say he knows but slightly what belongs to chiv-
alry, and he lies like a whoreson and a villain born, and
this will I make him know with the broad side of my sword.'
These words he said, settling himself in his stirrups, and
addressing his morion (for the barber's basin, which he ac-
counted to be Mambrino's helmet, he carried hanging at
the pommel of his saddle, until he might have it repaired of
the crazings the galley-slave had wrought in it). Dorothea,
who was very discreet and pleasant, and that was by this
well acquainted with Don Quixote's faulty humour, and saw
295
296 DON QUIXOTE
all the rest make a jest of him, Sancho Panza excepted,
would also show her conceit to be as good as some others,
and therefore said unto him, 'Sir knight, remember yourself
of the boon you have promised unto me, whereunto conform-
ing yourself, you cannot intermeddle in any other adventure,
be it ever so urgent. Therefore, assuage your stomach; for
if master licentiate had known that the galley-slaves were
delivered by your invincible arm, he would rather have given
unto himself three blows on the mouth, and also bit his
tongue thrice, than have spoken any word whence might re-
sult your indignation.' 'That I dare swear,' quoth the curate ;
'yea, and besides torn away one of my moustaches.'
'Madam,' said Don Quixote, 'I will hold my peace, and
suppress the just choler already enkindled in my breast, and
will ride quietly and peaceably, until I have accomplished the
thing I have promised; and I request you, in recompense of
this my good desire, if it be not displeasing to you, to tell
me your grievance, and how many, which, and what the per-
sons be, of whom I must take due, sufficient, and entire re-
venge.' 'I will promptly perform your will herein,' an-
swered Dorothea, 'if it will not be irksome to you to listen
to disasters.' 'In no sort, good madam,' said Don Quixote.
To which Dorothea answered thus: 'Be then attentive to
my relation.' Scarce had she said so, when Cardenio and the
barber came by her side, desirous to hear how the discreet
Dorothea would feign her tale ; and the same did Sancho,
which was so much deceived in her person as his lord Don
Quixote. And she, after dressing herself well in the saddle,
bethought and provided herself whilst she coughed and used
other gestures, and then began to speak on this manner :
'First of all, good sirs, I would have you note that I am
called' — And here she stood suspended a while, by reason
she had forgotten the name that the curate had given unto
her. But he presently occurred to her succour, understanding
the cause, and said, 'It is no wonder, great lady, that you
be troubled and stagger whilst you recount your misfor-
tunes, seeing it is the ordinary custom of disasters to deprive
those whom they torment and distract their memory in such
sort as they cannot remember themselves even of their own
very names, as now it proves done in your highness, which
THE PRINCESS MICOMICONA 297
forgets itself that you are called the Princess Micomicona,
lawful inheritrix of the great kingdom of Micomicon. And
with this note, you may easily reduce into your doleful mem-
ory all that which you shall please to rehearse.'
'It is very true,' quoth the damsel, 'and from henceforth I
thinlc it will not be needful to prompt me any more, for I
will arrive into a safe port with the narration of my authen-
tic history; which is, that my father, who was called the wise
Tinacrio, was very expert in that which was called art magic,
and he knew by his science that my mother, who was called
Queen Xaramilla, should die before he deceased, and that he
should also pass from this life within a while after, and leave
me an orphan ; but he was wont to say how that did not
afflict his mind so much, as that he was very certain that a
huge giant, lord of a great island near unto my kingdom,
called Pandafilando of the Dusky Sight (because, although
his eyes stood in their right places, yet do they still look
asquint, which he doth to terrify the beholders), I say that
my father knew that this giant, when he should hear of his
death, would pass with a main power into my land, and de-
prive me thereof, not leaving me the least village wherein I
might hide my head; yet might all this be excused if I would
marry with him. But, as he found out by his science, he
knew I would never condescend thereunto, or incline mine
affection to so unequal a marriage; and herein he said noth-
ing but truth, for it never passed once my thought to espouse
that giant, nor with any other, were he ever so unreasonable,
and great, and mighty. My father likewise added then, that
after his death I should see Pandafilando usurp my kingdom,
and that I should in no wise stand to my defence, for that
would prove my destruction; but, leaving to him the kingdom
freely without troubles, if I meant to excuse mine own death,
and the total ruin of my good and loyal subjects (for it would
be impossible to defend myself from the devilish force of the
giant), I should presently direct my course towards Spain,
where I should find a redress of my harms by encountering
with a knight-errant whose fame should extend itself much
about that time throughout that kingdom, and his name
should be, if I forgot not myself, Don Azote or Don Gigote.'
'Lady, you would say Don Quixote,' quoth Sancho Panza,
298 DON QUIXOTE
'or, as he is called by another name, the Knight of the Ill-
favoured Face.' 'You have reason,' replied Dorothea. 'He
said, moreover, that he should be high of stature, have a
withered face, and that on the right side, a little under the
left shoulder, or thereabouts, he should have a tawny spot
with certain hairs like to bristles.' Don Quixote, hearing
this, said to his squire, 'Hold my horse here, son Sancho,
and help me to take off mine apparel ; for I will see whether
I be the knight of whom the wise king hath prophesied.'
'Why would you now put off your clothes?' quoth Dorothea.
'To see whether I have that spot which your father men-
tioned,' answered Don Quixote. 'You need not undo your
apparel for that purpose,' said Sancho, 'for I know already
that you have a spot with the tokens she named on the very
ridges of your back, and argues you to be a very strong man.'
'That is sufficient,' quoth Dorothea ; 'for we must not look
too near, or be over-curious in our friends' affairs ; and
whether it be on the shoulder, or ridge of the back, it imports
but little, for the substance consists only in having such a
mark, and not wheresoever it shall be, seeing all is one and
the self-same flesh ; and, doubtlessly, my good father did
aim well at all, and I likewise in commending myself to Don
Quixote ; for surely he is the man of whom my father spoke,
seeing the signs of his face agree with those of the great
renown that is spread abroad of this knight, not only in
Spain, but also in Ethiopia; for I had no sooner landed in
Osuna, when I heard so many of his prowesses recounted,
as my mind gave me presently that he was the man in whose
search I travelled.' 'But how did you land in Osuna, good
madam,' quoth Don Quixote, 'seeing it is no sea town?'
'Marry, sir,' quoth the curate, anticipating Dorothea's an-
swer, 'the princess would say that after she had landed in
Malaga, but the first place wherein she heard tidings of you
was at Osuna.' 'So I would have said,' quoth Dorothea.
'And it may be very well,' quoth the curate ; 'and I desire
your majesty to continue your discourse.' 'There needs no
further continuation,' quoth Dorothea, 'but that, finally, my
fortune hath been so favourable in finding of Don Quixote,
as I do already hold and account myself for queen and lady
of all mine estate, seeing that he, of his wonted bounty and
THE PRINCESS MICOMICONA 299
magnificence, hath promised me the boon to accompany me
wheresoever I shall guide him, which shall be to none other
place than to set him before Pandafilando of the dusky sight,
to the end you may slay him, and restore me to that which
he hath so wrongfully usurped ; for all will succeed in the
twinkling of an eye, as the wise Tinacrio, my good father,
hath already foretold, who said moreover, and also left it
written in Chaldaical or Greek characters (for I cannot
read them), that if the knight of the prophecy, after having
beheaded the giant, would take me to wife, that I should
in no sort refuse him, but instantly admitting him for
my spouse, make him at once possessor of myself and my
kingdom.'
'What thinkest thou of this, friend Sancho?' quoth Don
Quixote then, when he heard her say so. 'How likest thou
this point? Did not I tell thee thus much before? See
now, whether we have not a kingdom to command, and a
queen whom we may marry.' *I swear as much,' quoth
Sancho. 'A pox on the knave that will not marry as soon as
Master Pandahilado his windpipes are cut ! Mount, then,
and see whether the queen be ill or no. I would to God all
the fleas of my bed were turned to be such !' And, saying
so, he gave two or three friskles in the air, with very great
signs of contentment, and presently went to Dorothea, and,
taking her mule by the bridle, he withheld it, and, laying
himself down on his knees before her, requested her very
submissively to give him her hands to kiss them, in sign-
that he received her for his queen and lady. Which of the
beholders could abstain from laughter, perceiving the mas-
ter's madness and the servant's simplicity? To be brief,
Dorothea must needs give them unto him, and promised to
make him a great lord in her kingdom, when Heaven be-
came so propitious to her as to let her once recover and
possess it peaceably. And Sancho returned her thanks with
such words as made them all laugh anew.
'This is my history, noble sirs,' quoth Dorothea, 'whereof
only rests untold that none of all the train which I brought
out of my kingdom to attend on me is now extant but this
well-bearded squire ; for all of them were drowned in a great
storm that overtook us in the very sight of the harbour,
300 DON QUIXOTE
whence he and I escaped, and came to land by the help of
two planks, on which we laid hold, almost by miracle; as
also the whole discourse and mystery of my life seems none
other than a miracle, as you might have noted. And if in
any part of the relation I have exceeded, or not observed a
due decorum, you must impute it to that which master licen-
tiate said to the first of my history, that continual pains and
afflictions of mind deprives them that suffer the like of their
memory.' 'That shall not hinder me, O high and valorous
lady !' quoth Don Quixote, 'from enduring as many as I shall
suffer in your service, be they never so great or difficult ; and
therefore I do anew ratify and confirm the promise I have
made, and do swear to go with you to the end of the world,
until I find out your fierce enemy, whose proud head I mean to
slice off, by the help of God and my valorous arm, with the
edge of this (I will not say a good) sword, thanks be to Gines
of Passamonte, which took away mine own.' This he said
murmuring to himself, and then prosecuted, saying, 'And
after I have cut it off, and left you peaceably in the posses-
sion of your state, it shall rest in your own will to dispose
of your person as you like best; for as long as I shall have
my memory possessed, and my will captivated, and my under-
standing yielded to her 1 will say no more ; it is not pos-
sible that ever I may induce myself to marry any other, al-
though she were a Phoenix.'
That which Don Quixote had said last of all, of not mar-
rying, disliked Sancho so much, as, lifting his voice with
great anger, he said, 'I vow and swear by myself that you are
not in your right wits. Sir Don Quixote; for how is it pos-
sible that you can call the matter of contracting so high a
princess as this is in doubt? Do you think that fortune will
offer you, at every corner's end, the like hap of this which
is now proffered? Is my Lady Dulcinea, perhaps, more
beautiful? No, certainly, nor half so fair; nay, I am rather
about to say that she comes not to her shoe that is here
present. In an ill hour shall I arrive to possess that unfor-
tunate earldom which I expect, if you go thus seeking for
mushrubs in the bottom of the sea. Marry, marry yourself
presently, the devil take you for me, and take that kingdom
comes into your hands, and being a king, make me presently
SANXHO AND DON QUIXOTE 301
a marquis or admiral, and instantly after let the devil take
all if he pleaseth.'
Don Quixote, who heard such blasphemies spoken against
his Lady Dulcinea, could not bear them any longer ; and
therefore, lifting up his javelin, without speaking any word
to Sancho, gave him therewithal two such blows as he over-
threw him to the earth; and had not Dorothea cried to
him to hold his hand, he had doubtlessly slain him in the
place.
'Thinkest thou,' quoth he after a while, 'base peasant !
that I shall have always leisure and disposition to thrust my
hand into my pouch, and that there be nothing else but thou
still erring and I pardoning? And dost not thou think of it,
excommunicated rascal ! for certainly thou art excommuni-
cated, seeing thou hast talked so broadly of the peerless
Dulcinea ! And dost not thou know, base slave ! vagabond !
that if it were not for the valour she infuseth into mine arm,
that I should not have sufficient forces to kill a flea? Say,
scoffer with the viper's tongue ! who dost thou think hath
gained this kingdom, and cut the head off this giant, and
made thee a marquis (for I give all this for done already,
and for a matter ended and judged), but the worths and
valour of Dulcinea, using mine arm as the instrument of her
act ? She fights under my person, and overcomes in me ;
and I live and breathe in her, and from her I hold my life
and being. O whoreson villain ! how ungrateful art thou,
that seest thyself exalted out from the dust of the earth to
be a nobleman, and yet dost repay so great a benefit with
detracting the person that bestowed it on thee !'
Sancho was not so sore hurt but that he could hear all his
master's reasons very well ; wherefore, arising somewhat
hastily, he ran behind Dorothea her palfrey, and from thence
said to his lord, 'Tell me, sir, if you be not determined to
marry with this princess, it is most clear that the kingdom
shall not be yours ; and if it be not, what favours can you
be able to do to me ? It is of this that I complain me.
Marry yourself one for one with this princess, now that we
have her here as it were rained to us down from heaven,
and you may after turn to my Lady Dulcinea ; for I think
there be kings in the world that keep lemans. As for
302 DON QUIXOTE
beauty, I will not intermeddle ; for, if I must say the truth,
each of both is very fair, although I have never seen the
Lady Dulcinea.' 'How ! hast thou not seen her, blasphe-
mous traitor?' quoth Don Quixote, 'As if thou didst but even
now bring me a message from her !' 'I say,' quoth Sancho,
'I have not seen her so leisurely as I might particularly note
her beauty and good parts one by one, but yet in a clap, as I
saw them, they liked me very well.' *I do excuse thee noWj
said Don Quixote, 'and pardon me the displeasure which I
have given unto thee, for the first motions are not in our
hands.' 'I see that well,' quoth Sancho, 'and that is the
reason why talk is in me of one of those first motions, and I
cannot omit to speak once, at least, that which comes to my
tongue.' 'For all that, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'see
well what thou speakest ; for "the earthen pitcher goes so oft
to the water" — I will say no more.'
'Well, then,' answered Sancho, 'God is in heaven, who
seeth all these guiles, and shall be one day judge of him that
sins most — of me in not speaking well, or of you by not do-
ing well.' 'Let there be no more,' quoth Dorothea, 'but run,
Sancho, and kiss your lord's hand, and ask him forgiveness,
and from henceforth take more heed how you praise or dis-
praise anybody, and speak no ill of that LadyToboso, whom I
do not know otherwise than to do her service ; and have
confidence in God, for thou shalt not want a lordship wherein
thou mayst live like a king.' Sancho went with his head
hanging downward, and demanded his lord's hand, which
he gave unto him with a grave countenance ; and after he
had kissed it, he gave him his blessing, and said to him that
he had somewhat to say unto him, and therefore bade him
to come somewhat forward, that he might speak unto him.
Sancho obeyed; and both of them going a little aside, Don
Quixote said unto him, 'I have not had leisure after thy
coming to demand of thee in particular concerning the am-
bassage that thou carriedst, and the answer that thou
broughtst back; and therefore, now fortune lends us some
opportunity and leisure, do not deny me the happiness which
thou mayst give me by thy good news.'
'Demand what you please,' quoth Sancho, 'and I will an-
swer you ; and I request you, good my lord, that you be not
SANCHO'S ASS 303
from henceforth so wrathful.' 'Why dost thou say so, San-
cho?' quoth Don Quixote. 'I say it,' replied Sancho, 'be-
cause that these blows which you bestowed now, were rather
given in revenge of the dissension which the devil stirred
between us two the other night, than for anything I said
against my Lady Dulcinea, whom I do honour and reverence
as a relique, although she be none, only because she is yours.'
'I pray thee, good Sancho,' said Don Quixote, 'fall not again
into those discourses, for they offend me. I did pardon thee
then, and thou knowest that a new offence must have a new
penance.'
As they talked thus, they espied a gallant coming towards
them, riding on an ass, and when he drew near he seemed to
be an Egyptian ; but Sancho Panza, who, whensoever he met
any asses, followed them with his eyes and his heart, as one
that thought still on his own, had scarce eyed him when he
knew that it was Gines of Passamonte, and, by the look of
the Egyptian, found out the fleece of his ass, as in truth it
was ; for Gines came riding on his grey ass, who, to the end
he might not be known, and also have commodity to sell his
beast, attired himself like an Egyptian, whose language and
many others he could speak as well as if they were his
mother tongue. Sancho saw him and knew him ; and scarce
had he seen and taken notice of him, when he cried out aloud,
'Ah ! thief, Ginesillo ! leave my goods behind thee, set my
life loose, and do not intermeddle with my ease ! Leave
mine ass, leave my comfort ! Fly, villain ! absent thyself,
thief! and abandon that which is none of thine!' He needed
not to have used so many words and frumps, for Gines
leaped down at the very first, and beginning a trot, that
seemed rather to be a gallop, he absented himself, and fled
far enough from them in a moment. Sancho went then to
his ass, and, embracing him, said, 'How hast thou done
hitherto, my darling and treasure, grey ass of mine eyes,
and my dearest companion?' and with that stroked and kissed
him as if it were a reasonable creature. The ass held his
peace, and permitted Sancho to kiss and cherish him, with-
out answering a word. All the rest arrived, and congratu-
lated with Sancho for the finding of his ass, but chiefly Don
Quixote, who said unto him that notwithstanding that he
304 DON QUIXOTE
found his ass, yet would not he therefore annul his warrant
for the three colts ; for which Sancho returned him very
great thanks.
Whilst they two travelled together discoursing thus, the
curate said to Dorothea that she had very discreetly dis-
charged herself, as well in the history as in her brevity and
imitation thereof to the phrase and conceits of books of
knighthood. She answered that she did ofttimes read books
of that subject, but that she knew not where the provinces
lay, nor seaports, and therefore did only say at random that
she had landed in Osuna. 'I knew it was so,' quoth the
curate, 'and therefore I said what you heard, wherewithal
the matter was soldered. But is it not a marvellous thing to
see with what facility the unfortunate gentleman believes all
these inventions and lies, only because they bear the style
and manner of the follies laid down in his books?' 'It is,'
quoth Cardenio, 'and that so rare and beyond all conceit, as
I believe, if the like were to be invented, scarce could the
sharpest wits devise such another.'
'There is yet,' quoth the curate, 'as marvellous a matter as
that; for, leaving apart the simplicities which this good gen-
tleman speaks concerning his frenzy, if you will commune
with him of any other subject whatsoever, he will discourse
on it with an excellent method, and show himself to have a
clear and pleasing understanding; so that, if he be not
touched by matters of chivalry, there is no man but will deem
him to be of a sound and excellent judgment.'
Don Quixote on the other side prosecuted his conversing
with his squire whilst the others talked together, and said to
Sancho, 'Let us two, friend Panza, forget old injuries, and
say unto me now, without any rancour or anger, where, how,
and when didst thou find my Lady Dulcinea? What did she
when thou earnest? What saidst thou to her? What an-
swered she? What countenance showed she as she read my
letter? And who writ it out fairly for thee? And every
other thing that thou shalt think worthy of notice in this
affair to be demanded or answered, without either addition
or lying, or soothing adulation; and on the other side do not
abbreviate it, lest thou shouldst defraud me thereby of ex-
pected delight.' 'Sir/ answered Sancho, 'if I must say the
SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE 305
truth, none copied out the letter for me ; for I carried no
letter at all.'
'Thou sayst true,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for I found the
tablets wherein it was written with myself two days after
thy departure, which did grieve me exceedingly, because I
knew not what thou wouldst do when thou didst perceive
the want of the letter, and I always made full account that
thou wouldst return again from the place where thou
shouldst first miss it.' 'I had done so,' quoth Sancho, 'if I
had not borne it away in memory, when you read it to me,
in such sort as I said to a clerk of a vestry, who did copy it
out of my understanding so point by point, as he said that
he never in all the days of his life, although he had read
many a letter of excommunication, read or seen so fine a
letter as it was.' 'And dost thou hold it yet in m«nory,
Sancho?' quoth Don Quixote.
'No, sir,' said Sancho ; 'for after I gave it, seeing it served
for none other purpose, I did willingly forget it; and if I
remember anything, it is that of the "mouldy" — I would
say "sovereign lady" ; and the end, "yours until death, the
Knight of the Ill-favoured Face"; and I put between these
two things in the letter three hundred souls, and lives, and
sweet eyes.'
CHAPTER IV
Of the Pleasant Discourses Continued Between Don
Quixote and His Squire Sancho Panza, with
Other Adventures
*ALL this liketh me well; said Don Quixote; 'there-
/A fore say on. Thou arrivedst, and what was that
-^-*- queen of beauty doing then? I daresay that thou
foundest her threading of pearls, or embroidering some curi-
ous device with Venice gold, for me her captive knight.'
'No, that I did not,' quoth Sancho; 'but winnowing two
bushels of wheat in the yard of her house.'
'Why, then,' said Don Quixote, 'thou mayst make account
that each corn of that wheat was a grain of pearl, seeing
they were touched by her delicate hand. And, friend, didst
thou note well what the wheat was, whether of the best or
ordinary?' 'It was not, but red,' said Sancho. 'Well, then,
I assure thee,' answered Don Quixote, 'that being sifted by her
hands, it must needs make very fair bread and white. But
pass forward. When thou didst deliver my letter, did she
kiss it? Did she set it on her head? Did she use any cere-
mony worthy of such a letter ? Or what did she ?' 'When I
went to give it unto her,' said Sancho, 'she was holding up
of her arms with a good quantity of wheat that she had in
her sieve, and therefore said unto me, "Friend, lay down that
letter there on the sack, for I cannot read it until I have
winnowed all that is here." ' 'O discreet lady,' quoth Don
Quixote ; 'she surely did that because she might read it at
leisure, and recreate herself therewithal. Forward, Sancho.
And as long as she was thus busied, what discourses passed
she with thee? What did she demand of thee concerning
me? And thou, what didst thou answer? Say all, good
Sancho, say all; recount to me every particularity, and let
not the least [minuity] remain in the inkhorn.'
306
SANCHO'S REPORT 307
'She demanded nothing of me,' quoth Sancho; 'but I re-
counted unto her the state I had left you in for her sake,
doing of penance, all naked from the girdle upward, among
these rocks, like a brute beast, sleeping on the ground, and
eating your bread without table-cloths, and that you never
combed your beard, but was weeping and cursing your for-
tune.' 'There thou saidst ill,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'for I do
not curse my fortune, but rather bless it, and will bless it as
long as I shall live, seeing it hath made me worthy to merit
the love of so high a lady as Dulcinea of Toboso.' 'She is
in good faith so high,' answered Sancho, 'as she surpasseth
me almost by a whole cubit.' 'Why, how now, Sancho?'
said the knight; 'hast thou measured thyself with her?' 'I
did measure myself with her in this manner,' replied Sancho,
'that coming over to help her to lift up a sack of wheat on an
ass, we joined so near as I well perceived that she was more
than a great span higher than myself.' 'That is true,' quoth
Don Quixote ; 'but thinkest thou not that the tallness of her
extended stature is adorned with a thousand millions of
graces and endowments of the soul? But, Sancho, thou
canst not deny me one thing: when thou didst thus approach
her, didst thou not feel a most odoriferous smell, an aromat-
ical fragrancy, an — I cannot tell what, so pleasing as I know
not how to term it — I say such a scent as if thou wert in
some curious perfumer's shop?' 'That which I know,' quoth
Sancho, 'is that I felt a little unsavoury scent, somewhat
rammish and man-like, and I think the reason was because
she had sweat a little doing of that exercise.' 'It was not
so,' quoth Don Quixote, 'but either thou hadst the mur, or
else did smell thyself; for I know very well how that rose
among thorns dost scent, that lily of the field, and that chosen
amber.' 'It may well be,' said Sancho, 'as you have said,
for I have had many times such a smell as methought the
Lady Dulcinea had then ; and though she smelled too it were
no marvel, for one devil is like another.'
'And well,' quoth Don Quixote, 'see here, she hath sifted
her corn, and sent it to the mill ; what did she after she had
read the letter?' 'The letter?' said Sancho. 'She read it
not, for she said she could neither read nor write ; and there-
fore she tore it into small pieces, and would have no man to
306 DON QUIXOTE
read it, lest those of the village should know her secrets,
and [said] that what I had told her by word of mouth of
your love and extraordinary penance, which you remained
doing for her sake, was sufficient; and, finally, she con-
cluded, commanding me to say unto you that she had her
commended unto you, and that she remained with greater
desire to see you than to write unto you, and therefore she
requested and willed you, as you tendered her affection, that
presently upon sight hereof you should abandon these shrubby
groves, leave off your frenzy, and take presently the way of
Toboso, if some matter of greater importance did not occur,
for she had very great desire to see and talk with you. She
laughed heartily when I told her that you named yourself
"the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face." I demanded of her
whether the beaten Biscaine came there, and she answered
that he did, and affirmed withal that he was a very honest
man. I asked also for the galley-slaves, but she told me
that she had seen none of them as yet.'
'All goes well till this,' said Don Quixote; 'but tell me, I
pray thee, what jewel did she bestow on thee at thy de-
parture, for reward of the news thou carriedst unto her of
me? For it is an usual and ancient custom among knights
and ladies errant, to bestow on squires, damsels, or dwarfs,
which bring them any good tidings of their ladies, or
servants, some rich jewel, as a reward and thanks of their
welcome news.'
'It may well be,' quoth Sancho, 'and I hold it for a very
laudable custom; but I think it was only used in times past,
for I think the manner of this our age is only to give a piece
of bread and cheese ; for this was all that my lady Dulcinea
bestowed on me, and that over the yard walls, when I took
my leave with her, and in sign thereof (well fare all good
tokens) the cheese was made of sheep's milk.' 'She is mar-
vellous liberal,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'and if she gave thee not
a jewel of gold, it was, without dout, because she had none
then about her. But it is not lost that comes at last ; I will
see her, and then all things shall be amended. Knowest
thou, Sancho, whereat I wonder? It is at this sudden re-
turn ; for it seems to me thou wast gone and hast come back
again in the air; for thou hast been away but a little more
SANCHO'S REPORT 309
than three days, Toboso being more than thirty leagues from
hence ; and therefore I do beheve that the wise enchanter
who takes care of mine affairs, and is my friend (for there
is such a one of force, and there must be, under pain that I
else should not be a good knight-errant), — I say I verily
think that wise man holp thee to trample unawares of thy-
self; for there are wise men of that condition which will
take a knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and without knowing
how or in what manner, he will wake the next day a thou-
sand leagues from that place where he fell asleep; and were
it not for this, knights-errant could not succour one another
in their most dangerous exigents, as they do now at every
step. For it ofttimes befals that a knight is fighting in the
mountains of Armenia, with some devilish fauno, some dread-
ful shadow, or fierce knight, where he is like to have the
worst, and in this point of death, when he least expects it,
there appears there, on the top of a cloud or riding in a
chariot of fire, another knight his friend, who was but even
then in England, and helps him, and delivers him from death ;
and returns again that night to his own lodging, where he
sups with a very good appetite ; and yet, for all that, is there
wont to be two or three thousand leagues from the one to
the other country. All which is compassed by the industry
and wisdom of those skilful enchanters that take care of
the said valorous knights. So that, friend Sancho, I am not
hard of belief in giving thee credit that thou hast gone and
returned in so short a time from this place to Toboso, see-
ing, as I have said, some wise man my friend hath (belike)
transported thee thither by stealth, and unaware of thyself.'
'I easily think it,' replied Sancho; 'for Rozinante travelled,
in good faith, as lustily as if he were an Egyptian's ass,
with quicksilver in his ears.' 'And thinkest thou not,' quoth
Don Quixote, 'that he had not quicksilver in his ears? yes,
and a legion of devils also to help it? who are folk that do
travel and make others go as much as they list without any
weariness. But, leaving all this apart, what is thine opinion
that I should do now concerning my lady's commandment to
go and see her? For, although I know that I am bound to
obey her behests, yet do I find myself disabled at this time
to accomplish them by reason of the grant I have made the
310 DON QUIXOTE
princess that comes with us ; and the law of arms doth compel
me to accomplish my word rather than my will. On the one
side, I am assaulted and urged by a desire to go and see my
lady; on the other, my promised faith, and the glory I shall
win in this enterprise, do incite and call me away. But that
which I resolve to do is to travel with all speed, that I may
quickly arrive to the place -where that giant is, and will cut
off his head at my coming; and when I have peaceably in-
stalled the princess in her kingdom, will presently return to
see the light that doth lighten my senses ; to whom I will
yield such forcible reasons of my so long absence, as she
shall easily condescend to excuse my stay, seeing all doth
redound to her glory and fame; for all that I have gained,
do win, or shall hereafter achieve, by force of arms in this
life, proceeds wholly from the gracious favour she pleaseth
to bestow upon me, and my being hers.'
'O God !' quoth Sancho, 'I perceive that you are greatly
diseased in the pate. I pray you, sir, tell me whether you
mean to go this long voyage for nought, and let slip and lose
so rich and so noble a preferment as this, where the dowry
is a kingdom, which is in good faith, as I have heard say,
twenty thousand leagues in compass, and most plentifully
stored with all things necessary for the sustaining of human
life, and that it is greater than Portugal and Castile joined
together? Peace, for God's love, and blush at your own
words, and take my counsel, and marry presently in the first
village that hath a parish priest; and if you will not do it
there, can you wish a better commodity than to have our
own master licentiate, who will do it most excellently? And
note that I am old enough to give counsel, and that this
v/hich I now deliver is as fit for you as if it were expressly
cast for you in a mould ; for a sparrow in the fist is worth
more than a flying bittor.
" 'For he that can have good and evil doth choose,
For ill that betides him, must not patience lose." '
'Why, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'if thou givest me
counsel to marry to the end I may become a king, after I
have slain the giant, and have commodity thereby to pro-
mote thee, and give thee what I have promised, I let thee to
SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE 311
understand that I may do all that most easily without marry-
ing myself; for, before I enter into the battle, I will make
this condition, that when I come away victor, although I
marry not the princess, yet shall a part of the kingdom be
at my disposition to bestow upon whom I please ; and when I
receive it, upon whom wouldst thou have me bestow it but on
thyself?' 'That is manifest,' said Sancho ; 'but I pray you,
sir, have care to choose that part you would reserve towards
the seaside, to the end that if the living do not please me,
I may embark my black vassals, and make the benefit of them
which I have said. And likewise I pray you not to trouble
your mind thinking to go and see my Lady Dulcinea at this
time, but travel towards the place where the giant is, and
kill him, and conclude that business first; for I swear unto
you that I am of opinion it will prove an adventure of very
great honour and profit.' 'I assure thee, Sancho,' quoth
Don Quixote, 'thou art in the right, and I will follow thy
counsel in rather going first with the princess to visit Dul-
cinea. And I warn thee not to speak a word to anybody,
no, not to those that ride with us, of that which we have here
spoken and discoursed together; for, since Dulcinea is so
wary and secret as she would not have her thoughts discov-
ered, it is no reason that I, either by myself or any other,
should detect them.'
'If that be so,' quoth Sancho, 'why, then, do you send all
those which you vanquish by virtue of your arm to present
themselves to my Lady Dulcinea, seeing this is as good as
subsignation of your handwriting, that you wish her well,
and are enamoured on her? And seeing that those which
go to her must forcibly lay them down on their knees before
her presence, and say that they come from you to do her
homage, how then can the thoughts of you both be hidden
and concealed?' 'Oh, how great a fool art thou, and how
simple !' quoth Don Quixote. 'Dost not thou perceive, San-
cho, how all this results to her greater glory? For thou
oughtest to wit that, in our knightly proceedings, it is great
honour that one lady alone have many knights-errant for her
servitors, without extending their thoughts any further than
to serve her only for her high worths, without attending any
other reward of their many and good desires, than that she
312 DON QUIXOTE
will deign to accept them as her servants and knights.' 'I
have heard preach,' said Sancho, 'that men should love our
Saviour with that kind of love only for His own sake, with-
out being moved thereunto either by the hope of glory or the
fear of pain; although, for my part, I would love and serve
Him for what He is able to do.' 'The devil take thee for a
clown !' quoth Don Quixote ; 'how sharp and pertinently dost
thou speak now and then, able to make a man imagine that
thou hast studied!' 'Now, by mine honesty,' quoth Sancho,
*I can neither read nor write.'
Master Nicholas perceiving them drowned thus in their
discourses, cried out to them to stay and drink of a little foun-
tain that was by the way. Don Quixote rested, to Sancho's
very great contentment, who was already tired with telling
him so many lies, and was afraid his master would entrap
him in his own words ; for, although he knew Dulcinea to be
of Toboso, yet had he never seen her in his life. And Car-
denio had by this time put on the apparel Dorothea wore
when they found her in the mountains, which, though they
were not very good, yet exceeded with great advantage those
which he had himself before. And, alighting hard by the
fountain, they satisfied with the provision the curate had
brought with him from the inn, although it were but little,
the great hunger that pressed them. And whilst they took
their ease there, a certain young stripling that travelled past
by, who, looking very earnestly on all those which sat about
the fountain, he ran presently after to Don Quixote, and,
embracing his legs, he said, weeping downright, 'Oh, my
lord, do not you know me? Look well upon me; for I am
the youth Andrew whom you unloosed from the oak where-
unto I was tied.' Don Quixote presently knew him, and,
taking him by the hands, he turned to those that were pres-
ent and said, 'Because you may see of how great importance
it is that there be knights-errant in the world, to undo wrongs
and injuries that are committed in it by the insolent and bad
men which live therein, thou shall wit that a few days past,
as I rode through a wood, I heard certain lamentable
screeches and cries, as of some needful and afflicted person.
I forthwith occurred, borne away by my profession, towards
the place from whence the lamentable voice sounded, and I
REAPPEARANCE OF ANDREW 313
found tied to an oaken tree this boy whom you see here in
our presence, for which I am marvellous glad, because if I
shall not say the truth he may check me. I say that he was
tied to the oak, stark naked from the middle upward, and a
certain clown was opening his flesh with cruel blows that he
gave him with the reins of a bridle, which clown, as I after
understood, was his master. And so, as soon as I saw him,
I demanded the cause of those cruel stripes. The rude fel-
low answered that he beat him because he was his servant,
and that certain negligences of his proceeded rather from
being a thief than of simplicity. To which this child an-
swered, "Sir, he whips me for no other cause but by reason
that I demand my wages of him." His master replied I
know not now what speeches and excuses, the which although
I heard, yet were they not by me admitted. In resolution, I
caused him to be loosed, and took the clown's oath that he
would take him home, and pay him there his wages, one real
upon another — ay, and those also perfumed. Is it not true,
son Andrew? Didst thou not note with what a domineering
countenance I commanded it, and with what humility he
promised to accomplish all that I imposed, commanded, and
desired? Answer me; be not ashamed, nor stagger at all,
but tell what passed to these gentlemen, to the end it may be
manifestly seen how necessary it is, as I have said, to have
knights-errant up and down the highways.'
'All that which you have said,' quoth the boy, 'is very
true; but the end of the matter succeeded altogether con-
trary to that which you imagined.' 'How contrary?' quoth
Don Quixote. 'Why, hath not the peasant paid thee?' 'He
not only hath not paid me,' answered the boy, 'but rather,
as soon as you were past the wood, and that we remained
both alone, he turned again and tied me to the same tree,
and gave me afresh so many blows, as I remained another
St. Bartholomew, all flayed; and at every blow ne said some
jest or other in derision of you; so that, if I had not felt the
pain of the stripes so much as I did, I could have found it in
my heart to have laughed very heartily. In fine, he left me
in such pitiful case as I have been ever since curing myself
in an hospital of the evil which the wicked peasant did thfen
unto me. And you are in tlie fault of all this, for if you
314 DON QUIXOTE
had ridden on your way, and not come to the place where
you were not sought for, nor mtermeddled yourself in other
men's afifairs, perhaps my master had contented himself with
giving me a dozen or two of strokes, and would presently
after have loosed me and paid me my wages. But by reason
you dishonoured him so much without cause, and said to him
so many villains, his choler was inflamed, and, seeing he
could not revenge it on you, finding himself alone, he disbur-
dened the shower on me so heavily as I greatly fear that I
shall never again be mine own man.' 'The hurt consisted in
my departure,' quoth Don Quixote, 'for I should not have
gone from thence until I had seen thee paid ; for I might
have very well known, by many experiences, that there is
no clown that will keep his word, if he see the keeping of it
can turn any way to his damage. But yet, Andrew, thou
dost remember how I swore that if he paid thee not, I would
return and seek him out, and likewise find him, although he
conveyed himself into a whale's belly.' 'That's true,' quoth
Andrew; 'but all avails not.' 'Thou shalt see whether it
avails or no presently,' quoth Don Quixote ; and, saying so,
got up very hastily, and commanded Sancho to bridle Rozi-
nante, who was feeding whilst they did eat. Dorothea de-
manded of him what he meant to do. He answered that he
would go and find out the villain, and punish him for using
such bad proceedings, and cause Andrew to be paid the last
denier, in despite of as many peasants as lived in the world.
To which she answered, entreating him to remember that
he could not deal with any other adventure, according to his
promise, until hers were achieved; and seeing that he him-
self knew it to be true better than any other, that he should
pacify himself until his return from her kingdom.
'You have reason,' said Don Quixote, 'and therefore An-
drew must have patience perforce until my return, as you
have said, madam ; and, when I shall turn again, I do swear
unto him, and likewise renew my promise, never to rest un-
til he be satisfied and paid.' 'I believe not in such oaths,'
quoth Andrew, 'but would have as much money as might
carry me to Seville, rather than all the revenges in the world.
Give me some meat to eat, and carry away with me, and
God be with you and all other knights-errant; and I pray
ANDREW AND DON QUIXOTE 3lS
God that they may prove as erring to themselves as they
have been to me !'
Sancho took out of his bag a piece of bread and cheese,
and, giving it to the youth, said, 'Hold, brother Andrew, for
every one hath his part of your misfortune.' 'I pray you
what part thereof have you?' said Andrew. 'This piece of
bread and cheese that I bestow on thee,' quoth Sancho ; 'for,
God only knows whether I shall have need of it again or no ;
for thou must wit, friend, that we the squires of knights-
errant are very subject to great hunger and evil luck; yea,
and to other things, which are better felt than told.' An-
drew laid hold on his bread and cheese, and, seeing that no-
body gave him any other thing, he bowed his head, and went
on his way. True it is that he said to Don Quixote at his
departure, 'For God's love, good sir knight-errant, if you
shall ever meet me again in the plight you have done, al-
though you should see me torn in pieces, yet do not succour
or help me, but leave me in my disgrace; for it cannot be
so great but that a greater will result from your help, upon
whom, and all the other knights-errant that are born in the
world, I pray God His curse may alight !' Don Quixote
thought to arise to chastise him, but he ran away so swiftly
as no man durst follow him; and our knight remained mar-
vellously ashamed at Andrew's tale ; wherefore the rest with
much ado suppressed their desire to laugh, lest they should
thoroughly confound him.
CHAPTER V
Treating of That Which Befel All Don Quixote His
Train in the Inn
THE dinner being ended, they saddled and went to horse
presently, and travelled all that day and the next with-
out encountering any adventure of price, until they
arrived at the only bug and scarecrow of Sancho Panza,
and though he would full fain have excused his entry into it,
yet could he in no wise avoid it. The innkeeper, the hostess,
her daughter, and Maritornes, seeing Don Quixote and
Sancho return, went out to receive them with tokens of great
love and joy, and he entertained them with grave counte-
nance and applause, and bade them to make him ready a
better bed than the other which they had given unto him the
time before. 'Sir,' quoth the hostess, 'if you would pay us
better than the last time, we would give you one for a prince.'
Don Quixote answered that he would. They prepared a
reasonable good bed for him in the same wide room where
he lay before ; and he went presently to bed, by reason that
he arrived much tired, and void of wit. And scarce was he
gotten into his chamber, when the hostess leaping suddenly
on the barber, and taking him by the beard, said, 'Now, by
myself blessed, thou shalt use my tail no more for a beard,
and thou shalt turn me my tail ; for my husband's comb goes
thrown up and down the floor, that it is a shame to see it.
I mean the comb that I was wont to hang up in my good
tail.' The barber would not give it unto her for all her
drawing, until the licentiate bade him to restore it, that they
had now no more use thereof, but that he might now very
well discover himself, and appear in his own shape, and
[say] to Don Quixote that after the galley-slaves had robbed
him he fled to that inn ; and if Don Quixote demanded by
chance for the princess her squire, that they should tell him
316
RETURN TO THE INN 317
how she had sent him before to her kingdom, to give intelli-
gence to her subjects that she returned, bringing with her
him that should free and give them all liberty. With this
the barber surrendered the tail willingly to the hostess, and
likewise all the other borrowed wares which she had lent
for Don Quixote's delivery. All those of the inn rested
wonderful amazed at Dorothea's beauty, and also at the
comeliness of the shepherd Cardenio. Then the curate gave
order to make ready for them such meat as the inn could
afford ; and the innkeeper, in hope of better payment, did
dress very speedily for them a reasonable good dinner. Don
Quixote slept all this while, and they were of opinion to let
him take his rest, seeing sleep was more requisite for his
disease than meat. At the table they discoursed (the inn-
keeper, his wife, daughter, and Maritornes, and all the other
travellers being present) of Don Quixote's strange frenzy,
and of the manner wherein they found him. The hostess,
eftsoons, recounted what had happened there, between him
and the carrier; and looking to see whether Sancho were
present, perceiving that he was away, she told likewise all
the story of his canvassing, whereat they conceived no little
content and pastime. And, as the curate said that the origi-
nal cause of Don Quixote's madness proceeded from the
reading of books of knighthood, the innkeeper answered, —
T cannot conceive how that can be, for, as I believe, there
is no reading so delightful in this world, and I myself have
two or three books of that kind with other papers, which do
verily keep me alive, and not only me, but many other. For
in the reaping times, many of the reapers repair to this place
in the heats of mid-day, and there is evermore some one or
other among them that can read, who takes one of these
books in hand, and then some thirty or more of us do com-
pass him about, and do listen to him with such pleasure, as
it hinders a thousand hoary hairs; for I dare say, at least
of myself, that when I hear tell of those furious and terrible
blows that knights-errant give, it inflames me with a desire
to become such a one myself, and could find in my heart to
be hearing of them day and night.' T am just of the same
mind, no more, nor no less,' said the hostess, 'for I never have
any quiet hour in my house, but when thou art hearing those
318 DON QUIXOTE
books whereon thou art so besotted, as then thou dost only
forget to chide, which is thy ordinary exercise at other
times.' 'That is very true,' said Maritornes; 'and I in good
sooth do take great deHght to hear those things, for they
are very fine, and especially when they tell how such a lady
lies embraced by her knight under an orange tree, and that
a certain damsel keepeth watch all the while, ready to burst
for envy that she hath not likewise her sweetheart, and very
much afraid. I say that all those things are as sweet as
honey to me.' 'And you,' quoth the curate to the innkeeper's
daughter, 'what do you think?' 'I know not in good sooth,
sir,' quoth she ; 'but I do likewise give ear, and in truth, al-
though I understand it not, yet do I take some pleasure to
hear them ; but I mislike greatly those blows which please
my father so much, and only delight in the lamentations
that knights make being absent from their ladies; which in
sooth do now and then make me weep through the com-
passion I take of them.' 'Well, then,' quoth Dorothea, 'be-
like, fair maiden, you would remedy them, if such plaints
were breathed for your own sake ?' 'I know not what I
would do,' answered the girl, 'only this I know, that there
are some of those ladies so cruel, as their knights call them
tigers and lions, and a thousand other wild beasts. And,
good Jesus, I know not what unsouled folk they be, and so
without conscience, that because they will not once behold
an honourable man, they suffer him either to die or run mad.
And I know not to what end serves all that coyness. For if
they do it for honesty's sake, let them marry with them, for
the knights desire nothing more.' 'Peace, child,' quoth the
hostess; 'for it seems that thou knowest too much of those
matters, and it is not decent that maidens should know or
speak so much.' 'I speak,' quoth she, 'by reason that this
good sir made me the demand; and I could not in courtesy
omit to answer him.' 'Well,' said the curate, 'let me entreat
you, good mine host, to bring us here those books, for I
would fain see them.'
'I am pleased,' said the innkeeper; and then entering into
his chamber, he brought forth a little old malet shut up with
a chain ; and, opening thereof, he took out three great books
and certain papers written with a very fair letter. The first
THE INNKEEPER'S BOOKS 319
book he opened was that of Don Cirongilio of Thracia, the
other, Felixmarte of Hircania, and the third, The History of
the Great Captain, Gonzalo Hernandez of Cordova, with the
Hfe of Diego Garcia Paredes adjoined. As soon as the curate
had read the titles of the two books, he said to the barber,
'We have now great want of our friends, the old woman and
niece.' 'Not so much as you think,' quoth the barber; 'for I
know also the way to the yard or the chimney, and, in good
sooth, there is a fire in it good enough for that purpose.'
'Would you then,' quoth the host, 'burn my books?' 'No
more of them,' quoth the curate; 'but these first two of Don
Cirongilio and Felixmarte' 'Are my books perhaps,' quoth
the innkeeper, 'heretical or phlegmatical, that you would thus
roughly handle them?' 'Schismatical, thou shouldst have
said,' quoth the barber, 'and not phlegmatical.' 'It is so,'
said the innkeeper; 'but if you will needs burn any, I pray
you, rather let it be that of the Great Captain, and of that
Diego Garcia; for I would rather suffer one of my sons to
be burned than any one of those other two.' 'Good friend,
these two books are lying, and full of follies and vanities ;
but that of the Great Captain is true, and containeth the acts
of Gonzalo Hernandez of Cordova, who for his sundry and
noble acts merited to be termed by all the world the Great
Captain, a name famous, illustrious, and only deserved by
himself, and this other, Diego Garcia of Paredes, was a
noble gentleman, born in the city of Truxillo in Estrema-
dura, and was a most valorous soldier, and of so surpassing
force, as he would detain a mill-wheel with one hand from
turning in the midst of the speediest motion : and standing
once at the end of a bridge, with a two-handed sword, de-
fended the passage against a mighty army that attempted to
pass over it ; and did so many other things, that if another
who were a stranger and unpassionate had written them, as
he did himself who was the relater and historiographer of his
own acts, and therefore recounted them with the modesty of
a gentleman and proper chronicler, they would have drowned
all the Hectors, Achilleses, and Rolands in oblivion.'
'There is a jest,' quoth the innkeeper. 'Deal with my
father, I pray you see at what you wonder. A wise tale at
the withholding of the wheel of a mill. I swear you ought
320 DON QUIXOTE
to read that which is read in Felixmarte of Hircania, who
with one thwart blow cut five mighty giants in halves, as if
they were of beans, like to the little friars that children make
of bean-cods ; and set another time upon a great and most
powerful army of more than a million and six hundred thou-
sand soldiers, and overthrew and scattered them all like a
flock of sheep. What, then, can you say to me of the good
Cirongilio of Thracia, who was so animous and valiant, as
may be seen in his book; wherein is laid down, that, as he
sailed along a river, there issued out of the midst of the
water a serpent of fire, and he, as soon as he perceived it,
leaped upon her, and hanging by her scaly shoulders, he
wrung her throat so straitly between both his arms, that the
serpent, perceiving herself to be well-nigh strangled, had no
other way to save herself but by diving down into the deeps,
carrying the knight away with her, who would never let go
his grip, and when they came to the bottom he found him-
self by a palace in such fair and pleasant gardens, as it was
a wonder ; and presently the serpent turned into an old man,
which said to him such things as there is no more to be de-
sired. Two figs for the Great Captain and that Diego Garcia
of whom you speak.'
Dorothea, hearing him speak thus, said to Cardenio, 'Me-
thinks our host wants but little to make up a second part of
Don Quixote.' 'So it seems to me likewise,' replied Car-
denio; 'for, as we may conjecture by his words, he certainly
believes that everything written in those books passed just
as it is laid down, and barefooted friars would be scarce
able to persuade him the contrary.' 'Know, friend,' quoth
the curate to the innkeeper, 'that there was never any such a
man as Felixmarte of Hircania, or Don Cirongilio of Thracia.
nor other such knights as bo^'^s of chivalry recount; for all
is but a device and fiction of idle wits that composed them,
to the end that thou sayst, to pass over the time, as your
readers do in reading of them. For I sincerely swear unto
thee, that there were never such knights in the world, nor
such adventures and ravings happened in it.' 'Cast that
bone to another dog,' quoth the innkeeper, 'as though I knew
not how many numbers are five, ?'nd where the shoe wrests
me now. I pray you, sir, go not about to give me pap, for
THE INNKEEPER'S BOOKS 321
by the Lord I am not so white. Is it not a good sport that
you labour to persuade me, that all that which these good
books say are but ravings and fables, they being printed by
grace and favour of the Lords of the Privy Council; as if
they were folk that would permit so many lies to be printed
at once, and so many battles and enchantments, as are able
to make a man run out of his wits.' 'I have told thee al-
ready, friend,' said the curate, 'that this is done for the recre-
ation of our idle thoughts, and so even as, in well-governed
commonwealths, the plays at chess, tennis, and trucks are
tolerated for the pastime of some men which have none other
occupation, and either ought not or cannot work, even so
such books are permitted to be printed; presuming (as in
truth they ought, that no man would be found so simple
and ignorant as to hold any of these books for a true
history. And if my leisure permitted, and that it were a
thing requisite for this auditory, I could say many things
concerning the subject of books of knighthood, to the end
that they should be well contrived, and also be pleasant and
profitable to the readers; but I hope sometime to have the
commodity to communicate my conceit with those that may
redress it. And in the meanwhile, you may believe, good
mine host, what I have said, and take to you your books, and
agree with their truths or leasings as you please, and much
good may it do you ; and I pray God that you halt not in
time on the foot that your guest Don Quixote halteth.' 'Not
so,' quoth the innkeeper, 'for I will never be so wood as to
become a knight-errant, for I see well that what was used in
the times of these famous knights is now in no use nor
request.'
Sancho came in about the midst of this discourse, and
rested much confounded and pensative of that which he
heard them say, that knights-errant were now in no request,
and that the books of chivalry only contained follies and
lies, and purposed with himself to see the end of that voyage
of his lord's, and that if it sorted not the wished success
which he expected, he resolved to leave him and return home
to his wife and children and accustomed labour. The inn-
keeper thought to take away his books and budget, but the
curate withheld him, saying, 'Stay a while, for I would see
322 DON QUIXOTE
what papers are those which are written in so fair a char-
acter.' The host took them out and gave them to him to
read, being in number some eight sheets, with a title written
in text letters, which said, The History of the Curious-Im-
pertinent. The curate read two or three lines softly to him-
self, and said after, 'Truly the title of this history doth not
mislike me, and therefore I am about to read it through.'
The innkeeper hearing him, said, 'Your reverence may very
well do it, for I assure you that some guests which have
read it here, as they travelled, did commend it exceedingly,
and have begged it of me as earnestly, but I would never
bestow it, hoping some day to restore it to the owner of this
malet, who forgot it here behind him with these books and
papers, for it may be that he will sometime return, and al-
though I know that I shall have great want of the books,
yet will I make to him restitution, for although I am an inn-
keeper, yet God be thanked I am a Christian therewithal.'
'You have great reason, my friend,' quoth the curate ; 'but
yet notwithstanding, if the taste like me, thou must give me
leave to take a copy thereof.' 'With all my heart,' replied
the host. And as they two talked, Cardenio, taking the book,
began to read a little of it, and, it pleasing him as much as
it had done the curate, he' requested him to read it in such
sort as they might all hear him. 'That I would willingly
do,' said the curate, 'it the time were not now more fit for
sleeping than reading.' 'It were sufficient repose for me,'
said Dorothea, 'to pass away the time listening to some tale
or other, for my spirit is not yet so well quieted as to afford
me licence to sleep, even then when nature exacteth it.' 'If
that be so,' quoth the curate, 'I will read it, if it were but
for curiosity ; perhaps it containeth some delightful matter.'
Master Nicholas and Sancho entreated the same. The cu-
rate, seeing and knowing that he should therein do them all
a pleasure, and he himself likewise receive as great, said,
'Seeing you will needs hear it, be all of you attentive, for
ihe history beginneth in this manner.'
CHAPTER VI
Wherein Is Rehearsed the History of the Curious-
Impertinent
*"!" N Florence, a rich and famous city of Italy, in the prov-
I ince called Tuscany, there dwelt two rich and principal
-■- gentlemen called Anselmo and Lothario, which two
were so great friends, as they were named for excellency,
and by antonornasia, by all those that knew them, the Two
Friends. They were both bachelors, and much of one age
and manners ; all which was of force to make them answer
one another with reciprocal amity. True it is that Anselmo
was somewhat more inclined to amorous dalliance than Lo-
thario, who was altogether addicted to hunting. But when
occasion exacted it, Anselmo would omit his own pleasures,
to satisfy his friend's; and Lothario likewise his, to please
Anselmo. And by this means both their wills were so cor-
respondent, as no clock could be better ordered than were
their desires. Anselmo being at last deeply enamoured of a
principal and beautiful young lady of the same city, called
Camilla, being so worthily descended, and she herself of
such merit therewithal, as he resolved (by the consent of his
friend Lothario, without whom he did nothing) to demand
her of her parents for wife ; and did put his purpose in exe-
cution; and Lothario himself was the messenger, and con-
cluded the matter so to his friend's satisfaction, as he was
shortly after put in possession of his desires; and Camilla
so contented to have gotten Anselmo, as she ceased not to
render Heaven and Lothario thanks, by whose means she
had obtained so great a match. The first days, as all mar-
riage days are wont to be merry, Lothario frequented, ac-
cording to the custom, his friend Anselmo's house, endeav-
ouring to honour, feast, and recreate him all the ways he
might possibly. Rut after the nuptials were finished, and
HC XIV — II
324 DON QUIXOTE
the concourse of strangers, visitations, and congratulations
somewhat ceased, Lothario also began to be somewhat more
slack than he wonted in going to Anselmo his house, deem-
ing it (as it is reason that all discreet men should) not so
convenient to visit or haunt so often the house of his friend
after marriage as he would, had he still remained a bachelor.
For although true amity neither should nor ought to admit
the least suspicion, yet notwithstanding a married man's
honour is so delicate and tender a thing, as it seems it may
be sometimes impaired, even by very brethren; and how
much more by friends? Anselmo noted the remission of
Lothario, and did grievously complain thereof, saying that,
if he had wist by marriage he should thus be deprived of his
dear conversation, he would never have married; and that
since through the uniform correspondency of them both
being free, they had deserved the sweet title of the Two
Friends, that he should not now permit (because he would
be noted circumspect without any other occasion) that so
famous and pleasing a name should be lost; and therefore
he requested him (if it were lawful to use such a term be-
tween them two) to return and be master of his house, and
come and go as he had done before his marriage, assuring
him that his spouse Camilla had no other pleasure and will,
than that which himself pleased she should have ; and that
she, after having known how great was both their friend-
ships, was not a little amazed to see him become so strange.
'To all these and many other reasons alleged by Anselmo,
to persuade Lothario to frequent his house, he answered with
so great prudence, discretion, and wariness, as Anselmo re-
mained satisfied of his friend's good intention herein; and
they made an agreement between them two, that Lothario
should dine at his house twice a week, and the holy days
besides. And although this agreement had passed between
them, yet Lothario purposed to do that only which he should
find most expedient for his friend's honour, whose reputa-
tion he tendered much more dearly than he did his own;
and was wont to say very discreetly, that the married man,
unto whom Heaven had given a beautiful wife, ought to
have as much heed of his friends which he brought to his
house, as he should of the women friends that visited his
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 325
wife; for that which is not done nor agreed upon in the
church or market, nor in public feasts or stations (being
places that a man cannot lawfully hinder his wife from fre-
quenting sometimes at least) are ofttimes facilitated and
contrived in a friend's or kinswoman's house, whom perhaps
we never suspected. Anselmo on the other side affirmed,
that therefore married men ought every one of them to have
some friend who might advertise them of the faults escaped
in their manner of proceeding; for it befalls many times,
that through the great love which the husband bears to his
wife, either he doth not take notice, or else he doth not ad-
vertise her, because he would not offend her to do or omit
to do certain things, the doing or omitting whereof might
turn to his honour or obloquy; to which things, being adver-
tised by his friend, he might easily apply some remedy. But
where might a man find a friend so discreet, loyal, and
trusty as Anselmo demands? I know not truly, if not Lo-
thario : for he it was that with all solicitude and care re-
garded the honour of his friend; and therefore endeavoured
to clip and diminish the number of the days promised, lest
he should give occasion to the idle vulgar, or to the eyes of
vagabonds and malicious men to judge any sinister thing,
viewing so rich, comely, noble, and qualified a young man as
he was, to have so free access into the house of a woman so
beautiful as Camilla. For though his virtues and modest
carriage were sufficiently able to set a bridle to any malig-
nant tongue, yet notwithstanding he would not have his credit,
nor that of his friends, called into any question ; and there-
fore would spend most of the days that he had agreed to
visit his friend, in other places and exercises ; yet feigning
excuses so plausible, as his friend admitted them for very
reasonable. And thus the time passed on in challenges of
unkindness of the one side, and lawful excuses of the other.
*It so fell out, that, as both the friends walked on a day
together in a field without the city, Anselmo said to Lothario
these words ensuing: "I know very well, friend Lothario,
that among all the favours which God of His bounty hath
bestowed upon me by making me the son of such parents,
and giving to me with so liberal a hand, both the goods of
nature and fortune ; yet as I cannot answer Him with suf-
326 DON QUIXOTE
ficient gratitude for the benefits already received, so do I
find myself most highly bound unto Him above all others,
for having given me such a friend as thou art, and so beauti-
ful a wife as Camilla, being both of you such pawns, as if I
esteem you not in the degree which I ought, yet do I hold
you as dear as I may. And yet, possessing all those things
which are wont to be the all and some that are wont and
may make a man happy, I live notwithstanding the most
sullen and discontented life of the world, being troubled, I
know not since when, and inwardly wrested with so strange
a desire, and extravagant, from the common use of others,
as I marvel at myself, and do condemn and rebuke myself
when I am alone, and do labour to conceal and cover mine
own desires ; all which hath served me to as little effect, as if
I had proclaimed mine own errors purposely to the world.
And seeing that it must finally break out, my will is, that
it be only communicated to the treasury of thy secret; hop-
ing by it and mine own industry, which, as my true friend,
thou wilt use to help me, I shall be quickly freed from the
anguish it causeth, and by thy means my joy and content-
ment shall arrive to the pass that my discontents have
brought me through mine own folly."
'Lothario stood suspended at Anselmo's speech, as one that
could not imagine to what so prolix a prevention and pre-
amble tended; and although he revolved and imagined sundry
things in his mind which he deemed might afflict his friend,
yet did he ever shoot wide from the mark which in truth it
was; and that he might quickly escape that agony, wherein
the suspension held him, he said, that his friend did notable
injury to their amity, in searching out wreathings and am-
bages in the discovery of his most hidden thoughts to him,
seeing he might assure himself certainly, either to receive
counsels of him how to entertain, or else remedy and means
how to accomplish them.
' "It is very true," answered Anselmo, "and with that con-
fidence I let thee to understand, friend Lothario, that the
desire which vexeth me is a longing to know whether my
wife Camilla be as good and perfect as I do account her, and
I cannot wholly rest satisfied of this truth, but by making
trial of her, in such sort as it may give manifest argument of
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 327
the degree of her goodness, as the fire doth show the value
of gold; for I am of opinion, O friend, that a woman is of
no more worth or virtue than that which is in her, after she
hath been solicited; and that she alone is strong who cannot
be bowed by the promises, gifts, tears, and continual impor-
tunities of importunate lovers. For what thanks is it," quoth
he, "tor a woman to be good, if nobody say or teach her ill?
What wonder that she be retired and timorous, if no occasion
be ministered to her of dissolution, and chiefly she that knows
she hath a husband ready to kill her for the least argument of
lightness? So that she which is only good for fear or want of
occasion, will I never hold in that estimation, that I would the
other solicited and pursued, who, notwithstanding, comes away
crowned with the victory. And therefore, being moved as
well by these reasons as by many other which I could tell you,
which accredit and fortify mine opinion, I desire that my
wife Camilla do also pass through the pikes of those proofs
and difficulties, and purify and refine herself in the fire of
being requested, solicited, and pursued, and that by one whose
worths and valour may deserve acceptance in her opinion;
and if she bear away the palm of the victory, as I believe she
will, I shall account my fortune matchless, and may brag that
my desires are in their height, and will say that a strong
woman hath fallen to my lot, of whom the wise man saith,
'Who shall find her?' And when it shall succeed contrary to
mine expectation, I shall, with the pleasure that I will con-
ceive to see how rightly it jumps with mine opinion, bear
very indifferent [ly] the grief which in all reason this so
costly a trial must stir in me. And presupposing that nothing
which thou shalt say to me shall be available to hinder my
design, or dissuade me from putting my purpose in execution,
I would have thyself, dear friend Lothario, to provide thee
to be the instrument that shall labour this work of my liking,
and I will give thee opportunity enough to perform the same,
without omitting anything thkt may further thee in the solici-
tation of an honest, noble, wary, retired, and passionless
woman.
' "And I am chiefly moved to commit this so hard an enter-
prise to thy trust, because I know that, if Camilla be van-
quished by thee, yet shall not the victory arrive to the last
328 DON QUIXOTE
push and upshot, but only to that of accounting a thing to be
done, which shall not be done for many good respects. So
shall I remain nothing offended, and mine injury concealed in
the virtue of thy silence; for I know thy care to be such in
matters concerning me, as it shall be eternal, like that of
death. And therefore if thou desirest that I may lead a life
deserving that name, thou must forthwith provide thyself to
enter into this amorous conflict, and that not languishing or
slothfully, but with that courage and diligence which my
desire expecteth, and the confidence I have in our amity
assureth me."
'These were the reasons used by Anselmo to Lothario, to
all which he was so attentive, as, until he ended, he did not
once unfold his lips to speak a word save those which we
have above related; and seeing that he spoke no more, after
he had beheld him a good while, as a thing that he had never
before, and did therefore strike him into admiration and
amazement, he said, "Friend Anselmo, I cannot persuade my-
self that the words you have spoken be other than jests, for,
had I thought that thou wert in earnest, I would not have
suffered thee to pass on so far, and by lending thee no ear
would have excused this tedious oration. I do verily im-
agine that either thou dost not know me, or I thee ; but not
so, for I know thee to be Anselmo, and thou that I am Lo-
thario. The damage is, that I think thou art not the Anselmo
thou was wont to be, and perhaps thou deemest me not to be
the accustomed Lothario that I ought to be ; for the things
which thou hast spoken are not of that Anselmo my friend,
nor those which thou seekest ought to be demanded of that
Lothario, of whom thou hast notice. For true friends ought
to prove and use their friends, as the poet said, usque ad arcs,
that is, that they should in no sort employ them or implore
their assistance in things offensive unto God; and if a Gentile
was of this opinion in matters of friendship, how much
greater reason is it that a Christian should have that feeling,
specially knowing that the celestial amity is not to be lost for
any human friendship whatsoever. And when the friend
should throw the bars so wide, as to set heavenly respects
apart, for to compliment with his friend, it must not be done
on light grounds, or for things of small moment, but rather
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 829
for those whereon his friend's life and honour wholly de-
pend. Then tell me now, Anselmo, in which of these two
things art thou in danger, that I may adventure my person to
do thee a pleasure, and attempt so detestable a thing as thou
dost demand? None of them truly, but rather dost demand,
as I may conjecture, that I do industriously labour to deprive
thee of thine honour and life together, and, in doing so, I
likewise deprive myself of them both. For if I must labour to
take away thy credit, it is most evident that I despoil thee of
life, for a man without reputation is worse than a dead man,
and I being the instrument, as thou desirest that I should be,
of so great harm unto thee, do not I become likewise thereby
dishonoured, and by the same consequence also without life?
Here me, friend Anselmo, and have patience not to answer
me until I have said all that I think, concerning that which
thy mind exacteth of thee ; for we shall have after leisure
enough, wherein thou mayst reply, and I have patience to
listen unto thy reasons."
' "I am pleased," quoth Anselmo ; "say what thou likest."
And Lothario prosecuted his speech in this manner: "Me-
thinks, Anselmo, that thou art now of the Moors' humours,
which can by no means be made to understand the error of
their sect, neither by citations of the Holy Scripture, nor by
reasons which consist in speculations of the understanding,
or that are founded in the Articles of the Faith, but must be
won by palpable examples, and those easy, intelligible, de-
monstrative, and doubtless, by mathematical demonstrations,
which cannot be denied. Even as when we say, 'If from two
equal parts we take away two parts equal, the parts that re-
main are also equal.' And when they cannot understand this,
as in truth they do not, we must demonstrate it to them with
our hands, and lay it before their eyes, and yet for all this
nought can avaU to win them in the end to give credit to the
verities of our religion ; which very terms and manner of pro-
ceeding I must use with thee, by reason that the desire which
is sprung in thee doth so wander and stray from all that
which bears the shadow only of reason, as I doubt much that
I shall spend my time in vain, which I shall bestow, to make
thee understand thine own simplicity, for I will give it no
other name at this present ; and, in good earnest, I v/as almost
330 DON QUIXOTE
persuaded to leave thee in thine humour, in punishment of
thine inordinate and unreasonable desire, but that the love
which I bear towards thee doth not consent I use to thee such
rigour, or leave thee in so manifest a danger of thine own
perdition. And, that thou mayst clearly see it, tell me, An-
selmo, hast not thou said unto me, that I must solicit one that
stands upon her reputation ; persuade an honest woman ; make
proffers to one that is not passionate or engaged ; and serve
a discreet woman? Yes, thou hast said all this. Well, then,
if thou knowest already that thou hast a retired, honest, un-
passionate, and prudent wife, what seekest thou more? And,
if thou thinkest that she will rest victorious, after all mine
assaults, as doubtless she will, what better titles wouldst thou
after bestow upon her, than those she possesseth already ?
Either it proceeds, because thou dost not think of her as
thou sayst, or else because thou knowest not what thou
demandest. If thou dost not account her such as thou praisest
her, to what end wouldst thou prove her ? But rather, as an
evil person, use her as thou likest best. But, if she be as good
as thou believest, it were an impertinent thing to make trial
of truth itself. For, after it is made, yet it will still rest only
with the same reputation it had before. Wherefore, it is a
concluding reason, that, to attempt things, whence rather
harm may after result unto us than good, is the part of rash
and discourseless brains; and principally when they deal with
those things whereunto they are not compelled or driven, and
that they see even afar off, how the attempting the like is
manifest folly. Difificult things are undertaken for God, or
the world, or both. Those that are done for God are the
works of the saints, endeavouring to lead angels' lives, in
frail and mortal bodies. Those of the world are the travels
and toils of such as cross such immense seas, travel through
so adverse regions, and converse with so many nations, to ac-
quire that which we call the goods of fortune. And the things
acted for God and the world together are the worthy exploits
of resolute and valorous martial men, which scarce perceive
so great a breach in the adversary wall, as the cannon bullet
is wont to make ; when, leaving all fear apart, without making
any discourse, or taking notice of the manifest danger that
threatens them, borne away, by the wings of desire and
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 331
honour, to serve God, their nation and prince, do throw them-
selves boldly into the throat of a thousand menacing deaths
which expect them,
' "These are things wont to be practised ; and it is honour,
glory, and profit to attempt them, be they never so full of in-
conveniences and danger; but that which thou sayst thou will
try and put in practice shall never gain thee God's glory, the
goods of fortune, or renown among men; for, suppose that
thou bringest it to pass according to thine own fantasy, thou
shalt remain nothing more contented, rich, or honourable
than thou art already; and, if thou dost not, then shalt thou
see thyself in the greatest misery of any wretch living; for it
will little avail thee then to think that no man knows the
disgrace befallen thee, it being sufficient both to afflict and
dissolve thee that thou knowest it thyself. And, for greater
confirmation of this truth, I will repeat unto thee a stanza of
the famous poet Luigi Tansillo, in the end of his first part of
St. Peter's Tears, which is :
" 'The grief increaseth, and withal the shame
In Peter when the day itself did show :
And though he no man sees, yet doth he blame
Himself because he had offended so.
For breasts magnanimous, not only tame,
When that of others they are seen, they know;
But of themselves ashamed they often be,
Though none but Heaven and earth their error see.'
So that thou canst not excuse thy grief with secrecy, be it
never so great, but rather shall have continual occasion to
weep, if not watery tears from thine eyes, at least tears of
blood from thy heart, such as that simple doctor wept, of
whom our poet makes mention, who made trial of the vessel,
which the prudent Reynaldos, upon maturer discourse, re-
fused to deal withal. And, although it be but a poetical fiction,
yet doth it contain many hidden morals, worthy to be noted,
understood, and imitated; how much more, seeing that by
what I mean to say now, -I hope thou shalt begin to conceive
the great error which thou wouldest wittingly commit.
' "Tell me, Anselmo, if Heaven or thy fortunes had made
thee lord and lawful possessor of a most precious diamond, of
whose goodness and quality all the lapidaries that had viewed
332 DON QUIXOTE
the same would rest satisfied, and that all of them would
jointly and uniformly affirm that it arrived in quality, good-
ness, and fineness to all that to which the nature of such a
stone might extend itself, and that thou thyself didst believe
the same without witting anything to the contrary; would it
be just that thou shouldest take an humour to set that dia-
mond beween an anvil and a hammer, and to try there by
very force of blows whether it be so hard and so fine as they
say? And further: when thou didst put thy design in execu-
tion, put the case that the stone made resistance to thy foolish
trial, yet wouldest thou add thereby no new valure or esteem
to it. And if it did break, as it might befall, were not then
all lost? Yes, certainly, and that leaving the owner, in all
men's opinion, for a very poor ignorant person. Then, friend
Anselmo, make account that Camilla is a most precious dia-
mond as well in thine as in other men's estimation; and it is
no reason to put her in contingent danger of breaking, seeing
that, although she remain in her integrity, she cannot mount
to more worth than she hath at the present; and if she fal-
tered, or did not resist, consider even at this present what
state you would be in then, and how justly thou mightest then
complain of thyself for being cause of her perdition and thine
own. See how there is no jewel in the world comparable to
the modest and chaste woman, and that all women's honour
consists in the good opinion that's had of them ; and seeing
that of thy spouse is so great, as it arrives to that sum of
perfection which thou knowest, why wouldest thou call this
verity in question ? Know, friend, that a woman is an imper-
fect creature, and should therefore have nothing cast in her
way te make her stumble and fall, but rather to clear and do
all encumbrances away out of it, to the end she may without
impeachment run with a swift course to obtain the perfection
she wants, which only consists in being virtuous.
' "The naturalists recount that the ermine is a little beast
that hath a most white skin ; and that, when the hunters would
chase him, they use this art to take him. As soon as they
find out his haunt, and places where he hath recourse, they
thwart them with mire and dirt, and after when they descry
the little beast, they pursue him towards those places which
are defiled; and the ermine, espying the mire, stands still, and
THE CURIOUS-LMPERTINENT 333
permits himself to be taken and captived in exchange of not
passing through the mire, or staining of his whiteness, which
it esteems more than either liberty or life. The honest and
chaste woman is an ermine, and the virtue of chastity is
whiter and purer than snow; and he that would not lose it,
but rather desires to keep and preserve it, must proceed with
a different style from that of the ermine. For they must not
propose and lay before her the mire of the passions, flatteries,
and services of importunate lovers; for perhaps she shall not
have the natural impulse and force, which commonly through
proper debility is wont to stumble, to pass over those encum-
brances safely; and therefore it is requisite to free the pass-
age and take them away, and lay before her the clearness
of virtue and the beauty comprised in good fame. The good
woman is also like unto a bright and clear mirror of crystal,
and therefore is subject to be stained and dimmed by every
breath that toucheth it. The honest woman is to be used as
relics of saints, to wit, she must be honoured but not touched.
The good woman is to be kept and prized like a fair garden
full of sweet flowers and roses, that is held in estimation,
whose owner permits no man to enter and trample or touch
his flowers, but holds it to be sufficient that they, standing
afar off, without the rails, may joy at the delightful sight and
fragrance thereof. Finally I will repeat certain verses unto
thee that have now come to my memory, the which were re-
peated of late in a new play, and seem to me very fit for the
purpose of which we treat. A prudent old man did give a
neighbour of his that had a daughter counsel to keep and shut
her up; and among many other reasons he used these:
" 'Truly woman is of glass ;
Therefore no man ought to try
If she broke or not might be,
Seeing all might come to pass.
Yet to break her 'tis more easy;
And it is no wit to venture
A thing of so brittle temper,
That to solder is so queasy.
And I would have all men dwell
In this truth and reason's ground,
That if Danaes may be found,
Golden showers are found as well.*
334 DON QUIXOTE
' "All that which I have said to thee, Anselmo, until this
instant, hath been for that which may touch thyself; and it is
now high time that somewhat be heard concerning me. And
if by chance I shall be somewhat prolix, I pray thee to pardon
me ; for the labyrinth wherein thou hast entered, and out of
which thou wouldest have me to free thee, requires no less.
Thou boldest me to be thy friend, and yet goest about to
despoil me of mine honour, being a thing contrary to all
amity; and dost not only pretend this, but dost likewise en-
deavour that I should rob thee of the same. That thou
wouldest deprive me of mine is evident; for when Camilla
shall perceive that I solicit her as thou demandest, it is cer-
tain that she will esteem of me as of one quite devoid of wit
and discretion, seeing I intend and do a thing so repugnant
to that which the being that him I am, and thine amity do
bind me unto. That thou wouldest have me rob thee thereof
is as manifest, for Camilla, seeing me thus to court her, must
imagine that I have noted some lightness in her which lent
me boldness thus to discover unto her my depraved desires,
and she holding herself to be thereby injured and dishon-
oured, her disgrace must also concern thee as a principal part
of her. And hence springs that which is commonly said. That
the husband of the adulterous wife, although he know nothing
of her lewdness, nor hath given any occasion to her to do
what she ought not, nor was able any way to hinder by dili-
gence, care, or other means, his disgrace, yet is entitled with
a vituperous name, and is in a manner beheld by those that
know his wife's malice with the eyes of contempt; whereas
they should indeed regard him rather with those of compas-
sion, seeing that he falls into that misfortune not so much
through his own default, as through the light fantasy of his
wicked consort. But I will show thee the reason why a bad
woman's husband is justly dishonoured and contemned, al-
though he be ignorant and guiltless thereof, and cannot pre-
vent, nor hath given to it any occasion. And be not grieved
to hear me, seeing the benefit of the discourse shall redound
unto thyself.
' "When God created our first parent in the terrestrial para-
dise, the Holy Scripture saith, That God infused sleep into
Adam, and that, being asleep, He took out a rib out of his left
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 335
side, of which He formed our mother Eve; and as soon as
Adam awaked and beheld her, he said, 'This is flesh of my
flesh, and bone of my bones.' And God said, 'For this cause
shall a man leave his father and his mother, and they shall be
two in one flesh.' And then was the divine ordinance of
matrimony first instituted, with such indissoluble knots as
only may be by death dissolved. And this marvellous ordi-
nance is of such efficacy and force, as it makes two different
persons to be one very flesh ; and yet operates further in good
married folk ; for, although they have two souls, yet it makes
them to have but one will. And hence it proceeds, that by
reason the wife's flesh is one and the very same with her hus-
band's, the blemishes or defects that taint it do also redound
into the husband's, although he, as we have said, have minis-
tered no occasion to receive that damage. For as all the whole
body feels any pain of the foot, head, or any other member, be-
cause it is all one flesh, and the head smarts at the grief of the
ankle, although it hath not caused it; so is the husband par-
ticipant of his wife's dishonour, because he is one and the
selfsame with her. And by reason that all the honours and
dishonours of the world are, and spring from flesh and blood,
and those of the bad woman be of this kind, it is forcible, that
part of them fall to the husband's share, and that he be ac-
counted dishonourable, although he wnolly be ignorant of it.
See then, Anselmo, to what peril thou dost thn-st thyself by
seeking to disturb the quietness and repose wherein thy wife
lives, and for how vain and impertinent curiosity thou
wouldest stir up the humours which are now quiet in thy
chaste spouse's breast. Note how the things thou dost adven-
ture to gain are of small moment ; but that which thou shalt
lose so great, that I must leave it in his point, having no
words sufficiently able to endear it. But if all that I have said
be not able to move thee from thy bad purpose, thou mayst
well seek out for some other instrument of thy dishonour and
mishaps ; for I mean not to be one, although I should there-
fore lose thine amity, which is the greatest loss that might
any way befall me."
'Here the prudent Lothario held his peace, and Anselmo re-
mained so confounded and melancholy, as he could not
answer a word to him for a very great while. But in the end
336 DON QUIXOTE
he said, "I have listened, friend Lothario, to all that which
thou hast said unto me, with the attention which thou hast
noted, and have perceived in thy reasons, examples, and
similitudes the great discretion wherewithal thou art endowed,
and the perfection of amity that thou hast attained; and do
also confess and see, that, if I follow not thine advice, but
should lean unto mine own, I do but shun the good, and pur-
sue the evil. Yet oughtest thou likewise to consider, how
herein I suffer the disease which some women are wont to
have, that long to eat earth, lime, coals, and other far worse
and loathsome things even to the very sight, and much more
to the taste ; so that it is behooveful to use some art by which
I may be cured; and this might be easily done by beginning
only to solicit Camilla, although you did it but weak and
f eignedly ; for I know she will not be so soft and pliable as to
dash her honesty about the ground at the first encounters, and
I will rest satisfied with this commencement alone; and thou
shalt herein accomplish the obligation thou owest to our
friendship, by not only restoring me to life, but also by per-
suading me not to despoil myself of mine honour. And thou
art bound to do this, for one reason that I shall allege, to wit,
that I being resolved, as indeed I am, to make this experience,
thou oughtest not to permit, being my friend, that I should
bewray my defect herein to a stranger, whereby I might very
much endanger my reputation, which thou labourest so much
to preserve; and though thy credit may lose some degrees
in Camilla's opinion whilst thou dost solicit her, it matters not
very much, or rather nothing; for very shortly, when we
shall espy in her the integrity that we expect, thou mayst
open unto her sincerely the drift of our practice, by which
thou shalt again recover thine impaired reputation. There-
fore seeing the adventure is little, and the pleasure thou shalt
do me by the enterprising thereof so. too great, I pray thee
do it, though ever so many encumbrances represent them-
selves to thee, for, as I have promised, with only thy begin-
ning, I will rest satisfied and account the cause concluded."
'Lothario perceiving the firm resolution of Anselmo, and
nothing else occurring forcibly dissuasive, not knowing what
other reasons to use that might hinder this his precipitate
resolution, and noting withal how he threatened to break the
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 337
matter of this his indiscreet desires to a stranger, he deter-
mined, to avoid greater inconveniences, to give him satisfac-
tion, and perform his demand, with purpose and resolution
to guide the matter so discreetly, as, M^ithout troubling Ca-
milla's thoughts, Anselmo should rest contented; and there-
fore entreated him not to open his mind to any other, for he
himself would undertake that enterprise, and begin it when-
soever he pleased. Anselmo embraced him very tender and
lovingly, and gratified him as much for that promise as if he
had done him some very great favour, and there they ac-
corded between them that he should begin the work the very
next day ensuing; for he would give him place and leisure to
speak alone with Camilla, and would likewise provide him of
money, jewels, and other things to present unto her. He did
also admonish him to bring music under her windows by
night, and write verses in her praise, and if he would not take
the pains to make them, he himself would compose them for
him. Lothario promised to perform all himself, yet with an
intention far wide from Anselmo's; and with this agreement
they returned to Anselmo's house, where they found Camilla
somewhat sad and careful, expecting her husband's return,
who had stayed longer abroad that day than his custom. Lo-
thario, leaving him at his house, returned to his own, as
pensive as he had left Anselmo contented, and knew not what
plot to lay, to issue out of that impertinent affair with pros-
perous success. But that night he bethought himself of a
manner how to deceive Anselmo without offending Camilla;
and so the next day ensuing he came to his friend's house to
dinner, where Camilla, knowing the great good-will her hus-
band bore towards him, did receive and entertain him very
kindly with the like. Dinner being ended, and the table taken
up, Anselmo requested Lothario to keep Camilla company
until his return, for he must needs go about an affair that
concerned him greatly, but would return again within an hour
and a-half. Camilla entreated her husband to stay, and Lo-
thario proffered to go and keep him company; but nothing
could prevail with Anselmo, but rather he importuned his
friend Lothario to remain and abide there till his return, be-
cause he must go to treat of a matter of much consequence.
He also commanded Camilla not to leave Lothario alone until
338 DON QUIXOTE
he came back. And so he departed, leaving Camilla and Lo-
thario together at the table, by reason that all the attendants
and servants were gone to dinner.
'Here Lothario saw that he was entered into the lists which
his friend so much desired, with his adversary before him,
who was with her beauty able to overcome a whole squadron
of armed knights; see then if Lothario had not reason to fear
himself; but that which he did at the first onset was to lay his
elbow on the arm of his chair and his hand on his cheek, and,
desiring Camilla to bear with his respectlessness therein, he
said he would repose a little whilst he attended Anselmo's
coming. Camilla answered that she thought he might take
his ease better on the cushions of state ; and therefore prayed
him he would enter into the parlour and lie on them. But he
excused himself, and so remained asleep in the same place until
Anselmo's return, who, coming in, and finding his wife in
her chamber and Lothario asleep, made full account that, by
reason of his long stay, they had time enough both to talk and
repose ; and therefore expected very greedily the hour wherein
his friend should awake, to go out Vv'ith him and learn what
success he had. All succeeded as he wished; for Lothario
arose, and both of them went abroad ; and then he demanded
of him what he desired. And Lothario answered that it
seemed not to him so good to discover all his meaning at the
first; and therefore had done no other thing at that time than
speak a little of her beauty and discretion; for it seemed to
him that this was the best preamble he could use to gain by
little and little some interest and possession in her acceptance,
to dispose her thereby the better to give ear again to his
words more willingly, imitating therein the devil's craft when
he means to deceive any one that is vigilant and careful ; for
then he translates himself into an angel of light, being one of
darkness, and laying before him apparent good, discovers
what he is in the end, and brings his intention to pass, if his
guiles be not at the beginning detected. All this did greatly
like Anselmo, who said that he would afford him every day
as much leisure, although he did not go abroad ; for he would
spend the time so at home as Camilla should never be able to
suspect his drift.
'It therefore befel that many days passed which Lothario
THE CURrOUS-IMPERTINENT 339
did willingly overslip, and said nothing to Camilla ; yet did
he ever soothe Anselmo, and told him that he had spoken to
her, but could never win her to give the least argument of
flexibility, or make way for the feeblest hope that might be ;
but rather affirmed that she threatened him that, if he did not
repel his impertinent desires, she would detect his indirect
proceedings to her husband. "It is well," quoth Anselmo.
"Hitherto Camilla hath resisted words; it is therefore requi-
site to try what resistance she will make against works. I
will give thee to-morrow four thousand crowns in gold, to
the end thou mayst offer, and also bestow them on her; and
thou shalt have as many more to buy jewels wherewithal to
bait her ; for women are naturally inclined, and specially if
they be fair (be they ever so chaste), to go brave and gor-
geously attired ; and if she can overcome this temptation, I v/ill
remain pleased, and put thee to no more trouble." Lothario
answered, that, seeing he had begun, he would bear his enter-
prise on to an end, although he made full account that he
should depart from the conflict both tired and vanquished. He
received the four thousand crowns the next day, and at once
with them four thousand perplexities, for he knew not what
to invent to lie anew; but concluded finally to tell his friend
how Camilla was as inflexible at gifts and promises as at
words; and therefore it would be in vain to travail any more
in her pursuit, seeing he should do nothing else but spend the
time in vain.
'But fortune, which guided these affairs in another manner,
so disposed, that Anselmo, having left Lothario and Camilla
alone, as he was wont, entered secretly into a chamber, and
through the crannies and chinks did listen and see what they
would do; where he perceived that Lothario, in the space of
half-an-hour, spoke not a word to Camilla, nor yet would he
have spoken, though he had remained there a whole age, and
thereupon surmised straight that all that which his friend had
told him of Camilla's answers and his own speech were but
fictions and untruths ; and that he might the more confirm
himself, and see whether it were so, he came forth, and, call-
ing Lothario apart, he demanded of him what Camilla had
said, and in what humour she was at the present? Lothario
answered, that he meant not ever any more to sound her in
340 DON QUIXOTE
that matter; for she replied unto him so untowardly and
sharply, as he durst not attempt any more to speak unto her
of such things.
' "Oh," quoth Anselmo, "Lothario, Lothario ! how evil dost
thou answer to the affection thou owest me, or to the confi-
dence I did repose in thee? I have stood beholding thee all
this while through the hole of that lock, and saw how thou
never spokest one word to her. Whereby I do also collect
that thou hast not yet once accosted her; and if it be so, as
doubtlessly it is, say, why dost thou deceive me? or why goest
thou about fraudulently to deprive me of those means whereby
I may obtain my desires?" Anselmo said no more, yet what
he said was sufficient to make Lothario confused and ashamed,
who, taking it to be a blemish to his reputation to be found in
a lie, swore to Anselmo that he would from thenceforward so
endeavour to please his mind, and tell him no more leasings,
as he himself might perceive the success thereof, if he did
again curiously lie in watch for him ; a thing which he might
well excuse, because his most serious labour to satisfy his de-
sire should remove all shadow of suspicion. Anselmo believed
him, and that he might give him the greater commodity, and
less occasion of fear, he resolved to absent himself from his
house some eight days, and go to visit a friend of his that
dwelt in a village not far from the city; and therefore dealt
with his friend, that he should send a messenger to call for
him very earnestly, that, under that pretext, he might find an
excuse to Camilla for his departure.
'O unfortunate and inconsiderate Anselmo ! what is that
which thou dost? what dost thou contrive? or what is that
thou goest about? Behold, thou wprkest thine own ruin,
laying plots of thine own dishonour, and giving order to thy
proper perdition. Thy wife Camilla is good; thou dost pos-
sess her in quiet and peaceable manner; no man surpriseth
thy delights, her thoughts transgress not the limits of her
house. Thou art her heaven on earth, and the goal to which
her desires aspire. Thou art the accomplishment and sum of
her delectation. Thou art the square by which she measureth
and directeth her will, adjusting wholly with thine and with
that of Heaven. Since then the mines of her honour, beauty,
modesty, and recollection bountifully afford thee, without any
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 341
toil, all the treasures contained in them, or thou canst desire,
why wouldst thou dig the earth and seek out new veins and
ne'er-seen treasures, exposing thyself to the danger that thy
labours may turn to wreck, seeing, in fine, that they are only
sustained by the weak supporters of her frail nature? Re-
member how he that seeks the impossible may justly be re-
fused of that which is possible, according to that which the
poet saith :
" 'In death for life I seek,
Health in infirmity ;
For issue in a dungeon deep,
In jails for liberty,
And in a treachour loyalty.
" 'But envious fate, which still
Conspires to work mine ill,
With heaven hath thus decreed,
That easy things should be to me denied
'Cause I crave the impossible.' "
'Anselmo departed the next day following to the village,
telling Camilla, at his departure, that, whilst he was absent,
his friend Lothario would come and see to the affairs of his
house, and to eat with her, and desired her therefore to make
as much of him as she would do of his own person. Camilla,
like a discreet and modest woman, was grieved at the order
her husband did give to her, and requested him to render how
indecent it was that any one should possess the chair of his
table, he being absent, and if he did it as doubting her suffi-
ciency to manage his household affairs, that at least he should
make trial of her that one time, and should clearly perceive
how she was able to discharge matters of far greater conse-
quence. Anselmo replied, that what he commanded was his
pleasure, and therefore she had nothing else to do but hold
down the head and obey it. Camilla answered, that she would
do so, although it was very much against her will. In fine,
her husband departed, and Lothario came the next day fol-
lowing to the house, where he was entertained by Camilla
very friendly, but would never treat with Lothario alone, but
evermore was compassed by her servants and waiting maid-
ens, but chiefly by one called Leonela, whom she loved dearly,
342 DON QUIXOTE
as one that had been brought up with her in her father's
house, even from their infancy, and when she did marry An-
selmo she brought her from thence in her company.
'The first three days Lothario spoke not a word, although
he might, when the tables were taken up, and that the folk
of the house went hastily to dinner, for so Camilla had com-
manded, and did give Leonela order besides to dine before
herself, and that she should still keep by her side; but the girl,
who had her fancy otherwise employed in things more pleas-
ing her humour, and needed those hours and times for the
accomplishing of them, did not always accomplish so punctu-
ally her lady's command, but now and then would leave her
alone, as if that were her lady's behest. But the honest pres-
ence of Camilla, the gravity of her face, and the modesty of
her carriage, was such, that it served as a bridle to restrain
Lothario's tongue. But the benefit of Camilla's many virtues,
setting silence to Lothario's speech, resulted afterward to
both their harms ; for though the tongue spoke not, yet did his
thoughts discourse, and had leisure afforded them to contem-
plate, part by part, all the extremes of worth and beauty that
were cumulated in Camilla, potent to inflame a statue of
frozen marble, how much more a heart of flesh ! Lothario
did only behold her in the time and space he should speak
unto her, and did then consider how worthy she was to be
loved. And this consideration did by little and little give as-
saults to the respects which he ought to have borne towards
his friend Anselmo; a thousand times did he determine to
absent himself from the city, and go where Anselmo should
never see him, nor he Camilla ; but the delight he took in be-
holding her did again withhold and hinder his resolutions.
When he was alone, he would condemn himself of his mad
design, and term himself a bad friend and worse Christian;
he made discourses and comparisons between himself and An-
selmo, all which did finish in this point, that Anselmo's fool-
hardiness and madness were greater than his own infidelity,
and that, if he might be as easily excused before God, for
that he meant to do, as he would be before men, he needed
not to fear any punishment should be inflicted on him for the
crime. Finally, Camilla's beauty and worth, assisted by the
occasion which the ignorant husband had thrust into his fists.
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 343
did wholly ruin and overthrow Lothario his loyalty ; and
therefore, without regarding any other thing than that to
which his pleasure conducted him, about three days after
Anselmo's departure (which time he had spent in a continual
battle and resistance of his contending thoughts), he began
to solicit Camilla with such trouble of the spirits and so
amorous words, as she was strucken almost beside herself
with wonder, and made him no other answer, but, arising
from the table, flung away in a fury into her chamber. But
yet, for all this dryness, Lothario his hope (which is wont
evermore to be born at once with love) was nothing dis-
mayed, but rather accounted the more of Camilla, who, per-
ceiving that in Lothario which she never durst before to im-
agine, knew not what she might do ; but, it seeming unto her
to be a thing neither secure nor honest, to give him occasion
or leisure to speak unto him again, determined to send one
unto her husband Anselmo the very same night, as indeed she
did, with a letter to recall him home to her house. The
subject of her letter was this.
CHAPTER VII
Wherein Is Prosecuted the History of the
Curious-Impertinent
*"~|~^VEN as it is commonly said, that an army seems
r^ not well without a general, or a castle without a
* -^ constable, so do I affirm, that it is much more in-
decent to see a young married woman without her husband,
when he is not justly detained away by necessary affairs. I
find myself so ill disposed in your absence, and so impatient
and impotent to endure it longer, as, if you do not speedily
return, I shall be constrained to return back unto my father,
although I should leave your house without any keeping; for
the guard you appointed for me, if it be so that he may de-
serve that title, looks more, I believe, to his own pleasure,
than to that which concerns you. Therefore, seeing you have
wit enough, I will say no more ; nor ought I say more in
reason."
'Anselmo received the letter, and by it understood that Lo-
thario had begun the enterprise, and that Camilla had an-
swered to him according as he had hoped. And, marvellous
glad at the news, he answered his wife by word of mouth,
that she should not remove in any wise from her house ; for
he would return with all speed. Camilla was greatly admired
at his answer, which struck her into a greater perplexity than
she was at the first, being afraid to stay at home, and also to
go to her father. For by staying she endangers her honesty;
by going she would transgress her husband's command. At
last she resolved to do that which was worst, which was to
remain at home, and not to shun Lothario's presence, lest she
should give her servants occasion of suspicion. And now she
was grieved to have written what she did to her husband,
fearful lest he should think that Lothario had noted in her
some token of lightness, which might have moved him to lose
344
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 345
the respect which otherwise was due unto her. But, confident
in her innocency, she cast her hopes in God and her good
thoughts, wherewithal she thought to resist all Lothario's
words, and by holding her silent without making him any
answer, without giving any further account of the matter to
her husband, lest thereby she might plunge him in new diffi-
cuhies and contention with his friend, and did therefore be-
think her how she might excuse Lothario to Anselmo, when
he should demand the occasion that moved her to write unto
him that letter.
'With these more honest than profitable or discreet resolu-
tions, she gave ear the second day to Lothario, who charged
her with such resolution, as her constancy began to stagger,
and her honesty had enough to do recurring to her eyes to
contain them, lest they should give any demonstration of the
amorous compassion which Lothario's words and tears had
stirred in her breast. Lothario noted all this, and it inflamed
him the more. Finally, he thought that it was requisite [to]
the time and leisure which Anselmo's absence afforded him,
to lay closer siege to that fortress ; and so he assaulted her
presumptuously, with the praises of her beauty, for there is
nothing which with such facility doth rend and raze to the
ground the proudly-crested turrets of women's vanity, than
the same vanity being dilated on by the tongue of adulation
and flattery. To be brief, he did with all diligence undermine
the rock of her integrity with so warlike engines, as although
Camilla were made of brass, yet would she be overthrown,
for Lothario wept, entreated, promised, flattered, persisted
and feigned so feelingly, and with such tokens of truth, as,
traversing Camilla's care of her honour, he came in the end
to triumph over that which was least suspected, and he most
desired; for she rendered herself — even Camilla rendered
herself. But what wonder if Lothario's amity could not stand
on foot? A clear example, plainly demonstrating that the
amorous passion is only vanquished by shunning it, and that
nobody ought to adventure to wrestle with so strong an ad-
versary; for heavenly forces are necessary for him that would
confront the violence of that passion, although human. None
but Leonela knew the weakness of her lady, for from her the
two bad friends and new lovers could not conceal the matter ;
346 DON QUIXOTE
nor yet would Lothario discover to Camilla her husband's
pretence, or that he had given him wittingly the opportunity
whereby he arrived to that pass, because she should not im-
agine that he had gotten her lightly, and by chance, and did
not purposely solicit her.
'A few days after, Anselmo arrived to his house, and did
not perceive what wanted therein, to wit, that which it had
lost, and he most esteemed. From thence he went to see his
friend Lothario, whom he found at home, and, embracing one
another, he demanded of him the news of his life or of his
death. "The news which I can give thee, friend Anselmo,"
quoth Lothario, "are, that thou has a wife who may deserv-
edly be the example and garland of all good women. The
words that I spoke unto her were spent on the air, my proffers
contemned, and my gifts repulsed, and besides, she hath
mocked me notably for certain feigned tears that I did shed.
In resolution, even as Camilla is the pattern of all beauty, so
is she a treasury wherein modesty resides, courtesy and wari-
ness dwell, and all the other virtues that may beautify an
honourable woman, or make her fortunate. Therefore, friend,
take back thy money, for here it is ready, and I never had
occasion to employ it; for Camilla's integrity cannot be sub-
dued with so base things as are gifts and promises. And,
Anselmo, content thyself now with the proofs made already,
without attempting to make any further trial. And seeing
thou hast passed over the sea of difficulties and suspicions
with a dry foot, which may and are wont to be had of women,
do not eftsoons enter into the profound depths of new incon-
veniences, nor take thou any other pilot to make experience
of the goodness and strength of the vessel that Heaven hath
allotted to thee, to pass therein through the seas of this world ;
but make account that thou art harboured in a safe haven,
and there hold thyself fast with the anchor of good considera-
tion, and so rest thee until death come to demand his debt,
from the payment whereof no nobility or privilege whatsoever
can exempt us." Anselmo rested singularly satisfied at Lo-
thario's discourse, and did believe it as firmly as if it were
delivered by an oracle ; but did entreat him notwithstanding
to prosecute his attempt, although it were only done for cu-
riosity, and to pass away the time ; yet not to use so efficacious
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 347
means as he hitherto practised; and that he only desired him
to write some verses in her praise under the name of Chloris,
for he would make Camilla believe that he was enamoured on
a certain lady, to whom he did appropriate that name, that
he might celebrate her praises with the respect due to her
honour; and that if he would not take the pains to invent
them, then he himself would willingly compose them. "That
is not needful," quoth Lothario, "for the Muses are not so
alienated from me, but that they visit me sometimes in the
year. Tell you unto Camilla what you have divined of my
loves, and as for the verses, I will make them myself; if not
so well as the subject deserves, yet at the least as artificially
as I may devise them." The impertinent-curious man and
his treacherous friend having thus agreed, and Anselmo re-
turned to his house, he demanded of Camilla that which she
marvelled he had not asked before, that she should tell unto
him the occasion why she sent unto him the letter? Camilla
made answer, because it seemed unto her that Lothario be-
held her somewhat more immodestly than when he was at
home ; but that now she did again dissuade herself, and be-
lieved that it was but a light surmise, without any ground,
because that she perceived Lothario to loathe her presence,
or [to] be by any means alone with her. Anselmo told her
that she might very well live secure for him, for that he knew
Lothario's affections were bestowed elsewhere, and that upon
one of the noblest damsels of the city, whose praises he sol-
emnized under the name of Chloris, and that although he
were not, yet was there no cause to doubt of Lothario's virtue,
or the amity that was between them both. Here, if Camilla
had not been premonished by Lothario that the love of Chloris
was but feigned, and that he himself had told it to Anselmo
to blind him, that he might with less difficulty celebrate her
own praises under the name of Chloris, she had without doubt
fallen into the desperate toils of jealousy; but being already
advertised, she posted over that assault lightly. The day
following, they three sitting together at dinner, Anselmo re-
quested Lothario to repeat some one of the verses that he had
made to his beloved Chloris; for, seeing that Camilla knew
her not, he might boldly say what he pleased. "Although she
knew her," quoth Lothario, "yet would I not therefore sup-
348 DON QUIXOTE
press any part of her praises. For when any lover praiseth
his lady for her beauty, and doth withal tax her of cruelty,
her credit incurs no danger. But befall what it list, I com-
posed yesterday a sonnet of the ingratitude of Chloris, and is
this ensuing:
" 'A Sonnet.
"'Amidst the silence of the darkest night,
When sweetest sleep invadeth mortal eyes;
I poor account, to Heaven and Chloris bright.
Give of the richest harms, which ever rise.
And at the time we Phoebus may devise.
Shine through the rosea! gates of the Orient bright,
With deep accents and sighs, in wonted guise,
I do my plaints renew, with main and might.
And when the sun, down from his starry seat,
Directest rays toward the earth doth send,
My sighs I double and my sad regreet;
And night returns ; but of my woes no end.
For I find always, in my mortal strife.
Heaven without ears, and Chloris likewise deaf.' "
'Camilla liked the sonnet very well, but Anselmo best of
all; for he praised it, and said, that the lady must be very
cruel that would not answer such perspicuous truths with
reciprocal affection. But then Camilla answered, "Why, then,
belike, all that which enamoured poets say is true?" "Inas-
much as poets," quoth Lothario, "they say not truth; but as
they are enamoured, they remain as short as they are true."
"That is questionless," quoth Anselmo, all to underprop and
give Lothario more credit with Camilla, who was as careless
of the cause (her husband said so) as she was enamoured of
Lothario; and therefore with the delight she took in his com-
positions, but chiefly knowing that his desires and labours
were addressed to herself, who was the true Chloris, she en-
treated him to repeat some other sonnet or ditty, if he re-
membered any. "Yes, that I do," quoth Lothario; "but I be-
lieve that it is not so good as the first, as you may well judge ;
for it is this:
'"A Sonnet.
" 'I die, and if I cannot be believed,
My death's most certain, as it is most sure
To see me, at thy feet, of life deprived ;
Rather than grieve, this thraldom to endure.
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 349
Well may I (in oblivious shades obscure)
Of glory, life, and favour be denied.
And yet even there, shall in my bosom pure.
The shape of thy fair face, engraved, be eyed.
For that's a relic, which I do reserve
For the last trances my contentions threaten,
Which 'midst thy rigour doth itself preserve.
O woe's the wight, that is by tempests beaten
By night, in unknown seas, in danger rife
For want of North, or haven, to lose his life.' "
'Anselmo commended also this second sonnet as he had
done the first, and added by that means one link to another
in the chain wherewith he entangled himself, and forged his
own dishonour ; seeing, when Lothario dishonoured him most
of all, he said unto him then that he honoured him most.
And herewithal Camilla made all the links, that verily served
only to abase her down to the centre of contempt, seem to
mount her in her husband's opinion up to the height of virtue
and good fame.
'It befel soon after, that Camilla, finding herself alone with
her maiden, said to her, "I am ashamed, friend Leonela, to
see how little I knew to value myself, seeing that I made not
Lothario spend some time at least in the purchasing the whole
possession of me, which I, with a prompt will, bestowed upon
him so speedily. I fear me that he will impute my hastiness
to lightness, without considering the force he used towards
me, which wholly hindered and disabled my resistance."
"Let not that afflict you, madam," quoth Leonela; "for it is
no sufficient cause to diminish estimation, that that be given
quickly which is to be given, if that in effect be good that is
given, and be in itself worthy of estimation ; for it is an old
proverb, 'that he that gives quickly, gives twice.' " "It is
also said as well," quoth Camilla, " 'that that which costeth
little is less esteemed.' " "That reason hath no place in you,"
quoth Leonela, "forasmuch as love, according as some have
said of it, doth sometimes fly, other times it goes; it runs with
this man, and goes leisurely with the other; it makes some
key-cold, and inflames others ; some it wounds, and some it
kills ; it begins the career of his desires in an instant, and in
the very same it concludes it likewise. It is wont to lay siege
to the fortress in the morning, and at night it makes it to
350 DON QUIXOTE
yield, for there's no force able to resist it; which being so,
what do you wonder? or what is it that you fear, if the same
hath befallen Lothario, seeing that love made of my lord's
absence an instrument to vanquish us? And it was forcible,
that in it we should conclude on it which love had before de-
termined, without giving time itself any time to lead Anselmo
that he might return, and with his presence leave the work
imperfect. For love hath none so officious or better a min-
ister to execute his desires than is occasion. It serves itself
of occasion in all his act, but most of all at the beginning.
And all this that I have said I know rather by experience
than hearsay, as I will some day let you to understand; for,
madam, I am likewise made of flesh and lusty young blood.
And as for you, Lady Camilla, you did not give up and yield
yourself presently, but stayed until you had first seen in Lo-
thario's eyes, his sighs, in his discourses, in his promises, and
gifts, all his soul, in which, and in his perfections, you might
read how worthy he is to be loved. And seeing this is so, let
not these scruples and nice thoughts assault or further dis-
turb your mind, but persuade yourself that Lothario esteems
you as much as you do him, and lives with content and satis-
faction, seeing that it was your fortune to fall into the am-
orous snare, that it was his good luck to catch you with his
valour and deserts ; who not only hath the four S's which they
say every good lover ought to have, but also the whole ABC,
which if you will not credit, do but listen to me a while, and
I will repeat it to you by rote. He is, as it seems, and as far
as I can judge. Amiable, Bountiful, Courteous, Dutiful, En-
amoured, Firm, Gallant, Honourable, Illustrious, Loyal, Mild,
Noble, Honest, Prudent, Quiet, Rich, and the S's which they
say; and besides True, Valorous. The X doth not quader
well with him, because it sounds harshly. Y he is Young,
and the Z he is Zealous of thine honour." Camilla laughed at
her maiden's ABC, and accounted her to be more practised
in love-matters than she herself had confessed, as indeed she
was; for then she revealed to her mistress how she and a
certain young man, well-born, of the city, did treat of love
one with another. Hereat her mistress was not a little
troubled in mind, fearing that her honour might be greatly
endangered by that means ; she demanded whether her affec-
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 351
tion had passed further than words ? And the maid answered
very shamelessly and freely that they did; for it is most cer-
tain, that this kind of reccheless mistress do also make their
maidens careless and impudent; who, when they perceive
their ladies to falter, are commonly wont to halt likewise
themselves, and care not that the world do know it.
'Camilla, seeing that error past remedy, could do no more
but entreat Leonela not to reveal anything of their affairs to
him she said was her sweetheart, and that she should handle
her matters discreetly and secretly, lest they might come to
Anselmo or Lothario's notice. Leonela promised to perform
her will, but did accomplish her promise in such sort, as she
did confirm Camilla's fears that she should lose her credit
by her means. For the dishonest and bold girl, after she had
perceived that her mistress's proceedings were not such as
they were wont, grew so hardy, as she gave entrance and
brought her lover into her master's house, presuming that,
although her lady knew it, yet would she not dare to discover
it. For this among other harms follows the sins of mis-
tresses, that it makes them slaves to their own servants, and
doth oblige them to conceal their dishonest and base proceed-
ings, as it fell out in Camilla, who, although she espied
Leonela, not once only, but sundry times together, with her
lover in a certain chamber of the house, she not only dared
not to rebuke her for it, but rather gave her opportunity to
hide him, and would remove all occasion out of her hus-
band's way, whereby he might suspect any such thing.
'But all could not hinder Lothario from espying him once,
as he departed out of the house at the break of the day; who,
not knowing him, thought at the first it was a spirit, but when
he saw him post away, and cast his cloak over his face, lest
he should be known, he, abandoning his simple surmise, fell
into a new suspicion which had overthrown them all, were it
not that Camilla did remedy it. For Lothario thought that he
whom he had seen issue out of Anselmo's house at so unsea-
sonable an hour, had not entered into it for Leonela's sake,
nor did he remember then that there was such a one as Leo-
nela in the world, but only thought that, as Camilla was
lightly gotten by him, so belike she was won by some other.
For the wickedness of a bad woman bringeth usually all these
352 DON QUIXOTE
additions, that she loseth her reputation even with him, to
whom prayed and persuaded she yieldeth herself; and he be-
lieveth that she will as easily, or with more facility, consent
to others, and doth infallibly credit the least suspicion which
thereof may be offered.
'And it seems that Lothario in this instant was wholly
deprived of all reasonable discourse, and quite despoiled of
his understanding; for, without pondering of the matter, im-
patient and kindled by the jealous rage that inwardly gnawed
his bowels, fretting with desire to be revenged on Camilla,
who had never offended him, he came to Anselmo before he
was up, and said to him, "Know, Anselmo, that I have had
these many days a civil conflict within myself whether I
should speak or no, and I have used as much violence as I
might to myself, not to discover a thing unto you, which now
it is neither just nor reasonable I should conceal. Know that
Camilla's fortress is rendered, and subject to all that I please
to command; and if I have been somewhat slow to inform
thee this of truth, it was because I would first see whether
it proceeded of some light appetite in her, or whether she did
it to try me, and see whether that love was still constantly
continued, which I first began to make unto her by thy order
and licence. I did also believe that if she had been such as
she ought to be, and her that we both esteemed her, she would
have by this time acquainted you with my importunacy ; but
seeing that she lingers therein, I presume that her promises
made unto me are true, that when you did again absent your-
self out of town, she would speak with me in the wardrobe"
(and it was true, for there Camilla was accustomed to talk
with him), "yet would not I have thee run rashly to take re-
venge, seeing the sin is not yet otherwise committed than in
thought, and perhaps between this and the opportunity she
might hope to put it in execution, her mind would be changed,
and she repent herself of her folly. And therefore seeing
thou hast ever followed mine advice partly or wholly, follow
and keep one counsel that I will give unto thee now, to the
end that thou mayst after, with careful assurance and without
fraud, satisfy thine own will as thou likest best. Feign thy-
self to be absent two or three days as thou art wont, and then
convey thyself cunningly into the wardrobe, where thou mayst
THE CUKIOUS-IMPERTINENT 353
very well hide thyself behind the tapestry, and then thou
shalt see with thine own eyes, and I with mine, what Camilla
will do ; and if it be that wickedness which rather ought to be
feared than hoped for, thou mayst, with wisdom, silence, and
discretion, be the proper executioner of so injurious a
wrong."
'Anselmo remained amazed, and almost besides himself,
hearing his friend Lothario so unexpectedly to acquaint him
with those things in a time wherein he least expected them ;
for now he esteemed Camilla to have escaped victress from
the forged assaults of Lothario, and did himself triumph for
glory of her victory. Suspended thus and troubled, he stood
silent a great while looking on the earth, without once re-
moving his eyes from it ; and finally, turning towards his
friend, he said, "Lothario, thou hast done all that which I
could expect from so entire amity, and I do therefore mean
to follow thine advice in all things precisely. Do therefore
what thou pleasest, and keep that secret which is requisite
in so weighty and unexpected an event." "All that I do
promise," quoth Lothario; and so departed, wholly repented
for that he had told to Anselmo, seeing how foolishly he had
proceeded, since he might have revenged himself on Camilla
very well, without taking a way so cruel and dishonourable.
There did he curse his little wit, and abased his light resolu-
tion, and knew not what means to use to destroy what he had
done, or give it some reasonable and contrary issue. In the
end he resolved to acquaint Camilla with the whole matter,
and by reason that he never missed of opportunity to speak
unto her, he found her alone the very same day; and she,
seeing likewise that she had fit time to speak unto him, said,
"Know, friend Lothario, that a certain thing doth pinch my
heart in such manner, as it seems ready to burst in my breast,
as doubtlessly I fear me that in time it will, if we cannot set
a remedy to it. For such is the immodesty of Leonela, as
she shuts up a lover of hers every night in this house, and
remains with him until daylight, which so much concerns my
credit, as it leaves open a spacious field to him that sees the
other go out of my house at so unseasonable times, to judge
of me what he pleaseth; and that which most grieves me is,
that I dare not punish or rebuke her for it. For she being
354 DON QUIXOTE
privy to our proceedings, sets a bridle on me, and constrains
me to conceal hers; and hence I fear will bad success befall
us." Lothario at the first suspected that Camilla did speak
thus to make him believe that the man whom he had espied
was Leonela's friend, and none of hers ; but seeing her to
weep indeed, and be greatly afflicted in mind, he began at
last to give credit unto the truth, and, believing it, was
greatly confounded and grieved for that he had done. And
yet, notwithstanding, he answered Camilla that she should
not trouble or vex herself any more ; for he would take such
order, as Leonela's impudence should be easily crossed and
suppressed; and then did recount unto her all that he had
said to Anselmo, spurred on by the furious rage of jealous
indignation, and how her husband had agreed to hide him-
self behind the tapestry of the wardrobe, that he might from
thence clearly perceive the little loyalty she kept towards
him ; and demanded pardon of her for that folly, and counsel
to redress it, and come safely out of the intricate labyrinth
whereinto his weak-eyed discourse had conducted him.
'Camilla, having heard Lothario's discourse, was afraid
and amazed, and with great anger and many and discreet
reasons did rebuke him, reviling the baseness of his thoughts,
and the simple and little consideration that he had. But
as women have naturally a sudden wit for good or bad, much
more prompt than men, although when indeed they would
make discourses, it proves defective; so Camilla found in an
instant a remedy for an affair in appearance so irremediable
and helpless, and therefore bade Lothario to induce his friend
Anselmo to hide himself the next day ensuing, for she hoped
to take commodity out of his being there for them both to
enjoy one another with more security than ever they had be-
fore ; and without wholly manifesting her proverb to him,
she only advertised him to have care that, after Anselmo
were hidden, he should presently come when Leonela called
for him, and that he should answer her as directly to every
question she proposed, as if Anselmo were not in place. Lo-
thario did urge her importunately to declare her design unto
him, to the end he might with more security and advice ob-
scure all that was necessary. "I say," quoth Camilla, "there
is no other observance to be had, than only to answer me di-
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 355
rectly to what I shall demand." For she would not give him
account beforehand of her determination, fearful that he
would not conform himself to her opinion, which she took
to be so good, or else lest he would follow or seek any other,
that would not prove after so well. Thus departed Lothario ;
and Anselmo, under pretext that he would visit his friend out
of town, departed, and returned covertly back again to hide
himself, which he could do the more commodiously, because
Camilla and Leonela did purposely afford him opportunity.
Anselmo having hidden himself with the grief that may be
imagined one would conceive, who did expect to see with
his own eyes an anatomy made of the bowels of his honour,
and was in danger to lose the highest felicity that he ac-
counted himself to possess in his beloved Camilla; Camilla
and Leonela, being certain that he was hidden within the
wardrobe, entered into it, wherein scarce had Camilla set
her foot, when, breathing forth of a deep sigh, she spoke in
this manner :
' "Ah, friend Leonela ! were it not better that, before I put
in execution that which I would not have thee to know,
lest thou shouldest endeavour to hinder it, that thou takest
Anselmo's poniard that I have sought of thee, and pass this
infamous breast of mine through and through? but do it
not, for it is no reason that I should suffer for other men's
faults. I will know, first of all, what the bold and dishonest
eyes of Lothario noted in me, that should stir in him the
presumption to discover unto me so unlawful a desire as that
which he hath revealed, so much in contempt of his friend,
and to my dishonour. Stand at that window, Leonela, and
call him to me, for I do infallibly believe that he stands in
the street awaiting to efifect his wicked purpose. But first
my cruel yet honourable mind shall be performed." "Alas,
dear madam," quoth the wise and crafty Leonela, "what is
it that you mean to do with that poniard? Mean you per-
haps to deprive either your own or Lothario's life there-
withal? for whichsoever of these things you do, shall redound
to the loss of your credit and fame. It is much better that
you dissemble your wrong, and give no occasion to the bad
man now to enter into this house, and find us here in it
alone. Consider, good madam, how we are but weak women,
HC XIV — 12
356 DON QUIXOTE
and he is a man, and one resolute, and by reason that he
comes blinded by his bad and passionate intent, he may per-
adventure, before you be able to put yours in execution, do
somewhat that would be worse for you than to deprive you of
your life. Evil befall my master Anselmo, that ministers so
great occasion to Impudency thus to discover her visage in
our house. And if you should kill him by chance, madam, as
I suspect you mean to do, what shall we do after with the
dead carcase?" What said Camilla? "We would leave him
here that Anselmo might bury him; for it is only just that
he should have the agreeable task of interring his own in-
famy. Make an end, then, and call him, for methinks that
all the time which I spend untaking due revenge for my
wrong, turns to the prejudice of the loyalty which I owe
unto my spouse."
'Anselmo listened very attentively all the while, and at
every word that Camilla said, his thoughts changed. But
when he understood that she was resolved to kill Lothario,
he was about to come out and discover himself, to the end
that such a thing should not be done; but the desire that
he had to see wherein so brave and honest a resolution would
end, withheld him, determining then to sally out when his
presence should be needful to hinder it. Camilla about this
time began to be very weak and dismayed, and casting her-
self, as if she had fallen into a trance, upon a bed that
was in the room, Leonela began to lament very bitterly, and
to say, "Alas ! wretch that I am, how unfortunate should I
be, if the flower of the world's honesty, the crown of good
women, and the pattern of chastity should die here between
my hands !" Those and such other things she said so dole-
fully, as no one could hear her that would not deem her to
be one of the most esteemed and loyal damsels of the world,
and take her lady for another new and persecuted Penelope.
Soon after Camilla returned to herself, and said presently,
"Why goest thou not, Leonela, to call the most disloyal
friend of a friend that ever the sun beheld, or the night con-
cealed? Make an end, run, make haste, and let not the fire of
my choler be through thy stay consumed and spent, nor the
just revenge, which I hope to take, pass over in threats or
maledictions." "I go to call him, madam," quoth Leonela;
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 357
"but, first of all, you must give me that poniard, lest you
should do with it in mine absence somewhat that would min-
ister occasion to us, your friends, to deplore you all the days
of our lives." "Go away boldly, friend Leonela," said Camilla,
"for I shall do nothing in thine absence; for although I be
in thine opinion both simple and bold enough to turn for
mine honour, yet mean I not to be so much as the celebrated
Lucretia, of whom it is recorded that she slew herself, with-
out having committed any error, or slain him first who was
the principal cause of her disgrace. I will die, if I must
needs die, but I will be satisfied and revenged on him that
hath given me occasion to come into this place to lament his
boldness, sprung without my default."
'Leonela could scarce be entreated to go and call Lothario,
but at last she went out, and in the meantime Camilla re-
mained, speaking to herself these words : "Good God ! had
not it been more discretion to have dismissed Lothario, as I
did many times before, than thus to possess him, as I have
done, with an opinion that I am an evil and dishonest woman,
at least all the while that passeth, until mine acts shall un-
deceive him, and teach him the contrary? It had been doubt-
lessly better; but then should not I be revenged, nor my hus-
band's honour satisfied, if he were permitted to bear away
so clearly his malignity, or escape out of the snare wherein
his wicked thoughts involved him. Let the traitor pay with
his life's defrayment that which he attempted with so las-
civious a desire. Let the world know (if it by chance shall
come to know it) that Camilla did not only conserve the
loyalty due to her lord, but also took revenge of the in-
tended spoil thereof. But yet I believe that it were best
to give Anselmo first notice thereof; but I did already touch
it to him in the letter which I wrote to him to the village,
and I believe his not concurring to take order in this so
manifest an abuse, proceeds of his too sincere and good mean-
ing, which would not, nor cannot believe that the like kind
of thought could ever find entertainment in the breast of so
firm a friend, tending so much to his dishonour. And what
marvel if I myself could not credit it for a great many days
together? Nor would I ever have thought it, if his insolency
had not arrived to that pass, which the manifest gifts, large
358 DON QUIXOTE
promises, and continual tears he shed do give testimony. But
why do I make now these discourses? Hath a gallant resolu-
tion perhaps any need of advice? No, verily; therefore
avaunt treacherous thoughts, here we must use revenge. Let
the false man come in, arrive, die, and end, and let after
befall what can befall. I entered pure and untouched to his
possession, whom Heaven bestowed on me for mine, and I
will depart from him purely. And if the worst befall, I
shall only be defiled by mine own chaste blood, and the im-
pure gore of the falsest friend that ever amity saw in this
world." And saying of this, she pranced up and down the
room with the poniard naked in her hand, with such long and
unmeasurable strides, and making withal such gestures, as
she rather seemed defective of wit, and a desperate ruffian
than a delicate woman.
'All this Anselmo perceived very well from behind the arras
that covered him, which did not a little admire him, and
he thought that what he had seen and heard was a sufficient
satisfaction of far greater suspicions than he had, and could
have wished with all his heart that the trial of Lothario's
coming might be excused, fearing greatly some sudden bad
success. And as he was ready to manifest himself, and to
come out and embrace and dissuade his wife, he withdrew
himself, because he saw Leonela return, bringing Lothario in
by the hand. And as soon as Camilla beheld him, she drew
a great stroke with the point of the poniard athwart the
wardrobe, saying, "Lothario, note well what I mean to say
unto thee, for if by chance thou beest so hardy as to pass
over this line which thou seest, ere I come as far as it, I
will in the very same instant stab myself into the heart with
this poniard which I hold in my hand. And before thou dost
speak or answer me any word, I would first have thee to listen
to a few of mine ; for after, thou mayest say what thou
pleasest.
' "First of all, I would have thee, O Lothario ! to say
whether thou knowest my husband, Anselmo, and what opin-
ion thou hast of him? And next I would have thee to tell
me if thou knowest myself? Answer to this without delay,
nor do stand long thinking on what thou art to answer, see-
ing they are no deep questions which I propose unto thee."
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 359
Lothario was not so ignorant, but that from the very begin-
ning, when Camilla requested him to persuade her husband
to hide himself behind the tapestry, he had not fallen on the
drift of her invention ; and therefore did answer her in-
tention so aptly and discreetly, as they made that untruth
pass between them for a more than manifest verity; and so
he answered to Camilla in this form: "I did never conjec-
ture, beautiful Camilla, that thou wouldest have called me
here to demand of me things so wide from the purpose for
which I come. If thou dost it to defer yet the promised fa-
vour, thou mightest have entertained it yet further off, for the
good desired afflicteth so much the more, by how much the
hope to possess it is near. But because thou mayest not
accuse me for not answering to thy demands, I say that I
know thy husband Anselmo, and both of us know one an-
other even from our tender infancy, and I will not omit to
say that which thou also knowest of our amity, to make me
thereby a witness against myself of the wrong which love
compels me to do unto him, yet love is a sufficient excuse
and excuser of greater errors than are mine. Thee do I like-
wise know and hold in the same possession that he doth ; for
were it not so, I should never have been won by less per-
fections than thine, to transgress so much that which I owe
to myself and to the holy laws of true amity, now broken
and violated by the tyranny of so powerful an adversary
as love hath proved." "If thou dost acknowledge that," re-
plied Camilla, "O mortal enemy of all that which justly de-
serveth love ! with what face darest thou then appear before
that which thou knowest to be the mirror wherein he looks,
in whom thou also oughtest to behold thyself, to the end
thou mightest perceive upon how little occasion thou dost
.wrong him? But, unfortunate that I am, I fall now in the
reason which hath moved thee to make so little account of
thine ovn^u duty, which was perhaps some negligent or light
behaviour of mine, which, I will not call dishonesty, seeing
that, as I presume, it hath not proceeded from me deliberately,
but rather through the carelessness that women which think
they are not noted do sometimes unwittingly commit. If
not, say, traitor, when did I ever answer thy prayers with
any word or token that might awake in thee the least shadow
360 DON QUIXOTE
of hope to accomplish thine infamous desires? When were
not thine amorous entreaties reprehended and dispersed by
the roughness and rigour of mine answers? When were
thy many promises and larger gifts ever believed or ad-
mitted? But forasmuch as I am persuaded that no man can
persevere long time in the amorous contention, who hath
not been sustained by some hope, I will attribute the fault
of thine impertinence to myself ; for doubtlessly some care-
lessness of mine hath hitherto sustained thy care, and there-
fore I will chastise and give to myself the punishment which
thy fault deserveth. And because thou mightest see that I,
being so inhuman towards myself, could not possibly be
other than cruel to thee, I thought fit to call thee to be a
witness of the sacrifice which I mean to make to the of-
fended honour of my most honourable husband, tainted by
thee with the blackest note that thy malice could devise,
and by me, through the negligence that I used, to shun the
occasion, if I gave thee any, thus to nourish and canonise thy
wicked intentions. I say again, that the suspicion I have,
that my little regard hath engendered in thee these dis-
tracted thoughts, is that which afflicteth me most, and that
which I mean to chastise most with mine own hands; for if
another executioner punished me, then should my crime
become more notorious. But before I do this, I, dying, will
kill, and carry him away with me, that shall end and satisfy
the greedy desire of revenge which I hope for, and I have ;
seeing before mine eyes, wheresoever I shall go, the punish-
ment which disengaged justice shall inflict, it still remain-
ing unbowed or suborned by him, who hath brought me to
so desperate terms."
'x^nd having said these words, she flew upon Lothario with
incredible force and lightness, and her poniard naked, giv-,
ing such arguments and tokens that she meant to stab him, as
he himself was in doubt whether her demonstrations were
false or true ; wherefore he was driven to help himself by
his wit and strength, for to hinder Camilla from striking
of him, who did so lively act her strange guile and fiction,
as to give it colour, she would give it a blush of her own
blood: for perceiving, or else feigning that she could not
hurt Lothario, she said, "Seeing that adverse fortune will
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 361
not satisfy thoroughly my just desires, yet at least it shall
not be potent wholly to cross my designs." And then striv-
ing to free the dagger hand, which Lothario held fast, she
snatched it away, and directing the point to some place of
her body, which might hurt her, but not very grievously, she
stabbed herself, and hid it in her apparel near unto the left
shoulder, and fell forthwith to the ground, as If she were in
a trance. Lothario and Leonela stood amazed at the unex-
pected event, and still rested doubtful of the truth of the
matter, seeing Camilla to lie on the ground bathed in her
blood. Lothario ran, all wan and pale, very hastily to her,
to take out the poniard, and seeing how little blood followed,
he lost the fear that he had conceived of her greater hurt,
and began anew to admire the cunning wit and discretion of
the beautiful Camilla; but yet that he might play the part of
a friend, he began a long and doleful lamentation over
Camilla's body, even as she were dead, and began to breathe
forth many curses and execrations not only against himself,
but also against him that had employed him in that unfortu-
nate affair. And knowing that his friend Anselmo did listen
unto him, he said such things as would move a man to take
more compassion of him than of Camilla herself, although
they accounted her dead. Leonela took her up between her
arms, and laid her on the bed, and entreated Lothario to go
out, and find some one that would undertake to cure her
secretly. She also demanded of him his advice, touching the
excuse they might make to Anselmo concerning her mistress
her wound, if he came to town before it were fully cured.
'He answered, that they might say what they pleased, for
he was not in a humour of giving any counsel worth the
following; and only said this, that she should labour to stanch
her lady's blood; for he meant to go there whence they
should hear no news of him ever after. And so departed out
of the house with very great tokens of grief and feeling; and
when he was alone in a place where nobody perceived him,
he blest himself a thousand times to think of Camilla's art,
and the gestures, so proper and accommodated to the pur-
pose, used by her maid Leonela. He considered how assured
Anselmo would remain that he had a second Portia to wife,
and desired to meet him, that they might celebrate together
362 DON QUIXOTE
the fiction, and the best dissembed truth that could be ever
imagined. Leonela, as is said, stanched her lady's blood,
which was just as much as might serve to colour her inven-
tion and no more ; and, washing the wound with some wine,
she tied it up the best that she could, saying such words
whilst she cured her as were able, though nothing had been
done before, to make Anselmo believe that he had an image
of honesty in Camilla. To the plaints of Leonela, Camilla
added others, terming herself a coward of base spirit, since
she wanted time (being a thing so necessary) to deprive
her life which she hated so mortally; she demanded counsel
of her maiden, whether she would tell or conceal all that
success to her beloved spouse. And she answered, that it
was best to conceal it, lest she should engage her husband
to be revenged on Lothario, which would not be done with-
out his very great peril, and that every good wife was bound,
not to give occasion to her husband of quarrelling, but
rather to remove from him as many as was possible. Camilla
answered, that she allowed of her opinion, and would follow
it ; and that in any sort they must study some device to
cloak the occasion of her hurt from Anselmo, who could not
choose but espy it. To this Leonela answered, that she her-
self knew not how to lie, no, not in very jest itself. "Well,
friend," quoth Camilla, "and I, what do I know? for I dare
not to forge or report an untruth if my life lay on it. And
if we know not how to give it a better issue, it will be better
to report the naked truth than to be overtaken in a leasing."
"Do not trouble yourself, madam," quoth Leonela; "for I
will bethink myself of somewhat between this and to-morrow
morning, and perhaps the wound may be concealed from him,
by reason that it is in the place where it is; and Heaven per-
haps may be pleased to favour our so just and honourable
thoughts. Be quiet, good madam, and labour to appease your
alteration of mind, that my lord at his return may not find
you perplexed ; and leave all the rest to God's and my charge,
who doth always assist the just."
'With highest attention stood Anselmo listening and be-
holding the tragedy of his dying honours, which the per-
sonages thereof had acted with so strange and forcible ef-
fects, as it verily seemed that they were transformed into the
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 363
opposite truth of their well-contrived fiction. He longed
greatly for the night and leisure to get out of his house,
that he might go and congratulate with his good friend Lo-
thario, for the precious jewel that he had found in this last
trial of his wife. The mistress and maiden had as great
care to give him the opportunity to depart; and he, fearing
to lose it, issued out in a trice, and went presently to find
Lothario, who being found, it is not possible to recount the
embracements he gave unto him, the secrets of his con-
tentment that he revealed, or the attributes and praises
that he gave to Camilla. All which Lothario heard, with-
out giving the least argument of love; having represented
to his mind at that very time, how greatly deceived his
friend lived, and how unjustly he himself injured him. And
although that Anselmo noted that Lothario took no delight at
his relation, yet did he believe that the cause of his sorrow
proceeded from having left Camilla wounded, and he him-
self given the occasion thereof; and therefore, among many
other words, said unto him, that there was no occasion to
grieve at Camilla's hurt, it doubtlessly being but light, see-
ing she and her maid had agreed to hide it from him; and
that according unto this there was no great cause of fear,
but that from thenceforward he should live merrily and
contentedly with him, seeing that by his industry and means
he found himself raised to the highest felicity that might
be desired; and therefore would from thenceforth spend his
idle times in writing of verses in Camilla's praise, that he
might eternise her name, and make it famous in ensuing
ages. Lothario commended his resolution therein, and said
that he for his part would also help to raise up so noble
an edifice ; and herewithal Anselmo rested the most sooth-
ingly and contentedly deceived that could be found in the
world. And then himself took by the hand to his house,
believing that he bore the instrument of his glory, the utter
perdition of his fame. Camilla entertained him with a
frowning countenance, but a cheerful mind. The fraud rested
unknown a while, until, at the end of certain months, for-
tune turned the wheel, and the wickedness that was so arti-
ficially cloaked, issued to the public notice of the world; and
Anselmo his impertinent curiosity cost him his life.'
CHAPTER VIII
Wherein Is Ended the History of the Curious-Imper-
tinent: And Likewise Recounted the Rough En-
counter AND Conflict Passed Between Don Quixote
and Certain Bags of Red Wine
A LITTLE more of the novel did rest unread, when
Sancho Panza, all perplexed, ran out of the chamber
where his lord reposed, crying as loud as he could,
'Come, good sirs, speedily, and assist my lord, who is en-
gaged in one of the most terrible battles that ever mine
eyes have seen. I swear that he hath given such a blow to
the giant, my lady the Princess Micomicona her enemy, as
he hath cut his head quite off as round as a turnip.'
'What sayst thou, friend?' quoth the curate (leaving off
at that word to prosecute the reading of his novel). 'Art
thou in thy wits, Sancho? What a devil, man, how can that
be, seeing the giant dwells at least two thousand leagues
from hence?' By this they heard a marvellous great noise
within the chamber, and that Don Quixote cried out aloud,
'Stay, false thief ! robber, stay ! for since thou art here, thy
scimitar shall but little avail thee.' And therewithal it
seemed that he struck a number of mighty blows on the
walls. And Sancho said, 'There is no need to stand thus
listening abroad, but rather that you go in and part the
fray, or else assist my lord ; although I think it be not very
necessary, for the giant is questionless dead by this, and giv-
ing account for the ill life he led ; for I saw his blood run
all about the house, and his head cut off, which is as great
as a great wine bag.' 'I am content to be hewn in pieces,'
quoth the innkeeper, hearing of this, 'if Don Quixote or Don
devil have not given some blow to one of the wine-bags that
stood filled at his bed's head, and the shed wine must needs
be that which seems blood to this good man.' And saying so,
364
THE BAGS OF RED WINE 365
he entered into the room, and all the rest followed him,
where they found Don Quixote in the strangest guise that
may be imagined. He was in his shirt, the which was not
long enough before to cover his thighs, and it was six fin-
gers shorter behind. His legs were very long and lean, full
of hair, and horribly dirty. He wore on his head a little
red but very greasy nightcap, which belonged to the inn-
keeper. He had wreathed on his left arm the coverlet of his
bed; on which Sancho looked very often and angrily, as
one that knew well the cause of his own malice to it: and in
his right hand he gripped his naked sword, wherewithal he
laid round about him many a thwack ; and withal spake as
if he were in battle with some giant. And the best of all
was, that he held not his eyes open ; for he was indeed
asleep, and dreaming that he was in fight with the giant. For
the imagination of the adventure which he had undertaken
to finish, was so bent upon it, as it made him to dream that
he was already arrived at the kingdom of Micomicon, a*id
that he was then in combat with his enemy, and he had given
so many blows on the wine-bags, supposing them to be
giants, as all the whole chamber flowed with wine. Which
being perceived by the host, all inflamed with rage, he set
upon Don Quixote with dry fists, and gave unto him so many
blows that if Cardenio and the curate had not taken him
away, he would doubtlessly have finished the war of the
giant; and yet with all this did not the poor knight awake,
until the barber brought in a great kettle full of cold water
from the well, and threw it all at a clap upon him, and there-
withal Don Quixote awaked, but not in such sort as he per-
ceived the manner wherein he was. Dorothea, seeing how
short and how thin her champion was arrayed, would not
go in to see the conflict of her combatant and his adversary.
Sancho went up and down the floor searching for the
giant's head, and seeing that he could not find it he said,
'Now I do see very well that all the things of this house are
enchantments, for the last time that I was here, in this very
same room, I got many blows and buffets, and knew not
who did strike me, nor could I see any body ; and now the
head appears not, which I saw cut off with mine own eyes,
and yet the blood ran as swiftly from the body as water
366 DON QUIXOTE
would from a fountain.' 'What blood, or what fountain
dost thou tattle of here, thou enemy of God and His saints?'
quoth the innkeeper. 'Thou thief, dost thou not see that
the blood and the fountain is no other thing than these wine-
bags which are slashed here, and the wine red that swims up
and down this chamber? And I wish that I may see his soul
swimming in hell which did bore them !' 'I know nothing,'
replied Sancho, 'but this, that if I cannot find the giant's
head, I shall become so unfortunate, as mine earldom will
dissolve like salt cast into water.' And certes, Sancho awake
was in worse case than his master sleeping, so much had
his lord's promises distracted him. The innkeeper, on the
other side, was at his wits' end, to see the humour of the
squire and unhappiness of his lord, and swore that it should
not succeed with them now as it had done the other time,
when they went away without payment ; and that now the
privileges of chivalry should not any whit avail him, but
he should surely pay both the one and the other — yea, even
for the very patches that were to be set on the bored wine-
bags.
The curate held fast Don Quixote by the hands, who be-
lieving that he had achieved the adventure, and was after
it come into the Princess Micomicona her presence, he
laid himself on his knees before the curate, saying, 'Well
may your greatness, high and famous lady, live from hence-
forth secure from any danger that this unfortunate wretch
may do unto you; and I am also freed from this day for-
ward from the promise that I made unto you, seeing I have,
by the assistance of the heavens, and through her favour by
whom I live and breathe, so happily accomplished it.' 'Did
not I say so?' quoth Sancho, hearing of his master. 'Yea,
I was not drunk. See if my master hath not powdered the
giant by this? The matter is questionless, and the earldom
is mine own,' Who would not laugh at these raving fits
of the master and man? All of them laughed save the
innkeeper, who gave himself for anger to the devil more
than a hundred times. And the barber, Cardenio, and the
curate, got Don Quixote to bed again, not without much ado,
who presently fell asleep with tokens of marvellous weari-
ness. They left him sleeping, and went out to comfort
THE BAGS OF RED WINE 367
Sancho Panza for the grief he had, because he could not
find the giant's head; but yet had more ado to pacify the
innkeeper, who was almost out of his wits for the unexpected
and sudden death of his wine-bags.
The hostess, on the other side, went up and down whin-
ing and saying, 'In an ill season and an unlucky hour did
this knight-errant enter into my house, alas ! and I would
that mine eyes had never seen him, seeing he costs me so
dear. The last time that he was here, he went away scot free
for his supper, bed, straw, and barley, both for himself and
his man, his horse and his ass, saying that he was a knight-
adventurer (and God give to him ill venture, and to all the
other adventurers of the world !) and was not therefore bound
to pay anything, for so it was written in the statutes of
chivalry. And now for his cause came the other gentleman,
and took away my good tail, and hath returned it me back
with two quarters of damage ; for all the hair is fallen off,
and it cannot stand my husband any more in stead for the
purpose he had it; and for an end and conclusion of all, to
break my wine-bags and shed my wine : I wish I may see as
much of his blood shed. And do not think otherwise; for, by
my father's old bones and the life of my mother, they shall
pay me every doit, one quart upon another, or else I will
never be called as I am, nor be mine own father's daughter.'
These and such like words spake the innkeeper's wife with
very great fury, and was seconded by her good servant
Maritornes. The daughter held her peace, and would now
and then smile a little. But master parson did quiet and
pacify all, by promising to satisfy them for the damages as
well as he might, as well for the wine as for the bags, but
chiefly for her tail, the which was so much accounted of
and valued so highly. Dorothea did comfort Sancho, saying
to him, that whensoever it should be verified that his lord had
slain the giant, and established her quietly in her kingdom,
she would bestow upon him the best earldom thereof. With
this he took courage, and assured the princess that he him-
self had seen the giant's head cut off; and for a more cer-
tain token thereof, he said that he had a beard that reached
him down to his girdle ; and that if the head could not now
be found, it was by reason that all the affairs of that house
368 DON QUIXOTE
were guided by enchantment, as he had made experience to
his cost the last time that he was lodged therein. Dorothea
replied that she was of the same opinion, and bade him to
be of good cheer, for all would be well ended to his heart's
desire. All parties being quiet, the curate resolved to finish
the end of his novel, because he perceived that there rested
but a little unread thereof. Cardenio, Dorothea, and all
the rest entreated him earnestly to finish it. And he de-
siring to delight them all herein and recreate himself, did
prosecute the tale in this manner:
'It after befel that Anselmo grew so satisfied of his wife's
honesty as he led a most contented and secure life. And
Camilla did for the nonce look sourly upon Lothario, to the
end Anselmo might construe her mind amiss. And for
a greater confirmation thereof, Lothario requested Anselmo
to excuse his coming any more to his house, seeing that
he clearly perceived how Camilla could neither brook his
company nor presence. But the hoodwinked Anselmo an-
swered him that he would in no wise consent thereunto;
and in this manner did weave his own dishonour a thou-
sand ways, thinking to work his contentment. In this sea-
son, such was the delight that Leonela took also in her
affections, as she suffered herself to be borne away by them
headlongly, without any care or regard, confident because
her lady did cover it, yea, and sometimes instructed her
how she might put her desires in practice, without any
fear or danger. But finally, Anselmo heard on a night some-
body walk in Leonela's chamber, and, being desirous to
know who it was, as he thought to enter, he felt the door
to be held fast against him, which gave him a greater
desire to open it; and therefore he struggled so long and
used such violence, as he threw open the door, and en-
tered just at the time that another leaped out at the win-
dow; and therefore he ran out to overtake him, or see
wherein he might know him, but could neither compass
the one nor the other, by reason that Leonela, embracing
him hardly, withheld him and said, "Pacify yourself, good
sir, and be not troubled, nor follow him that was here;
for he is one that belongs to me. and that so much, as he
is my spouse." Anselmo would not believe her, but rather,
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 369
blind with rage, he drew out his poniard and would have
wounded her, saying, that she should presently tell him
the truth, or else he would kill her. She, distracted with
fear, said, without noting her own words, "Kill me not,
sir, and I will acquaint you with things which concern you
more than you can imagine." "Say quickly, then," quoth
Anselmo, "or else thou shalt die." "It will be impossi-
ble," replied Leonela, "for me to speak anything now, I am
so affrighted; but give respite till morning, and I will re-
count unto you things that will marvellously astonish you;
and in the meantime rest secure, that he which leaped out
of the window is a young man of this city betwixt whom
and me hath passed a promise of marriage." Anselmo
was somewhat satisfied by these words, and therefore re-
solved to expect the term which she had demanded to
open her mind; for he did not suspect that he should hear
anything of Camilla, by reason he was already so as-
sured of her virtue. And so, departing out of the chamber,
and shutting up Leonela therein, threatening her withal that
she should never depart thence until she had said all that
she promised to reveal unto him, he went presently to
Camilla, to tell unto her all that which his maiden had said,
and the promise she had passed, to disclose greater and
more important things. Whether Camilla, hearing this,
were perplexed or no, I leave to the discreet reader's judg-
ment; for such was the fear which she conceived, believ-
ing certainly (as it was to be doubted) that Leonela would
tell to Anselmo all that she knew of her disloyalty, as
she had not the courage to expect and see whether her sur-
mise would become false or no. But the very same night,
as soon as she perceived Anselmo to be asleep, gathering
together her best jewels and some money, she departed out
of her house unperceived of any, and went to Lothario's
lodging, to whom she recounted all that had passed, and
requested him either to leave her in some safe place, or both
of them to depart to some place where they might live
secure out of Anselmo's reach. The confusion that Camilla
struck into Lothario was such as he knew not what to say,
and much less how to resolve himself what he might do.
But at last he determined to carry Camilla to a monastery
370 DON QUIXOTE
wherein his sister was prioress; to which she easily con-
descended: and therefore Lothario departed, and left her
there with all the speed that the case required, and did also
absent himself presently from the city, without acquainting
anybody with his departure.
'Anselmo, as soon as it was day, without heeding the ab-
sence of his wife, arose and went to the place where he had
shut up Leonela, with desire to know of her what she had
promised to acquaint him withal. He opened the chamber
door, and entered, but could find nobody therein, but some
certain sheets knit together and tied to the window, as a
certain sign how Leonela had made an escape by that way.
Wherefore he returned very sad to tell to Camilla the ad-
venture; but when he could neither find her at bed nor ii. 'he
whole house, he remained astonied, and demanded for her of
his servants, but none of them could tell him anything.
And as he searched for her, he happened to see her coffers
lie open and most of her jewels wanting; and herewithal
fell into the true account of his disgrace, and that Leonela
was not the cause of his misfortune, and so departed out of
his house sad and pensive, even as he was, half ready
and unapparelled, to his friend Lothario, to recount unto him
his disaster : but when he found him to be likewise absented,
and that the servants told him how their master was de-
parted the very same night, and had borne away with him
all his money, he was ready to run out of his wits. And
to conclude, he returned to his own house again, wherein
he found no creature, man or woman, for all his folk were
departed, and had left the house alone and desert. He
knew not what he might think, say, or do; and then his
judgment began to fail him. There he did contemplate and
behold himself in an instant, without a wife, a friend, and
servants; abandoned (to his seeming) of Heaven that cov-
ered him, and chiefly without honour; for he clearly noted
his own perdition in Camilla's crime. In the end he re-
solved, after he had bethought himself a great while, to go to
his friend's village, wherein he had been all the while that
he afforded the leisure to contrive that disaster. And so,
shutting up his house, he mounted a-horseback, and rode
away in languishing and doleful wise. And scarce had he
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 371
ridden the half-way, when he was so fiercely assaulted by
his thoughts, as he was constrained to alight, and, tying his
horse to a tree, he leaned himself to the trunk thereof, and
breathed out a thousand pitiful and dolorous sighs; and
there he abode until it was almost night, about which hour
he espied a man to come from the city a-horseback by the
same way, and, having saluted him, he demanded of him
what news he brought from Florence. The citizen re-
plied, "The strangest that had happened there many a day;
for it is there reported publicly that Lothario, the great
friend of the rich man, hath carried away the said Anselmo's
wife Camilla this night, for she is also missing: all which
a waiting-maid of Camilla's hath confessed, whom the gov-
ernor apprehended yesternight as she slipped down at a
window by a pair of sheets out of the said Anselmo's house.
I know not particularly the truth of the affair, but well
I wot that all the city is amazed at the accident; for such
a fact would not be as much as surmised from the great and
familiar amity of them two, which was so much as they
were called, 'The Two Friends.' " "Is it perhaps yet
known," replied Anselmo, "which way Lothario and Ca-
milla have taken?" "In no wise!" quoth the citizen, "al-
though the governor hath used all possible diligence to
find them out." "Farewell, then, good sir," said Anselmo.
"And with you, sir," said the traveller. And so departed.
'With these so unfortunate news poor Anselmo arrived, not
only to terms of losing his wits, but also well-nigh of losing
his life; and therefore, arising as well as he might, he came
to his friend's house, who had heard nothing yet of his
disgrace; but perceiving him to arrive so wan, pined, and
dried up, he presently conjectured that some grievous evil
afflicted him. Anselmo requested him presently that he
might be carried to his chamber, and provided of paper and
ink to write withal. All was done, and he left in bed,
and alone, for so he desired them ; and also that the door
should be fast locked. And being alone, the imagination of
his misfortune gave him such a terrible charge, as he clearly
perceived that his life would shortly fail him, and therefore
resolved to leave notice of the cause of his sudden and un-
expected death; and therefore he began to write it; but be-
372 DON QUIXOTE
fore he could set an end to his discourse, his breath failed,
and he yielded up his life into the hanus of sorrow, which
his impertinent curiosity had stirred up in him. The gentle-
man of the house, seeing that it grew late, and that Anselmo
had not called, determined to enter, and know whether his
indisposition passed forward, and he found him lying on
his face, with half of his body in the bed, and the other
half leaning on the table whereon he lay, with a written paper
unfolded, and held the pen also yet in his hand. His host
drew near unto him and, first of all, having called him, he
took him by the hand; and seeing that he answered not,
and that it was cold, he knew that he was dead; and
greatly perplexed and grieved thereat, he called in his peo-
ple, that they might also be witnesses of the disastrous suc-
cess of Anselmo; and after all, he took the paper and read it,
which he knew to be written with his own hand, the sub-
stance whereof was this:
* "A foolish and impertinent desire hath despoiled me
of life. If the news of my death shall arrive to Camilla, let
her also know that I do pardon her, for she was not bound
to work miracles; nor had I any need to desire that she
should work them. And seeing I was the builder and con-
triver of mine own dishonour, there is no reason" —
'Hitherunto did Anselmo write, by which it appeared that
his life ended in that point, ere he could set an end to
the reason he was to give. The next day ensuing, the gen-
tleman his friend acquainted Anselmo's kinsfolk with his
death; the which had already knowledge of his misfortune,
and also of the monastery wherein Camilla had retired her-
self, being almost in terms to accompany her husband in
that forcible voyage ; nor for the news of his death, but for
grief of others which she had received of her absent friend.
It is said that although she was a widow, yet would she
neither depart out of the monastery, nor become a religious
woman, until she had received within a few days after news
how Lothario was slain in a battle given by Monsieur de
Lautrec, to the great Captain Gonzalo Fernandez of Cor-
dova, in the kingdom of Naples; and that was the end of the
late repentant friend, the which being known to Camilla, she
made a profession, and shortly after deceased between the
THE CURIOUS-IMPERTINENT 373
rigorous hands of sorrow and melancholy : and this was
the end of them all, sprung from a rash and inconsiderate
beginning.'
'This novel,' quoth the curate, having read it, 'is a pretty-
one ; but yet I cannot persuade myself that it is true, and if
it be a fiction, the author erred therein ; for it cannot be im-
agined that any husband would be so foolish as to make so
costly an experience as did Anselmo; but if this accident had
been devised betwixt a gentleman and his love, then were
it possible ; but being between man and wife, it contains
somewhat that is impossible and unlikely, but yet I can take
no exception against the manner of recounting thereof.'
CHAPTER IX
Which Treats of Many Rare Successes Befallen
IN THE Inn.
WHILST they discoursed thus, the innkeeper, who
stood all the while at the door, said, 'Here comes a
fair troop of guests, and if they will here alight
we may sing Gaudeamus.' 'What folk is it?' quoth Cardenio.
'Four men on horseback,* quoth the host, 'and ride jennet-
wise, with lances and targets, and masks on their faces; and
with them comes likewise a woman apparelled in white, in
a side-saddle, and her face also masked, and two lackeys
that rMn with them a-foot.' 'Are they near?' quoth the
curate. 'So near,' replied the innkeeper, 'as they do now ar-
rive.' Dorothea hearing him say so, covered her face, and
Cardenio entered into Don Quixote's chamber; and scarce
had they leisure to do it, when the others of whom the host
spake, entered into the inn, and the four horsemen alighting,
which were all of very comely and gallant disposition, they
went to help down the lady that rode in the side-saddle,
and one of them taking her down in his arms, did seat her
in a chair that stood at the chamber door, into which Car-
denio had entered: and all this while neither she nor they
took off their masks, or spake a word, only the gentlewoman,
at her sitting down in the chair, breathed forth a very deep
sigh, and let fall her arms like a sick and dismayed person.
The lackeys carried away their horses to the stable. Master
curate seeing and noting all this, and curious to know what
they were that came to the inn in so unwonted an attire,
and kept such profound silence therein, went to the lackeys
and demanded of one of them that which he desired to
know, who answered, 'In good faith, sir, I cannot tell you
what folk this is: only this I know, that they seem to be
very noble, but chiefly he that went and took down the lady
374
DON FERNANDO 375
in his arms that you see there; and this I say, because all
the others do respect him very much, and nothing is done
but what he ordains and commands.' 'And the lady, what
is she?' quoth the curate. 'I can as hardly inform you,'
quoth the lackey, 'for I have not once seen her face in all
this journey; yet I have heard her often groan and
breathe out so profound sighs, as it seems she would give up
the ghost at every one of them. And it is no marvel that
we should know no more than we have said, for my com-
panion and myself have been in their company but two days;
for they encountered us on the way, and prayed and per-
suaded us to go with them unto Andalusia, promising that
they would recompense our pains largely.' 'And hast thou
heard them name one another?' said the curate. 'No, truly,'
answered the lackey; 'for they all travel with such silence, as
it is a wonder ; for you shall not hear a word among, but the
sighs and throbs of the poor lady, which do move in us
very great compassion. And we do questionless persuade
ourselves that she is forced wheresoever she goes: and as it
may be collected by her attire, she is a nun, or, as is most
probable, goes to be one; and perhaps she goeth so sorrow-
ful as it seems because she hath no desire to become reli-
gious.' 'It may very well be so,' quoth the curate. And so
leaving them, he returned to the place where he had left
Dorothea; who, hearing the disguised lady to sigh so often,
moved by the native compassion of that sex, drew near her
and said, 'What ails you, good madam? I pray you think if
it be any of those inconveniences to which woman be sub-
ject, and whereof they may have use and experience to
cure them, I do of¥er unto you my service, assistance, and
good-will to help you, as much as lies in my power.' To all
those compliments the doleful lady answered nothing; and
although Dorothea made her again larger offers of her
service, yet stood she, ever silent, until the bemasked gen-
tleman (whom the lackey said the rest did obey) came over
and said to Dorothea, 'Lady, do not trouble yourself to
offer anything to that woman, for she is of a most ungrateful
nature, and is never wont to gratify any courtesy, nor do
you seek her to answer unto your demands, if you would
not hear some lie from her mouth.' 'I never said any,'
376 DON QUIXOTE
quoth the silent lady, 'but rather because I am so true and
sincere, without guiles, I am now drowned here in those mis-
fortunes; and of this I would have thyself bear witness, see-
ing my pure truth makes thee to be so false and disloyal.'
Cardenio overheard those words very clear and distinctly,
as one that stood so near unto her that said them, as only
Don Quixote's chamber door stood between them. And in-
stantly when he heard them, he said with a very loud voice,
'Good God! what is this that I hear? What voice is this
that hath touched mine ear?' The lady, moved with a sud-
den passion, turned her head at those outcries, and seeing
she could not perceive him that gave them, she got up, and
would have entered into the room, which the gentleman espy^
ing, withheld her, and would not let her stir out of the
place: and with the alteration and sudden motion the mask
fell off her face, and she discovered an incomparable beauty,
and an angelical countenance, although it was somewhat
wan and pale, and turned here and there with her eyes to
every place so earnestly as she seemed to be distracted;
which motions, without knowing the reason why they were
made, struck Dorothea and the rest that beheld her into
very great compassion. The gentleman holding her very
strongly fast by the shoulders, the mask he wore on his
own face was falling; and he being so busied could not hold
it up, but in the end [it] fell wholly. Dorothea, who had
likewise embraced the lady, lifting up her eyes by chance,
saw that he which did also embrace the lady was her spouse
Don Fernando ; and scarce had she known him, when, breath-
ing out a long and most pitiful 'Alas !' from the bottom of
her heart, she fell backward in a trance; and if the barber
had not been by good hap at hand, she would have fallen
on the ground with all the weight of her body. The curate
presently repaired to take off the veil of her face and cast
water thereon: and as soon as he did discover it, Don Fer-
nando, who was he indeed that held fast the other, knew her,
and looked like a dead man as soon as he viewed her, but
did not all this while let go Lucinda, who was the other
whom he held so fast, and that laboured so much to escape
out of his hands. Cardenio likewise heard the 'Alas!' that
Dorothea said when she fell into a trance, and, believing that
DON FERNANDO 377
it was his Lucinda, issued out of the chamber greatly al-
tered, and the first he espied was Don Fernando, which held
Lucinda fast, who forthwith knew him. And all the three
— Lucinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea — stood dumb and
amazed, as folk that knew not what had befallen unto them.
All of them held their peace, and beheld one another; Doro-
thea looked on Don Fernando, Don Fernando on Cardenio,
Cardenio on Lucinda, and Lucinda again on Cardenio; but
Lucinda was the first that broke silence, speaking to Don
Fernando in this manner: 'Leave me off. Lord Fernando, I
conjure thee, by that thou shouldst be; for that which thou
art, if thou wilt not do it for any other respect; let me
cleave to the wall whose ivy I am ; to the supporter from
whom neither thy importunity nor threats, promises or gifts,
could once deflect me. Note how Heaven, by unusual, unfre-
quented, and from us concealed ways, hath set my true
spouse before mine eyes; and thou dost know well, by a
thousand costly experiences, that only death is potent to blot
forth his remembrance out of my memory. Let, then, so
manifest truths be of power (if thou must do none other) to
convert thine affliction into rage, and thy good-will into
despite, and therewithal end my life; for if I may render
up the ghost in the presence of my dear spouse, I shall ac-
count it fortunately lost. Perhaps by my death he will
lemain satisfied of the faith which I have kept sincere
towards him until the last period of my life.' By this time
Dorothea was come to herself, and listened to most of Lu-
cinda's reasons, and by them came to the knowledge of her-
self. But seeing Don Fernando did not yet let her depart
from between his arms, nor answer anything to her words,
encouraging herself the best that she might, she arose, and,
kneeling at his feet, and shedding a number of crystal and
penetrating tears, she spoke to him thus:
'If it be not so, my lord, that the beams of that sun
which thou boldest eclipsed between thine arms do darken
and deprive those of thine eyes, thou mightest have by this
perceived how she that is prostrated at thy feet is the unfor-
tunate (until thou shalt please) and the disastrous Doro-
thea. I am that poor humble countrywoman whom thou,
either through thy bounty, or for thy pleasure, didst deign to
378 DOy QUIXOTE
raise to that height that she might call thee her own. I am
she which, some time immured within the Hmits of honesty,
did lead a most contented life, until it opened the gates of
her recollection and wariness to thine importunity, and seem-
ing just and amorous requests, and rendered up to thee the
keys of her liberty; a gift by thee so ill recompensed, as
the finding myself in so remote a place as this wherein you
have met with me, and I seen you, may clearly testify; but
yet for all this, I would not have you to imagine that I
come here guided by dishonourable steps, being only hitherto
conducted by the tracts of dolour and feeling, to see myself
thus forgotten by thee. It was thy will that I should be
thine own, and thou didst desire it in such a manner, as al-
though now thou wculdst not have it so, yet canst not thou
possibly leave off to be mine. Knov/, my dear lord, that the
matchless affections that I do bear towards thee may recom-
pense and be equivalent to her beauty and nobility for whom
thou dost abandon me.
'Thou canst not be the beautiful Lucinda's, because thou
art mine; nor she thine, forasmuch as she belongs to Car-
denio ; and it will be more easy, if you will note it well,
to reduce thy will to love her that adores thee, than to ad-
dress hers, that hates thee, to bear thee affection. Thou
didst solicit my recchelessness, thou prayedst to mine integ-
rity, and wast not ignorant of my quality; thou knowest
also very well upon what terms I subjected myself to thy
will, so as there remains no place nor colour to term it a
fraud or deceit; and all this being so, as in verity it is,
and that thou beest as Christian as thou art noble, why dost
thou with these so many untoward wreathings dilate the
making of mine end happy, whose commencement thou didst
illustrate so much? And if thou wilt not have me for what
I am, who am thy true and lawful spouse, yet at least take
and admit me for thy slave, for so that I may be in thy pos-
session I will account myself happy and fortunate. Do not
permit that by leaving and abandoning me, meetings may be
made to discourse of my dishonour. Do not vex thus the
declining years of my parents, seeing that the loyal services
which they ever have done as vassals to thine deserve not
so [dis] honest a recompense. And if thou esteemest that
DOROTHEA'S APPEAL 379
thy blood by meddling with mine shall be stained or embased,
consider how few noble houses, or rather none at all, are
there in the world which have not run the same way, and
that the woman's side is not essentially requisite for the il-
lustrating of noble descents. How much more, seeing that
true nobility consists in virtue, which if it shall want in
thee, by refusing that which thou owest me so justly, I shall
remain with many more degrees of nobility than thou shalt.
And in conclusion, that which I will lastly say is, that
whether thou wilt or no, I am thy wife; the witnesses are
thine own words, which neither should nor ought to lie, if
thou dost esteem thyself to have that for the want of
which thou despisest me. Witness shall also be thine own
handwriting. Witness Heaven, which thou didst invoke to
bear witness of that which thou didst promise unto me : and
when all this shall fail, thy very conscience shall never fail
from using clamours, being silent in thy mirth and turning,
for this truth which I have said to thee now shall trouble
the greatest pleasure and delight.'
These and many other like reasons did the sweetly
grieved Dorothea use with such feeling, as all those that
were present, as well such as accompanied Don Fernando,
and all the others that did accompany her, shed abundance of
tears. Don Fernando listened unto her without replying a
word, until she had ended her speech, and given beginning
to so many sighs and sobs, as the heart that could endure to
behold them without moving were harder than brass. Lu-
cinda did also regard her, no less compassionate of her sor-
row than admired at her discretion and beauty, and al-
though she would have approached to her, and used some
consolatory words, yet was she hindered by Don Fernando's
arms, which held her still embraced, who, full of confusion
and marvel, after he had stood very attentively beholding
Dorothea a good while, opening his arms, and leaving Lu-
cinda free, said, 'Thou hast vanquished, O beautiful Doro-
thea! thou hast vanquished me; for it is not possible to re-
sist or deny so many united truths.' Lucinda, through her
former trance and weakness, as Don Fernando left her, was
like to fall, if Cardenio, who stood behind Don Fernando all
the while lest he should be known, shaking off all fear and
380 DON QUIXOTE
endangering his person, had not started forward to stay her
from falling; and, clasping her sweetly between his arms,
he said, 'If pitiful Heaven be pleased, and would have thee
now at last take some ease, my loyal, con-tant, and beauti-
ful lady, I presume that thou canst not possess it more se-
curely than between these arms which do now receive thee,
as whilom they did when fortune was pleased that I might
call thee mine own.' And then Lucinda, first severing her
eyelids, beheld Cardenio, and having first taken notice of
him by his voice, and confirmed it again by her sight, like
one quite distracted, without further regarding modest re-
spects, she cast both her arms about his neck, and, joining
her face to his, said, 'Yea, thou indeed art my lord ; thou,
the true owner of this poor captive, howsoever adverse for-
tune shall thwart it, or this life, which is only sustained
and lives by thine, be ever so much threatened.' This was
a marvellous spectacle to Don Fernando, and all the rest of
the beholders, which did universally admire at this so un-
expected an event. And Dorothea, perceiving Don Fernando
to change colour, as one resolving to take revenge on Car-
denio, for he had set hand to his sword, which she conjectur-
ing, did with marvellous expedition kneel, and, catching hold
on his legs, kissing them, she strained them with so loving
embracements as he could not stir out of the place, and then,
with her eyes overflown with tears, said unto him, 'What
meanest thou to do, my only refuge in this unexpected
trance? Thou hast here thine own spouse at thy feet, and
her whom thou wouldst fain possess is between her own
husband's arms. Judge, then, whether it become thee, or is
a thing possible, to dissolve that which Heaven hath knit,
or whether it be anywise laudable to endeavour to raise and
equal to thyself her who, contemning all dangers and incon-
veniences, and confirmed in faith and constancy, doth in thy
presence bathe her eyes with amorous liquor of her true
love's face and bosom. I desire thee for God's sake, and by
thine own worths I request thee, that this so notorious a
verity may not only assuage thy choler, but also diminish
it in such sort, as thou mayst quietly and peaceably permit
those two lovers to enjoy their desires without any en-
cumbrance all the time that Heaven shall grant it to them;
FERNANDO VANQUISHED 381
and herein thou shalt show the generosity of thy magnani-
mous and noble breast, and give the world to understand
how reason prevaileth in thee, and domineereth over pas-
sion.' All the time that Dorothea spoke thus to Don Fer-
nando, although Cardenio held Lucinda between his arms,
yet did he never take his eyes off Don Fernando, with resolu-
tion that if he did see him once stir in his prejudice, he
would labour both to defend himself and offend his adver-
sary and all those who should join with him to do him any
harm, as much as he could, although it were with the rest
of his life. But Don Fernando's friends, the curate and
barber, that were present and saw all that was passed, re-
paired in the mean season, without omitting the good Sancho
Panza, and all of them together compassed Don Fernando,
entreating him to have regard of the beautiful Dorothea's
tears, and it being true (as they believed it was) that she
had said, he should not permit her to remain defrauded of
her so just and lawful hopes, assuring him that it was not
by chance, but rather by the particular providence and dis-
position of the heavens, that they had all met together so un-
expectedly; and that he should remember, as master curate
said very well, that only death could sever Lucinda from
her Cardenio ; and that although the edge of a sword might
divide and part them asunder, yet in that case they would ac-
count their death most happy; and that, in irremediless
events, it was highest prudence, by straining and overcoming
him.self, to show a generous mind, and that he might con-
quer his own will, by permitting these two to enjoy that
good which Heaven had already granted to them ; and that
he should turn his eyes to behold the beauty of Dorothea,
and he should see that few or none could for feature paragon
with her, and much less excel her; and that he should confer
her humility and extreme love which she bore to him with
her other endowments: and principally, that if he gloried in
the titles of nobility or Christianity, he could not do any
other than accomplish the promise that he had passed to her;
and that by fulfilling it he should please God and satisfy
discreet persons, which know very well how it is a special
prerogative of beauty, though it be in an humble and mean
subject, if it be consorted with modesty and virtue, to exalt
382 DON QUIXOTE
and equal itself to any dignity, without disparagement of
him which doth help to raise or unite it to himself; and
when the strong laws of delight are accomplished (so that
there intercur no sin in the acting thereof), he is not to
be condemned which doth follow them. Finally, they added
to these reasons others so many and forcible, that the val-
orous breast of Don Fernando (as commonly all those that
are warmed and nourished by noble blood are wont) was
mollified, and permitted itself to be vanquished by that truth
which he could not deny though he would. And the token
that he gave of his being overcome, was to stoop down and
embrace Dorothea, saying unto her, 'Arise, lady ; for it is not
just that she be prostrate at my feet whose image I have
erected in my mind. And if I have not hitherto given dem-
onstrations of what I now aver, it hath perhaps befallen
through the disposition of Heaven, to the end I might, by
noting the constancy and faith wherewithal thou dost affect
me, know after how to value and esteem thee according unto
thy merits. And that which in recompense thereof I do en-
treat of thee is, that thou wilt excuse in me mine ill manner
of proceeding and exceeding carelessness in repaying thy
good-will ; for the very occasion and violent passions that
made me to accept thee as mine, the very same did also impel
me again not to be thine; and for the more verifying of mine
assertion, do but once behold the eyes of the now contented
Lucinda, and thou mayst read in them a thousand excuses for
mine error; and seeing she hath found and obtained her
heart's desire, and I have in thee also gotten what is most
convenient — for I wish she may live securely and joyfully
many and happy years with her Cardenio: for I will pray
the same, that it will license me to enjoy my beloved Doro-
thea.' And saying so, he embraced her again, and joined his
face to hers with so lovely motion, as it constrained him to
hold watch over his tears, lest violently bursting forth, they
should give doubtless arguments of his fervent love and
remorse.
Cardenio, Lucinda, and almost all the rest could not do so,
for the greater number of them shed so many tears, some for
their private contentments, and others for their friends, as
it seemed that some grievous and heavy misfortune had be-
FERNANDO VANQUISHED 383
tided them all ; even very Sancho Panza wept, although he
excused it afterward, saying that he wept only because that
he saw that Dorothea was not the Queen Micomicona, as he
had imagined, of whom he hoped to have received so great
gifts and favours. The admiration and tears joined, endured
in them all for a pretty space ; and presently after, Cardenio
and Lucinda went and kneeled to Don Fernando, yielding
him thanks for the favour that he had done to them, with so
courteous compliments as he knew not what to answer, and
therefore lifted them up, and embraced them with very great
affection and kindness, and presently after he demanded of
Dorothea how she came to that place, so far from her own
dwelling. And she recounted unto him all that she had told
to Cardenio; whereat Don Fernando and those which came
with him took so great delight, as they could have wished
that her story had continued a longer time in the telling than
it did — so great was Dorothea's grace in setting out her mis-
fortunes. And as soon as she had ended, Don Fernando told
all that had befallen him in the city, after that he had found
the scroll in Lucinda's bosom, wherein she declared Cardenio
to be her husband, and that he therefore could not marry
her; and also how he attempted to kill her, and would have
done it, were it not that her parents hindered him; and that
he therefore departed out of the house, full of shame and
despite, with resolution to revenge himself more commodi-
ously; and how he understood the next day following, how
Lucinda was secretly departed from her father's house, and
gone nobody knew where, but that he finally learned within a
few months after, that she had entered into a certain monas-
tery, with intention to remain there all the days of her life,
if she could not pass them with Cardenio; and that as soon
as he had learned that, choosing those three gentlemen for
his associates, he came to the place where she was, but would
not speak to her, fearing lest that, as soon as they knew
of his being there, they would increase the guards of the
monastery ; and therefore expected until he found on a day
the gates of the monastery open, and leaving two of his fel-
lows to keep the door, he with the other entered into the
abbey in Lucinda's search, whom they found talking with a
nun in the cloister; and, snatching her away ere she could
384 DON QUIXOTE
retire herself, they brought her to a certain village, where
they disguised themselves in that sort they were; for so it
was requisite for to bring her away: all which they did with
the more facility, that the monastery was seated abroad in
the fields, a good way from any village. He likewise told
that, as soon as Lucinda saw herself in his power, she fell
into a swoon ; and that, after she had returned to herself, she
never did any other thing but weep and sigh, without speak-
ing a word; and that in that manner, accompanied with si-
lence and tears, they had arrived to that inn, which was to
him as grateful as an arrival to heaven, wherein all earthly
mishaps are concluded and finished.
CHAPTER X
Wherein Is Prosecuted the History of the Famous
Princess Micomicona, with Other Delightful
Adventures
SANCHO gave ear to all this with no small grief of
mind, seeing that all the hopes of his lordship vanished
away like smoke, and that the fair Princess Micomicona
was turned into Dorothea, and the giant into Don Fernando,
and that his master slept so soundly, and careless of all that
had happened. Dorothea could not yet assure herself whether
the happiness that she possessed was a dream or no. Car-
denio was in the very same taking, and also Lucinda's
thoughts ran the same race.
Don Fernando yielded many thanks to Heaven for having
dealt with him so propitiously, and unwinding him out of the
intricate labyrinth, wherein straying, he was at the point to
have at once lost his soul and credit. And finally, as many
as were in the inn were very glad and joyful of the success
of so thwart, intricate, and desperate affairs. The curate
compounded and ordered all things through his discretion, and
congratulated every one of the good he obtained. But she
that kept greatest jubilee and joy was the hostess, for the
promise that Cardenio and the curate had made, to pay
her the damages and harms committed by Don Quixote;
only Sancho, as we have said, was afflicted, unfortunate,
and sorrowful. And thus he entered with melancholy sem-
blance to his lord, who did but then awake, and said unto
him, —
'Well and securely may you sleep, sir knight of the heavy
countenance, as long as it shall please yourself, without
troubling yourself with any care of killing any giant, or of
restoring the queen to her kingdom ; for all is concluded and
done already.' 'I believe thee very easily,' replied Don Quix-
385
386 DON QUIXOTE
ote; 'for I have had the monstrousest and most terrible
battle with that giant that ever I think to have all the days
of my life vv'ith any; and yet with one thwart blow, thwack I
overthrew his head to the ground, and there issued so much
blood as the streams thereof ran along the earth as if they
were of water.' 'As if they were of red wine, you might
better have said,' replied Sancho Panza; 'for I would let you
to understand, if you know it not already, that the dead giant
is a bored wine-bag, and the blood six-and-thirty gallons of
red wine, which it contained in its belly. The head that was
slashed off so neatly is the whore my mother; and let the
devil take all away for me !' 'And what is this thou sayst,
madman?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Art thou in thy right wits?'
'Get up, sir,' quoth Sancho, 'and you yourself shall see the
fair stuff you have made, and what we have to pay; and you
shall behold the queen transformed into a particular lady,
called Dorothea, with other successes, which if you may once
conceive them aright will strike you into admiration.' 'I
would marvel at nothing,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for if thou
beest well remembered, I told thee the other time that we
were here, how all that succeeded in this place was done by
enchantment. And what wonder, then, if now the like should
eftsoons befall?' 'I could easily be induced to believe all,'
replied Sancho, 'if my canvassing in the coverlet were of that
nature. But indeed it was not, but most real and certain.
And I saw well how the innkeeper that is here yet this very
day alive, held one end of the coverlet, and did toss me up
towards heaven with very good grace and strength, no less
merrily than lightly. And where the notice of parties inter-
curs, I do believe, although I am a simple man and a sinner,
that there is no kind of enchantment, but rather much
trouble, bruising, and misfortune.' 'Well, God will remedy
all,' said Don Quixote. 'And give me mine apparel; for I
will get up and go forth, and see those successes and trans-
formations which thou speakest of.' Sancho gave him his
clothes ; and whilst he was a-making of him ready, the curate
recounted to Don Fernando and to the rest Don Quixote's
mad pranks, and the guile he had used to bring him away out
of the Poor Rock, wherein he imagined that he lived exiled
through the disdain of his lady. He told them, moreover.
SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE 387
all the other adventures which Sancho had discovered,
whereat they did laugh not a little, and wonder withal, be-
cause it seemed to them all to be one of the extravagantest
kinds of madness that ever befel a distracted brain. The
curate also added, that seeing the good success of the Lady-
Dorothea did impeach the further prosecuting of their design,
that it was requisite to invent and find some other way how
to carry him home to his own village. Cardenio offered him-
self to prosecute the adventure, and Lucinda should represent
Dorothea's person. 'No,' quoth Don Fernando, 'it shall not
be so; for I will have Dorothea to prosecute her own inven-
tion: for so that the village of this good gentleman be not
very far off from hence, I will be very glad to procure his
remedy.' 'It is no more than two days' journey from hence,'
said the curate. 'Well, though it were more,' replied Don
Fernando, 'I would be pleased to travel them, in exchange
of doing so good a work.' Don Quixote sallied out at this
time completely armed with Mambrino's helmet (although
with a great hole in it) on his head, his target on his arm,
and leaned on his trunk or javelin. His strange countenance
and gait amazed Don Fernando and his companions very
much, seeing his ill-favoured visage so withered and yellow,
the inequality and unsuitability of his arms, and his grave
manner of proceeding; and stood all silent to see what he
would; who, casting his eyes on the beautiful Dorothea, with
very great gravity and staidness, said, —
'I am informed, beautiful lady, by this my squire, that
your greatness is annihilated, and your being destroyed ; for
of a queen and mighty princess which you were wont to be,
you are now become a particular damsel; which if it hath
been done by particular order of the magical king your
father, dreading that I would not be able to give you the
necessary and requisite help for your restitution, I say that
he neither knew nor doth know the one half of the enter-
prise, and that he was very little acquainted with histories
of chivalry ; for if he had read them, or passed them over
with so great attention and leisure as I have done, and read
them, he should have found at every other step, how other
knights of a great deal less fame than myself have ended
more desperate adventures, seeing it is not so great a matter
Hc XIV — 13
388 DON QUIXOTE
to kill a giant, be he ever so arrogant; for it is not many
hours since I myself fought with one, and what ensued I will
not say, lest they should tell me that I do lie; but time, the
detector of all things, will disclose it, when we do least think
thereof.'
'Thou foughtest with two wine-bags, and not with a giant,'
quoth the host at this season. But Don Fernando com-
manded him to be silent and not interrupt Don Quixote in
any wise, who prosecuted his speech, saying, 'In fine, I say,
high and disinherited lady, that if your father hath made this
metamorphosis in your person for the causes related, give
him no credit; for there is no peril so great on earth but my
sword shall open a way through it, wherewithal I, overthrow-
ing your enemy's head to the ground, will set your crown
on your own head within a few days.' Here Don Quixote
held his peace, and awaited the princess her answer, who,
knowing Don Fernando's determination and will that she
should continue the commenced guile until Don Quixote were
carried home again, answered, with a very good grace and
countenance, in this manner: 'Whosoever informed you,
valorous Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, that I have altered
and changed my being, hath not told you the truth, for I am
the very same to-day that I was yesterday; true it is, that
some unexpected yet fortunate successes have wrought some
alteration in me, by bestowing on me better hap than I hoped
for, or could wish myself; but yet for all that I have not left
off to be that which [I was] before, or to have the very same
thoughts which I ever had, to help myself by the valour of
your most valorous and invincible arm. And therefore I re-
quest you, good my lord, of your accustomed bounty, to re-
turn my father his honour again, and account of him as of
a very discreet and prudent man, seeing that he found by this
skill so easy and so infallible a way to redress my disgraces ;
for I do certainly believe, that if it had not been by your
means, I should never have happened to attain to the good
fortune which now I possess, as all those noblemen present
may witness; what therefore rests is, that to-morrow morn-
ing we do set forward, for to-day is now already so overgone
as we should not be able to travel very far from hence. As
for the conclusion of the good success that I do hourly
DON QUIXOTE AND DOROTHEA 389
expect, I refer that to God and the valour of your invincible
arm.'
Thus much the discreet Dorothea said; and Don Quixote
having heard her, he turned him to Sancho, w^ith very mani-
fest tokens of indignation, and said, 'Now I say unto thee,
little Sancho, that thou art the veriest rascal that is in all
Spain. Tell me, thief and vagabond, didst not thou but even
very now say unto me that this princess was turned into a
damsel, and that called Dorothea ? and that the head which I
thought I had slashed from a giant's shoulders was the whore
that bore thee? with a thousand other follies, which did
plunge me into the greatest confusion that ever I was in my
life? I vow' (and then he looked upon heaven, and did crash
his teeth together) 'that I am about to make such a wreck
on thee, as shall beat wit into the pates of all the lying squires
that shall ever hereafter serve knights-errant in this world.'
'I pray yoa have patience, good my lord,' answered Sancho,
'for it may very well befall me to be deceived in that which
toucheth the transmutation of the lady and Princess Mico-
micona ; but in that which concerneth the giant's head, or at
least the boring of the wine-bags, and that the blood was but
red wine I am not deceived, I swear; for the bags lie yet
wounded there within at your own bed's head, and the red
wine hath made a lake in the chamber; and if it be not so,
it shall be perceived at the frying of the eggs, I mean that
you shall see it when master innkeeper's worship, who is
here present, shall demand the loss and damage.' 'I say thee,
Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that thou art a madcap ; pardon
me, and so it is enough.' 'It is enough indeed,' quoth Don
Fernando, 'and therefore let me entreat you to say no more
of this, and seeing my lady the princess says she will go
away to-morrow, seeing it is now too late to depart to-day,
let it be so agreed on, and we will spend this night in pleasant
discourses, until the approach of the ensuing day, wherein
we will all accompany and attend on the worthy knight Sir
Don Quixote, because we would be eye-witnesses of the val-
orous and unmatchable feats of arms which he shall do in
the pursuit of this weighty enterprise which he hath taken
upon him.' 'I am he that will serve and accompany you, good
my lord,' replied Don Quixote; 'and I do highly gratify the
390 DON QUIXOTE
honour that is done me, and the good opinion that is held of
me, the which I will endeavour to verify and approve, or it
shall cost me my life, or more, if more it might cost me.'
Many other words of compliment and gratification passed
between Don Quixote and Don Fernando, but a certain pas-
senger imposed silence to them all, by his arrival to the inn
in that very season, who by his attire showed that he was a
Christian newly returned from among the Moors, for he was
apparelled with a short-skirted cassock of blue cloth, sleeves
reaching down half the arm, and without a collar; his
breeches were likewise of blue linen, and he wore a bonnet
of the same colour, a pair of date-coloured buskins, and a
Turkish scimitar hanging at his neck in a scarf, which went
athwart his breast. There entered after him, riding on an
ass, a woman clad like a Moor, and her face covered with a
piece of the veil of her head ; she wore on her head a little
cap of cloth of gold, and was covered with a little Turkish
mantle from the shoulders down to the feet. The man was
of strong and comely making, of the age of forty years or
thereabouts ; his face was somewhat tanned, he had long
mustachios and a very handsome beard; to conclude, his
making was such as, if he were well attired, men would tak^
him to be a person of quality and good birth. He demanded
a chamber as soon as he had entered, and being answered
that there was no one vacant in the inn, he seemed to be
grieved, and coming to her which in her attire denoted her-
self to be a Moor, he took her down from her ass. Lucinda,
Dorothea, the hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes, allured
to behold the new and strange attire of the Moor, compassed
her about; and Dorothea, who was always most gracious,
courteous, and discreet, deeming that both she and he that
had brought her were discontented for the want of a lodging,
she said, 'Lady, be not grieved for the trouble you are here
like to endure for want of means to refresh yourself, seeing
it is an universal vice of all inns to be defective herein; yet
notwithstanding, if it shall please you to pass away the time
among us' (pointing to Lucinda), 'perhaps you have met in
the discourse of your travels other worse places of entertain-
ment than this shall prove.' The disguised lady made none
answer, nor other thing than arising from the place wherein
THE CAPTIVE 391
she sat, and setting both her arms across on her bosom, she
inclined her head and bowed her body, in sign that she ren-
dered them thanks; by her silence they doubtlessly conjectured
her to be a Moor, and that she could not speak the Castilian
tongue. On this the Captive arrived, who was otherwise em-
ployed until then, and, seeing that they all had environed her
that came with him, and that she made no answer to their
speech, he said, 'Ladies, this maiden scarce understands my
tongue yet, nor doth she know any other than that of her
own country, and therefore she hath not, nor can make any
answer to your demands.' 'We demand nothing of her,' quoth
Lucinda, 'but only do make her an offer of our companies
for this night, and part of the room where we ourselves are
to be accommodated, where she shall be cherished up as much
as the commodity of this place, and the obligation wherein
we be tied to show courtesies to strangers that may want it,
do bind us ; especially she being a woman to whom we may
do this service.' 'Sweet lady, I kiss your hands both for her
and myself,' replied the Captive; 'and I do highly prize, as
it deserveth, the favour you have proffered, which in such
an occasion, and offered by such persons as you seem to be,
doth very plainly show how great it is.' 'Tell me, good sir,'
quoth Dorothea, 'whether is this lady a Christian or a Moor?
for by her attire and silence she makes us suspect that she
is that we would not wish she were.' 'A Moor she is in at-
tire and body,' answered the Captive; 'but in mind she is a
very fervent Christian, for she hath very expressly desired
to become one.' 'Then she is not yet baptised?' said Lucinda.
'There hath been no opportunity offered to us,' quoth the
Captive, 'to christen her, since she departed from Algiers,
which is her town and country; and since that time she was
not in any so eminent a danger of death as might oblige her
to be baptised before she were first instructed in all the cere-
monies which our holy mother, the Church, commandeth;
but I hope shortly (if it shall please God) to see her baptised
with that decency which her quality and calling deserves,
which is greater than her attire or mine makes show of.'
These words inflamed all the hearers with a great desire
to know who the Moor and her captive were, yet none of
them would at that time entreat him to satisfy their longing,
392 DON QUIXOTE
because the season rather invited them to take some order
how they might rest after their travels, than to demand of
them the discourse of their Hves. Dorothea, then, taking
her by the hand, caused her to sit down by herself, and
prayed her to take off the veil from her face. She instantly
beheld the Captive, as if she demanded of him what they
said, and he in the Arabical language told her how they de-
sired her to discover her face, and bade her to do it; which
presently she did, and discovered so beautiful a visage as
Dorothea esteemed her to be fairer than Lucinda, and Lu-
cinda prized her to excel Dorothea; and all the beholders
perceived that if any one could surpass them both in beauty,
it was the Moor ; and there were some that thought she ex-
celled them both in some respects. And as beauty hath ever-
more the prerogative and grace to reconcile men's minds and
attract their wills to it, so all of them forthwith dedicated
their desires to serve, and make much of the lovely Moor.
Don Fernando demanded of the Captive how she was called,
and he answered that her name was Lela Zoraida ; and as
soon as she heard him, and understood what they had de-
manded, she suddenly answered with anguish, but yet with a
very good grace, 'No, not Zoraida, but Maria,' giving them
to understand that she was called Maria, and not Zoraida.
These words, and the great effect and vehemency where-
withal the Moor delivered them, extorted more than one tear
from the hearers, especially from the women, who are natu-
rally tender-hearted and compassive. Lucinda embraced her
then with great love, and said, 'Ay, ay, Maria, Maria.' To
which she answered, 'Ay, ay, Maria, Zoraida raancange;'
that is, 'and not Zoraida.' By this it was grown some four
of the clock in the afternoon; and by order of those which
were Don Fernando's companions, the innkeeper had pro-
vided for them as good a beaver as the inn could in any wise
afford unto them. Therefore, it being the hour, they sat down
altogether at a long table (for there was never a square or
round one in all the house), and they gave the first and prin-
cipal end (although he refused it as much as he could) to
Don Quixote, who commanded that the Lady Micomicona
should sit at his elbow, seeing he was her champion. Pres-
ently were placed Lucinda and Zoraida, and Don Fernando
DON QUIXOTE'S DISCOURSE 393
and Cardenio right over against them, and after the Captive
and other gentlemen, and on the other side the curate and
barber. And thus they made their drinking with very great
recreation, which was the more augmented to see Don Qui-
xote leaving of his meat, and, moved by the like spirit of that
which had made him once before talk so much to the
goatherds, begin to offer them an occasion of speech in this
manner:
'Truly, good sirs, if it be well considered, those which pro-
fess the order of knighthood do see many great and unex-
pected things. If it be not so, say what mortal man alive is
there that, entering in at this castle gate, and seeing of us all
in the manner we be now present here, can judge or believe
that we are those which we be? Who is it that can say that
this lady which sits here at my sleeve is the great queen that
we all know her to be, and that I am that Knight of the
Heavy Countenance that am so much blabbed of abroad by
the mouth of fame? therefore it cannot be now doubted, but
that this art and exercise excelleth all the others which ever
human wit, the underminer of nature, invented; and it is the
more to be prized, by how much it exposeth itself, more than
other trades, to dangers and inconveniences. Away with
those that shall affirm learning to surpass arms; for I will
say unto them, be they what the}'- list, that they know not
what they say ; for the reason which such men do most urge,
and to which they do most rely, is, that the travails of the
spirit do far exceed those of the body ; and that the use of
arms are only exercised by the body, as if it were an office
fit for porters, for which nothing were requisite but bodily
forces ; or as if in that which we that profess it do call arms,
were not included the acts of fortitude which require deep
understanding to execute them; or as if the warrior's mind
did not labour as well as his body, who had a great army to
lead and command, or the defence of a besieged city. If not,
see if he can arrive by his corporal strength to know or sound
the intent of his enemy, the designs, stratagems, and difficul-
ties, how to prevent imminent dangers, all these being opera-
tions of the understanding wherein the body hath no meddling
at all. It being therefore so, that the exercise of arms re-
quires spirit as well as those of learning, let us now examine
394 DON QUIXOTE
which of the two spirits, that of the scholar or soldier, do
take most pains; and this may be best understood by the end
to which both of them are addressed; for that intention is
most to be esteemed which hath for object the most noble
end. The end and conclusion of learning is — I speak not now
of divinity, whose scope is to lead and address souls to
heaven; for to an end so much without end as this, no other
may be compared — I mean of human sciences or arts, to
maintain distributive justice in his perfection, and give to
every one that which is his own; to endeavour and cause
good laws to be religiously observed — an end most certainly
generous, high, and worthy of great praise, but not of so
much as that to which the exercise of arms is annexed, which
hath for his object and end peace, which is the greatest good
men can desire in this life. And therefore the first good news
that ever the world had or men received, were those which
the angels brought on that night which was our day, when
they sang in the skies, "Glory be in the heights, and peace
on earth to men of good minds." And the salutation which
the best Master that ever was on earth or in heaven taught to
His disciples and favourites was, that when they entered into
any house they should say, "Peace be to this house"; and
many other times He said, "I give unto you My peace ; I
leave My peace unto you ; peace be amongst you." It is a
good, as precious as a jewel, and a gift given, and left by
such a hand; a jewel, without which neither on earth nor
in heaven can there be any perfect good. This peace is the
true end of war; for arms and war are one and the selfsame
things. This truth being therefore presupposed, that the
end of war is peace, and that herein it doth excel the end of
learning, let us descend to the corporal labours of the scholar,
and to those of him which professeth arms, and consider
which of them are more toilsome.'
Don Quixote did prosecute his discourse in such sort, and
with so pleasing terms, as he had almost induced his audience
to esteem him to be, at that time at least, exempt from his
frenzy; and therefore, by reason that the greater number of
them were gentlemen, to whom the use of arms is in a man-
ner essential and proper, they did willingly listen to him; and
therefore he continued on with his discourse in this manner:
DON QUIXOTE'S DISCOURSE 395
*I say, then, that the pairxS of the student are commonly
these: principally poverty (not that I would maintain that all
students are poor, but that I may put the case in greatest
extremity it can have), and by saying that he may be poor,
methinks there may be no greater aggravation of his misery;
for he that is poor is destitute of every good thing; and this
poverty is suffered by him sundry ways, sometimes by hunger,
other times by cold or nakedness, and many times by all of
them together; yet it is never so extreme but that he doth
eat, although it be somewhat later than the custom, or of the
scraps and reversion of the rich man ; and the greatest misery
of the student is that which they term to live by sops and
pottage : and though they want fire of their own, yet may
they have recourse to their neighbour's chimney, which if it
do not warm, yet will it weaken the cold: and finally, they
sleep at night under a roof. I will not descend to other
trifles — to wit, the want of shirts and shoes, the bareness of
their clothes, or the overloading of their stomachs with meat
when good fortune lends them as good a meal — for by this
way, which I have deciphered so rough and difficult, stum-
bling here, falling there ; getting up again on the other side,
and refalling on this, they attain the degree which they have
desired so much ; which many having compassed, as we have
seen, which having passed through these difficulties, and
sailed by Scylla and Charybdis (borne away flying, in a man-
ner, by favourable fortune), they command and govern all
the world from a chair, turning their hunger into satiety,
their nakedness into pomp, and their sleeping on a mat into
a sweet repose among hollands and damask — a reward justly
merited by their virtue. But their labours, confronted and
compared to those of the militant soldier, remain very far
behind, as I will presently declare.'
CHAPTER XI
Treating of the Curious Discourse Made by Don Quixote
Upon the Exercises of Arms and Letters
DON QUIXOTE, continuing his discourse, said, 'Seeing
we begin in the student with poverty and her parts,
let us examine whether the soldier be richer? Cer-
tainly we shall find that no man can exceed the soldier in
poverty itself; for he is tied to his wretched pay, which comes
either late or never; or else to his own shifts, with notable
danger of his life and conscience. And his nakedness is oft-
times so much, as many times a leather jerkin gashed serves
him at once for a shirt and ornament. And in the midst of
winter he hath sundry times no other defence or help to re-
sist the inclemencies of the air in the midst of the open fields
than the breath of his mouth, which I verily believe doth
against nature come out cold, by reason it sallies from an
empty place; expect there till the night fall, that he may re-
pair all these discommodities by the easiness of his bed, the
which, if it be not through his own default, shall never offend
in narrowness; for he may measure out for it on the earth
as many foot as he pleaseth, and tumble himself up and down
it without endangering the wrinkling of his sheets. Let after
all this the day and hour arrive wherein he is to receive the
degree of his profession — let, I say, a day of battle arrive;
for there they will set on his head the cap of his dignity,
made of lint to cure the wound of Some bullet that hath
passed through and through his temples, or hath maimed an
;irm or a leg. And when this doth not befall, but that Heaven
doth piously keep and preserve him whole and sound, he shall
perhaps abide still in the same poverty wherein he was at the
first; and that it be requisite that one and another battle do
succeed, and he come off ever a victor, to the end that he may
prosper and be at the last advanced. But such miracles are
396
DON QUIXOTE'S DISCOURSE 397
but few times wrought ; and say, good sirs, if you have noted
it, how few are those which the wars reward, in respect of
the others that it hath destroyed? You must answer, without
question, that there can be no comparison made between
them, nor can the dead be reduced to any number; but all
the living, and such as are advanced, may be counted easily
with three arithmetical figures : all which falls out contrary in
learned men, for all of them have wherewithal to entertain
and maintain themselves by skirts — I will say nothing of
sleeves. So that although the soldier's labour is greater, yet
is his reward much less. But to this may be answered, that
it is easier to reward two hundred thousand learned men
than thirty thousand soldiers; for they may be advanced by
giving unto them offices, which must of necessity be bestowed
on men of their profession ; but soldiers cannot be recom-
pensed otherwise than by the lord's substance and wealth
whom they serve. And yet this objection and impossibility
doth fortify much more my assertion.
'But leaving this apart, which is a labyrinth of very difficult
issue, let us return to the pre-eminency of arms over learning,
which is a matter hitherto depending, so many are the reasons
that everyone allegeth for himself; and among those which
I myself have repeated, then learning doth argue thus for
itself, that arms without it cannot be long maintained, foras-
much as the war hath also laws, and is subject to them, and
that the laws are contained under the title of learning, and
belong to learned men.
'To this objection arms do make answer: that the laws
cannot be sustained without them, for commonwealths are
defended by arms, and kingdoms preserved, cities fenced,
highways made safe, the seas freed from pirates; and, to be
brief, if it were not for them, commonwealths, kingdoms,
monarchies, cities, and ways by sea and land, would be sub-
ject to the rigour and confusion which attendeth on the war
all the time that it endureth, and is licensed to practise his
prerogatives and violence; and it is a known truth, that it
which cost most, is or ought to be most accounted of. That
one may become eminent m learning, it costs him time,
watchings, hunger, nakedness, headaches, rawness of stomach,
and other such inconveniences as I have partly mentioned al-
398 DON QUIXOTE
ready; but that one may arrive by true terms to be a good
soldier, it costs him all that it costs the student, in so ex-
ceeding a degree as admits no comparison, for he is at every
step in jeopardy to lose his life. And what fear of neces-
sity or poverty may befall or molest a student so fiercely as
it doth a soldier, who, seeing himself at the siege of some
impregnable place, and standing sentinel in some ravelin or
half-moon, feels the enemies undermining near to the place
where he is, and yet dares not to depart or abandon his stand,
upon any occasion whatsoever, or shun the danger which so
nearly threatens him? but that which he only may do, is to
advise his captain of that which passeth, to the end he may
remedy it by some countermine, whilst he must stand still,
fearing and expecting when he shall suddenly fly up to the
clouds without wings, and after descend to the depths against
his will. And if this appear to be but a small danger, let us
weigh whether the grappling of two galleys, the one with
the other in the midst of the spacious main, may be compared,
or do surpass it, the which nailed and grappled fast the one
to the other, the soldier hath no more room in them than
two foot broad of a plank in the battlings, and notwithstand-
ing, although he clearly see laid before him so many ministers
of death, for all the pieces of artillery that are planted on
the adverse side do threaten him, and are not distant from
his body the length of a lance ; and seeing that if he slipped
ever so little aside, he should fall into the deeps, doth yet
nevertheless, with undaunted heart, borne away on the wings
of honour, which spurreth him onward, oppose himself as a
mark to all their shot, and strives to pass by that so narrow
a way into the enemy's vessel. And what is most to be ad-
mired is to behold how scarce is one fallen into that place,
from whence he shall never after arise until the world's end,
when another takes possession of the same place; and if he
do likewise tumble into the sea, which gapes like an enemy
for him also, another and another will succeed unto him,
without giving any respite to the times of their death, valour,
and boldness, which is the greatest that may be found among
all the trances of warfare. Those blessed ages were fortunate
which wanted the dreadful fury of the devilish and murder-
ing pieces of ordnance, to whose inventor I am verily per-
DON QUIXOTE'S DISCOURSE 399
suaded that they render in hell an eternal guerdon for his
diabolical invention, by which he hath given power to an
infamous, base, vile, and dastardly arm to bereave the most
valorous knight of life; and that, without knowing how or
from whence, in the midst of the stomach and courage that
inflames and animates valorous minds, there arrives a wan-
dering bullet (shot off, perhaps, by him that was afraid, and
fled at the very blaze of the powder, as he discharged the
accursed engine), and cuts off and finisheth in a moment the
thoughts and life of him who merited to enjoy it many ages.
'And whilst I consider this, I am about to say that it
grieves me to have ever undertaken the exercise of a knight-
errant in this our detestable age ; for although no danger can
affright me, yet notwithstanding I live in jealousy to think
how powder and lead might deprive me of the power to make
myself famous and renowned by the strength of mine arm
and the edge of my sword throughout the face of the earth.
But let Heaven dispose as it pleaseth; for so much the more
shall I be esteemed, if I can compass my pretensions, by how
much the dangers were greater to which I opposed my-
self, than those achieved in foregoing times by knights-
adventurous.'
Don Quixote made all this prolix speech whilst the rest of
his company did eat, wholly forgetting to taste one bit, al-
though Sancho Panza did now and then put him in remem-
brance of his victuals, saying that he should have leisure
enough after to speak as much as he could desire. In those
that heard was again renewed a kind of compassion, to see a
man of so good a wit as he seemed to be, and of so good
discourse in all the other matters which he took in hand, to
remain so clearly devoid of it when any occasion of speech
were offered treating of his accursed chivalry. The curate
applauded his discourse, affirming that he produced very good
reasons for all that he had spoken in the favour of arms ; and
that he himself (although he was learned and graduated) was
likewise of his opinion.
The beaver being ended, and the table-cloths taken away,
whilst Maritornes did help her mistress and her daughter to
make ready the room where Don Quixote had slept for the
gentlewomen, wherein they alone might retire themselves
400 DON QUIXOTE
that night, Don Fernando entreated the Captive to recount
unto them the history of his life, forasmuch as he suspected
that it must' have been rare and delightful, as he gathered by
the tokens he gave by coming in the lovely Zoraida's com-
pany. To which the Captive replied, that he would accom-
plish his desire with a very good will, and that only he feared
that the discourse would not prove so savoury as they ex-
pected ; but yet for all that he would tell it, because he would
not disobey him. The curate and all the rest thanked him
for his promise, and turned to request him again to begin
his discourse; and he perceiving so many to solicit him, said
that prayers were not requisite when commandments were
of such force. 'And therefore I desire you/ quoth he, 'to be
attentive, and you shall hear a true discourse, to which per-
haps no feigned invention may be compared for variety or
delight.' The rest, animated by these his words, did accom-
modate themselves with very great silence ; and he, beholding
their silence and expectation of his history, with a modest
and pleasing voice, began in this manner.
CHAPTER XII
Wherein the Captive Recounteth His Life,
AND Other Accidents
' ■ N a certain village of the mountains of Leon my lineage
I had beginning, wherewithal nature dealt much more
-■- liberally than fortune, although my father had the
opinion, amidst the penury and poverty of that people, to be
a rich man, as indeed he might have been, had he but used
as much care to hoard up his wealth as prodigality to spend
it. And this his liberal disposition proceeded from his being
a soldier in his youthful years ; for war is the school wherein
the miser is made frank, and the frank man prodigal. And
if among soldiers we find some wretches and niggards, they
are accounted monsters which are seldom seen. My father
passed the bounds of liberality, and touched very nearly the
confines of prodigality; a thing nothing profitable for a mar-
ried man, who had children that should succeed him in his
name and being. My father had three sons, all men, and of
years sufficient to make an election of the state of life they
meant to lead ; wherefore he perceiving, as he himself was
wont to say, that he could not bridle his nature in that con-
dition of spending, he resolved to deprive himself of the in-
strument and cause which made him such a spender and so
liberal, to wit, of his goods; without which Alexander the
Great himself would be accounted a miser; and therefore,
calling us all three together on a day into his chamber, he
used these or such like reasons to us :
' "Sons, to affirm that I love you well may be presumed,
seeing I term you my sons ; and yet it may be suspected that
I hate you, seeing I do not govern myself so well as I might
in the husbanding and increasing of your stock. But to the
end that you may henceforth perceive that I do affect you
with a fatherly love, and that I mean not to overthrow you
401
402 DON QUIXOTE
like a step-father, I will do one thing to you which I have
pondered, and with mature deliberation purposed these many-
days. You are all of age to accept an estate, or at least to
make choice of some such exercise as may turn to your
honour and profit at riper years; and therefore, that which
I have thought upon, is to divide my goods into four parts;
the three I will bestow upon you, to every one that which
appertains to him, without exceeding a jot; and I myself
will reserve the fourth to live and maintain me with as long
as it shall please Heaven to lend me breath. Yet Ivdo greatly
desire that after every one of you is possessed of his por-
tion, he would take one of the courses which I mean to pro-
pose. There is an old proverb in this our Spain, in mine
own opinion very true (as ordinarily all proverbs are, being
certain brief sentences collected out of long and discreet ex-
periences), and it is this, 'The Church, the Sea, or the Court.'
The meaning is, that whosoever would become wealthy, or
worthy, must either follow the Church, haunt the seas by
exercising the trade of merchandises, or get him a place of
service and entertainment in the king's house ; for men say
that 'A king's crumb is more worth than a lord's loaf.' This
I say because I desire, and it is my will, that one of you do
follow his book, another merchandise, and the third the war,
seeing that the service of his own house is a difficult thing to
compass ; and although the war is not wont to enrich a man,
yet it adds unto him great worth and renown. Within these
eight days I do mean to give you all your portions in money,
without defrauding you of a mite, as you shall see in effect.
Therefore, tell me now whether you mean to follow mine
opinion and device in this which I have proposed?" And
then he commanded me, by reason that I was the eldest, to
make him an answer.
T, after I had entreated him not to make away his goods,
but to spend and dispose of them as he listed, seeing we were
both young and able enough to gain more, at last I concluded
that I would accomplish his will, and that mine was to follow
the wars, therein serving God and my king together. The
second brother made the same offer, and, employing his por-
tion in commodities, would venture it to the Indies. The
youngest, and as I deem the discreetest, said that either he
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 403
would follow the Church, or go at the least to Salamanca to
finish his already commenced studies. And as soon as we
had ended the agreement and election of our vocations, my
father embraced us all, and afterwards performed unto us,
in as short a time as he had mentioned, all that he promised;
giving unto each of us a portion, amounting, if I do well
remember, to three thousand ducats apiece in money ; for an
uncle of ours bought all the goods, and paid ready money,
because he would not have them made away from our own
family and lineage. We all took our leave of our good father
in one day; and in that instant, it seeming to me a great in-
humanity to leave my father so old and with so little means,
I dealt so with him as I constrained him to take back again
two thousand ducats of the three he had given me, foras-
much as the rest was sufficient to furnish me in very good
sort with all things requisite for a soldier. My brothers,
moved by mine example, did each of them give him a thou-
sand crowns; so that my father remained with four thou-
sand crowns in money, and three in goods, as they were
valued, which goods he would not sell, but keep them still in
stock. Finally, we bade him (and our said uncle) farewell,
not without much feeling and many tears on both sides ; and
they charged us that we would from time to time acquaint
them with our successes, whether prosperous or adverse.
We promised to perform it; and then, embracing us, and
giving us his blessing, one departed towards Salamanca, an-
other to Seville, and myself to Alicant.
'I arrived prosperously at Genoa, and from thence went
to Milan, where I did accommodate myself with arms and
other braveries used by soldiers, and departed from thence
to settle myself in Piedmont; and being in my way towards
the city of Alexandria de la Paglia, I heard news that the
great Duke of Alva did pass towards Flanders ; wherefore,
changing my purpose, I went with him, and served him in
all the expeditions he made. I was present at the beheading
of the Earls of Egmont and Homes, and obtained at last to
be ensign to a famous captain of Guadalajara, called Diego
de Urbina. Within a while after mine arrival to Flanders,
the news were divulged of the league that Pius V., the pope
of famous memory, had made with the Venetians and the
404 DON QUIXOTE
King of Spain, against our common enemy the Turk, who
had gained by force the famous island of Cyprus much about
the same time, which island belonged to the state of Venice,
and was an unfortunate and lamentable loss. It was also
certainly known that the most noble Don John of Austria,
our good King Don Philip's natural brother, did come down
for general of this league, and the great provision that was
made for the war was published everywhere.
'AH this did incite and stir on my mind and desire to be
present at the expedition so much expected; and therefore,
although I had conjectures, and half promises to be made a
captain in the first occasion that should be offered, yet I
resolved to leave all those hopes, and to go into Italy, as in
effect I did. And my good fortune so disposed, as the lord
Don John of Austria arrived just at the same time at Genoa,
and went towards Naples, to join himself with the Venetian
navy, as he did after at Messina. In this most fortunate
journey I was present, being by this made a captain of foot,
to which honourable charge I was mounted rather by my
good fortune than by my deserts. And that very day which
was so fortunate to all Christendom; for therein the whole
world was undeceived, and all the nations thereof freed of all
the error they held, and belief they had, that the Turk was
invincible at sea : in that very day I say, wherein the swell-
ing stomach and Ottomanical pride was broken among so
many happy men as were there (for the Christians that were
slain were much more happy than those which they left vic-
torious alive), I alone was unfortunate, seeing that in ex-
change of some naval crown which I might expect had I
lived in the times of the ancient Romans, I found myself the
night ensuing that so famous a day with my legs chained
and my hands manacled, which befel in this manner, that
Uchali, king of Algiers, a bold and venturous pirate, having
invested and distressed the admiral of Malta (for only three
knights remained alive, and those very sore wounded), John
Andrea's chief galley came to her succour, wherein I went
with my company; and doing what was requisite in such an
occasion, I leapt into the enemy's vessel, the which falling
off from that which had assaulted her, hindered my soldiers
from following me; by which means I saw myself alone
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 405
amidst mine enemies, against whom I could make no long
resistance, they were so many. In fine, I was taken, full of
wounds. Now, as you may have heard, Uchali saved him-
self and all his squadron, whereby I became captive in his
power, and only remained sorrowful among so many joyful,
and captive among so many freed ; for that day fifteen thou-
sand Christians, which came slaves and enchained in the
Turkish galleys, recovered their desired liberty. I was car-
ried to Constantinople, where the Great Turk, Selim, made
my lord General of the Sea, by reason that he had so well
performed his duty in the battle, having brought away, for
a witness of his valour, the standard of the Order of Malta.
I was the year ensuing of 1572 in Navarino, rowing in the
Admiral of the Three Lanterns, and saw and noted there
the opportunity that was lost, of taking all the Turkish navy
within the haven; for all the janizaries and other soldiers
that were in it made full account that they should be set upon,
even within the very port, and therefore trussed up all their
baggage, and made ready their shoes, to fly away presently
to the land, being in no wise minded to expect the assault,
our navy did strike such terror into them. But God disposed
otherwise of the matter, not through the fault or negligence
of the general that governed our men, but for the sins of
Christendom, and because God permits and wills that we
have always some executioners to chastise us. In sum,
Uchali got into Modon, which is an island near to Nava-
rino, and, landing his men there, he fortified the mouth of
the haven, and there remained until Don John departed.
In this voyage was taken the galley called Presa, whereof
the famous pirate Barbarossa his son was captain; it was
surprised by the captain-galley of Naples, called the She-
Wolf, that was commanded by the thunderbolt of war, the
father of soldiers — that fortunate and never overthrown Don
Alvaro de Baqan, the Marquis of Santa Cruz. And here I
will not forget to recount what befel at the taking of the
Presa. This son of Barbarossa's was so cruel, and used his
slaves so ill, that as soon as they that were rowing perceived
the She-Wolf to approach them, and that she had overtaken
them, they cast away their oars all at one time, and laying
hands on their captain that stood on the poop, crying to
406 DON QUIXOTE
them to row with more speed, and passing him from one bank
to another, from the poop to the prow, they took so many
bits out of him, as he had scarce passed beyond the mast
when his soul was already wasted to hell; such was the
cruelty wherewithal he entreated them, and so great the
hate they also bore towards him. We returned the next
year after to Constantinople, being that of seventy and three,
and there we learned how Don John had gained Tunis, and,
taking that kingdom away from the Turks, had, by installing
Muley Hamet therein, cut away all Muley Hameda's hopes
to reign again there, who was the most cruel and valiant
Moor that ever lived.
'The Great Turk was very much grieved for this loss;
and therefore, using the sagacity wherewithal all his race
wise endued, he made peace with the Venetians, which wished
for it much more than he did himself. And the year after
of seventy-and-four, he assaulted the fortress of Goleta, and
the other fortress that Don John had raised near unto Tunis.
And in all these occasions I was present, tied to the oar
without any hope of liberty, at leastwise by ransom, being
resolved never to signify by letter my misfortunes to my
father. The Goleta was lost, in fine, and also the fortress,
before which two places lay in siege seventy-five thousand
Turks, and more than four hundred thousand Moors, and
other Saracens of all the other parts of Africa, being fur-
nished with such abundance of munition and warlike engines,
and so many pioneers as were able to cover Goleta and the
fortress, if every one did cast but his handful of earth upon
them. Thus was Goleta, accounted until then impregnable,
first lost, the which did not happen through default of valour
in the defendants, who in defence thereof did all they could
or ought to have done, but because experience showed the
facility wherewithal trenches might be raised in that desert
sand; for though water had been found in it within two
spans' depth, the Turks could not find it in the depth of two
yards ; and therefore, filling many sacks full of sand, they
raised their trenches so high as they did surmount the
walls of the sconce, and did so gall the defendants from
them with their shot as no one could stand to make any de-
fence. It was a common report that our men would not
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 407
immure themselves within Goleta, but expect the enemy in
the champaign at their disembarking; but those that gave
this out spake widely, as men very little acquainted with the
like affairs; for if in Goleta and the fortress there were
scarce seven thousand soldiers, how could so few a number,
were they ever so resolute, make a sally, and remain in the
forts against so great a number of enemies? or how is it
possible that the forces which are not seconded and supplied
should not be overcome, specially being besieged by many
and obstinate enemies, and those in their own country? But
many others esteemed, and so did I likewise among the rest,
that Almighty God did a particular grace and favour unto
Spain in that manner, permitting to be destroyed the stop
and cloak of all wickedness, and the sponge and moth of
innumerable sums of money spent there unprofitably, with-
out serving to any other end than to preserve the memory of
being gained by the Emperor Charles the Fifth, as if it had
been requisite for the keeping of it eternal (as it is, and
shall be ever) that those stones should sustain it. The fort-
ress was also won ; but the Turks were constrained to gain it
span by span, for the soldiers which defended it fought so
manfully and resolutely, as the number of the enemies slain
in two-and-twenty general assaults which they gave unto it,
did pass five-and-twenty thousand. Never a one was taken
prisoner but three hundred which survived their fellows — a
certain and manifest token of their valour and strength, and
how well they had defended themselves and kept their fort-
resses with great magnanimity. A little fort or turret that
stood in the midst of the place, under the command of Don
John Zanoguera, a Valencian gentleman and famous soldier,
was yielded upon composition; and Don Pedro de Puerto
Carrero, general of Goleta, was taken prisoner, who omitted
no diligence possible to defend the place, but yet was so
grieved to have lost it as he died for very grief on the way
towards Constantinople, whither they carried him captive.
The general likewise of the fort, called Gabriel Cerbcllon,
being a gentleman of Milan, and a great engineer, and most
resolute soldier, was taken ; and there died ; in both the places
many persons of worth, among which Pagan de Oria was
one, a knight of the Order of Saint John, of a most noble
408 DON QUIXOTE
disposition, as the exceeding liberality which he used
towards his brother, the famous John Andrea de Oria, clearly
demonstrates ; and that which rendered his death more de-
plorable was, that he was slain by certain Saracens (which
he trusted, perceiving how the fort was lost), who had of-
fered to convey him thence in the habit of a Moor to Ta-
barca, which is a little haven or creek possessed by the
Genoese that fish for coral in that coast. These Saracens
cut off his head and brought it to the general of the Turkish
army, who did accomplish in them the Spanish proverb,
"That although the treason pleaseth, yet is the traitor hated,"
and so it is reported that he commanded those to be hanged
that had brought him the present, because they had not
brought it alive.
'Among the Christians that were lost in the fort there was
one, called Don Pedro de Aguilar, born in Andalusia, in
som.e town whose name I have forgotten; he had been An-
cient in the fortress, and was a soldier of great account, and
of a rare understanding, and specially had a particular grace
in poetry. This I say because his fortune brought him to be
slave to my patron, even into the very same galley and bench
whereon I sat. This gentleman made two sonnets in form
of epitaphs, the one for the Goleta, the other for the fort;
and I will repeat them, because I remember them very well,
and do believe that they will be rather grateful than anything
disgustful to the audience.'
As soon as ever the Captive named Don Pedro de Aguilar,
Don Fernando beheld his camaradas, and they all three did
smile. And when he began to talk of the sonnets, one of
them said, 'Before your pass further, I beseech you, good sir,
let me entreat you to tell me what became of that Don Pedro
de Aguilar whom you have named.'
'That which I know of that affair,' answered the Captive,
'is that, after he had been two years in Constantinople, he
fled away in the attire of an Armenian with a Greek spy,
and I cannot tell whether he recovered his liberty or no,
although I suppose he did, for within a year after I saw the
Greek in Constantinople, but I had not the opportunity to
demand of him the success of that voyage.'
'He came then into Spain,' quoth the gentleman ; 'for that
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 409
same Don Pedro is my brother, and dwells now at home in
our own town, very well, rich married, and a father of three
sons.'
'God be thanked,' quoth the Captive, 'for the infinite
favour He hath showed unto him; for in mine opinion there
is not on earth any contentment able to be compared to that
of recovering a man's lost liberty.'
'I do moreover,' said the gentleman, 'know the sonnets
which my brother composed.'
'I pray you then, good sir,' quoth the Captive, 'repeat
them ; for perhaps you can say them better than I.'
'With a very good will,' answered the gentleman; 'and
that of the Goleta is thus.'
CHAPTER XIII
Wherein Is Prosecuted the History of the Captive
'"A SONNET
' "O happy souls, which from this mortal vale
Freed and exempted, through the good you wrought.
Safe from the harms that here did you assail,
By your deserts to highest heaven were brought,
Which here inflamed by wrath, and noble thought,
Showed how much your forces did avail :
When both your own and foreign bloods you taught.
From sandy shores, into the deeps to trail.
Your lives before your valour's end deceased
In your tired arms, which, though they were a-dying
And vanquish'd, yet on victory have seized.
And this your life, from servile thraldom flying,
Ending, acquires, between the sword and wall.
Heaven's glory there, fame here on earth, for all." '
'I have it even in the very same manner,' quoth the Cap-
tive.
'Well, then,' said the gentleman, 'that of the fort is thus,
if I do not forget it :
'"A SONNET
' "From midst the barren earth, here overthrown,
In these sad clods, which on the ground do lie.
Three thousand soldiers' holy souls are flown,
And to a happier mansion gone on high :
Here, when they did in vain the vigour try
Of their strong arms, to cost of many a one.
After the most, through extreme toil, did die.
The cruel sword a few did light upon.
And this same plot eternally hath been.
With thousand doleful memories replete,
As well this age, as in foregoing time.
But from his cruel bosom Heaven ne'er yet
Received sincerer souls than were the last,
Nor earth so valiant bodies aye possess'd."*
410
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 411
The sonnets were not misliked; and the Captive was
greatly recreated with the news which he received of his
companion, and, prosecuting his history, he said:
'The Goleta and the fort being rendered, the Turks gave
order to dismantle Goleta; for the fort was left in such sort
as there remained nothing up that might be overthrown:
and to do it with more brevity and less labour, they under-
mined it in three places, but that which seemed least strong
could not be blown up by any of them, which was the old
walls; but all that which had remained afoot of the new
fortifications and works of Fratin, fell down to the ground
with great facility. And this being ended, the navy re-
turned triumphant and victorious to Constantinople, where,
within a few months afterward, my lord Uchali died, whom
they called Uchali Fartax, which signifies in the Turkish
language, the Scald or Scurvy Runagate, for he was such.
And it is a custom among the Turks to give one another
nicknames, either of the defects or perfections and virtues
which they have ; and the reason hereof is, that among them
all they have but four lineages that have surnames, and these
do contend with that of Ottoman's, for nobility of blood ; and
all the rest, as I have said, do take denomination sometime
from the blemishes of the body, and sometime from the vir-
tues of the mind. And this scurvy fellow did row fourteen
years, being the Great Turk's slave, and did renounce his
faith, being four-and-thirty years old, for despite, and be-
cause he might be revenged on a Turk that gave him a cuff
on the face as he rowed ; and his valour was so great, as
without ascending by the dishonourable means and ways
usually taken by the greatest minions about the Great Turk,
he came first to be King of Algiers, and after to be General
of the Sea, which is the third most noble charge and dignity
of all the Turkish empire. He was born in Calabria, and
was a good moral man, and used with great humanity his
slaves, whereof he had above three thousand, which were
after his death divided, as he had left in his testament, be-
tween the Great Turk (who is ever an inheritor to every dead
man, and hath a portion among the deceased his children)
and his runagates. I fell to the lot of a Venetian runagate,
who being a ship-boy in a certain vessel, was taken by Uchali,
412 DON QUIXOTE
who loved him so tenderly as he was one of the dearest
youths he had, and he became after the most cruel runagate
that ever lived. He was called Azanaga, and came to be
very rich, and King of Algiers. With him I came from Con-
stantinople somewhat contented in mind, because I should
be nearer unto Spain ; not for that I meant to write unto any
one of my unfortunate success, but only to see whether for-
tune would prove more favourable to me in Algiers than at
Constantinople, where I had attempted a thousand ways to
escape, but none of them sorted to any good effect. And I
thought to search out in Algiers some other means to com-
pass that which I so greedily desired, for the hope of attain-
ing liberty some time had never abandoned me ; and when
in the contriving I thought, or put my designs in practice,
and that the success did not answer mine expectation, pres-
ently without forsaking me, it forged and sought out for
another hope that might sustain me, although it were debile
and weak.
'With this did I pass away my life, shut up in a prison or
house, which the Turks call baths, wherein they do enclose
the captive Christians, as well those that belong to the king
as other particular men's, and those which they call of the
Almazen, which is as much to say, as slaves of the council,
who are deputed to serve the city in the public works and
other affairs thereof; and these of all other captives do with
most difficulty attain to liberty; for, by reason they belong
to the commonalty, and have no particular master, there is
none with whom a man may treat of their redemption, al-
though they should have the price of their ransom. To these
baths, as I have said, some particular men carry their cap-
tives to be kept, chiefly if they be to be ransomed; for there
they have them at their ease and secure, until they be re-
deemed. The king's captives of ransom, also, do not go
forth to labour with the other poor crew, if it be not when
the paying of their ransom is deferred; for then, to the end
they may make them write for money more earnestly, they
make them labour and go to fetch wood with the rest, which
is no small coil and trouble, I then was one of those of ran-
som ; for as soon as it was known how I was a captain,
notwithstanding that I told them of my little possibility and
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 413
want of means, all could not prevail to dissuade them from
consorting me with the multitude of gentlemen, and those
of ransom. They put on me then a chain, rather to be a
token that I was there for my ransom than to keep me the
better with it. And so I passed away my time there with
many other gentlemen and men of mark, held and kept in
there for their ransom. And although both hunger and
nakedness did vex us now and then, or rather evermore, yet
nothing did afflict us so much as to hear and see every mo-
ment the cruelties that my master used towards Christians.
Every day he hanged up one ; he set this man on a stake, and
would cut off the other's ears, and that for so little occasion,
or wholly without it, as the very Turks themselves perceived
that he did it not for any other cause but because he had a
will to do it, and that it was his natural inclination to be a
homicide of all human kind. Only one Spanish soldier, called
such a one of Saavedra, was in his good grace, who although
he did sundry things that will remain in the memory of that
nation for many years, and all to the end to get his liberty,
yet he never struck him, nor commanded him to be stricken,
nor said as much as an evil word unto him; and yet we all
feared that he should be broached on a stake for the least
of many things which he did, and himself did also dread it
more than once; and if it were not that time denieth me
leisure to do it, I would recount unto you things done by this
soldier, which might both entertain and astonish you much
more than the relation of my life.
'There were over the square court of our prison certain
windows that looked into it, and belonged to a certain rich
and principal Moor; the which windows (as ordinarily are
all the Moors' windows) rather seemed to be holes than win-
dows, and even these were also very closely covered and
shut fast with linen coverings. It therefore befel that,
standing one day upon the battlements of our prison with
other three companions, trying which of us could leap best
in his shackles to pass away the time, and being alone (for
all the other Christians were gone abroad to labour), I
lifted up by chance mine eyes, and I saw thrust out at one
of those so close shut windows a cane, and a linen tied at
the end thereof, and the cane was moved and wagged up and
414 DON QUIXOTE
down, as if it had made signs that we should come and take
it. We looked upon it, and one of my companions went
under the cane, to see whether they would let it fall, or
what they would do else ; but as soon as he approached it,
the cane was lifted up, and did stir it to either side, as if
they had said (with wagging of the head), "No." The
Christian returned to us; and the cane being eftsoons let fall,
and beginning to move as it had done before, another of my
fellows went, and the same succeeded unto him that did to
the first.
'Finally, the third approached it, with no better success
than the former two ; which I perceiving, would not
omit to try my fortitude : and as soon as I came near to
stand under the cane, it was let slip, and fell within the
baths, just at my feet. I forthwith went to untie the linen
which was knotted, wherein I found ten zianiys, which are
certain pieces of base gold used among the Moors, and worth,
each of them, ten reals of our money. I leave to your dis-
cretion to think if I was not glad of my booty; certes, my
joy and admiration was much, to think whence that good
might come unto us, but specially to myself, since the signs
of refusal to let it fall to the other did confirm clearly that
the favour was only addressed to myself. I took my wel-
come money, broke the cane, and returned to the battlements,
and viewed the window earnestly, and perceived a very
beautiful hand issue out thereat, which did open and shut it
again very speedily. By which imagining and thinking that
some woman that dwelled in that house had done us the
charity and benefit, in token of our thankful minds, we made
our courtesies after the Moorish fashion, by inclining of our
heads, bending of the body, and pressing our hands to our
breasts. Within a while after, there appeared out of the
same window a little cross made of canes, which presently
was taken in again. This sign did confirm us in the opinion
that there was some Christian woman captive in that place,
and that it was she which did to us the courtesy; but the
whiteness of her hand, and her rich bracelets, destroyed this
presumption : although we did, notwithstanding, conjecture
that it was some runagate Christian, whom their masters
there do very ordinarily take to wives, yea, and account very
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 415
good hap to light on one of them, for they are much more
accounted of than the women of the nation itself.
'Yet in all these discourses we strayed very far from the
truth of the accident; and so, from thenceforward, all our
passing of the time was employed in beholding that window
as our north, wherein had appeared the star of the cane.
But fifteen days passed over, or we could descry either it or
the hand again, or any other sign. And although in the
meantime we endeavoured all that we might to know who
dwelled in that house, or whether there were any runagate
Christian therein, yet never a one could tell us any other
things but that it belonged to a very rich and noble
Moor, called Aguimorato, who had been constable of the
Pata — a dignity among them of very great quality.
'But when we thought least that it would rain any more
zianiys by that way, we saw the cane suddenly to appear
and another linen hanging on it, whose bulk was much
greater. And this befel when the bath was freed of con-
course, and void, as the other time before. We made the
accustomed trial, every one approaching it before me, but
without effect until I came; for presently, as I approached
it, it was permitted to fall. I untied the knot, and found
enwreathed in it forty ducats of Spanish gold, with a letter
written in the Arabian tongue, and at the end thereof was
drawn a very great cross. I kissed the cross, took up the
money, and returned again to the battlements, and we all
together made our receivers. The hand also appeared. I
made signs that I would read the paper, and the window was
shut incontinently. All of us were marvellously astonished,
yet joyful at that which had befallen us; and by reason that
none of us understood the Arabian tongue, the desire that
we had to understand the contents of the letter was surpass-
ing great, but greater the difficulty to find out some trusty
persons that might read it. In the end I resolved to trust in
this affair a runagate of Murcia, who did profess himself to
be my very great friend, and having, by my liberality and
other good turns done secretly, obliged him to be secret in
the affair wherein I would use him — for some runagates are
accustomed, when they have an intention to return into the
Christian countries, to bring with them testimonies of the
416 DON QUIXOTE
most principal captives, wherein they inform, and in the
amplest manner they may, how the bearer is an honest man,
and that he hath ever done many good turns to the Chris-
tians, and that he hath himself a desire to escape by the first
commodity. Some runagates there are which procure those
testimonies sincerely, and with a good intention; others take
the benefit of them either by chance or industry, who, in-
tending to go and rob into the countries of Christians, if by
chance they be astray or taken, bring forth their testimonies,
and say that by those papers may be collected the purpose
wherewithal they came, that is, to remain in Christian coun-
tries, and that therefore they came abroad a-pirating with the
other Turks ; and by this means they escape that first brunt,
and are reconciled again to the Church, without receiving
any harm at all; and when they espy their time, do return
again into Barbary, to be such as they were before. Others
there are which procure those writings with a pure inten-
tion, and do after stay in Christian countries. Well, this my
friend was a runagate of this last kind, who had the testi-
monies of all my companions, wherein we did commend him
as amply as we could devise. And certainly if the Moors
had found those papers about him, they would have burnt
him for it. I understand how he could speak the Arabian
tongue very perfectly, and not only that alone, but also write
it withal ; yet before I would wholly break my mind to him,
I requested him to read me that scroll which I had found
by chance in a hole of my cabin. He opened it, and stood a
good while beholding and construing thereof, murmuring
somewhat between his teeth. I demanded therefore of him
whether he understood it. And he answered that he did
very well, and that if I desired to have it translated ver-
batim I should bring unto him pen and ink, to the end he
might do it more completely. We presently gave unto him
that which he asked, and he did translate it by little and
little; and having finished it, he said, "All that is here in
Spanish; is punctually, without omitting a letter, the con-
tents of the Moorish paper. And here you must note that
where it says Lela Marien, it means our Lady the blessed
Virgin Mary." We read the paper, whereof the contents
were these which ensue:
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 417
'"When I was a child, my father had a certain Christian
woman captive, that taught me in mine own tongue all the
Christian religion, and told me many things of Lela Marien.
The Christian died, and I know she went not to the fire, but
to Allah ; for she appeared to me twice after her death, and
bade me go to the Christian country to see Lela Marien, who
loved me much. I know not how I may go. I have seen
many Christians through this window, and none of them
hath seemed to me a gentleman but thyself. I am very beau-
tiful and young, and I have a great deal of riches to carry
with me. See thou whether thou canst contrive the way
how we may depart, and thou shalt- there be my husband, if
thou pleasest; and if thou wilt not, I do not greatly care,
for Lela Marien will provide me of a husband. I wrote my-
self the billet ; be therefore wary whom thou trustest to read
it. Do not trust any Moor; for they are all of them deceit-
ful traitors. It is this that grieves me most of all ; for I
would not have thee, if it were possible, to disclose the mat-
ter to any living body ; for if my father did know it, he would
throw me down into a well, and oppress me in it with stones.
I will hang a thread to the end of the cane, and therein thou
mayst tie thine answer. And if thou canst not write the
Arabian, tell me thy mind by signs, for Lela Marien will
make me to understand it, who, with Allah, preserve thee,
and this cross, which I do many times kiss ; for so the captive
commanded me to do."
'See, good sir, if it was not great reason, that the reasons
comprehended in this letter should recreate and astonish us.
And certainly the one and the other was so great, as the
runagate perceived well that the paper was not found by
chance, but was really addressed unto some one of us ; and
therefore desired us earnestly, that if that were true which
he suspected, that we would trust and tell it unto him, and
he would adventure his life to procure our liberties. And
saying this, he took out of his bosom a crucifix of metal,
and protested, with very many tears, by the God which that
image represented, in whom he, although a sinner and
wicked man, did most firmly believe, that he would be most
loyal and secret to us in all that which we would discover
unto him; for it seemed to him, and he almost divined, that
418 DON QUIXOTE
both himself and we all should recover our liberties by her
means that did write the letter; and he should then also see
himself in the state which he most desired, to wit, in the
bosom of his mother the holy Catholic Church ; from which,
through his ignorance and sin, he was departed and divided
as an unprofitable and corrupt member. The runagate said
this with so many tears, and with such evident tokens of
repentance, as all of us consented to open our minds unto
him, and declare the truth of the matter ; and so we recounted
unto him the whole discourse, without concealing any cir-
cumstance, and showed unto him the window by which the
cane was wont to appear; and he marked the house from
thence, and rested with special charge to inform himself
well of those that dwelled therein. We thought also that
it was requisite to answer the Moorish lady's letter; and
therefore, having him present that could so well perform
that task, we caused the runagate to draw out an answer
presently as I did dilate it to him, which was punctually
such as I will recount; for of all the most substantial points
that befel me in that affair, no one is fallen out of my
memory, nor shall ever as long as I have breath. In effect
that which I answered to the Moor was this:
' "The true Allah preserve you, dear lady, and that blessed
Marien who is the true mother of God, and is she that hath
put in your mind the desire to go into the Christian coun-
tries, because she doth love you well. Pray unto her that
she will vouchsafe to instruct you how you may bring the
matter to pass which she commandeth you to do; for she
is so good as she will easily condescend to do it. As for
my part, I do promise, as well for myself as for these other
Christians that are with me, to do for you all that we are
able to do until death. Do not omit to write unto me, and
acquaint me with your purposes, and I will answer you
every time ; for great Allah hath given us a captive Chris-
tian that can write and read your language well, as you may
perceive by this paper; so that you may securely, and with-
out any dread, advise us of all that you shall think good.
And as concerning that which you say, that you will become
my wife after we arrive to the Christian countries, I do
promise you the same, as I am a good Christian; and you
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 419
shall understand that the Christians do accomplish their
words far better than do the Moors. Allah and Marien his
mother preserve you, my dearest lady !"
'The letter being written and enclosed, I expected two
days, that the baths might be free of concourse, as it was
wont, which as soon as it befel, I went up to my accustomed
place of the battlements, to see whether the cane appeared ;
which was presently after thrust out at the window,. And
as soon as I perceived it, although I could not note who it
was that set it, I showed my paper, to give them warning
to set on the thread; but it was already hanging thereon;
to the which I tied the letter, and within a while after began
to appear our star, with the white flag of peace, and the
knotted linen ; which they let fall, and I took up : and I found
therein, in divers sorts of money and gold, more than fifty
ducats, which redoubled our joys more than fifty times, and
confirmed the hope we conceived of attaining liberty. The
very same night our runagate returned to us, and told how
he had learned that the very same Moor which we were in-
formed of before, called Aguimorato, dwelt there, and was
excessive rich, and had one only daughter, the heir of all
his goods; of whom the common opinion throughout the city
was, that she was the fairest woman of all Barbary ; and
that many of the viceroys that came there had demanded
her to wife, but she would never condescend to any notion
of marriage; and that he likewise had understood that she
had sometimes a Christian captive, which now was deceased:
all which agreed with the contents of the letter. We presently
entered in council with the runagate about the means we
were to use to fetch away the Moor, and come all of us to
Christian lands; and in the end we concluded to attend, for
that time, the second advice of Zoraida (for so was she then
called, who now means to name herself Maria), forasmuch
as we clearly perceived that it was she, and none other, that
could minister to us the means to remove all these difficulties.
After we had rested on this resolution, the runagate bid us
be of good courage, for he would engage his life, or set us
at liberty. Four days after^ the baths were troubled with
people, which was an occasion that the cane appeared not all
that while ; but that impediment being removed, and the accus-
Hc XIV — 14
420 DON QUIXOTE
tomed solitude returned, the cane did again appear, with a
linen hanging thereat so grossly impregned as it promised
to be delivered of a most happy burden. Both cane and linen
bent themselves to me, and in them I found another paper,
and a hundred ducats in gold, besides other small money.
The runagate was present, and we gave him the letter to read,
the efifect whereof was this:
* "I know not, good sir, what order to give for our going
into Spain, nor hath Lela Marien told me anything concern-
ing it, although I have demanded her counsel. That which
at present I conceive may be done is, that I will through
this window give unto you great store of money, wherewith
you may redeem yourself and your friends. And let one of
you go into the Christian's country and buy a barque, and
after return for his fellows, and he shall find me in my
father's garden, which is at the gate of Babazon, near to the
sea-coast, where I mean to stay all the summer, with my
father and my servants; from whence you may take me out
boldly by night, and carry me to the barque. And see well
that thou wilt be my husband; for if thou wilt not, I will
demand of Marien to chastise thee: and if thou darest trust
nobody to go for the vessel, redeem thyself and go, for I
know thou wilt rather return than another, seeing thou
art a gentleman and a Christian. Learn out the garden,
and when I see thee walk there where thou now art. I
will make account that the bath is empty, and will give
thee great store of money. Allah preserve thee, my dear
friend !"
'These were the contents of the second letter, which be-
ing heard by us all, every one offered to be himself the ran-
somed person, and promised to go and return with all punc-
tuality, and among the rest I also made a proffer of myself;
to all which resolutions the runagate opposed himself, say-
ing that he would consent in no wise that any one of us
should be freed until we were all together delivered; for
experience had taught him how evil ransomed men were
wont to keep those promises which they passed in the times
of their thraldom ; for many times certain principal captives
had made that kind of trial, redeeming of some one or other
that should go to Valencia or Majorca, with money to freight
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 421
a barque or frigate, and return for him that had ransomed
them, and did never return again; for the recovered liberty,
and the fear of adventuring to lose it again concurring, did
blot out of their memory all the other obligations of the
w^orld. And to confirm the truth w^hich he averred, he briefly
recounted unto us an accident w^hich befel much about the
same time to certain Christian gentlemen, the strangest as
I suppose that ever happened in those quarters, wherein do
succeed every other day events full of wonder and admira-
tion; and therefore concluded that what ought and might
be done was, that they would give unto him to buy a barque
such money as they meant to employ in the ransom of a
captive, and he would buy it there in Algiers, under pretext
of becoming a merchant and sailor in Tetuan and that coast.
And being once owner of a barque, he would easily devise
how to have them out of the baths and embark them all :
how much more, if the Moorish lady did as she promised,
give them money enough to ransom them all, was it a most
easy thing, they being free, to embark themselves at mid-
day. But the greatest difficulty in this affair was, that the
Moors use not to permit any runagate to buy any barque
or other small vessel, but only great vessels of war; for they
suspect that he that buys a barque, specially if he be a Span-
iard, does it for no other end but to run away to Christian
countries. And yet he knew how to facilitate that incon-
venience, by inducing a Tangerine Moor to become his part-
ner of the barque and the gains that should be gotten by
the commodities thereof, and with this colour he would be-
come lord of it himself, and therewithal accounted the mat-
ter ended. And although that myself and my comrades held
it the better course to send unto Mallorca for one, as the
Moorish lady said, yet durst we not contradict him, fearful
that if we did not what he would have us to do he would
discover us and endanger our lives, if he did once detect
Zoraida's practices, for the safeguard of whose life we
would all of us most willingly adventure our own ; and
therefore we determined to put ourselves into God's and
the runagate's hands. And so we answered at the same
instant to Zoraida, telling her that we would accomplish all
that she had admonished us, because she had advertised us
422 DON QUIXOTE
as well as if Leia Marien had told her what she should say,
and that the dilating or shortening of the affair did consist
only in herself. I did offer myself anew to become her hus-
band ; and with this the day ensuing wherein the bath was
also free, she sent me down at divers times by the cane two
thousand ducats and a letter, wherein she said that she would
go to her father's garden the next Juma, that is, the Friday
following, and that before she went away she woald give
us more money; and that if it were not enough, we should
advise her, and she would give unto us as much as we would
demand; for her father had so much treasure as he would
never perceive it ; how much more, seeing she had and kept
the keys of all. We gave five hundred crowns presently to
the runagate to buy a barque, and with eight hundred I
redeemed myself, giving the money to a Valencian merchant
which was at that season in Algiers, who did ransom me of
the king, taking me forth on his word, which he passed to
pay my ransom at the arrival of the first ship that should
come from Valencia; for if he had delivered the money
instantly, it would have given occasion to the king to sus-
pect that my ransom was many days before in Algiers, and
that the merchant had kept it silently to make his benefit
thereof. Finally, my master was so cavillous as I durst not
in any wise pay him presently.
'The Thursday before the Friday of the beautiful Zoraida's
departure towards the garden, she gave unto us other two
thousand ducats, and did likewise advise us of her going
away, entreating me, that as soon as I had ransomed myself,
I should learn the way to the garden, and take occasion how-
soever to go to it, and see her. I answered her briefly that
I would do so, and prayed her that she would carefully com-
mend our proceedings to Lela Marien with those prayers
which the captive had taught her. This being done, order
was also given for the ransoming of my three companions
to facilitate our issue out of the baths, and also that they
seeing me free, and themselves undelivered, might not be
troubled or persuaded by the devil to do anything in preju-
dice of Zoraida; for although that they, being the men of
that quality they were, might assure me from this fear, I
would not, for all that, adventure the matter; and therefore
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 423
I caused them to be ransomed by the same means that I
was redeemed myself, giving all the money to the merchant,
that he might with the more security pass his word for
us; to whom yet we never did discover our practice and
secret, by reason of the eminent danger of the discovery
thereof.'
CHAPTER XIV
Wherein the Captive Prosecuteth the Pleasant
Narration of His Life
* 1 r^IFTEEN days were not fully expired when the
p^ runagate had bought him a very good barque,
-L able to hold thirty persons or more ; and for the
better colour and assurance of his business, he made a
voyage to a place called Sargel, which is thirty leagues
distant from Algiers towards the side of Oran, and is a
great place of traffic for dry figs. He made this voyage
twice or thrice in company with the Tagarine of whom
we made mention; and the name of Tagarino is in Bar-
bary given to the Moors of Aragon, Granada, and Muda-
jares. And in the kingdom of Fez those Mudajares are
called Elches, and are the nation which that king doth
most employ in warlike affairs. You shall therefore under-
stand that every time he passed by with his barque, he did
cast anchor in a little creek, twice the shot of a crossbow
from the garden wherein Zoraida attended; and there the
runagate would, in very good earnest, exercise himself with
the Moors that rowed, either to fly, or else to assault one
another in jest, as he meant to do after in good earnest;
and would now and then go to Zoraida's garden and demand
fruits, which her father would bestow upon him, without
knowing what he was; and although he desired to have
spoken with Zoraida, as he told me afterward himself, arid
have informed her how it was he that was to carry her
away, by my direction, into the land of Christians, and that
she should therefore live cheerful and secure, yet was it
never possible, forasmuch as the women of that nation do
not suffer themselves to be viewed by any Moor or Turk, if
he be not their husband, or that their parents command
them, yet do they haunt and communicate themselves to
424
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 425
Christian captives freely, and that sometimes more than is
convenient. And truly it v^ould have grieved me that he
should have spoken to her, for perhaps it would have per-
plexed her extraordinarily, to see her affair committed to
the trust of a runagate; but God, who did otherwise dispose
it, did not concur with this gcod desire of our runagate,
who, seeing how safely he went and returned from Sargel,
and that he sounded when and where he pleased, and that
the Tagarino, his partner, did only what he liked, and that
I was ransomed, and nothing else wanting but to find out
some Christian that would row, he bade me bethink myself
what men I would bring away with me beside those that I
had ransomed, and that I should warn them to be ready
against the next Friday, wherein he was resolved that we
should depart.
'Seeing this, I spake to twelve Spaniards, very lusty rowers,
and those that could with most liberty get out of the city;
and it was not a little matter to find so many there at that
time, for there were twenty galleys abroad a-robbing, which
had carried all the other rowers with them, and these were
left behind, because their master did keep at home that sum-
mer to finish a galley that was on the stocks a-making. To
these I said nothing else, but only warned them that the
Friday ensuing, in the evening, they should closely steal out
by one and one, and go towards Aguimorato's garden, and
there expect me until I came unto them. I gave this advice
to every one of them apart, with order also, that although
they saw any other Christian there, they should tell them
nothing else but that I had commanded them to expect me in
that place.
'This diligence being used, yet vv^anted there another, which
was the most expedient of all, to wit, to advise Zoraida of
the terms wherein our affairs did stand, to the end she might
be likewise ready and prepared, and not affrighted, though
we did assault her before the time that she could imagine
the barque of the Christians to be come to fetch her; and
therefore I resolved to go myself into the garden, and see
whether I might speak with her. And taking the occasion
to go and gather some herbs, I went unto it the day before
our departure, and the first person with whom I encountered
426 DON QUIXOTE
was her father, who demanded of me, in a language which
in all Barbary and Constantinople is usually spoken by the
Moors to their captives, and is neither Arabian, Spanish, nor
of any other nation, but rather a mixture of all languages,
wherewith all of us understand one another: he, I say, in
that kind of speech, demanded of me what I sought for in
that his garden, and to whom I did belong. I answered that
I was one Arnaute Mami his slave (and this because I was
very certainly informed that he was his entire friend), and
that I came thither to gather of all sorts of herbs to make
a salad. He consequently asked of me whether I was a man
of ransom or no, and how much my master demanded for
me. And being in those questions and demands, the beautiful
Zoraida descended from the house into the garden, who had
espied me a good while before. And as the Moorish women
do not greatly estrange themselves from the sights of Chris-
tians, nor are in their behaviour or conversation with them
anything squeamish, as we have said already, she did not
greatly fear to approach the place where her father talked
with me, but rather her father perceiving that she came on
slowly, did call, and commanded her to draw near.
'It were a thing impossible for me to recount the great
beauty and gallant disposition, or the bravery and riches of
attire wherein my beloved Zoraida then showed herself to
mine eyes. I will only say this, that there hung more pearls
at her ears, superlative fair neck, and hair, than she hath
hairs on her head; about the wrists of her legs, which were
naked, after the manner of her country, she wore two car-
caxes (for so the manacles or bracelets of the feet are called
in the Moresco tongue) of the finest gold, wherein were en-
chased so many diamonds, that, as she told me after, her
father valued them at twenty thousand crowns; and those
about the wrists of her hands were of equal esteem. Her
pearls were many, and those most orient; for all the chief
bravery and ornament of the Moorish ladies consists in the
adorning of themselves with pearls and pearl-seed, by rea-
son whereof there is more pearls and pearl-seed to be found
among the Moors than among all other nations of the world.
And Zoraida's father had the fame to have many, and those
the very best that were in Algiers; and also above two hun-
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 427
dred thousand ducats of Spanish gold, of all which was she
the lady who now is mine. And if with all this ornament
she could then seem fair, by the relics that have remained
unto her among so many labours, may be easily guessed what
she would have been in the time of prosperity; for all of us
do know that the beauty of some women hath limited days
and seasons, and requireth certain accidents either to diminish
or increase it ; and it is a thing natural to the passions of the
mind, either to raise or abase it, but most commonly they
wholly destroy it. To be brief, I say that she arrived to the
place where we discoursed at that time, most richly attired,
and beautiful beyond measure, or I at least deemed her the
fairest that I had ever beheld until then; and herewithal, re-
membering the obligation wherein she had tied me, thought
that some deity had presented itself to my view, being come
from heaven to the earth for my recreation and relief.
'As soon as she was arrived, her father told her in her own
language how I was his friend Arnaute Mami his captive,
and that I came there to gather a salad; then she, taking the
speech, demanded in that medley of tongues of which I have
spoken, whether I was a gentleman, and what the reason was
why I redeemed not myself. I made answer that I was al-
ready ransomed, and by the ransom might be conjectured in
how much my master valued me, seeing he had for my lib-
erty a thousand and five hundred coltamis. To this she an-
swered, "In good sooth, if thou wert my father's, I would
cause him not to give thee for twice as much more ; for you
Christians are great liars, and do make every one of your-
selves poor men, to defraud the Moors of their due ransom."
"It may well be so, madam," quoth I; "but I have, for my
part, used all truth in this affair with my master, and do, and
will use truth with as many persons as I shall ever have
occasion to treat with in this world."
'"And when dost thou go away?" quoth Zoraida. "To-
morrow, as I believe," quoth I ; "for there is a French vessel
here which sets forth to-morrow, and I mean to depart in
her." "Were it not better," replied Zoraida, "to expect until
vessels come out of Spain, and go away with them, than with
those of France, which are not your friends?" "No," quoth
I; "although if it were true, as the news runs, that there
428 DON QUIXOTE
comes a vessel from Spain, I would attend it; but yet it is
more certain that I shall depart to-morrow; for the desire I
have to see myself at home in my country, and with those
persons whom I love, is so great as it will not permit me to
expect any other commodity that foreslows itself, be it never
so good." "Thou art doubtlessly married in thy country,"
said Zoraida, "and therefore desirest to go see thy wife?"
"I am not married," quoth I ; "but I have passed my word to
marry as soon as I am there safely arrived." "And is she
beautiful to whom thou hast passed it?" quoth Zoraida. "So
beautiful," said I, "as, to endear it and tell you the truth,
she is very like unto yourself." Hereat her father laughed
very heartily, and said, "In good earnest, Christian, she must
be very fair that may compare with my daughter, who is
the most beautiful of all this kingdom; and if thou wilt not
believe me, look on her well, and thou shalt see that I tell
thee but the truth." He himself, as most perfect in the
tongue, did serve for the interpreter of most of our speeches :
for although she could speak that illegitimate language which
is there in use, yet did she manifest her mind more by signs
than by words.
'Whilst thus we reasoned of many matters, there came
running towards us a certain Moor, and told his master how
four Turks had leaped over the garden walls, and were gath-
ering the fruits, although they were not yet ripe. The old
man and his daughter Zoraida started hereat; for it is an
universal and natural defect in the Moors to fear the Turks,
but specially the soldiers of that nation, who are commonly
so insolent, and have such command over the Moors that are
their subjects, as they do use them worse than if they were
their slaves. Therefore Zoraida's father said unto her,
"Daughter, retire thyself into the house, and keep thyself in,
whilst I go speak to those dogs. And thou. Christian, go and
seek out thine herbs, and depart in a good hour; and I pray
Allah to conduct thee safely to thy country." I inclined my-
self to him, and he departed to search out the Turks, leaving
me alone with Zoraida, who began to make ado as if she went
whither her father had commanded her. But scarce was he
covered among the trees of the garden, when she returned to
me, with her eyes full of tears, and said, "Amexi, Christiano?
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 429
amexi?" that is, "Goest thou away, Christian? Goest thoa
away ?" I answered, "Yes, lady, that I do ; but I will never
depart without thee. Expect me the next Friday, and be not
affrighted when thou shalt see us; for we will go to the
Christian country then without all doubt." This I said to
her in such sort as she understood all my words very well ;
and, casting her arm over my neck, she began to travel with
languishing steps towards the house ; and fortune would
(which might have been very ill, if Heaven had not recti-
fied it) that as we walked together in that manner and form,
her father (who did by this return, after he had caused the
Turks to depart) espied us; and we saw also very well how
he had perceived us ; wherefore Zoraida, who is very discreet,
would not take away her arm from my neck, but rather drew
nearer unto me, and laid her head on my breast, and bowed
her knees a little, with evident token that she swooned; and
I likewise made as though I did sustain her up by force. Her
father came running over towards us, and, seeing his daugh-
ter in that state, demanded the cause of her; but seeing she
made no answer, he himself said, "She doubtlessly is dis-
mayed by the sudden affright she took at the entrance of
those dogs" ; and, taking her away from me, he bowed her
to his own breast ; and she, breathing out a sigh, with her
eyes yet full of tears, said again, "Amexi, Christiano,
amexi," — "Go away. Christian ; go away." To which her
father replied, "There is no cause, daughter, why the Chris-
tian should go away ; for he hath done thee no harm, and the
Turks are already departed." "Sir, they have affrighted her,"
quoth I, "as you have said ; but yet since she hath com-
manded me to go away, I will not offend her; therefore, rest
in peace ; for I will return, if it please you to give me leave,
for herbs to this garden when it is needful; for my master
says none better are to be found for salads in any garden
than you have in this." "Come as oft as thou wilt," said
Aguimorato; "for my daughter says not this in respect that
thou or any other Christian hath offended her, but that,
meaning to say that the Turks should go away, she bade thee
to depart, or else she spake it because it is time for thee to
gather thine herbs."
'With this 1 took leave of both, and she seemed at the in-
430 DON QUIXOTE
stant of my departure to have had her heart torn away from
her as she departed with her father ; and I, under colour of
seeking herbs, went about all the garden at my leisure, and
viewed all the sallies and the entrances thereof, the strength
of the house, and the commodities that might be offered to
facilitate our enterprise. This being done, I came home, and
made a relation to the runagate and my other fellows of all
that had passed, and did long infinitely to see the hour wherein
I might, without any affright or danger, possess that happi-
ness which fortune, in the fair and lovely Zoraida, offered
unto me. In fine, the time passed over, and the so much de-
sired day and term arrived; and, every one of us following
the order which, with mature consideration and long dis-
course, we had agreed on, we found the good success we de-
sired; for the very Friday following the day wherein I had
spoken with Zoraida in the garden, Morenago (for so was
the runagate called) near night cast anchor almost right be-
fore the place wherein the beautiful Zoraida remained. The
Christians, also, that were to row were ready, and hidden
in sundry places thereabouts. All were suspended, and reso-
lutely expected my coming, desirous to set upon the barque
that was before their face; for they knew not of the agree-
ment that was between me and the runagate, but rather made
full account that they were to gain their liberty by force of
arms, and killing the Moors that came in that vessel.
'It therefore befel that, as soon as I and my fellows ap-
peared, all the rest that were hidden, espied us, made forth-
with over towards us. This was at an hour when the city
gates were shut, and never a body abroad among all those
fields. And when we were all together, we were in doubt
whether it would be best first to go and fetch Zoraida, or to
imprison and stone the Taragin Moors that rowed in the
frigate. And being in this doubt, the runagate came to us,
asking upon what we stayed, for it was now high time to be
going away, and all his Moors were reccheless, and the
greater number of them asleep. We told him then the cause
of our stay. And he answered that it was of most importance
first to subject the vessel, which might be done with very
great facility, and without any peril; and that we might go
after for Zoraida. His opinion liked us all very well; and
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 431
therefore, without lingering any longer, he leading the way,
we came to the vessel, and he himself leaping in first of all,
set hand to his falchion, and said in Moresco, "Let none of
you that is here stir himself, if he loves his life." And say-
ing so, all the rest of the Christians entered. The Moors,
which were of little spirit, hearing their master say so, were
marvellously amazed, and, without daring any one of them
to set hand to their arms, which were but a few at all, they
suffered themselves very quietly to be taken and bound by
the Christians, which did it very dexterously, threatening
them that if they did let slip the least outcry, they should
presently be all put to the sword. This being finished, and
the half of our people remaining in their guard, we that were
left, conducted also by the runagate, went towards Aguimo-
rato's garden. The door thereof did, by very good hap, open
with as little noise as if it had had no lock at all; whereupon
we went with great quietness and silence towards the house,
unseen or espied of any.
'The beautiful Zoraida was the while expecting us at a
window, and as soon as she saw people approach, demanded,
with a low voice, whether we were Nazarenes, as if she would
say or ask whether we were Christians. I answered that we
were, and willed her to come down. As soon as she knew
me, she stayed not a minute, but without answering any
word came down in an instant, and, opening the door, showed
herself to us all, more beautiful and richly attired than I am
able in any sort to express. As soon as I saw her, I took her
by the hand and kissed it ; the same did the runagate, and my
two comrades ; and all the rest, which knew not the matter,
did as they had seen us do before them ; for it seemed that we
did no more but give her thanks, and acknowledge her the
auctress of all our liberties. The runagate demanded of her,
in her own language, whether' her father were in the garden
or no. She answered that he was, and that he slept. "Then
will it be requisite," quoth the runagate, "to rouse him, and
bear him and all the other things of worth in this garden
away with us." "That shall not be so," quoth she ; "for I
will have no man to touch my father ; and in this house there
is nothing of value, but that which I mean to carry away
with myself, which is so much as will be sufficient to cheer
432 DON QUIXOTE
and enrich you all ; as, if you will stay but a while, you shall
perceive."
'And saying so, she entered again into the house, prom-
ising to return to us speedily, and bade us stand still with-
out making any noise. I demanded of the runagate what
speech had passed between them, and he told me all she had
said ; and I answered him again, that I would not have
Zoraida's will transgressed in any sort. By this time she
returned laden with a little casket full of gold, so that she
was scarce able to bear it. And her father, in the mean
season, by bad fortune, awaked, and heard the noise that
was beneath in his garden ; and, looking out at a window,
he perceived that they were all Christians that were in it,
and therefore cried out, in a loud and unmeasurable manner,
in the Arabian tongue, "Christians, Christians ! thieves,
thieves !" by which cries we were all of us strucken into very
great fear and confusion. But the runagate, seeing the peril
wherein we were, and how nearly it concerned him to come
off from that enterprise before he were discovered, ran up
very speedily to the place where Aguimorato stood, and
some of our fellows accompanied him (for I durst not aban-
don Zoraida, who had fallen between mine arms all amazed) ;
and in conclusion, those which had mounted, behaved them-
selves so well, as they brought Aguimorato down in a trice,
having tied his hands, and set a gag in his mouth, which
hindered his speech, threatening him that if he did speak
but a word it should cost him his life.
'When his daughter saw him she covered her eyes, because
she would not behold him; and he marvelled, wholly ignor-
ing with how good a will she came away with us. But then,
considering that nothing was so requisite as our legs, we
did with all velocity and diligence get into the frigate ; for
our companions did perplexedly expect our return, half afraid
that some disgrace had befallen us. Scarce were two hours
of the night overrun, when we were all embarked; and then
we unmanacled Zoraida's father's hands, and took the cloth
out of his mouth. But the runagate did again admonish
him that, as he tendered his life, he should not speak oriie
word. He, beholding his daughter likewise there, began to
sigh very feelingly, but chiefly perceiving me to hold her
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 433
SO straitly embraced, and that she made no resistance, nor
did complain or seem coy, but stood quiet; but yet for all
that he kept silence, fearing lest they should put the runa-
gate's menaces in execution. Zoraida, seeing herself now
safe within the barque, and that we were ready to row away,
looking on her father and the other Moors that were tied
therein, she entreated the runagate to tell me how she de-
sired me to do her the favour to set those Moors and her
father at liberty ; for she would rather cast herself into the
sea than see her father, who had loved her so dearly, car-
ried away captive before her eyes, and that also by her
occasion. The runagate told me her mind, and I answered
how I was very well pleased it should be so. But he replied
that it was in no sort expedient, by reason that if they were
landed there, they would presently raise the country and put
the whole city into a tumult, and cause certain light frigates
to be manned and sent out in our pursuit, and lay both sea
and land for us in such sort as it would be impossible for
us to escape ; but what was at the present possible to be done,
was to give them liberty at the first Christian country
whereat we happened to arrive.
'All of us agreed to this opinion; and Zoraida also (to
whom reason was given of the motives we had, not to free
them forthwith, and accomplish her will therein) remained
satisfied; and therefore presently, with joyful silence and
cheerful diligence, every one of our lusty rowers seizing
upon his oar, we began, after we had commended ourselves
unto Almighty God, to launch forth, and address our course
towards the isles of Mallorca, which is the nearest Christian
country; but by reason that the wind blew somewhat from
the mountains, and that the sea began to be rough, it was
not possible to continue that course, and so we were forced
to approach the shore, and go by little and little towards
Oran, not without great grief and anguish, for fear to be
espied by the town of Sargel, which is on that coast, and
falls some seventy leagues beyond Algiers. And we did like-
wise fear to meet in that passage some galliot of those which
come ordinarily with merchandise from Tetuan, although
every one of us for himself, and for all together, did pre-
sume that if we encountered a galliot of merchandise, so it
434 DON QUIXOTE
were not a pirate, that not only we would not be lost, but
rather would take the vessel, that therein we might with
more security finish our voyage. Zoraida, whilst thus we
sailed, went with her head between my hands, because she
would not look on her father; and I felt her, how she was
still invoking of Lela Marien to assist us. And having sailed
about some thirty leagues, the morning overtook us about
some three musket-shot from land, in a place that seemed to
be desert, and free from all access of those that might dis-
cover us; and yet for all that, we got by might and main
somewhat farther into the seas that now was become a lit-
tle calmer ; and having entered some two leagues into the
main, order was given that they should row by turns, whilst
they did refresh themselves, and take a little sustenance,
for the barque was very well furnished with victuals, al-
though those which did row refused the offer, saying that
then it was no time to repose, and that they should set those
that did not row to dinner, for they would not yet in any sort
let go their oars. It being done as they had said, the wind
did rise so much as it made us, abandoning our oars, to set
sail, and direct our boat towards Oran, being unable to take
any other course. All was done with very great speed; and
so we made by the sail more than eight miles an hour, free
from all other fear than that of encountering some vessel
of war. We gave the Moors, our prisoners, their dinner, and
the runagate comforted them, saying that they went not as
prisoners, for they should receive their liberty upon the first
commodity that were proffered. The same was likewise
said of Zoraida's father, who returned them this answer: "I
.would easily expect and believe any other thing, O Chris-
tians, of your liberality and honourable manner of proceed-
ing; but do not think that I am so simple as once to imagine
that you will give me my liberty, for you did never expose
yourself to the danger of despoiling me thereof with inten-
tion to return it me so prodigally again, especially knowing,
as you do, who I am, and the profit you may reap by giving
me it again, to which profit, if you will put a name, and tell
me how much would you demand, I do even from hence offer
unto you all that which you will seek for me, and for that
unfortunate daughter of mine; or if you will not deliver me,
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 435
I will give you it for her alone, who is the greatest and the
best part of my soul." And saying so, he began to weep so
bitterly as he moved us all to compassion, and forced Zoraida
to look upon him, who, seeing him weep, was so strangely
moved as, arising from my feet, she went and embraced her
father; and, laying her face upon his, they began together
so tender a lamentation as many of us that were in the barque
were forced to keep them cor.pany. But when her father
noted her to be so richly adorned, and with so many jewels
on, he asked her in his own language, "How haps this,
daughter, that yesternight late, before this terrible disaster
befel us wherein we are plunged, I saw thee attired in thine
ordinary household array, and that now, without having had
any leisure to apparel thyself, or having given thee any glad
tidings, for whose solemnising thou oughtest to adorn and
publish thyself, I do view thee thus clad in the richest attire
which I could bestow upon thee when our fortune was most
favourable? Answer me to this, for thou hast suspended and
astonished me more than the very disgrace itself wherein
I am."
'All that the Moor said to his daughter the runagate de-
clared unto us; and she did not answer a word to him. But
when he saw the little coffer lie at one side of the barque,
wherein she was wont to keep her jewels, and that he knew
very well he had left at Algiers, and not brought to the garden,
he was much more amazed, and demanded of her how that
coffer was come into our possession, and what things she
had there within it. To which the runagate, without at-
tending that Zoraida should answer him, said, "Sir, do not
trouble yourself by demanding so many things of your
daughter Zoraida, for with one that I will say I shall satisfy
them all ; and therefore you shall understand that she is a
Christian, and hath been the file that cut off our chains, and
is the liberty itself of our captivity; and she goeth along
with us of her own free will, as content (if mine imagination
do not wrong me) to see herself in this state, as he is that
cometh out of darkness to the light, from death unto life,
and out of pain into glory." "Is it true, daughter, which
this man says?" quoth the Moor. "It is," answered Zoraida.
"That thou in effect art a Christian," replied the old man,
436 DON QUIXOTE
"and she that hath put her father into his enemy's hands?"
To which Zoraida answered, "I am she that is a Chris-
tian, but not she that hath brought thee to this pass; for my
desire did never so estrange itself from thee as to abandon
or harm thee, but only endeavoured to do myself good."
"And what good hast thou done thyself, daughter?" "De-
mand that," said she, "of Lela Marien, for she can therein
inform thee better than I can."
'Scarce had the Moor heard her say so, when, with in-
credible haste, he threw himself headlong into the sea,
wherein he had been questionlessly drowned, if the long ap-
parel he wore on had not kept him up a while above the
water. Zoraida cried out to us to save him; and so we all
presently ran, and, laying hold on a part of his Turkish robe,
drew him up half drowned, and wholly devoid of feeling;
whereat Zoraida was so grieved, that she lamented him as
dolefully as if he had been dead. There we laid him with
his mouth downward, and he avoided a great quantity of
water, and after the space of two hours returned to him-
self again. And in the meantime, the wind also turning, it
did drive us towards the coast, so that we were constrained
to keep ourselves by very force of arms from striking
upon it; and our good fortune directing us, we arrived to
a little creek at the side of a certain cape or promontory,
called by the Moors the Cape of the Cava Rumia, which in
our language signifies "the ill Christian woman." And the
Moors hold it for a tradition, that in the very same place
was the Cava buried, for whom Spain was lost, and con-
quered by the Moors ; for Cava in their language signifies an
ill woman, and Rumia a Christian. Yea, and they hold it
for a sign of misfortune to arrive or cast anchor there,
when mere necessity drives them thither, without which they
never approach it: yet did it not prove to us the shelter of
an ill woman, but the secure haven of our safety. We sent
our sentinels ashore, and never let the oars slip out of our
hands. We did likewise eat of the runagate's provision, and
heartily besought Almighty God and Our Lady to assist and
favour us with a happy end to so lucky a beginning. And
we agreed, upon Zoraida's entreaty, to set her father and
the other Moors that we had tied a-land in that place ; for
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 437
she was of so tender and compassionate a mind as she could
in no wise brook to see her father tied in her presence, or
her countrymen borne away captives. Wherefore we made
her a promise that we would, at our departure, let them all
go away, seeing we incurred no danger by leaving them
in so desolate a region. Our prayers were not so vain but
that they found gentle acceptance in Heaven, which presently
changed the wind and appeased the sea, inviting us cheer-
fully to return to it again, and prosecute our commenced
voyage.
'Seeing that the weather was favourable, we loosed the
Moors, and set them all a-land one by one; and coming to
disembark Zoraida's father, who was by that time wholly
come to himself, he said, "For what do you conjecture,
Christians, that this bad woman is glad that you give me
liberty? Do you think that she doth it for pity that she takes
of me? No, truly; but she doth it only to remove the
hindrance my presence gave her when she would execute her
unlawful desires. Nor ought you to believe that she is
moved to change religion by reason that she understands
yours to be better than her own, but only because she
knows licentiousness to be more publicly and freely prac-
tised in your country than among us." And then, turning to
Zoraida, whom I and another Christian held fast by both the
arms, lest she should do some desperate fact, he said, "O in-
famous girl, and ill-advised maiden ! where dost thou run
thus blinded and distracted, in the power of those dogs,
our natural enemies? Cursed be the hour wherein I en-
gendered thee ! and cursed the delights and pleasures wherein
thou wast nousled !" I perceiving that he was not like to
make an end of his execrations so soon as I could wish, had
him set on shore, and thence he prosecuted his maledictions
and plaints, praying unto Mahomet that he would intercede
with Allah that we might be all destroyed, confounded, and
cast away. And when we could hear his words no longer,
by reason that we set sail, we perceived his works, that were,
to pluck his beard, tear his hair, and cast himself on the
ground; but once he did lift up his voice so high, as that
we heard him say, "Return, beloved daughter, return to the
land; for I do pardon thee all that thou hast done: and de-
438 DON QUIXOTE
liver that money to those men, for it is now their own ; and
return thou to comfort thy sad and desolate father, who will
forsake his life on these desolate sands, if thou dost abandon
him."
'Zoraida heard him say all this, and lamented thereat, but
knew not how to speak, or answer him any other thing but
this : "Father mine, I pray Allah that Leia Marien, who hath
been the cause of my becoming a Christian, may likewise
comfort thee in thy sorrow. Allah knows well that I could
do none other than I did, and that these Christians do owe
me nothing for my good-will, seeing that though I had not
come away with them, but remained at my house, yet had
it been impossible (such was the haste wherewithal my
soul pressed me) not to have executed this my purpose,
which seems to me to be as good as thou, O beloved father,
dost account it wicked." She said this in a time that neither
her father could hear her, nor we behold him; and therefore,
after I had comforted Zoraida, we did thenceforth only
attend our voyage, which was so much holpen by the favour-
able wind as we made full account to be the next day on the
coast of Spain. But as good very seldom, or rather never,
betides a man thoroughly and wholly, without being ac-
companied or followed by some evil which troubles and as-
saults it, our fortune would, or rather the maledictions of the
Moor poured on his daughter (for the curses of any father
whatsoever are to be feared), that being engulfed three hours
within night, and going before the wind with a full sail,
and OUT oars set up, because the prosperous wind had rid
us of the labour of rowing, we saw near unto us, by the
light of the moon that shined very clearly, a round vessel
which, with all her sails spread, did cross before us into
the sea, and that so nearly, as we were fain to strike down
our sail, that we might avoid the shock she was like to gWe
us; and those that were in her had on the other side la-
boured also what they might to turn her out of our way,
standing all of them on the hatches to demand of us what
we were, from whence we came, and whither we did sail.
But by reason that they spake French, the runagate bade us
not to speak a word, saying, "Let none answer ; for these are
French pirates, which make their booty of everybody." For
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 439
this cause none of us answered; and, being passed a little
forward, and that the ship remained in the lee of us, they
suddenly shot off two pieces of artillery, and as I think,
both of them had chain bullets, for with the one they cut
our mast asunder, and overthrew it and the sail into the sea,
and instantly after they discharged another. The bullet
alighting in our barque, did pierce it through and through,
without doing any other hurt; but we, seeing that our vessel
began to sink, began all to cry out, and request them to suc-
cour us, and prayed them that they would take us into
their vessel, for we were a-drowning. Then they came
amain, and, casting out their cock-boat, there entered into it
as good as a dozen Frenchmen, well appointed, with their
arquebuses and matches lighted, and so approached unto us;
and, perceiving how few we were, and that the barque did
sink, they received us into their boat, saying, that because
we had used the discourtesy of not making them answer, that
misfortune had befallen us. Our runagate about this time
took the cofifer wherein Zoraida's treasures were kept, and
threw it into the sea, unperceived of any.
'In conclusion, we went all of us into the great vessel
with the Frenchmen, who, after they had informed them-
selves of all that which they desired to know, as if they were
our capital enemies, they afterwards despoiled us of all that
ever we had about us; and of Zoraida they took all, even
unto her very bracelets that she wore on her ankles. But
the wrong they did to Zoraida did not afflict me so much as
the fear I conceived that, after they had taken away from
her her most rich and precious jewels, they would also de-
prive her of the jewel of most prize, and which she valued
most. But the desires of that nation extend themselves no
further than to the gain of money; and their avarice in this
is never thoroughly satisfied', and at that time was so great,
as they would have taken from us the very habits of slaves
that we brought from Barbary, if they had found them to
have been worth anything. And some there were of opinion
among them, that we should be all enwreathed in a sail
and thrown into the sea, because they had intention to traffic
into some havens of Spain, under the name of Britons, and
that if they carried us alive, they should be punished, their
440 DON QUIXOTE
robbery being detected; but the captain, who was he that
had pilled my beloved Zoraida, said that he was so con-
tented with his booty, as he meant not to touch any part
of Spain, but would pass the Straits of Gibraltar by night,
or as he might, and so return again to Rochelle, from whence
he was come: and thereupon they all agreed to give us their
cock-boat, and all that was necessary for our short voyage;
as, indeed, they performed the day ensuing, when we were
in the view of Spain ; with the sight whereof all our griefs
and poverties were as quite forgotten as if we never had
felt any, so great is the delight a man takes to recover
his liberty. It was about mid-day when they put us into the
cock, giving unto us two barrels of water and some biscuit;
and the captain, moved with some compassion, as the beauti-
ful Zoraida embarked herself, bestowed on her about forty
crowns in gold; nor would he permit his soldiers to despoil
her of these very garments which then and now she doth
wear.
'We entered into the cock-boat, and, giving them thanks
for the good they did, and showing at our departure more
tokens of thankfulness than of discontent, they sailed pres-
ently away from us, towards the Straits; and we, without
looking on any other north or star than the land itself, which
appeared before us, did row towards it so lustily, that at
sunset we were so near as we made full account to arrive
before the night was far spent. But by reason that the
moon did not shine, and the night was very dark, and that
we knew not where we were, we did not hold it the
best course to approach the shore too near; yet others
there were that thought it convenient and good, desir-
ing that we should make to it, although we ran the boat
on the rocks, and far from any dwelling; for, by doing
so, we should free ourselves from the fear, which we
ought of reason to have, lest there should be up and down
on that coast any frigates of the pirates of Tetuan, which
are wont to leave Barbary overnight, and be on the coast
of Spain ere morning, and ordinarily make their booty, and
turn to their supper again to Barbary, the night following;
but, of the contrary opinions, that which was followed was,
that we should draw near the land by little and little, and
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 441
that if the quietness of the sea would permit it, we should
take land where we might best and most commodiously do
it. This was done; and a little before midnight we arrived
to the foot of a high and monstrous mountain, which was
not altogether so near to the sea but that it did grant a little
patch of ground whereon we might commodiously disem-
bark; wherefore we ran ourselves on the sands, and came
all a-land, and kissed the earth, and, with tears of most joy-
ful content and delight, gave thanks unto our Lord God for
the incomparable favours which He had done us in our voy-
age. Then took we out our victuals from the boat, and drew
itself up on the shore, and ascended a great part of the
mountain ; for although we were in that place, yet durst we
not assure ourselves, nor did thoroughly believe, that it was
a Christian country whereon we did tread.
'The day breaking somewhat slower than I could have
wished it, we ascended the mountain wholly, to see whether
we might discover any dwelling or sheepfolds from thence;
but although we extended our sight into every quarter, yet
could we neither decry dwelling, person, path, nor highway;
yet did we resolve, notwithstanding, to enter into the land,
seeing that we could not choose but discover ere long some-
body who might give us notice of the place where we were.
And that which afflicted me most of all was to see Zoraida
go afoot through those rugged places; for although I did
sometimes carry her on my shoulders, yet did the toil I took
more weary her than the repose she got could ease her,
and therefore would never after the first time suffer me to
take that pains again, and so she went ever after afoot with
great patience and tokens of joy, I holding her still by the
hand. And having travelled little less than a quarter of a
league, we heard the noise of ,a little bell, an infallible argu-
ment that near at hand there was some cattle; whereupon,
all of us looking very wistly to see whether anybody ap-
peared, perceived under a cork tree a young shepherd, who
very quietly and carelessly was carving of a stick with a
knife. We called to him, and he leaped up lightly on foot,
and, as we afterwards learned, the first that he got sight of
were the runaj^ate and Zoraida ; whom he seeing appar-
elled in the Moresco habit, thought that all the people
442 DON QUIXOTE
of Barbary had been at his heels; and therefore, running
very swiftly into the wood, he cried all along, with marvel-
lous loudness, "Moors ! Moors are in the land ! Moors !
Moors ! Arm ! arm \" These outcries struck us anew into
a great perplexity, and scarce did we know what we should
do; but considering how the shepherd's alarm would cause
all the country to rise up, and that the horsemen that kept
the coast would presently come to see what it was, we all
agreed that the runagate should put off his Turkish attire,
and put on a captive's cassock, which one of the company
gave unto him forthwith, although the giver remained after
in his shirt. And thus committing the affair unto Al-
mighty God, we followed on by the same way which we
saw the shepherd had taken, always expecting when the
horsemen of the coast would fall upon us. And we were
not deceived in our expectation, for within two hours after,
having issued out of those woods into a plain, we discovered
about some fifty horsemen, which came running towards us
as swiftly as their horses could drive; and, having per-
ceived them, we stood still, and stayed until they came to us,
and saw instead of the Moors they sought for, so many
poor Christians, and remained somewhat ashamed thereat;
and one of them demanded whether we were the occasion
that a shepherd had given the alarm. "Yes," quoth I; and
as I was about to inform what I was, and of all our ad-
venture, and from whence we came, one of the Christians
that came with us did take notice of the horseman who had
spoken unto us; and so, interrupting my speech, he said,
"Sirs, let God be praised which hath brought us to so good
a place as this is; for, if I be not deceived, the earth which
we tread is of Velez-Malaga ; and, if the years of my cap-
tivity have not confounded my memory, you likewise, sir,
that demand what we be, are Peter of Bostamente, mine
uncle." As soon as ever the Christian Captive had spoken
those words, the horseman, leaping off his horse, ran and
embraced him, saying, "O nephew, as dear to me as my
soul and life ! now I do know thee very well, and many a
day since have I wept for thee, thinking thou wast dead;
and so hath my sister, thy mother, and all the rest of thy
friends which do live yet! and God hath been pleased to
THE CAPTIVE'S STORY 443
preserve their lives, that they may enjoy the pleasure to be-
hold thee once again. We know very well that thou wert in
Algiers ; and, by the signs and tokens of my clothes,
and that of all the rest here of thy companions, I surmise
that your escape hath been miraculous?" "Indeed it was
so," replied the Captive; "and we shall have time, I hope, to
recount unto you the manner."
*As soon as the horsemen had understood that we were
Christian captives, they alighted off their horses, and every
one of them invited us to mount upon his own, to carry
us to the city of Velez-Malaga, which was yet a league and
a half from that place; and some of them went to the
place where we had left the boat, to bring it to the city;
whom we informed first of the place where it lay : others
did mount us up on horseback behind themselves, and Zo-
raida rode behind the Captive's uncle. All the people is-
sued to receive us, being premonished of our arrival by
some one that had ridden before. They did not wonder to
see captives freed, nor Moors captived there, being an ordi-
nary thing in those parts; but that whereat they wondered
was the surpassing beauty of Zoraida, which at that season
and instant was in her prime, as well through the warmth
she had gotten by her travel, as also through the joy she
conceived to see herself in Christian lands, secure from
all fear of being surprised or lost; and these things called
out to her face such colours as, if it be not that affection
might then have deceived me, I durst aver that a more
beautiful than she was the world could not afford, at least
among those which I had ever beheld.
*We went directly to the church to give thanks unto
Almighty God for the benefit received ; and as soon as Zo-
raida entered into it, she said there were faces in it that
resembled very much that of Lela Marien. We told her
that they were her images; and the runagate, as well as the
brevity of the time permitted, instructed her what they
signified, to the end she should do them reverence, as if every
one of them were truly that same Lela Marien which had
spoken unto her. She, who had a very good understand-
ing and an easy and clear conceit, comprehended presently
all that was told unto her concerning images. From thence
444 DON QUIXOTE
they carried us, and divided us among different houses of
the city; but the Christian that came with us carried the
runagate, Zoraida, and me to the house of his parents, which
were indifferently accommodated and stored with the goods
of fortune, and did entertain me with as great love and
kindness as if I were their own son. We remained six
days in Velez, in which time the runagate, having made an
information of all that which might concern him, he went
to the city of Granada, to be reconciled, by the holy Inqui-
sition's means, to the bosom of our holy mother the Church.
The rest of the freed captives took every one the way that
he pleased; and Zoraida and I remained behind, with those
ducats only which the Frenchman's courtesy was pleased
to bestow on Zoraida; and with part of that sum I bought
her this beast whereon she rides ; I myself serving her
hitherto as her father and her squire, and not as her spouse.
We travel with intention to see if my father be yet living,
or any of my brothers have had more prosperous hap than
myself; although, seeing Heaven hath made me Zoraida's
consort, methinks no other good fortune could arrive, were
it never so great, that I would hold in so high estimation.
The patience wherewithal she bears the incommodities usu-
ally annexed unto poverty, and the desires she shows to
become a Christian, is such and so great, as it strikes me
into an admiration, and doth move me to serve her all the
days of my life; although that the delight which I take to
see myself hers, and she mine, is ofttimes interrupted, and
almost dissolved, by the fear which I have that I shall not
find in mine own country some little corner wherein I may
entertain her, and that time and death have wrought such
alteration in the goods and lives of my father and brothers,
as I shall scarce find any one at home that knows me. I
have no more, good sirs, to tell you of my life's history,
than which, whether it be pleasing and rare, or no, your
clear conceits are to judge. As for myself, I daresay that,
if it had been possible, I would have told it with more brev-
ity ; fearing it might be tedious unto you, I purposely omitted
many delightful circumstances thereof/
CHAPTER XV
Which Speaks of That Which After Befel in the Inn,
AND OF Sundry Other Things Worthy To Be Known
THE Captive having said this, held his peace; and Don
Fernando replied to him thus: 'Truly, captain, the
manner v^^herewithal you have recounted this marvel-
lous success hath been such as it may be paragoned to the
novelty and strangeness of the event itself. And so great
is the delight we have taken in the hearing thereof, as I do
believe that although we had spent the time from hence till
to-morrow in listening to it, yet should we be glad to hear
it told over once again.'
And saying so, Cardenio and all the rest did offer them-
selves and their means to his service, as much as lay in
them, with so cordial and friendly words as the Captive
remained thoroughly satisfied with their good wits ; but spe-
cially Don Fernando offered, that if he would return with
him, he would cause the marquis his brother to be Zoraida
her godfather in baptism ; and that he, for his part, would
so accommodate him with all things necessary, as he might
enter into the town with the decency and authority due
to his person. The Captive did gratify his large offers very
courteously, but would not accept any of them at that time.
By this the night drew on, and about the fall thereof there
arrived at the inn a coach, with some men a-horseback, and
asked for lodging; to whom. the hostess answered that in all
the inn there was not a span free, the number of her guests
was already so many. 'Well, although that be so,' quoth
one of the horsemen that had entered, 'yet must there be
a place found for Master Justice who comes in this coach.'
At this name the hostess was afraid, and said, 'Sir, the mis-
fortune is that I have no beds; but if Master Justice brings
one with him, as it is probable he doth, let him enter in
445
446 DON QUIXOTE
boldly, and I and my husband will leave our own chamber
to accommodate his worship.' 'So be it,' quoth the squire;
and by this time alighted out of the coach a man whose at-
tire did presently denote his dignity and office, for his long
gown and his great and large sleeves did show that he was
a judge, as the serving-men affirmed. He led a young
maiden by the hand, of about some sixteen years old, appar-
elled in riding attire; but she was therewithal of so disposed,
beautiful, and cheerful a countenance, as her presence did
strike them all into admiration; so as if they had not seen
Dorothea, Lucinda, and Zoraida, which were then in the inn,
they would hardly have believed that this damsel's beauty
might anywhere have been matched.
Don Quixote was present at the judge's and the gentle-
woman's entry ; and so, as soon as he had seen him, he said,
'Sir, you may boldly enter and take your ease in this castle,
which although it be but little and ill accommodated, yet
there is no narrowness nor discommodity in the world but
makes place for arms and learning, and specially if the arms
and letters bring beauty for their guide and leader, as your
learning doth, conducted by this lovely damsel, to whom
ought not only castles to open and manifest themselves,
but also rocks to part and divide their cliffs, and mountains
to bow their ambitious crests, to give and make her a lodging.
Enter, therefore, I say, worshipful sir, into this paradise,
wherein you shall find stars and suns to accompany this sky
which you bring along with you. Here shall you find arms
in their height, and beauty in her prime.' The judge mar-
velled greatly at Don Quixote's speech, whom he began to
behold very earnestly, and wondered no less at his shape
than at his words; and knowing not what answer he might
return him, he was diverted, on the other side, by the sud-
den approach of the three ladies, Lucinda, Dorothea, and
Zoraida, which stood before him ; for, having heard of the
arrival of new guests, and also being informed by the host-
ess of the young lady's beauty, they were come forth to see
and entertain her. But Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the
curate did give him more complete and courtly entertain-
ment than the rusty knight. In effect, the judge was mar-
vellously amazed at that which he saw and heard in that
NEW ARRIVALS 447
inn : and the fair guests thereof bade the beautiful maiden
welcome. The judge perceived very well that the guests of
the inn were all men of account; but Don Quixote's fea-
ture, visage, and behaviour did set him out of all bias, being
not able to conjecture what he might be. And after some
court-like intercourses passed, and the commodities of the
inn examined, they all agreed again, as they had done before,
that all the women should enter into Don Quixote's room,
and the men remain without in their guard: and so the
judge was content that the damsel, who was his daughter,
should also go with those ladies, which she did with a very
good will ; and, with a part of the innkeeper's narrow bed,
and half of that which the judge had brought with him, they
made shift to pass over that night the best they could.
The Captive, who from the instant that he had first seen
the judge, did greatly suspect that he was his brother, and
demanded of one of his servants how he was called, and
where he was born. The other answered how he was called
the licentiate, John Perez of Viedma, and, as he had heard,
he was born in a village of the mountains of Leon. With
this relation, and the rest that he had noted, he finally con-
firmed his opinion that it was the brother who, following
his father's advice, had dedicated himself to his studies;
and, full of joy and contentment, calling aside Don Fer-
nando, Cardenio, and the curate, he certified them of all
that had passed, and that the judge was his brother. The
serving-man told him likewise how he went towards the
Indies, where he had his place and office in the courts of
Mexico; and also that the young gentlewoman was his
daughter, of whose birth her mother had died, and he ever
after remained a widower, and very rich by her dowry and
portion that she had left to her daughter. He demanded
of t'hem advice how he might" discover himself to his brother,
or first know whether, after he had detected himself, he
would receive him with a good countenance and affection,
and not be ashamed to acknowledge him for his brother,
seeing him in so poor an estate. 'Leave the trial of that
experience to me,' quoth the curate, 'and the rather because
there is no occasion why you, sir captain, should not be
kindlji entertained by him ; for the prudence, worths, and
448 DON QUIXOTE
good countenance of your brother give manifest tokens that
he is nothing arrogant.' * For all that,' said the captain,
* I would not make myself known on the sudden, but would
use some pretty ambages to bring him acquainted with me.'
* I say unto you,' quoth the curate, ' that I will trace the mat-
ter in such sort as we will all rest satisfied.'
Supper was by this made ready, and all of them sat
down to the table, the Captive excepted and ladies, which
supped together within the room; and about the midst of
supper the curate said, * Master Justice, I have had in times
past a comrade of your very surname in Constantinople,
where I was sometime captive, who was one of the most
valiant soldiers and captains that might be found among
all the Spanish foot; but he was as unfortunate as he was
valorous and resolute.' ' And how was that captain called,
good sir?' quoth the judge. 'His name was,' replied mas-
ter curate, ' Ruy Perez of Viedma, and he was born in a
village of the mountains of Leon ; and he recounted unto
me an occurrence happened between his father, him, and his
other brethren, which, if I had not been told by a man of
such credit and reputation as he was, I would have esteemed
for one of these fables which old wives are wont to rehearse
by the fireside in winter; for he said to me that his father
had divided his goods among his three sons, and gave them
withal certain precepts, better than those of Cato; and I
know well that the choice which he made to follow the war
had such happy success, as within a few years, through his
forwardness and valour, without the help of any other arm,
he was advanced to a company of foot, and made a captain,
and was in the way and course of becoming one day a colonel ;
but fortune was contrary to him, for even there where he
was most to expect her favour, he lost it, with the loss
of his liberty, in that most happy journey wherein so many
recovered it, to wit, in the battle of Lepanto. I lost mine in
Goleta; and after, by different success, we became com-
panions in Constantinople, from whence we went to Al-
giers, where did befall him one of the most notable ad-
ventures that ever happened in the world' ; and there the
curate, with sufficient brevity, recounted all that had hap-
pened between the captain and Zoraida ; to all which the
JUDGE AND CAPTIVE 449
judge was so attentive, as in all his life he never listened
to any cause so attentively as then. And the curate only
arrived to the point wherein the Frenchmen spoiled the
Christians that came in the barque, and the necessity wherein
his companion and the beautiful Zoraida remained; of whom
he had not learned anything after, nor knew not what be-
came of them, or whether they came into Spain, or were
carried away by the Frenchmen into France.
The captain stood listening somewhat aloof off to all the
curate's words, and noted the while the motions and ges-
tures of his brother; who, seeing that the curate had now
made an end of his speech, breathing forth a great sigh,
and his eyes being filled with tears, he said, 'Oh, sir, if you
had known the news which you have told me, and how
nearly they touch me in some points, whereby I am con-
strained to manifest these tears, which violently break forth
in despite of my discretion and calling, you would hold me
excused for this excess. That captain of whom you spoke
is my eldest brother, who, as one stronger and of more
noble thoughts than I or my younger brother, made election
of the honourable military calling, one of the three estates
which our father proposed to us, even as your comrade in-
formed, when, as you thought, he related a fable. I fol-
lowed my book, by which God and my diligence raised me
to the state you see. My younger brother is in Peru, and
with that which he hath sent to my father and myself, hath
bountifully recompensed the portion he carried, and given
to him sufficient to satisfy his liberal disposition, and to me
wherewithal to continue my studies with the decency and au-
thority needful to advance me to the rank which now I pos-
sess. My father lives yet, but dying through desire to learn
somewhat of his eldest son, and doth daily importune God
with incessant prayers that death may not shut his eyes until
he may once again see him alive. I only marvel not a little,
considering his discretion, that among all his labours, afflic-
tions, or prosperous successes, he hath been so careless in
giving his father notice of his proceedings; for if either
he or any one of us had known of his captivity, he should
not have needed to expect the miracle of the cane for his
ransom. But that which troubles me most of all is to think
450 DON QUIXOTE
whether these Frenchmen have restored him again to lib-
erty, or else slain him, that they might conceal their rob-
bery the better; all which will be an occasion to me to
prosecute my voyage, not with the joy wherewithal I began
it, but rather with melancholy and sorrow. Oh, dear
brother, I would I might know now where thou art, that
I myself might go and search thee out, and free thee from
thy pains, although it were with the hazard of mine own.
Oh, who is he that could carry news to our old father
that thou wert alive, although thou wert hidden in the
most abstruse dungeons of Barbary? for his riches, my
brother's, and mine, would fetch thee from thence. O beau-
tiful and bountiful Zoraida ! who might be able to recom-
pense thee for the good thou hast done to my brother?
How happy were he that might be present at thy spiritual
birth and baptism, and at thy nuptials, which would be so
grateful to us all.' These and many other such words did
the judge deliver, so full of compassion for the news that
he had received of his brother, as all that heard him kept
him company in showing signs of compassion for his sorrow.
The curate therefore, perceiving the happy success whereto
his design and the captain's desire had sorted, would hold
the company sad no longer; and therefore, arising from the
table, and entering into the room wherein Zoraida was, he
took her by the hand, and after her followed Lucinda, Doro-
thea, and the judge his daughter. The captain stood still
to see what the curate would do, who, taking him fast by
the other hand, marched over with them both towards the
judge and the other gentlemen, and saying, 'Suppress your
tears. Master Justice, and glut your desire with all that
good which it may desire, seeing you have here before you
your good brother and your loving sister-in-law. This man
whom you view here is the Captain Viedma, and this the
beautiful Moor which hath done so much for him. The
Frenchmen which I told you of have reduced them to the
poverty you see, to the end that you may show the liberality
of your noble breast'
Then did the captain draw near to embrace his brother;
but he held him off a while with his arms, to note whether
it was he or no; but when he once knew him, he embraced
JUDGE AND CAPTIVE 451
him so lovingly, and with such abundance of tears, as did
attract the like from all the beholders. The words that the
brothers spoke one to another, or the feeling affection which
they showed, can hardly be conceived, and therefore much
less written by any one whatsoever; There they did briefly
recount the one to the other their successes; there did they
show the true love and affection of brothers in his prime ;
there did the judge embrace Zoraida; there he made her
an offer of all that was his; there did he also cause his
daughter to embrace her; there the beautiful Christian and
the most beautiful Moor renewed the tears of them all; there
Don Quixote was attentive, without speaking a word, pon-
dering of these rare occurrences, and attributing them to the
chimeras which he imagined to be incident to chivalry; and
there they agreed that the captain and Zoraida should return
with their brother to Seville, and thence advise their father
of his finding and liberty, that he, as well as he might,
should come to Seville to the baptism and marriage of Zo-
raida, because the judge could not possibly return, or dis-
continue his journey, in respect that the Indian fleet was
to depart .within a month from Seville towards New Spain.
Every one, in conclusion, was joyful and glad at the
Captive's good success ; and two parts of the night being
well-nigh spent, they all agreed to repose themselves a while.
Don Quixote offered himself to watch and guard the
castle whilst they slept, lest they should be assaulted by
some giant or other miscreant, desirous to rob the great
treasure of beauty that was therein immured and kept.
Those that knew him rendered unto him infinite thanks,
and withal informed the judge of his extravagant humour,
whereat he was not a little recreated ; only Sancho Panza
did fret, because they went so slowly to sleep, and he alone
was best accommodated of them all, by lying down on his
beast's furniture, which cost him dearly, as shall be after
recounted. The ladies being withdrawn into their chamber,
and every one laying himself down where best he might,
Don Quixote sallied out of the inn, to be sentinel of the
castle, as he had promised. And a little before day it hap-
pened that so sweet and tuneable a voice touched the ladies'
ears, as it obliged them all to listen unto it very attentively,
HC XIV — IS
452 DON QUIXOTE
but chiefly Dorothea, who first awaked, and by whose side
the young gentlewoman, Donna Clara of Viedma (for so the
judge's daughter was called), slept. None of them could
imagine who it was that sung so well without the help of
any instrument. Sometimes it seemed that he sung in the
yard, others that it was in the stable. And being thus in
suspense, Cardenio came to the chamber door, and said,
'Whosoever is not asleep, let them give ear, and they shall
hear the voice of a lackey that so chants as it likewise en-
chants.' 'Sir,' quoth Dorothea, 'we hear him very well.'
With this Cardenio departed; and Dorothea, using all the
attention possible, heard that his song was this following.
CHAPTER XVI
Wherein Is Recounted the History of the Lackey, with
Other Strange Adventures Befallen in the Inn.
' I am a mariner to love,
Which in his depths profound
Still sails, and yet no hope can prove
Of coming aye to th' ground.
* I following go a glist'ring star,
Which I aloof descry,
Much more resplendent than those are
That Palinure did spy.
* I know not where my course to bend.
And so confusedly,
To see it only I pretend
Careful and carelessly.
* Her too impertinent regard,
And too much modesty.
The clouds are which mine eyes have barred
From their deserved fee.
* O clear and soul-reviving star !
Whose sight doth try my trust,
If thou thy light from me debar,
Instantly die I must.'
The singer arriving to this point of his song, Dorothea
imagined that it would not be amiss to let Donna Clara
hear so excellent a voice, and therefore she jogged her a
little on the one and other side, until she had awaked her,
and then said, 'Pardon me, cThild, for thus interrupting your
sweet repose, seeing I do it to the end you may joy, by
hearing one of the best voices that perhaps you ever heard
in your life.' Clara awaked at the first drowsily, and did
not well understand what Dorothea said, and therefore de-
manding of her what she said, she told it her again; where-
453
454 DON QUIXOTE
upon Donna Clara was also attentive; but scarce had she
heard two verses repeated by the early musician, when a
marvellous trembling invaded her, even as if she had then
suffered the grievous fit of a quartan ague. Wherefore, em-
bracing Dorothea very straitly, she said, 'Alas, dear lady !
why did you awake me, seeing the greatest hap that fortune
could in this instant have given me, was to have mine eyes
and ears so shut as I might neither see nor hear that unfor-
tunate musician.' 'What is that you say, child?' quoth Doro-
thea. 'Did you not hear one say that the musician is but a
horse-boy?' 'He is no horse-boy,' quoth Clara, 'but a lord of
many towns, and he that hath such firm possession of my
soul, as if he himself will not reject it, he shall never be
deprived of the dominion thereof.' Dorothea greatly won-
dered at the passionate words of the young girl, whereby
it seemed to her that she far surpassed the discretion which
so tender years did promise, and therefore she replied to
her, saying, 'You speak so obscurely. Lady Clara, as I can-
not understand you; expound yourself more clearly, and tell
me what is that you say of souls and towns, and of this
musician whose voice hath altered you so much. But do
not say anything to me now, for I would not lose, by listen-
ing to your disgusts, the pleasure I take to hear him sing;
for methinks he resumes his music with new verses, and
in another tune.' 'In a good hour,' quoth Donna Clara ; and
then, because she herself would not hear him, she stopped
her ears with her fingers ; whereat Dorothea did also marvel,
but being attentive to the music, she heard the lackey prose-
cute his song in this manner:
' O sweet and constant hope,
That break'st impossibilities and briers.
And firmly runn'st the scope
Which thou thyself dost forge to thy desires !
Be not dismay'd to see
At ev'ry step thyself nigh death to be.
' Sluggards do not deserve
The glory of triumphs or victory ;
Good hap doth never serve
Those which resist not fortune manfully.
But weakly fall to ground,
And in soft sloth their senses all confound.
THE HISTORY OF THE LACKEY 455
•That love his glories hold
At a high rate, it reason is and just-,
No precious stones nor gold
May be at all compared with love's gust ;
And 'tis a thing most clear,
Nothing is worth esteem that cost not dear.
' An amorous persistence
Obtaineth ofttimes things impossible ;
And so though I resistance
Find of my soul's desires, in her stern will,
I hope time shall be given.
When I from earth may reach her glorious heaven.'
Here the voice ended, and Donna Clara's sighs began;
all which inflamed Dorothea's desire to knov^ the cause of
so svv'eet a song and so sad a plaint; and therefore she eft-
soons required her to tell her now what she was about
to have said before. Then Clara, timorous lest Lucinda
should overhear her, embracing Dorothea very nearly, laid
her mouth so closely to Dorothea's ear, as she might speak
securely without being understood by any other, and said,
'He that sings is, dear lady, a gentleman's son of the king-
dom of Aragon, whose father is lord of two towns, and
dwelled right before my father's house at the court; and
although the windows of our house were in winter cov-
ered with cere-cloth, and in summer with lattice, I know
not how it happened, but this gentleman, who went to the
school, espied me; and whether it was at the church, or
elsewhere, I am not certain. Finally, he fell in love with
me, and did acquaint me with his affection from his own
windows, that were opposite to mine, with so many tokens
and such abundance of tears, as I most forcibly believed,
and also affected him, without knowing how much he loved
me. Among the signs that he would make me, one was,
to join the one hand to the other, giving me thereby to
understand that he would marry me; and although I would
be very glad that it might be so, yet as one alone, and with-
out a mother, I knew not to whom I might communicate
the affair, and did therefore let it rest without affording
him any other favour, unless it were, when my father and
his were gone abroad, by lifting up the lattice or cere-cloth
only a little, and permitting him to behold me; for which
456 DON QUIXOTE
favour he would show such signs of joy as a man would
deem him to be reft of his wits.
'The time of my father's departure arriving, and he hear-
ing of it, but not from me (for I could never tell it to
him), he fell sick, as far as I could understand, for grief;
and therefore I could never see him all the day of our de-
parture, to bid him farewell at least with mine eyes; but
after we had travelled two days, just as we entered into an
inn in a village, a day's journey from hence, I saw him at
the lodging door, apparelled so properly like a lackey, as
if I had not borne about me his portraiture in my soul, it
had been impossible to know him. I knew him, and won-
dered, and was glad withal ; and he beheld me, unwitting
my father, from whose presence he still hides himself when
he crosses the ways before me as I travel, or after we ar-
rive at any inn. And because that I know what he is, and
do consider the pains he takes by coming thus afoot for
my sake, and that with so great toil, I die for sorrow;
and where he puts his feet, I also put mine eyes. I know
not with what intention he comes, nor how he could possibly
thus escape from his father, who loves him beyond meas-
ure, both because he hath none other heir, and because the
young gentleman also deserves it, as you will perceive when
you see him ; and I dare affirm besides, that all that which
he says he composes extempore, and without any study; for
I have heard that he is a fine student, and a great poet;
and every time that I see him, or do hear him sing, I start
and tremble like an aspen leaf, for fear that my father
should know him, and thereby come to have notice of our
mutual affections. I have never spoken one word to him
in my life, and yet I do nevertheless love him so much, as
without him I shall not be able to live. And this is all,
dear lady, that I am able to say unto you of the musician
whose voice hath pleased you so well, as by it alone you
might conjecture that he is not a horse-boy, as you said,
but rather a lord of souls and towns, as I affirmed.'
'Speak no more. Lady Clara,' quoth Dorothea at that
season, kissing her a thousand times; 'speak no more, I say,
but have patience until it be daylight; for I hope in God
so to direct your affairs, as that they shall have the fortu-
THE HISTORY OF THE LACKEY 457
nate success that so honest beginning deserves.' 'Alas,
madam !' quoth Donna Clara, 'what end may be expected,
seeing his father is so noble and rich, as he would scarce
deem me worthy to be his son's servant, how much less his
spouse? And for me to marry myself unknown to my
father, I would not do it for all the world. I desire no
other thing but that the young gentleman would return home
again and leave me alone; perhaps by not seeing him, and
the great distance of the way which we are to travel, my
pain, which now so much presseth me, will be somewhat
allayed; although I daresay that this remedy, which now I
have imagined, would avail me but little; for I know not
whence with the vengeance, or by what way this affection
which I bear him got into me, seeing both I and he are so
young as we be, for I believe we are much of an age, and
I am not yet full sixteen, nor shall be, as my father says,
until Michaelmas next.' Dorothea could not contain her
laughter, hearing how childishly Donna Clara spoke ; to
whom she said, 'Lady, let us repose again, and sleep that
little part of the night which remains ; and when God sends
daylight, we will prosper, or my hands shall fail me.' With
this they held their peace, and all the inn was drowned in
profound silence ; only the innkeeper's daughter and Mari-
tornes were not asleep, but knowing very well Don Quixote's
peccant humour, and that he was armed and on horseback
without the inn keeping guard, both of them consorted to-
gether, and agreed to be someway merry with him, or at
least to pass over some time in hearing him speak ravingly.
It is therefore to be understood that there was not in all
the inn any window which looked out into the field, but
one hole in a barn, out of which they were wont to cast
their straw. To this hole came the two demi-damsels, and
saw Don Quixote mounted and leaning on his javelin, and
breathing forth ever and anon so doleful and deep sighs, as
it seemed his soul was plucked away by every one of them;
and they noted besides how he said, with a soft and am-
orous voice, 'O my lady Dulcinea of Toboso ! the sun of all
beauty, the end and quintessence of discretion, the treasury
of sweet countenance and carriage, the storehouse of hon-
esty, and finally, the idea of all that which is profitable,
458 DON QUIXOTE
modest, or delightful in the world ! and what might thy
ladyship be doing at this present? Hast thou perhaps thy
mind now upon thy captive knight, that most wittingly
exposeth himself to so many dangers for thy sake? Give
unto me tidings of her, O thou luminary of the three
faces ! Peradventure thou dost now with envy enough be-
hold her, either walking through some gallery of her sumptu-
ous palaces, or leaning on some bay-window, and thinking
how (saving her honour and greatness) she shall mitigate
and assuage the torture which this mine oppressed heart
endures for her love, what glory she shall give for my
pains, what quiet to my cares, what life to my death, and
what guerdon to my services. And thou, sun, which art, as
I believe, by this time saddling of thy horses to get away
early and go out to see my mistress, I request thee, as soon
as thou shalt see her, to salute her in my behalf; but be-
ware that when thou lookest on her and dost greet her, that
thou do not kiss her on the face; for if thou dost, I be-
come more jealous of thee than ever thou wast of the swift
ingrate which made thee to run and sweat so much through
the plains of Thessaly or the brinks of Peneus; for I have
forgotten through which of them thou rannest so jealous and
enamoured.'
To this point arrived Don Quixote, when the innkeeper's
daughter began to call him softly unto her, and say, 'Sir
knight, approach a little hitherward, if you please' ; at which
voice Don Quixote turned his head, and saw by the light
of the moon which shined then very clearly, that he was
called to from the hole, which he accounted to be a fair
window full of iron bars, and those costly gilded with gold,
well befitting so rich a castle as he imagined that inn to be ;
and presently in a moment he forged to his own fancy, that
once again, as [s]he had done before, the beautiful damsel,
daughter to the lady of that castle, overcome by his love,
did return to solicit him ; and with this thought, because
he would not show himself discourteous and ungrateful, he
turned Rozinante about and came over to the hole; and
then, having beheld the two wenches, he said, *I take pity
on you, beautiful lady, that you have placed your amorous
thoughts in a place whence it is not possible to have any
MARITORNES' PLOT 459
correspondence answerable to the desert of your high worth
and beauty, whereof you are in no sort to condemn this
miserable knight-errant, whom love hath wholly disabled to
surrender his will to be any other than to her whom at
the first sight he made absolute mistress of his soul. Pardon
me therefore, good lady, and retire yourself to your chamber,
and make me not, by any further insinuation of your desires,
more unthankful and discourteous than I would be; and if,
through the love that you bear me, you find in me any
other thing wherewithal I may serve and pleasure you, so
that it be not love itself, demand it boldly ; for I do swear
unto you by mine absen[t], yet sweetest enemy, to bestow
it upon you incontinently, yea, though it be a lock of Me-
dusa's hairs, which are all of snakes, or the very sunbeams
enclosed in a vial of glass.'
' My lady needs none of those things, sir knight,' an-
swered Maritornes. 'What doth she then want, discreet
matron ?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Only one of your fair hands,'
said Maritornes, ' that therewithal she may disburden her-
self of some part of those violent desires which compelled
her to come to this window, with so great danger of her
honour ; for if her lord and father knew of her coming,
the least slice he would take off her should be at the least
an ear.' ' I would fain once see that,' quoth Don Quixote ;
* but I am sure he will beware how he do it, if he have no
list to make the most disastrous end that ever father made
in this world, for having laid violent hands on the delicate
limbs of his amorous daughter.' Maritornes verily per-
suaded herself that Don Quixote would give up his hand
as he was requested, and having already contrived in her
mind what she would do, descended with all haste from the
hole, and, going into the stable, fetched out Sancho Panza
his ass's halter, and returneti again with very great speed,
just as Don Quixote (standing up on Rozinante's saddle,
that he might the better feach the barred windows, whereat
he imagined the wounded damsel remained) did, stretching
up his hand, say unto her, ' Hold, lady, the hand, or as I may
better say, the executioner of earthly miscreants; hold, I
say, that hand, which no other woman ever touched before,
not even she herself that hath entire possession of my whole
460 DON QUIXOTE
body, nor do I give it to you to the end you should kiss
it, but that you may behold the contexture of the sinews, the
knitting of the muscles, and the spaciosity and breadth of
the veins, whereby you may collect how great ought the
force of that arm to be whereunto such a hand is knit.' ' We
shall see that presently/ quoth Maritornes ; and then, mak-
ing a running knot on the halter, she cast it on the wrist
of his hand, and then descending from the hole, she tied
the other end of the halter very fast to the lock of the barn
door. Don Quixote, feeling the roughness of the halter
about his wrist, said, ' It rather seems that you grate my
hand than that you cherish it ; but yet I pray you not to
handle it so roughly, seeing it is no fault of the evil
which my will doth unto you; nor is it comely that you
should revenge or disburden the whole bulk of your indigna-
tion on so small a part: remember that those which love
well do not take so cruel revenge.' But nobody gave ear
to these words of Don Quixote's; for as soon as Maritornes
had tied him, she and the other, almost burst for laughter,
ran away, and left him tied in such manner as it was
impossible for him to loose himself.
He stood, as we have recounted, on Rozinante his sad-
dle, having all his arm thrust in at the hole, and fastened
by the wrist to the lock, and was in very great doubt and
fear that if Rozinante budged never so little on any side
he should fall and hang by the arm ; and therefore he durst
not once use the least motion of the world, although he
might well have expected, from Rozinante's patience and
mild spirit, that if he were suffered, he would stand still
a whole age without stirring himself. In fine, Don Quixote
seeing himself tied, and that the ladies were departed, be-
gan straight to imagine that all had been done by way
of enchantment, as the last time, when in the very same cas-
tle the enchanted Moor (the carrier) had so fairly bela-
boured him; and then to himself did he execrate his own
want of discretion and discourse, seeing that having escaped
out of that castle so evil dight the first time, he would af-
ter adventure to enter into it the second; for it was gen-
erally observed by knights-errant that when they had once
tried an adventure, and could not finish it, it was a token
MARITORNES' PLOT 461
that it was not reserved for them, but for some other; and
therefore would never prove it again. Yet for all this he
drew forward his arm to see if he might deliver himself;
but he was so well bound as all his endeavours proved vain.
It is true that he drew it very warily, lest Rozinante should
stir; and although he would fain have sat and settled him-
self in the saddle, yet could he do no other but stand, or
leave the arm behind. There was many a wish for Amadis
his sword, against which no enchantment whatsoever could
prevail ; there succeeded the malediction of his fates ; there
the exaggerating of the want that the world should have
of his presence all the while he abode enchanted (as he
infallibly believed he was) in that place; there he anew
remembered his beloved Lady Dulcinea of Toboso; there
did he call oft enough on his good squire Sancho Panza,
who, entombed in the bowels of sleep, and stretched along
on the pannel of his ass, did dream at that instant but lit-
tle of the mother that bore him ; there he invoked the wise
men Lirgandeo and Alquife to help him. And finally, the
morning did also there overtake him so full of despair and
confusion, as he roared like a bull; for he had no hope that
by daylight any cure could be found for his care, which he
deemed would be everlasting, because he fully accounted
himself enchanted ; and was the more induced to think so,
because he saw that Rozinante did not move little nor much;
and therefore he supposed that both he and his horse should
abide in that state without eating, drinking, or sleeping, until
that either the malignant influence of the stars were past,
or some greater enchanter had disenchanted him.
But he deceived himself much in his belief; for scarce
did the day begin to peep, when there arrived four horsemen
to the inn-door, very well appointed, and having snap-hances
hanging at the pommel of their saddles. They called at
the inn-door (which yet stood shut), and knocked very hard,
which being perceived by Don Quixote, from the place where
he stood sentinel, he said, with a very loud and arrogant
voice, 'Knights, or squires, or whatsoever else ye be, you are
not to knock any more at the gates of that castle, seeing
it is evident, that at such hours as this, either they which are
within do repose them, or else are not wont to open fort-
462 DON QUIXOTE
resses until Phoebus hath spread his beams over the earth;
therefore stand back, and expect till it be clear day, and
then we will see whether it be just or no that they open their
gates unto you.' 'What a devil, what castle or fortress is
this,' quoth one of them, 'that it should bind us to use all
those circumstances? If thou beest the innkeeper, command
that the door be opened; for we are travellers that will tarry
no longer than to bait our horses and away, for we ride in
post haste.' 'Doth it seem to you, gentlemen,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'that I look like an innkeeper?' 'I know not what
thou lookest like,' answered the other, 'but well I know that
thou speakest madly, in calling this inn a castle.' 'It is a
castle,' replied Don Quixote, 'yea, and that one of the best
in this province, and it hath people within it which have
had a sceptre in hand, and a crown on their head.' 'It were
better said quite contrary,' replied the traveller, 'the sceptre
on the head, and the crown in the hand; but perhaps (and so
it may well be) there is some company of players within,
who do very usually hold the sceptres and wear those
crowns whereof thou talkest ; for in such a paltry inn as
this is, and where I hear so little noise, I cannot believe
any one to be lodged worthy to wear a crown or bear a
sceptre.' 'Thou knowest but little of the world,' replied Don
Quixote, 'seeing thou dost so much ignore the chances that
are wont to befall in chivalry.' The fellows of him that en-
tertained this prolix dialogue with Don Quixote waxed weary
to hear them speak idly so long together, and therefore
turned again to knock with great fury at the door, and that
in such sort as they not only waked the innkeeper, but also
all the guests, and so he arose to demand their pleasure.
In the meanwhile it happened that one of the horses
■whereon they rode drew near to smell Rozinante, that, mel-
ancholy and sadly, with his ears cast down, did sustain with-
out moving his outstretched lord; and he being indeed of
flesh and blood, although he resembled a block of wood, could
not choose but feel it, and turn to smell him again who had
thus come to cherish and entertain him; and scarce had he
stirred but a thought from thence, when Don Quixote's feet,
that were joined, slipt asunder, and, tumbling from the
saddle, had doubtlessly fallen to the ground, had he not re-
THE FOUR LACKEYS 463
mained hanging by the arm; a thing that caused him to en-
dure so much pain, as he verily believed that either his wrist
was a-cutting, or his arm a-tearing off from his body; and
he hung so near to the ground as he touched it with the
tops of his toes, all which turned to his prejudice; for, having
felt the little which he wanted to the setting of his feet
wholly on the earth, he laboured and drew all that he might
to reach it ; much like unto those that get the strappado, with
the condition to touch or not to touch, who are themselves
a cause to increase their own torture, by the earnestness
wherewith they stretch themselves, deceived by the hope they
have to touch the ground if they can stretch themselves but
a little farther.
CHAPTER XVII
Wherein Are Prosecuted the Wonderful Adventures
OF THE Inn
SO many were the outcries which Don Quixote made, as
the innkeeper opened the door very hastily and af-
frighted, to see who it was that so roared; and those
that stood without did also the same. Maritornes, whom the
cries had also awakened, imagining straight what it might
be, went into the barn, and, unperceived of any, loosed the
halter that sustained Don Quixote, and forthwith he fell to
the ground in the presence of the innkeeper and the travellers,
who, coming towards him, demanded the occasion why he
did so unmeasurably roar. He, without making any answer,
took off the halter from his wrist, and, getting up, he leaped
upon Rozinante, embraced his target, set his lance into the
rest, and, wheeling about a good part of the field, returned
with a half-gallop, saying, 'Whosoever shall dare to affirm
that I have not been with just title enchanted, if my lady
the Princess Micomicona will give me leave to do it, I
say that he lies, and I do presently challenge him to com-
bat.' The new travellers were amazed at Don Quixote's
words ; but the host removed that wonder by informing them
what he was, and that they should make no account of his
words, for the man was bereft of his wits. Then they de-
manded of the innkeeper if there had arrived to his inn a
young stripling of some fifteen years old or thereabouts, ap-
parelled like a horse-boy, and having such and such marks
and tokens ; and then gave the very signs of Donna Clara's
lover. The host made answer, that there were so many
people in his inn as he had taken no notice of him for whom
they demanded. But one of them having seen the coach
wherein the judge came, said, 'Questionlessly he must be
here; for this is the coach that they say he hath followed.
464
THE FOUR LACKEYS 465
Let, therefore, one of us remain at the door, and the rest
enter to seek him out; yea, and it will not be from the pur-
pose if one of us ride about without the inn, lest he should
make an escape from us by the walls of the yard.' *We will
do so,' said another of them. And thus two of them entered
into the house, one stayed at the door, and the other did
compass the inn about. The innkeeper beheld all, but could
never judge aright the reason why they used all this dili-
gence, although he easily believed that they sought for the
youth whose marks they had told unto him.
By this the day was grown clear, and as well by reason
thereof, as through the outcries of Don Quixote, all the
strangers were awake, and did get up, especially both the
ladies, Clara and Dorothea; for the one through fear to
have her lover so near, and the other with desire to see
him, could sleep but very little all that night. Don Quixote
perceiving that none of the four travellers made any ac-
count of him, or answered his challenge, was ready to burst
with wrath and despite ; and if he could any wise have found
that it was tolerated by the statutes of chivalry that a knight-
errant might have lawfully undertaken any enterprise, hav-
ing plight his word and faith not to attempt any until he
had finished that which he had first promised, he would
have assailed them all, and made them maugre their teeth
to have answered him. But because it seemed to him not
so expedient nor honourable to begin any new adventure
until he had installed Micomicona in her kingdom, he was
forced to be quiet, expecting to see whereunto the endeav-
ours and diligence of those four travellers tended: the one
whereof found out the youth, that he searched, asleep by
another lackey, little dreaming that anybody did look for
him, and much less would find him out thus. The man drew
him by the arm, and said, 'Truly, Don Louis, the habit that
you wear answers very well your calling; and the bed
whereon you lie the care and tenderness wherewith your
mother did nurse you.' The youth hereat rubbed his drowsy
eyes, and beheld very leisurely him that did hold him fast,
and knew him forthwith to be one of his father's servants,
whereat he was so amazed as he could not speak a word
for a great while. And the serving-man continuing his
466 DON QUIXOTE
speech, said, 'Here is nothing else to be done, Lord Louis,
but that you be patient and depart again with us towards
home, ii you be not pleased to have your father and my lord
depart out of this world to the other; for no less may be
expected from the woe wherein he rests for your absence.'
'Why, how did my father know,' said Don Louis, 'that I
came this way, and in this habit?' 'A student,' answered the
other, 'to whom you betrayed your intention, did discover
it, moved through the compassion he took to hear your
father's lamentations when he found you missing. And so
he despatched four of his men in your search; and we
are all at your service, more joyful than may be imagined
for the good despatch wherewithal we shall return, and
carry you to his sight which doth love you so much.'
'That shall be as I please or Heaven will dispose,' said
Don Louis. 'What would you please, or what should
Heaven dispose of, other than that you agree to return?
For certainly you shall not do the contrary, nor is it possible
you should.' All these reasons that passed between them
both did the lackey that lay by Don Louis hear ; and, arising
from thence, he went and told all that passed to Don Fer-
nando, Cardenio, and all the rest that were gotten up; to
whom he told how the man gave the title of Don to the boy,
and recounted the speech he used, and how he would have
him return to his father's house, which the youth refused to
do. Whereupon, and knowing already what a good voice
the heavens had given him, they greatly desired to be more
particularly informed what he was, and intended also to help
him, if any violence were offered unto him, and therefore
went unto the place where he was, and stood contending with
his servant.
Dorothea issued by this out of her chamber, and in her
company Donna Clara, all perplexed. Dorothea, calling Car-
denio aside, told unto him succinctly all the history of the
musician and Donna Clara. And he rehearsed to her again
all that passed of the serving-men's arrival that came in his
pursuit, which he did not speak so low but that Donna Clara
overheard him, whereat she endured such alteration as she
had fallen to the ground, if Dorothea, running towards her,
had not held her up. Cardenio entreated Dorothea to return
DON LOUIS 467
with the other to her chamber, and he would endeavour to
bring the matter to some good pass, which they presently per-
formed. The four that were come in Don Louis his search
were by this all of them entered into the inn, and had com-
passed him about, persuading him that he would, cutting off
all delays, return to comfort his father. He answered that
he could not do it in any sort until he had finished an adven-
ture, which imported him no less than his life, his honour,
and his soul. The servants urged him then, saying, that they
would in no sort go back without him, and therefore
would carry him home, whether he would or no. 'That shall
not you do,' quoth Don Louis, 'if it be not that you carry me
home dead.' And in this season all the other gentlemen were
come into the contention, but chiefly Cardenio, Don Fer-
nando, and his comrades, the judge, the curate, and the
barber, and Don Quixote ; for now it seemed to him needless
to guard the castle any more. Cardenio, who knew already
the history of the youth, demanded of those that would carry
him away, what reason did move them to seek to take that
lad away against his will. 'We are moved unto it,' answered
one of them, 'by this reason, that we shall thereby save his
father's life, who for his absence is like to lose it.' To this
said Don Louis, 'It is to no end to make relation of mine
affairs here. I am free, and will return if I please; and if
not, no one shall constrain me to do it perforce.' 'Reason
shall constrain you, good sir, to do it,' quoth the man; 'and
when that cannot prevail with you, it shall with us, to put
that in execution for which we be come and are bound to
do.' 'Let us know this affair from the beginning,' said the
judge to those men. 'Sir,' quoth one of them, who knew
him very well, as his master's next neighbour, 'Master Jus-
tice, doth not your worship know this gentleman who is your
neighbour's son, and hath abs'ented himself from his father's
house, in an habit so undecent and discrepant from his call-
ing, as you may perceive?'' The judge beheld him then some-
what more attentively, knew him, and embracing him, said,
'What toys are these, Don Louis; or what cause hath been
of efficacy sufficient to move you to come away in this man-
ner and attire, which answers your calling so ill?' The tears
stuck then in the young gentleman's eye, and he could not
468 DON QUIXOTE
answer a word to the judge, who bade the four serving-men
appease themselves, for all things should be done to their
satisfaction; and then, taking Don Louis apart, he entreated
him to tell him the occasion of that his departure.
And whilst he made this and other demands to the gentle-
man, they heard a great noise at the inn-door; the cause
whereof was, that two guests which had lain there that night,
seeing all the people busied to learn the cause of the four
horsemen's coming, had thought to have made an escape scot-
free, without defraying their expenses; but the innkeeper,
who attended his own affairs with more diligence than other
men's, did stay them at their going forth, and demanded his
money, upbraiding their dishonest resolution with such words
as moved them to return him an answer with their fists,
which they did so roundly as the poor host was compelled to
raise the cry and demand succour. The hostess and her
daughter could see no man so free from occupation as Don
Quixote; to whom the daughter said, 'I request you, sir
knight, by the virtue that God hath given you, to succour
my poor father, whom two bad men are grinding like corn.'
To this Don Quixote answered very leisurely, and with great
gravity, 'Beautiful damsel, your petition cannot prevail at
this time, forasmuch as I am hindered from undertaking any
other adventure until I have finished one wherein my promise
hath engaged me, and all that I can now do in your service
is, that which I shall say now unto you: run unto your
father, and bid him continue and maintain his conflict man-
fully, the best that he may, until I demand license of the
Princess Micomicona to help him out of his distress; for if
she will give it unto me, you may make full account that he
is delivered.' 'Sinner that I am,' quoth Maritornes, who was
by, and heard what he said, 'before you shall be able to ob-
tain that license of which you speak, my master will be de-
parted to the other world.' 'Work you so, lady,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'that I may have the license; for so that I may have
it, it will make no great matter whether he be in the other
world or no, even from thence would I bring him back again,
in despite of the other world itself, if it durst contradict me;
or at least I will take such a revenge of those that do send
him to the other world, as you shall remain more than con-
THE INNKEEPER'S NEED 469
tented.' And so, without replying any more, he went and
fell on his knees before Dorothea, demanding of her, in
knightly and errant phrases, that she would deign to license
him to go and succour the constable of that castle, who was
then plunged in a deep distress. The princess did grant him
leave very willingly ; and he presently, buckling on his target,
and laying hold on his sword, ran to the inn-door, where yet
the two guests stood handsomely tugging the innkeeper. But
as soon as he arrived, he stopped and stood still, although
Maritornes and the hostess demanded of him twice or thrice
the cause of his restiness in not assisting her lord and hus-
band. 'I stay,' quoth Don Quixote, 'because, according to
the laws of arms, it is not permitted to me to lay hand to my
sword against squire-like men that are not dubbed knights.
But call to me here my squire Sancho, for this defence and
revenge concerns him as his duty.' This passed at the inn-
door, where fists and blows were interchangeably given and
taken in the best sort, although to the innkeeper's cost, and
to the rage and grief of Maritornes, the hostess, and her
daughter, who were like to run wood, beholding Don Qui-
xote's cowardice, and the mischief their master, husband,
and father endured. But here let us leave them; for there
shall not want one to succour him; or if not, let him suffer,
and all those that wittingly undertake things beyond their
power and force ; and let us turn backward to hear that which
Don Louis answered the judge, whom we left somewhat
apart with him, demanding the cause of his coming afoot,
and in so base array ; to which the youth, wringing him hard
by the hands, as an argument that some extraordinary grief
pinched his heart, and shedding many tears, answered in
this manner:
T know not what else I may tell you, dear sir, but that
from this instant that Heaven made us neighbours, and that
I saw Donna Clara, your daughter and my lady, I made her
commandress of my will ; and if yours, my true lord and
father, do not hinder it, she shall be my spouse this very day.
For her sake have I abandoned my father's house, and for
her I donned this attire, to follow her wheresoever she went,
as the arrow doth the mark, or the mariner the north star.
She is as yet no further acquainted with my desires, than as
470 DON QUIXOTE
much as she might understand sometimes by the tears which
she saw mine eyes distil afar off. Now, sir, you know the
riches and nobility of my descent, and how I am my father's
sole heir, and if it seem unto you that these be conditions
whereupon you may venture to make me thoroughly happy,
accept of me presently for your son-in-law; for if my father,
borne away by other his designs, shall not like so well of this
good which I have sought out for myself, yet time hath more
force to undo and change the affairs than men's will.' Here
the amorous gentleman held his peace, and the judge re-
mained astonied as well at the grace and discretion where-
with Don Louis had discovered his affections unto him, as
also to see himself in such a pass, that as he knew not what
course he might best take in so sudden and unexpected a
matter; and therefore he answered no other thing at that
time, but only bade him to settle his mind, and entertain the
time with his servants, and deal with them to expect that
day, because he might have leisure to consider what might
be most convenient for all. Don Louis did kiss his hands
perforce, and did bathe them with tears, a thing able to move
a heart of marble, and much more the judge's, who (as a
wise man) did presently perceive how beneficial and honour-
able was that preferment for his daughter ; although he could
have wished, if it had been possible, to effect it with the con-
sent of Don Louis his father, who he knew did purpose to
have his son made a nobleman of title.
By this time the innkeeper and his guests had agreed,
having paid him all that they owed, more by Don Quixote's
persuasion and good reasons than by any menaces; and Don
Louis his servants expected the end of the judge, his dis-
course, and his resolution ; when the devil (who never sleeps)
would have it, at that very time entered into the inn the
barber from whom Don Quixote took away the helmet of
Mambrino, and Sancho Panza the furniture of the ass,
whereof he made an exchange for his own ; which barber,
leading his beast to the stable, saw Sancho Panza, who was
mending some part of the pannel; and as soon as he had
eyed him, he knew him, and presently set upon Sancho, say-
ing, 'Ah, sir thief, have I found you here, with all the furni-
ture whereof you robbed me?' Sancho, that saw himself
THE STOLEN PANNEL 471
thus assaulted unexpectedly, and had heard the disgraceful
terms which the other used, laying fast hold on the pannel
with the one hand, gave the barber such a buffet with the
other, as he bathed all his teeth in blood. But yet, for all
that, the barber held fast his grip of the pannel, and there-
withal cried out so loud, as all those that were in the house
came to the noise and conflict; and he said, 'I call for the
king and justice, for this thief and robber by the highways
goeth about to kill me, because I seek to recover mine own
goods.' 'Thou liest,' quoth Sancho, 'for I am not a robber
by the highways ; for my lord Don Quixote won those spoils
in a good war.' By this time Don Quixote himself was come
thither, not a little proud to see how well his squire defended
himself, and offended his adversary; and therefore he ac-
counted him from thenceforth to be a man of valour, and
purposed in his mind to dub him knight on the first occasion
that should be offered, because he thought that the order of
knighthood would be well employed by him.
Among other things that the barber said in the discourse
of his contention, this was one: 'Sirs, this pannel is as cer-
tainly mine as the death which I owe unto God, and I know
it as well as if I had bred it; and there is my ass in the stable,
who will not permit me to tell a lie ; or otherwise, do but try
the pannel on him, and if it fit him not justly I am content
to remain infamous. And I can say more, that the very day
wherein they took my pannel from me, they robbed me like-
wise of a new brazen basin, which was never used, and cost
me a crown.' Here Don Quixote could no longer contain
himself from speaking; and so, thrusting himself between
them two, and putting them asunder, and causing the pannel
to be laid publicly on the ground until the truth were de-
cided, he said, 'To the end that you may perceive the clear
and manifest error wherein this good squire lives, see how
he calls that a. basin which is, was, and shall be, the helmet
of Mambrino, which I took away perforce from him in fair
war, and made myself lord thereof in a lawful and warlike
manner. About the pannel I will not contend ; for that which
I can say therein is, that my squire Sancho demanded leave
of me to take away the furniture of this vanquished coward's
horse, that he might adorn his own withal. I gave him au-
472 DON QUIXOTE
thority to do it, and he took them. And for his converting
thereof from a horse's furniture into a pannel, I can give
none other reason than the ordinary one, to wit, that such
transformations are usually seen in the successes of chiv-
alry; for confirmation whereof, friend Sancho, run speedily
and bring me out the helmet which this good man avoucheth
to be a basin.' 'By my faith, sir,' quoth Sancho, 'if we have
no better proof of our intention than that which you say,
I say that the helmet of Mambrino is as arrant a basin as
this good man's furniture is a pannel.' 'Do what I com-
mand,' said Don Quixote : 'I cannot believe that all the things
in this castle will be guided by enchantment.' Sancho went
for the basin, and brought it : and as soon as Don Quixote
saw it, he took it in his hands, and said, 'See, sirs, with what
face can this impudent squire affirm that this is a basin, and
not the helmet that I have mentioned ? and I swear to you all,
by the order of knighthood which I profess, that this is the
very same helmet which I won from him, without having
added or taken anything from it.' 'That it is, questionless,'
quoth Sancho ; 'for since the time that my lord won it until
now, he never fought but one battle with it, when he deliv-
ered the unlucky chained men ; and but for this basin-helmet,
he had not escaped so free as he did, so thick a shower of
stones rained all the time of that conflict.'
CHAPTER XVIII
Wherein Are Decided the Controversies of the Helmet
OF Mambrino and of the Pannel, with Other
Strange and Most True Adventures
GOOD sirs/ quoth the barber, 'what do you think of
that which is affirmed by these gentlemen, who yet
contend that this is not a basin, but a helmet?' 'He
that denies it,' quoth Don Quixote, 'I will make him know
that he lies, if he be a knight; and if he be but a squire, that
he lies and lies again a thousand times.' Our barber, who
was also present, as one that knew Don Quixote's humour
very well, would fortify his folly and make the jest pass yet
a little further, to the end that they all might laugh; and
therefore, speaking to the other barber, he said, 'Sir barber,
or what else you please, know that I am also of your occu-
pation, and have had my writ of examination and approba-
tion in that trade more than these thirty years, and am one
that knows very well all the instruments of barbery whatso-
ever; and have been besides, in my youthful days, a soldier;
and do therefore likewise know what is a helmet, and what
a morion, and what a close castle, and other things touching
warfare — I mean all the kind of arms that a soldier ought to
have; and therefore I say (still submitting myself to the
better opinion) that this piece which is laid here before us,
and which this good knight holds in his hand, not only is not
a barber's basin, but also is so far from being one as is white
from black, or verity from untruth; yet do I withal affirm
that although it is an helmet, yet it is not a complete helmet.'
'No, truly,' quoth Don Quixote, 'for it wants the half, to wit,
the nether part and the beaver.' 'It is very true,' quoth the
curate, who very well understood his friend the barber his
intention; and the same did Cardenio, Don Fernando, and
the rest of his fellows confirm; yea, and even the judge him-
473
474 DON QUIXOTE
self, had not Don Louis his affair perplexed his thoughts,
would, for his part, have holpen the jest well forward; but
the earnestness of that affair held his mind so busied, as he
little or nothing attended the pastime. 'Lord have mercy
upon me!' quoth the other barber, then half beside himself;
'and is it possible that so many honourable men should say
that this is no basin, but a helmet? This is a thing able to
strike admiration into a whole university, how discreet soever
it were. It is enough; if this basin must needs be a helmet,
the pannel must also be a horse's furniture, as this gentleman
says.' 'To me it seems a pannel,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'but,
as I have said, I will not meddle with it, nor determine
whether it be a pannel or the caparison of a horse.'
'Therein is nothing else to be done,' said the curate, 'but
that Sir Don Quixote say at once; for in these matters of
chivalry, all these noblemen and myself do give unto him the
prick and the prize.' 'I swear unto you by Jove, good sirs,'
quoth Don Quixote, 'that so many and so strange are the
things which have befallen me in this castle, these two times
that I have lodged therein, as I dare avouch nothing affirma-
tively of anything that shall be demanded of me concerning
the things contained in it; for I do infallibly imagine that
all the adventures which pass in it are guided by enchant-
ment. The first time, I was very much vexed by an en-
chanted Moor that was in it, and Sancho himself sped not
very well with the Moors' followers and yesternight I stood
hanging almost two hours' space by this arm, without know-
ing how, or how that disgrace befel me; so that for me to
meddle now in so confused and difficult a matter, as to deliver
mine opinion, were to pass a rash judgment. So that they
which say that this is a basin and no helmet, I have already
made answer; but whether this be a pannel or furniture, I
dare pronounce no definitive sentence, but only remit it to
your discreet opinions : perhaps because you are not dubbed
knights as I am, the enchantments of this place will have no
power over you, and your understanding shall be freed and
able to judge of the things in this castle really and truly, and
not as they seem unto me.' 'Doubtless,' quoth Don Fernando,
'Don Quixote says very well that the definition of this case
belongs unto us; and therefore, and because we may proceed
THE STOLEN PANNEL 475
in it upon the better and more solid grounds, I will secretly
take the suffrages of all those gendemen, and afterwards
make a clear and full relation of what shall come of
them.'
To those that knew Don Quixote his humour, this was a
matter of marvellous laughter and sport; but to such as were
not acquainted therewithal, it seemed the greatest folly of
the world, especially to Don Louis and his four servants,
and with other three passengers that had arrived by chance
to the inn, and seemed to be troopers of the holy brother-
hood, as indeed they were. But he that was most of all be-
side himself for wrath was the barber whose basin they had
transformed before his own face into the helmet of Mam-
brino, and whose pannel he made full account should like-
wise be turned into the rich furniture and equipage of a
great horse. All of them laughed heartily to see Don Fer-
nando go up and down, taking the suffrages of this man and
that, and rounding every one of them in the ear, that they
might declare in secret whether that was a pannel or a fur-
niture for which such deadly contention had passed. After
that he had taken the suffrages of so many as knew Don
Quixote, he said very loudly, 'The truth is, good fellow, that
I grow weary of demanding so many opinions ; for I can no
sooner demand of any man what I desire to know, but they
forthwith answer me, how it is mere madness to affirm that
this is the pannel of an ass, but rather the furniture of a
horse, yea, and of a chief horse of service; and therefore you
must have patience ; for in despite both of you and of your
ass, and notwithstanding your weak allegations and worse
proofs, it is, and will continue, the furniture of a great
horse.' 'Let me never enjoy a place in heaven,' quoth the
barber, 'if you all be not deceived; and so may my soul ap-
pear before God, as it appears to me to be a pannel, and no
horse furniture. But the law carries it away, and so fare-
well it. And yet surely I am not drunk; for unless it be by
sinning, my fast hath not been broken this day.'
The follies which the barber uttered stirred no less laugh-
ter among them than did the roarings of Don Quixote, who
then spoke in this manner : 'Here is now no more to be done,
but that every man take up his own goods, and to whom God
476 DON QUIXOTE
hath given them, let St. Peter give his blessing.' Then said
one of the four serving-men, *If this were not a jest premedi-
tated, and made of purpose, I could not persuade myself that
men of so good understanding as all these are, or seem to be,
should dare to say and affirm that this is not a basin, nor
that a pannel ; but seeing that they aver it so constantly, I
have cause to suspect that it cannot be without mystery, to
affirm a thing so contrary to that which very truth itself, and
experience, demonstrates unto us; for I do vow' (and, saying
so, he rapped out a round oath or two) 'that as many as are
in the world should never make me believe that this is no
basin, nor that no pannel of a he-ass.' 'It might as well be
of a she-ass,' quoth the curate. 'That comes all but to one,'
replied the other; 'for the question consists not therein, but
whether it be a pannel or not, as you do avouch.' Then one
of the troopers of the Holy Brotherhood, who had listened
to their disputation, and was grown full of choler to hear
such an error maintained, said, 'It is as very a pannel, as my
father is my father; and he that hath said, or shall say the
contrary, is, I believe, turned into a grape.' 'Thou liest like
a clownish knave!' quoth Don Quixote; and, lifting up his
javelin, which he always held in his hand, he discharged such
a blow at the trooper's pate, as if he had not avoided, it
would have thrown him to the ground. The javelin was
broken by the force of the fall into splinters; and the other
troopers, seeing their fellow misused, cried out for help and
assistance for that Holy Brotherhood. The innkeeper, who
also was one of the same fraternity, ran in for his rod of
justice and his sword, and then stood by his fellows. Don
Louis's four servants compassed him about, lest he should
attempt to escape whilst the tumult endured. The barber,
seeing all the house turned upside down, laid hand again
upon his pannel, and the same did Sancho.
Don Quixote set hand to his sword, and assaulted the
troopers. Don Louis cried to his serving-men that they
should leave him, and go to help Don Quixote, Cardenio, and
Don Fernando; for all of them took Don Quixote's part.
The curate cried out, the hostess shrieked, her daughter
squeaked, Maritornes howled, Dorothea stood confused, Lu-
cinda amazed, and Donna Clara dismayed; the barber bat-
THE STOLEN PANNEL 477
tered Sancho, and Sancho pounded him again. Don Louis,
on whom one of his serving-men had presumed to lay hands,
and hold him by the arm, gave him such a pash on the mouth
as he broke his teeth, and then the judge took him into his
own protection. Don Fernando had gotten one of the troop-
ers under his feet, where he stood belabouring him at pleas-
ure. The innkeeper renewed his outcry, and reinforced his
voice, demanding aid for the Holy Brotherhood. So that all
the inn seemed nothing else but plaints, cries, screeches, con-
fusions, fears, dreads, disgraces, slashes, buffets, blows,
spurnings, and effusion of blood.
In the midst of the chaos and labyrinth of things, Don
Quixote began to imagine and fancy to himself that he was
at that very time plunged up to the ears in the discord and
conflict of King Agramante his camp; and therefore he said,
with a voice that made all the inn to tremble, 'All of you,
hold your hands; all of you, put up your swords; all of you,
be quiet and listen to me, if any of you desire to continue
alive.' That great and monstrous voice made them all stand
still; thereupon he thus proceeded: 'Did not I tell you, sirs,
that this castle was enchanted, and that some legion of devils
did inhabit it? In confirmation whereof, I would have you
but to note with your own eyes how the very discord of King
Agramante's camp is transferred hither, and passed over
among us. Look how there they fight for the sword, here
for the horse, yonder for the eagle, beyond for the helmet;
and all of us fight, and none of us know for what. Come
therefore, you Master Justice, and you master curate, and
let the one represent King Agramante, and the other King
Scbrino, and make peace and atonement among us; for I
swear by almighty Jove, that it is great wrong and pity that
so many noblemen as we are here should be slain for so
slight causes.'
The troopers, which did not understand Don Quixote's
manner of speech, and saw themselves very ill-handled by
Don Fernando and Cardenio, would in no wise be pacified.
But the barber was content, by reason that in the conflict
both his beard and his pannel had been torn in pieces. Sancho
to his master's voice was quickly obedient, as became a duti-
ful servant. Don Louis his four serving-men stood also
478 DON QUIXOTE
quiet, seeing how litde was gained in being other; only the
innkeeper persisted as before, affirming that punishment
was due unto the insolences of that madman, who every
foot confounded and disquieted his inn. Finally, the ru-
mour was pacified for that time; the pannel remained for
a horse furniture until the day of judgment, the basin for
a helmet, and the inn for a castle — in Don Quixote's im-
agination.
All the broils being now appeased, and all men accorded
by the judge's and curate's persuasions, then began Don
Louis his servants again to urge him to depart with them,
and whilst he and they debated the matter, the judge com-
municated the whole to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the
curate, desiring to know their opinions concerning that af-
fair, and telling them all that Don Louis had said to him;
whereupon they agreed that Don Fernando should tell the
serving-men what he himself was, and how it was his pleas-
ure that Don Louis should go with him to Andalusia, where
he should be cherished and accounted of by the marquis his
brother, according unto his calling and deserts ; for he knew
well Don Louis his resolution to be such, as he would not
return into his father's presence at that time, although they
tore him into pieces. Don Fernando his quality and Don
Louis his intention being understood by the four, they agreed
among themselves that three of them should go back to bear
the tidings of all that had passed to his father, and the other
should abide there to attend on him, and never to leave
him until they returned to fetch him home, or knew what
else his father would command : and in this sort was that
monstrous bulk of division and contention reduced to some
form by the authority of Agramante and the wisdom of King
Sobrino.
But the enemy of concord and the adversary of peace find-
ing his projects to be thus illuded and condemned, and seeing
the little fruit he had gotten by setting them all by the ears,
resolved once again to try his wits, and stir up new discords
and troubles, which befel in this manner. The troopers were
quieted, having understood the calling of those with whom
they had contended, and retired themselves from the brawl,
knowing that howsoever the cause succeeded, they them-
DON LOUIS 479
selves should have still the worst end of the staff. But one
of them, who was the very same whom Don Fernando had
buffeted so well, remembered how among many other war-
rants that he had to apprehend malefactors, he had one for
Don Quixote, whom the Holy Brotherhood had commanded
to be apprehended for freeing of the galley slaves (a dis-
aster which Sancho had beforehand with very great reason
feared). As soon as he remembered it, he would needs try
whether the signs that were given him of Don Quixote did
agree with his person ; and so, taking out of his bosom a
scroll of parchment wherein they were written, he presently
found out that which he looked for; and, reading it a while
very leisurely, as one that was himself no great clerk, at
every other word he looked on Don Quixote, and confronted
the marks of his warrant with those of Don Quixote's face,
and found that he was infallibly the man that was therein
mentioned. And scarce was he persuaded that it was he,
when, folding up his parchment, and holding the warrant in
his left hand, he laid hold on Don Quixote's collar with the
right, so strongly as he could hardly breathe, and cried out
aloud, saying, 'Aid for the Holy Brotherhood ! and that you
may perceive how I am in good earnest, read that warrant,
wherein you shall find that this robber by the highway side
is to be apprehended.' The curate took the warrant, and per-
ceived very well that the trooper said true, and that the
marks agreed very near with Don Quixote's ; who, seeing
himself so abused by that base rascal, as he accounted him,
his choler being mounted to her height, and all the bones of
his body crashing for wrath, he seized as well as he could
with both his hands on the trooper's throat, and that in such
sort as if he had not been speedily succoured by his fellows,
he had there left his life ere Don Quixote would have
abandoned his grip.
The innkeeper, who of force was to assist his fellow in
office, forthwith repaired unto his aid. The hostess, seeing
her husband re-enter into contentions and brabbles, raised a
new cry, whose burden was borne by her daughter and Mari-
tornes, asking succour of Heaven and those that were pres-
ent. Sancho, seeing all that passed, said, 'By the Lord, all
that my master hath said of the enchantments of this castle
480 DON QUIXOTE
is true; for it is not possible for a man to live quietly in it
one hour together.'
Don Fernando parted the trooper and Don Quixote, and,
with the goodwill of both, unfastened their holds. But yet
the troopers for all this desisted not to require their prisoner,
and withal, that they should help to get him tied and abso-
lutely rendered unto their wills; for so it was requisite for
the King and the Holy Brotherhood, in whose name they
did again demand their help and assistance for the arresting
of that public robber and spoiler of people in common paths
and highways.
Don Quixote laughed to hear them speak so idly, as he im-
agined, and said, with very great gravity, 'Come hither, you
filthy, base extractions of the dunghill ! dare you term the
loosening of the enchained, the freeing of prisoners, the as-
sisting of the wretched, the raising of such as are fallen, and
the supplying of those that are in want, — dare you, I say,
term these things robbing on the highway? O infamous
brood ! worthy, for your base and vile conceit, that Heaven
should never communicate with you the valour included in
the exercise of chivalry, we give you to understand the sin
and error wherein you are, by not adoring the very shadow,
how much more the assistance of a knight-errant? Come
hither, O you that be no troopers, but thieves in troop, and
robbers of highways by permission of the Holy Brotherhood !
come hither, I say, and tell me, who was that jolt-head that
did subscribe or ratify a warrant for the attaching of such
a knight as I am? Who was he that knows not how knights-
errant are exempted from all tribunals? and how that their
sword is the law, their valour the bench, and their wills the
statutes of their courts? I say again, what madman was
he that knows not how that no privilege of gentry enjoys
so many pre-eminences, immunities, and exemptions as that
which a knight-errant acquires the day wherein he is dubbed
and undertakes the rigorous exercise of arms ? What knight-
errant did ever pay tribute, subsidy, tallage, carriage, or pass-
age over water? What tailor ever had money for making
his clothes? What constable ever lodged him in castle, that
made him after to pay for the shot? What king hath not
placed him at his own table? What damsel hath not fallen
THE HOLY BROTHERHOOD 481
in love with him, and permitted him to use her as he liked?
And finally, what knight-errant was there ever, is, or ever
shall be in the world, which hath not the courage himself
alone to give four hundred blows with a cudgel to four hun-
dred troopers that shall presume to stand before him in
hostile manner?'
CHAPTER XIX
In Which Is Finished the Notable Adventure of the
Troopers^ and the Great Ferocity of Our Knight,
Don Quixote, and How He Was Enchanted
WHILST Don Quixote said this, the curate laboured
to persuade the troopers how the knight was dis-
tracted, as they themselves might collect by his
works and words, and therefore it would be to no end
to prosecute their design any further, seeing that al-
though they did apprehend and carry him away he
would be presently delivered again as a madman. To
this, he that had the warrant made answer, that it
concerned him not to determine whether he was mad
or no, but only to obey and execute his superior's com-
mand; and that being once prisoner, they might deliver him
three hundred times and if it were their good pleasure. 'For
all that,' quoth the curate, 'you may not carry him with you
at this time ; nor, as I suppose, will he suffer himself to be
taken.' To be brief, the curate said so much, and Don Qui-
xote played so many mad pranks, as the troopers themselves
would have proved greater fools than he if they had not
manifestly discerned his defect of judgment; and therefore
they held it to be the best course to let him alone, yea, and
be compounders of peace and amity between Sancho Panza
and the barber, which still continued their most rancorous
and deadly contention. Finally, they, as the officers of jus-
tice, did mediate the cause, and were arbiters thereof in such
sort, as both the parties remained, though not wholly con-
tented, yet in some sort satisfied, for they only made them
exchange their pannels, but not their girths or headstalls.
As touching Mambrino's helmet, the curate did unawar-es
to Don Quixote give to the barber eight reals by it, and the
barber gave back unto him an acquittance of the receipt
482
GENERAL SATISFACTION 483
thereof, an everlasting release of all actions concerning it.
These two discords, which were the most principal and of
most consequence, being thus accorded, it only rested that
three of Don Louis his serving-men would be content to re-
turn home, and leave the fourth to accompany his master
whither Don Fernando pleased to carry him. And as good
hap and better fortune had already begun to break lances,
and facilitate difficulties, in the favour of the lovers and
worthy persons of the inn, so did it resolve to proceed for-
ward, and give a prosperous success unto all ; for the serving-
men were content to do whatsoever their master would have
them: whereat Donna Clara was so cheerful, as no one be-
held her face in that season but might read therein the in-
ward contentment of her mind. Zoraida, although she did
not very well understand all the successes of the things she
had seen, yet was she interchangeably grieved and cheered
according to the shows made by the rest, but chiefly by her
Spaniard, on whom her eyes were always fixed, and all the
affects of her mind depended. The innkeeper, who did not
forget the recompense made by the curate to the barber, de-
manded of him Don Quixote's expenses, and satisfaction for
the damage he had done to his wine-bags, and the loss of his
wine, swearing that neither Rozinante nor Sancho his ass
should depart out of the inn until he were paid the very last
farthing. All was quietly ended by the curate ; and Don
Fernando paid the whole sum, although the judge had also
most liberally offered to do it; and all of them remained
afterwards in such quietness and peace, as the inn did no
longer resemble the discorded camp of Agramante, as Don
Quixote termed it, but rather enjoyed the very peace and
tranquillity of the Emperor Octavian'stime; for all which the
common opinion was, that thanks were justly due to the sin-
cere proceeding and great eloquence of master curate, and
to the incomparable liberality and goodness of Don Fer-
nando. Don Quixote, perceiving himself free, and delivered
from so many difficulties and brabbles wherewithal as well
he as his esquire had been perplexed, held it high time to
j)rosecute his commenced voyage, and bring to an end the
great adventure unto which he was called and chosen.
Therefore, with resolute determination to depart, he went
HC XIV — 16
484 DON QUIXOTE
and cast himself on his knees before Dorothea, who, not
permitting him to speak until he arose, he to obey her stood
up, and said, 'It is a common proverb, beautiful lady, that
"diligence is the mother of good hap"; and in many and
grave affairs experience hath showed that the solicitude and
sore of the suitor oft brings a doubtful matter to a certain
and happy end; but this truth appears in nothing more
clearly than in matters of war, wherein celerity and expedi-
tion prevent the enemy's designs, and obtain the victory be-
fore an adversary can put himself in defence. All this I say,
high and worthy lady, because it seems to me that our abode
in this castle is nothing profitable, and may therewithal turn
so far to our hindrance as we may palpably feel it one day;
for who knows but that your enemy, the giant, hath learned
by spies, or other secret intelligence and means, how I mean
to come and destroy him, and (opportunity favouring his de-
signs) that he may have fortified himself in some inex-
pugnable castle or fortress, against the strength whereof
neither mine industry nor the force of mine invincible arm
can much prevail. Wherefore, dear lady, let us prevent, as I
have said, by our diligence, and let us presently depart unto
the place whereunto we are called by our good fortune, which
shall be deferred no longer than I am absent from your high-
ness's foe.' Here he held his peace, and did expect, with
great gravity, the beautiful princess's answer, who, with
debonnaire countenance, and a style accommodated unto Don
Quixote, returned him this answer : 'I do gratify and thank,
sir l;night, the desire you show to assist me in this my great
need, which denotes very clearly the great care you have
to favour orphans and distressed wights; and I beseech God
that your good desires and mine may be accomplished, to the
end that you may see how there are some thankful women
on earth. As touching my departure, let it be forthwith, for
I have none other will than that which is yours; therefore
you may dispose of me at your own pleasure ; for she that
hath once committed the defence of her person unto you, and
hath put into your hands the restitution of her estate, ought
not to seek to do any other thing than that which your wis-
dom shall ordain.' 'In the name of God,' quoth Don Quixote,
'seeing that your highness doth so humble yourself unto me,
THE PRINCESS MICOMICONA 485
I will not lose the occasion of exalting it, and installing it
again in the throne of your inheritance. Let our departure
be incontinent ; for my desires, and the way, and that which
they call the danger that is in delay, do spur me on. And
seeing that Heaven never created, nor hell ever beheld, any
man that could affright me or make a coward of me, go
therefore, Sancho, and saddle R.ozinante, and empannel thine
ass, and make ready the queen's palfrey, and let us take
leave of the constable and those other lords, and depart
away from hence instantly.'
Then Sancho, who was present at all this, wagging of his
head, said, 'O my lord, my lord ! how much more knavery
(be it spoken with the pardon of all honest kerchiefs) is
there in the little village than is talked of !' 'What ill can
there be in any village, or in all the- cities of the world, able
to impair my credit, thou villain?' 'If thou be angry,' quoth
Sancho, 'I will hold my tongue, and omit to say that which,
by the duty of a good squire and of an honest servant, I am
bound to tell you.' 'Say what thou wilt,' quoth Don Quixote,
'so thy words be not addressed to make me afraid; for if
thou beest frighted, thou dost only like thyself; and if I be
devoid of terror, I also do that which I ought.' 'It is not
that which I mean,' quoth Sancho, 'but that I do hold, for
most sure and certain, that this lady which calls herself queen
of the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more a queen than
my mother; for if she were what she says, she would not,
at every corner and at every turning of a hand, be billing
as she is with one that is in this good company.' Dorothea
blushed at Sancho's words ; for it was true, indeed, that her
spouse, Don Fernando, would now and then privately steal
from her lips some part of the reward which his desires did
merit (which Sancho espying, it seemed to him that that kind
of wanton familiarity was mjore proper to courtesans than
becoming the queen of so great a kingdom), and yet she
neither could nor would reply unto him, but let him continue
his speech, as followeth : ' This I do say, good my lord,'
quoth he, 'to this end: that if, after we have run many ways
and courses, and endured bad nights and worse days, he that
is in this inn sporting himself, shall come to gather the fruit
of our labours, there is no reason to hasten me thus to saddle
486 DON QUIXOTE
Rozinante, or empannel the ass, or make ready the palfrey,
seeing it would be better that we stayed still, and that every
whore spun, and we fell to our victuals.'
O God ! how great was the fury that inflamed Don Qui-
xote when he heard his squire speak so respectlessly ! I say
it was so great that, with a shaking voice, a faltering tongue,
and the fire sparkling out of his eyes, he said, 'O villanous
peasant ! rash, unmannerly, ignorant, rude, blasphemous, bold
murmurer and detractor ! hast thou presumed to speak such
words in my presence, and in that of these noble ladies? and
hast thou dared to entertain such rash and dishonest sur-
mises into thy confused imagination? Depart out of my
sight, thou monster of nature, storehouse of untruths, ar-
moury of falsehood, sink of roguery, inventor of villany,
publisher of ravings, and the enemy of that decency which
is to be used towards royal persons ! Away, villain ! and
never appear before me, under pain of mine indignation !'
And, saying so, he bended his brows, filled up his cheeks,
looked about him on every side, and struck a great blow with
his right foot on the ground — all manifest tokens of the rage
which inwardly fretted him. At which words and furious
gestures, poor Sancho remained so greatly affrighted, as he
could have wished in that instant that the earth, opening
under his feet, would swallow him up, and knew not what
to do, but turn his back, and get him out of his lord's most
furious presence. But the discreet Dorothoa, who was now
so well schooled in Don Quixote's humour, to mitigate his
ire, said unto him, 'Be not offended, good Sir Knight of the
Sad Face, at the idle words which your good squire hath
spoken; for perhaps he hath not said them without some
ground; nor of his good understanding and Christian mind
can it be suspected that he would wittingly slander or accuse
anybody falsely; and therefore we must believe, without all
doubt, that as in this castle, as you yourself have said, sir
knight, all things are represented, and succeed by manner of
enchantment; I say it might befall that Sancho may have
seen, by diabolical illusion, that which he says he beheld,
so much to the prejudice of my reputation.'
'I vow by the omnipotent Jove,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that
your highness hath hit the very prick, and that some wicked
SANCHO ENCHANTED 487
vision appeared to this sinner, my man Sancho, that made
him to see that which otherwise were impossible to be seen
by any other way than that of enchantment ; for I know very
well the great goodness and simplicity of that poor wretch
is such as he knows not how to invent a lie on anybody
living.' 'It is even so, and so it shall be,' quoth Don Fer-
nando; 'and therefore, good sir Don Quixote, you must
pardon him, and reduce him again to the bosom of your good
grace, sicut erat in principio, and before the like visions did
distract his sense.' Don Quixote answered that he did will-
ingly pardon him. And therefore the curate went for Sancho,
who returned very humbly, and, kneeling down on his knees,
demanded his lord's hand, which he gave unto him; and after
that he had permitted him to kiss it, he gave him his blessing,
saying, 'Now thou shalt finally know, Sancho, that which I
have told thee divers times, how that all the things of this
castle are made by way of enchantment.' 'So do I verily be-
lieve,' said Sancho, 'except that of the canvassing in the
blanket, which really succeeded by an ordinary and natural
way.' 'Do not believe that,' said Don Quixote ; 'for if it
were so, I would both then, and also now, have taken a dire
revenge ; but neither then nor now could I ever see any on
whom I might revenge that thine injury.' All of them de-
sired greatly to know what that accident of the blanket was;
and then the innkeeper recounted it, point by point, the flights
that Sancho Panza made, whereat they all did laugh not a
little ; and Sancho would have been ashamed no less, if his
lord had not anew persuaded him that it was a mere en-
chantment. And yet Sancho's madness was never so great
as to believe that it was not a real truth verily befallen him,
without any colour or mixture of fraud or illusion, but that
he was tossed by persons of flesh, blood, and bone, and not
by dreamed and imagined shadows or spirits, as his lord
believed, and so constantly affirmed.
Two days were now expired when all that noble company
had sojourned in the inn ; and then, it seeming unto them
high time to depart, they devised how, without putting Doro-
thea and Don Fernando to the pains to turn back with Don
Quixote to his village, under pretence of restoring the Queen
Micomicona, the curate and barber might carry him back as
488 DON QUIXOTE
they desired, and endeavour to have him cured of his folly
in his own house. And their invention was this: they agreed
with one, who by chance passed by that way with a team
of oxen, to carry him in this order following: They made
a thing like a cage, of timber, so big as that Don Quixote
might sit or lie in it at his ease; and presently after, Don
Fernando and his fellows, with Don Louis his servants, the
troopers, and the innkeeper, did all of them, by master
curate's direction, cover their faces, and disguise themselves,
every one as he might best, so that they might seem to Don
Quixote other people than such as he had seen in the castle.
And this being done, they entered with very great silence into
the place where he slept, and took his rest after the related
conflicts ; and, approaching him who slept securely, not fear-
ing any such accident, and laying hold on him very strongly,
they tied his hands and his feet very strongly, so that when
he started out of his sleep he could not stir himself, nor do
any other thing than admire and wonder at those strange
shapes that he saw standing before him; and presently he
fell into the conceit which his continual and distracted imagi-
nation had already suggested unto him, believing that all
those strange figures were the spirits and shadows of that
enchanted castle, and that he himself was now without doubt
enchanted, seeing he could neither move nor defend himself.
All this succeeded just as the curate, who plotted the jest,
made full account it would. Only Sancho, among all those
that were present, was in his right sense and shape; and al-
though he wanted but little to be sick of his lord's disease,
yet for all that he knew all those counterfeit ghosts; but he
would not once unfold his lips, until he might see the end of
that surprisal and imprisonment of his master ; who likewise
spoke never a word, but only looked to see what would be
the period of his disgrace; which was that, bringing him to
the cage, they shut him within, and afterwards nailed the
bars thereof so well as they could not be easily broken. They
presently mounted him upon their shoulders ; and as he issued
out at the chamber door, they heard as dreadful a voice as
the barber could devise (not he of the pannel, but the other),
which said, *0 Knight of the Sad Countenance ! be not
grieved at the imprisonment whereinto thou art led : for so
DON QUIXOTE ENCAGED 489
it must be, that thereby the adventure, into which thy great
force and valour hath thrust thee, may be the more speedily
ended; and ended it v^^ill be when the furious Manchegan lion
and the white Tobosian dove shall be united in one; and
after they have humbled their lofty crest unto the soft yoke
of wedlock, from whose wonderful comfort shall issue to the
light of the orb fierce whelps, which shall imitate the raunch-
ing paws of their valorous father. And this shall be before
the pursuer of the fugitive nymph do, with his swift and nat-
ural course, make two turns in visitation of the glittering
images. And thou, O the most noble and obedient squire that
ever had sword at a girdle, beard on a face, or dent in a nose !
let it not dismay or discontent thee to see carried away before
thy eyes the flower of all chivalry-errant; for very speedily,
if it please the Framer of the world, thou shalt see thyself so
exalted and ennobled as thou shalt scarce know thyself. Nor
shalt thou be defrauded of the promises made unto thee by
thy noble lord; and I do assure thee, from the wise Mentiro-
niana, that thy wages shall be paid thee, as thou shalt quickly
see in effect. And therefore follow the steps of the valbrous
and enchanted knight ; for it is necessary that thou go to the
place where you both shall stay. And because I am not per-
mitted to say more, farewell ; for I do return, I well know
whither.' Towards the end of this prophecy he lifted up his
voice, and afterwards lessened it, with so slender an accent
that even those which were acquainted with the jest almost
believed what they had heard.
Don Quixote was very much comforted by the prophecy;
for he presently apprehended the whole sense thereof, and
perceived how he was promised in marriage his beloved Dul-
cinea of Toboso, from whose happy womb should sally the
whelps, which were his sons, to the eternal glory of the
Mancha. And, believing all this most firmly, he elevated his
voice, and, breathing forth a great sigh, thus said: 'O thou,
whatsoever thou beest, which hath prognosticated so great
good to me, I desire thee to request, in my name, the wise
man who hath charge to record mine acts, that he permit me
not to perish in this prison, to which they now do carry me,
before the accomplishment of so joyful and incomparable
promises as now have been made unto me; for, so that this
490 DON QUIXOTE
may befall, I will account the pains of my prison a glory, and
the chains that environ me an ease ; and will not esteem this
bed whereon I am laid a hard field of battle, but a soft tick
and a most fortunate lodging. And, as concerning the con-
solation of my squire Sancho Panza, I trust in his goodness
and honest proceeding, that he will not abandon me in good
or bad fortune ; for though it should fall out, through his or
my hard hap, that I shall not be able to bestow on him an
island, or other equivalent thing, as I have promised, his
wages at least cannot be lost; for in my testament, which is
made already, I have set down what he is to have, though not
conformably to his many good services, yet according to my
possibility.' Sancho Panza bowed his head with great rever-
ence, and kissed both his hands, for one alone he could not,
by reason they were bound together ; and presently those
visions did lift up the cage and accommodate it on the team
of oxen.
CHAPTER XX
Wherein Is Prosecuted the Manner of Don Quixote's
Enchantment, with Other Famous Occurrences
WHEN Don Quixote saw himself to be encaged after
that manner, and placed in the cart, he said, 'I
have read many and very grave histories of
knights-errant, but I never read, saw, nor heard that they
were wont to carry knights-errant enchanted after this
manner, and with the leisure that those slothful and heavy
beasts do threaten ; for they were ever accustomed to be
carried in the air with wonderful speed, shut in some dusky
and obscure cloud, or in some fiery chariot, or on some hip-
pogriff, or some other such like beast; but that they carry
me now on a team of oxen, I protest it drives me into a great
amazement; but perhaps both chivalry, and the enchantments
of these our times, do follow a course different from those
of former ages; and peradventure it may also be, that as I
am a new knight in the world, and the first that hath again
revived the now neglected and forgotten exercise of arms, so
have they also newly invented other kinds of enchant-
ments, and other manners of carrying away enchanted
knights. What dost thou think of this, son Sancho?' 'I
know not,' quoth Sancho, 'what to think, because I am not
so well seen in scriptures-errant as you are; but for all this
I durst affirm and swear, that these visions which go up and
down in this place are not altogether catholic' 'Catholics !
my father !' quoth Don Quixote ; 'how can they be catholics,
when they be all devils, which have assumed phantastical
bodies to come and put me into this state? And if thou wilt
prove the truth hereof, do but touch and feel them, and thou
shalt find them to have no bodies but of air, and that they
consist of nothing but an outward appearance.' 'Now, by my
faith, sir,' quoth Sancho, 'I have already touched them, and
491
492 DON QUIXOTE
find this devil that goeth there so busily up and down, both
plump and soft-fleshed; and that he hath besides another
property very different from that which I have heard say
devils have; for it is said that they smell all of brimstone and
other filthy things, but one may feel, at least half a league
off, the amber that this devil smells of.' Sancho spoke this
of Don Fernando, who belike, as lords of his rank are wont,
had his attire perfumed with amber.
'Marvel not thereat, friend Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote;
'for the devils are very crafty, and although they bring
smells or perfumes about them, yet they themselves smell
nothing, because they are spirits; or if they do smell aught,
it is not good, but evil and stinking savours: the reason is,
for that as they do always bear, wheresoever they be, their
hell about them, and can receive no kind of ease of their
torments, and good smells be things that delight and please,
it is not possible that they can smell any good thing; and if
it seem to thee that that devil whom thou dost mention smells
of amber, either thou art deceived, or he would deceive thee,
by making thee to think that he is no devil.' All these dis-
courses passed between the master and the man, the whilst
Don Fernando and Cardenio, fearing lest Sancho should find
out the deceit whereto he was already come very near, re-
solved to hasten the knight's departure; and therefore, call-
ing the innkeeper aside, they commanded him to saddle
Rozinante, and empannel Sancho's beast, which he did with
all expedition. And the curate agreed with the troopers for
so much a day, to accompany him unto his village. Cardenio
hanged, at the pommel of Rozinante's saddle, the target on
the one side, and on the other the basin; and by signs he
commanded Sancho to get up on his ass, and to lead Rozi-
nante along by the bridle, and afterwards placed on either
side of the cart two troopers, with their firelocks.
But before the cart departed, the hostess, her daughter,
and Maritornes came out to bid Don Quixote farewell, feign-
ing that they wept for sorrow of his disaster; to whom Don
Quixote said, 'My good ladies, do not weep; for all these
mischances are incident to those which profess that which I
do, and if these calamities had not befallen me, I would never
have a.ccounted myself for a famous knight-errant; for the
DON QUIXOTE ENCAGED 493
like chances never happen to knights of Httle name or re-
nown, because there [is] none in the world that makes any
mention of them; but they often befall to the valorous, who
have emulators of their virtue and valour, both many princes
and many other knights, that strive by indirect means to de-
stroy them. But for all that, virtue is so potent, as by herself
alone, in spite of all the necromancy that ever the first in-
ventor thereof, Zoroaster, knew, she will come off victorious
from every danger, and will shine in the world as the sun
doth in heaven. Pardon me, fair ladies, if by any careless-
ness I have done you any displeasure, for with my will and
knowledge I never wronged any. And pray unto God for
me, that he will please to deliver me out of this prison,
whereinto some ill-meaning enchanter hath thrust me; for
if I once may see myself at liberty again, I will never forget
the favours which you have done me in this castle, but greatly
acknowledge and recompense them as they deserve.' Whilst
the ladies of the castle were thus entertained by Don Quixote,
the curate and barber took leave of Don Fernando and his
companions, of the captain and his brother, and of all the
contented ladies, especially of Dorothea and Lucinda. All
of them embraced, and promised to acquaint one another
with their succeeding fortunes ; Don Fernando entreating the
curate to write unto him what became of Don Quixote, as-
suring him that no affair he could inform him of should
please him better than that, and that he would, in lieu
thereof, acquaint him with all occurrences which he thought
would delight him, either concerning his own marriage or
Zoraida's baptism, or the success of Don Louis, and Lucinda's
return into her house.
The curate offered willingly to accomplish to a hair all
that he had commanded him ; and so they returned once again
to embrace one another, and to renew their mutual and com-
plimentary offers. The innkeeper came also to the curate,
and gave him certain papers, saying that he had found them
within one of the linings of the wallet wherein the Tale of
the Curious-Impertinent was had, and that, since the owner
did not return to fetch it, he bade him take them all with
him; for, seeing he could not read, he would keep them no
longer. Master curate yielded him many thanks; and then.
494 DON QUIXOTE
opening them, found in the beginning thereof these words,
The Tale of Riconete and Cortadillo, by which he under-
stood that it was some history, and collected that it must be
a good one, seeing that of the Curious-Impertinent, contrived
perhaps by the same author, had proved so well; and there-
fore he laid it up, with an intention to read it as soon as he
had opportunity. Then he mounted on horseback with his
friend the barber; and both of them, putting on their masks,
that they might not quickly be known by Don Quixote, they
travelled after the team, which held on in this order : first
went the cart, guided by the carter; on both sides thereof
the troopers rode, with their firelocks; then followed Sancho
upon his ass, leading Rozinante by the bridle ; and last of all
came the curate and barber, upon their mighty mules, and
with their faces covered; all in a grave posture, and with
an alderman-like pace, and travelling no faster than the slow
steps of the heavy oxen permitted them. Don Quixote sat
with his hands tied, his legs stretched out, and leaning against
the bar of the cage, with such a silence and patience as he
rather seemed a statue than a man. In this quiet and leis-
urely manner they travelled for the space of two leagues,
when, arriving to a valley, it seemed to their conductor a fit
place to repose and bait his oxen ; and, acquainting the curate
with his purpose, the barber was of opinion that they should
yet go on a little farther, because he knew that there lay
behind a little mountain, which was within their view, a
certain vale, much better furnished with grass than that
wherein he meant to abide. The barber's opinion was al-
lowed; and therefore they continued on their travel: when
the curate, looking by chance behind him, saw coming after
them six or seven men on horseback, and very well appointed,
who quickly got ground of them; for they came not the lazy
and phlegmatic pace of oxen, but as men that were mounted
on canons' mules, and pricked forward with a desire to pass
over the heat of the day in their inn, which was not much
more than a league from thence. Finally, those diligent trav-
ellers overtook our slothful ones, and saluted them courte-
ously; and one of them, that was a canon of Toledo and
master of the rest, noting the orderly procession of the cart,
troopers, Sancho, Rozinante, the curate and barber, but
DON QUIXOTE ENCAGED 495
chiefly the encaged Don Quixote, he could not forbear to
demand what meant the carriage of that man in so strange
a manner, although he did already conjecture, by observa-
tion of the troopers, that he was some notable robber, or
other delinquent, the punishment of whom belonged to the
Holy Brotherhood. One of the troopers, to whom the de-
mand was made, did answer in this manner: 'Sir, we know
not wherefore this knight is carried in this form; and there-
fore let he himself, who best may, tell you the reason
thereof.'
Don Quixote had overheard their discourse, and said, 'If,
gentlemen, you be conversant and skilful in matters of chiv-
alry, I will communicate my misfortunes with you ; but if you
be not, I have no reason to trouble myself to recount them.'
The curate and barber, seeing the travellers in talk with Don
Quixote, drew near to make answer for him in such sort
that their invention might not be discovered ; the whilst the
canon replied to the knight, and said, 'Truly, brother, I am
better acquainted with books of knighthood than with Villal-
pando's Logic; and therefore, if all the difficulty rest only in
that, you may safely communicate whatsoever you will with
me.' 'A God's name be it,' quoth Don Quixote; 'you shall
therefore understand, sir knight, that I am carried away
enchanted in this cage, through the envy and fraud of wicked
magicians; for virtue is much more persecuted of the wicked
than honoured of the good. I am a knight-errant; but none
of those whose names are not recorded in the books of fame,
but one of those who, in despite of envy itself, and of all the
magicians of Persia, the Brahmins of India, or of the Gym-
nosophists of Ethiopia, shall hang his name in the temple of
eternity, that it may serve as a model and pattern to ensuing
ages, wherein knights-errant may view the steps which they
are to follow, if they mean to aspire to the top and honour-
able height of arms.' 'The knight Sir Don Quixote saith
true,' quoth the curate, speaking to the travellers, 'that he
is carried away in this chariot enchanted, not through his
own default or sins, but through the malignant treachery oi
those to whom virtue is loathsome and valour odious. This
is, good sir, the Knight of the Sad Countenance (if you have
at any time heard speak of him), whose valorous acts shall
496 DON QUIXOTE
remain ensculped in stubborn brass and time-surviving
marble, though envy and malice do labour never so much
to obscure them.'
When the canon heard the imprisoned man and the three
speak thus in one tenor, he was about to bless himself for
wonder, and could not conjecture what had befallen him; and
into no less admiration were they brought that came with
him. But Sancho Panza having in the meantime approached
to hear their speech, to plaster up the matter, added: 'Now,
sirs, whether you will love me well or ill for what I shall say,
the very truth of the matter is, that my lord, Don Quixote,
is as much enchanted as my mother, and no more; for his
judgment is yet whole and sound — he eats and drinks, and
doth his necessities as other men do, and as he himself did
yesterday and other days before they encaged him: all which
being so, how can you make me believe that he goeth en-
chanted? for I have heard many persons avouch that en-
chanted persons neither eat, nor drink, nor speak; and yet,
my lord, if he be not thwarted, will talk more than twenty
barristers.' And then, turning towards the curate, he said,
'O master curate, master curate, do you think that I do not
know you? And think you that I do not suppose, yea, and
presage whereto these new enchantments are addressed?
Well, know then that I know you well, although you cover
your face never so much, and that I understand your mean-
ing, how deeply soever you smother your drifts. But in fine,
where emulation and en\'y reign, virtue cannot live; where
pinching sways, liberality goes by. A pox take the devil !
for, but for your reverence, my lord had e'er this time been
wedded to the Princess Micomicona, and I myself had been
created an earl at least; for no less might be expected either
from the bounty of my lord or the greatness of my deserts.
But now I perceive that to be true which is commonly said,
" that the wheel of fortune turns about more swiftly than that
of a mill," and that they which were yesterday on the top
thereof, lie to-day all along on the ground. I am chiefly
grieved for my wife and children ; for whereas they ought
and might hope to see their father come in at his gates made
a governor or viceroy of some isle or kingdom, they shall
now see him return unto them no better than a poor horse-
SANCHO AND THE CURATE 497
boy. All which I have urged so much, master curate, only to
intimate to your paternity how you ought to have remorse,
and make a scruple of conscience, of treating my dear lord
as you do; and look to it well, that God do not one day de-
mand at your hands, in the other life, amends for the prison
whereinto you carry him, and that you be not answerable for
all the succours and good deeds which he would have afforded
the world in this time of his captivity.'
'Snuff me those candles,' quoth the barber, hearing him
speak so. 'What, Sancho ! art thou also of thy master's fra-
ternity? I swear by the Lord, I begin to see that thou art
very like to keep him company in the cage, and that thou
shalt be as deeply enchanted as he, for the portion which
thou hast of humour and chivalry. Thou wast in an ill hour
begotten with child by his promises, and in a worse did the
isle, which thou so greatly longest for, sink into thy pate.'
*I am not with child by anybody,' said Sancho; 'nor am I a
man of humour, to let anybody get me with child, no, though
it were the king himself; and although I be poor, yet am I
a Christian, and owe nothing to any one; and if I desire
islands, others there are that desire worse things, and every
one is the son of his own works ; and under the name of
a man I may become pope, how much more the governor of
an island, and chiefly seeing my lord may gain so many as
he may want men to bestow them on? And therefore, master
barber, you should take heed how you speak; for all consists
not in trimming of beards; and there is some difference be-
tween Peter and Peter. I say it, because all of us know one
another, and no man shall unperceived put a false dye upon
me. As concerning my lord's enchantment, God knows the
truth ; and therefore let it rest as it is, seeing it is the worse
for the stirring in.' The barber would not reply unto Sancho,
lest that, with his simplicities, he should discover what the
curate and himself did labour so much to conceal. And the
curate, doubting the same, had entreated the canon to prick'
on a little forward, and he would unfold to him the mystery
of the encaged knight, with other matters of delight. The
canon did so, and, taking his men along with them, was very
attentive to all that he rehearsed of the condition, life, mad-
ness, and fashion of Don Quixote. There did he briefly ac-
498 DON QUIXOTE
quaint him with the original cause of his distraction, and all
the progress of his adventures, until his shutting up in that
cage; and their own design in carrying him home to his
country, to try whether they might by any means find out a
remedy for his frenzy. The canon and his men again ad-
mired to hear so strange a history as that of Don Quixote;
and as soon as the curate had ended his relation, the canon
said:
'Verily, master curate, I do find by experience that those
books which are instituted of chivalry or knighthood are
very prejudicial to well-governed commonwealths ; and al-
though, borne away by an idle and curious desire, I have
read the beginning of almost as many as are imprinted of
that subject, yet could I never endure myself to finish and
read any one of them through; for methinks that somewhat,
more or less, they all import one thing, and this hath no more
than that, nor the other more than his fellow. And in mine
opinion, this kind of writing and invention falls within the
compass of the fables called Milesiae, which are wandering
and idle tales, whose only scope is delight, and not instruc-
tion ; quite contrary to the project of those called Fahulae
ApoJogae, which delight and instruct together. And though
that the principal end of such books be recreation, yet cannot
I perceive how they can yield it, seeing they be forced with
so many and so proportionless untruths; for the delight that
the mind conceives must proceed from the beauty and con-
formity which it sees or contemplates in such things as the
sight or imagination represents unto it, and all things that
are deformed and discordant must produce the contrary
effect. Now, then, what beauty can there be, or what pro-
portion between the parts and the whole, or the whole and
the parts, in a book or fable wherein a youth of sixteen years
of age gives a blow to a giant as great as a tower, and with
that blow divides him in two as easily as if he were a pellet
of sugar? And when they describe a battle, after that they
have told us how there were at least a million of men on
the adverse side, yet if the knight of the book be against
them, we must of force, and whether we will or no, under-
stand that the said knight obtained the victory through
the invincible strength of his arm. What, then, shall
THE CANON ON ROMANCES 499
we say of the facility wherewithal the inheritrix of a king-
dom or empire falls between the arms of those errant and
unknown knights? What understanding, if it be not alto-
gether barren or barbarous, can delight itself, reading how
a great tower full of knights doth pass through the sea as
fast as a ship with the most prosperous wind? and that
going to bed a man is in Lombardy, and the next morning
finds himself in Prester John's country, among the Indians,
or in some other region which never was discovered by
Ptolemy, nor seen by Marco Polo? And if I should be an-
swered, that the inventors of such books do write them as
fables, and therefore are not bound unto any respect of cir-
cumstances or observation of truth, I would reply, that an
untruth is so much the more pleasing by how much the
nearer it resembles a truth, and so much the more grateful
by how much the more it is doubtful and possible ; for ly-
ing fables must be suited unto the reader's understanding,
and so written as that, facilitating impossible things, level-
ling untrue things, and holding the mind in suspense, they
may ravish a more delight, and entertain such manners, as
pleasure and wonder mey step by step walk together : all
which things he that writes not likelihoods shall never bG
able to perform. And as touching imitation (wherein con-
sists the perfection of that which is written), I have not
seen in any books of knighthood an entire bulk of a fable
so proportioned in all the members thereof, as that the
middle may answer the beginning, and the end the beginning
and middle ; but rather they have composed them of so many
members, as it more probably seems that the authors in-
tended to frame chimeras or monsters than to deliver pro-
portionate figures, most harsh in their style, incredible in
exploits, impudent in love matters, absurd in compliments,
prolix in battles, fond in drscourses, uncertain and senseless
in voyages; and finally, devoid of all discretion, art, and in-
genious disposition: and therefore they deserve, as most idle
and frivolous things, to be banished out of all Christian
commonwealths.'
Master curate did listen to the canon with very great at-
tention ; and he seemed unto him to be a man of good under-
standing, and that he had great reason for what he had al-
500 DON QUIXOTE
leged; and therefore said that in respect they did concur in
opinions, and that he had an old grudge to the vanity of
such books, he had Hkewise fired all Don Quixote's library,
consisting of many books of that subject. And then he re-
counted to him the search and inquisition he had made of
them; and which he had condemned, and which reserved:
whereat the canon laughed heartily, and said that, 'notwith-
standing all the evil he had spoken of such books, yet did
he find one good in them, to wit, the subject they offered
a good wit to work upon and show itself in them; for they
displayed a large and open plain, through which the pen
might run without let or encumbrances, describing of ship-
wrecks, tempests, encounters, and battles ; delineating a valor-
ous captain with all the properties required in him — as
wisdom to frustrate the designs of his enemy, eloquence to
persuade or dissuade his soldiers, ripeness in advice, prompt-
ness in execution, as much valour in attending as in assault-
ing of an enemy ; deciphering now a lamentable and tragical
success, then a joyful and unexpected event; there a most
beautiful, honest, and discreet lady, here a valiant, courte-
ous, and Christian knight; there an unmeasureable, barba-
rous braggart, here a gentle, valorous, and wise prince ;
representing the goodness and loyalty of subjects, the magnif-
icence and bounty of lords. Sometimes he may show him-
self an astrologer, sometimes a cosmographer, sometimes a
musician, sometimes a statist, and sometimes, if he please, he
may have occasion to show himself a necromancer. There
may he demonstrate the subtlety of Ulysses, the piety of
Aeneas, the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector,
the treachery of Sinon, the amity of Euryalus, the liberality
of Alexander, the resolution of Caesar, the clemency and
truth of Trajan, the fidelity of Zopyrus, the prudence of
Cato, and finally, all those parts that make a worthy man per-
fect; one whiles by placing them all in one subject, another
by distributing them among many; and this being done, and
set out in a pleasing style and a witty fashion, that ap-
proacheth as near as is possible unto the truth, will ques-
tionless remain a work of many fair drafts, which being
accomplished will represent such beauty and perfection as
shall fully attain to the best end aimed at in all writing; that
THE CAXOX OX ROMANXES 501
is, as I have said, jointly to instruct and delight: for the ir-
regularity and liberality of those books give[s] to the author
the means to show himself an epic, lyric, tragedian, and
comedian, with all other things which the most graceful and
pleasant sciences of poetry and oratory include in them-
selves; for epics may be as well written in prose as in
verse.'
CHAPTER XXI
Wherein the Canon Prosecutes His Discourse Upon
Books of Chivalry, and Many Other Things
Worthy of His Wit
* r^ IR, you say very true/ quoth the curate; 'and for this
^^ very reason are they which have hitherto invented
^"^ such books the more worthy of reprehension, because
they neither heeded the good discourse, the art, nor the rules
by which they might have guided themselves, and by that
means have grown as famous for their prose as be the two
princes of the Greek and Latin poetry for their verse.' 'I
have, for my part,' quoth the canon, 'at least attempted to
write a book of chivalry, observing therein all the points by
me mentioned; and in truth I have written above a hundred
sheets thereof; and to the end that I might try whether they
were correspondent to my estimation, I did communicate
them both with certain skilful and wise men, that are mar-
vellously affected to that subject, and with some ignorant
persons that only delight to hear fanatical inventions, and
I have found in them all a great approbation of my la-
bours; yet would I not for all that prosecute the work, as
well because it seemed unfit for my profession, as also
because I find the number of the ignorant to exceed
that of the judicious ; and though more good come to a man
by the praise of a few wise men, than hurt by the scoffs of
a number of fools, yet would I not willingly subject myself
to the confused judgment of the senseless vulgar, who com-
monly give themselves most unto the reading of such books.
But that which most of all rid my hands, yea, and my
memory, of all desire to end it, was this argument, drawn
from our modern comedies, and thus made to myself: If
those (as well the fictions as historical ones) are all, or
the most part of them, notorious fopperies, and things with-
502
ROMANCES AND TRAGEDIES 503
out either head or foot, and yet are by the vulgar heard with
such delight, and held and approved for good; and both the
authors that compose them, and actors that represent them,
say that they must be such as they be for to please the
people's humours, and not more conformable to reason or
truth ; and that because those wherein decorum is observed,
and the fable followed according to the rules of art, serve
only for three or four discreet men (if so many may be
found at a play) which do attend unto them, and all the
rest of the auditors remain fasting, by reason they cannot
conceive the artificial contexture thereof; therefore it is
better for them to gain good money and means by many
than bare opinion or applause by a few. The very same
would be the end of my book, after I had used all possible
industry to observe the aforesaid precept; and I should re-
main only for a need, and as the tailor that dwells in a
corner, without trade or estimation.
'And although I have sundry times endeavoured to per-
suade the players that their opinion was erroneous herein,
and that they would attract more people and acquire greater
fame by acting artificial comedies than those irregular and
methodical plays then used, yet are they so wedded to their
opinion, as no reason can woo nor demonstration win them
from it. I remember how, dealing upon a day with one of
those obstinate fellows, I said unto him, "Do not you re-
member how a few years ago were represented in Spain
three tragedies, written by a famous poet of our kingdom,
which were such as delighted, yea, and amazed all the au-
ditors, as well the learned as the simple, the exact as the
slight ones, and that the players got more by those three
alone than by thirty of the best that were penned or acted
since that time," "You mean, without question," quoth the
actor, answering me, "Isabella, Phyllis, and Alexandra."
"The very same," quoth I; ''and note whether in them were
not rfghtly observed all the rules and precepts of art; and
yet thereby they neither wanted any part of their dignity nor
the approbation of all the world ; so that I infer the fault not
to be in the vulgar that covet idle toys, but rather in those
which know not how to pen or act any other thing ; for no
such fond stuff was in the comedy of Ingratitude Revenged,
504 DON QUIXOTE
nor found in Numantia, nor perceived in that of The Amor-
ous Merchant, and much less in The Favourable Enemy,
nor in some others made by judicious poets, which both
redounded to their infinite fame and renown, and yielded
unto these actors abundant gain." To these I added other
reasons, wherewith I left him, in mine opinion, somewhat
perplexed, but not satisfied, or desirous to forego his er-
roneous opinion.'
'Truly, master canon,' quoth the curate, 'you have touched
a matter that hath roused an ancient rancour and heart-
burning of mine against the comedies now in request, the
which is equal to the grudge that I bear to books of knight-
hood; for, seeing the comedy, as Tully affirms, ought to be
a mirror of man's life, a pattern of manners, and an image
of truth, those that are now exhibited are mirrors of vanity,
patterns of folly, and images of voluptuousness. For what
greater absurdity can be in such a subject, than to see a
child come out in the first scene of the first act in his swad-
dling clouts, and issue in the second already grown a man,
yea, a bearded man? And what greater vanity than to
present before us a valiant old man and a young coward?
a layman become a divine? a page a councillor? a king a
scoundrel? a princess a scour-kettle? What should I say of
the little care had of the due observation of time for the
succeeding of that they represent, other than that I myself
have seen comedies whose first act began in Europe, the sec-
ond in Asia, and the third ended in Africa; and truly, if
there had been a fourth, it would questionless have finished
in America, and by consequence, we should have seen a
round walk about the four parts of the world. And feign-
ing an exploit performed in the time of King Pepin or of
Charlemagne, they make the principal actors thereof either
Heraclius the emperor that entered into Jerusalem bearing
of the holy cross, or Godfrey of Bouillon that recovered
the Holy Land; many years, yea, and ages having occurred
between the times of the one and the other : yea, and the
comedy being grounded on a fiction, to attribute unto it the
verities of a history, and mingle it and patch it up with
pieces of others having relation to different persons and
times; and this with no plausible invention, or draft resem-
COMEDIES 505
bling the truth, but rather with palpable, gross, and inex-
cusable errors. And which is worse, some gulls are found to
affirm that all perfection consists herein, and that they are
too dainty that look for any other.
'Now, if we would pass further, to examine the divine
comedies that treat of God, or the lives of saints, what a
multitude of false miracles do the composers devise ! what
a bulk of matters apocryphal and ill-understood, attributing
to one saint the miracles done by another; yea, and in hu-
man comedies they presume to do miracles (without further
respect or consideration but that such a miracle or show,
as they term it, would do well in such a place), to the end
that the ignorant folk may admire them, and come the more
willingly to them: all which doth prejudice truth, discredit
histories, and turn to the disgrace of our Spanish wits; for
strangers which do with much punctuality observe the
method of comedies, hold us to be rude and ignorant, when
they see such follies and absurdities escape us; and it will
be no sufficient excuse for this error to say that the prin-
cipal end of well-governed commonwealths, in the permit-
ting of comedies, is only to entertain the commonalty with
some honest pastime, and thereby divert the exorbitant and
vicious humours which idleness is wont to engender; and
seeing that this end is attained to by whatsoever comedies,
good or bad, it were to no purpose to appoint any laws or
limits unto them, or to tie the composers to frame, or actors
to play them, as they should do : for hereunto I answer,
that this end would, without all comparison, be compassed
better by good comedies than by evil ones ; for the auditor
having heard an artificial and well-ordered comedy, would
come away delighted with the jests and instructed by the
truths thereof, wondering at the successes, grow discreeler
by the reasons, warned by the deceits, become wise by
others' example, incensed against vice, and enamoured of
virtue: all which affects a good comedy should stir up in
the hearer's mind, were h*e never so gross or clownish. And
it is of all impossibilities the most impossible, that a comedy
consisting of all these parts should not entertain, delight,
satisfy, and content the mind much more than another that
should be defective in any of them, as most of our nowaday
506 DON QUIXOTE
comedies be. Nor are the poets that pen them chiefly to be
blamed for this abuse; for some of them know very well
where the error lurks, and know also as well how to redress
it; but because that comedies are become a vendible mer-
chandise, they affirm, and therein tell the plain truth, that
the players would not buy them if they were of any other
than the accustomed kind; and therefore the poet endeavours
to accommodate himself to the humour of the player who is
to pay him for his labour. And that this is the truth may
be gathered by an infinite number of comedies, which a most
happy wit of this kingdom hath composed with such delicacy,
so many good jests, so elegant a verse, so excellent reasons,
so grave sentences, and finally, with so much eloquence
and such a loftiness of style, as he hath filled the world with
his ^ame ; and yet by reason that he was forced to accom-
modate himself to the actors, all of them have not arrived
to the height of perfection which art requires. Others there
are that write without any judgment, and with so little
heed of what they do, as after their works have been once
acted, the players are constrained to run away and hide
themselves, fearing to be punished, as often they have been
for acting things obnoxious to the prince, or scandalous to
some families.
'All which inconveniences might be redressed if there were
some understanding and discreet person ordained at the court
to examine all comedies before they were acted, and that not
only such as were played at the court itself, but also all
others that were to be acted throughout Spain, without
whose allowance, under his hand and seal, the magistrate
of no town should permit any comedy to be played ; by which
means the players would diligently send their plays to the
court, and might boldly afterwards act them, and the com-
posers would, with more care and study, examine their la-
bours, knowing that they should pass the strict censure of
him that could understand them; and by this means would
good comedies be written, and the thing intended by them
most easily attained to, viz. entertainment of the people, the
good opinion of Spanish wits, the profit and security of the
players, and the saving of the care that is now employed in
chastising their rashness. And if the same charge were
COMEDIES 507
given to this man, or to some other, to examine the books of
knighthood which should be made hereafter, some of them
doubtless would be put forth adorned with that perfection
whereof you spoke but now, enriching our language with
the pleasing and precious treasure of eloquence, and being
an occasion that the old books would become obscure in
the bright presence of those new ones published, for the
honest recreation not only of the idler sort, but also of those
that have more serious occupations; for it is not possible
for the bow to continue still bent, nor can our human and
frail nature sustain itself long without some help of lawful
recreation.'
The canon and curate had arrived to this point of their
discourse, when the barber, spurring on and overtaking them,
said to the curate, 'This is the place I lately told you was
fit to pass over the heat of the day in, while the oxen baited
amidst the fresh and abundant pastures.' 'It likes me very
well,' quoth the curate ; and telling the canon what he meant
to do, he also was pleased to remain with them, as well in-
vited by the prospect of a beautiful valley which offered
itself to their view, as also to enjoy the curate's conversation,
towards whom he began to bear a marvellous affection; and
lastly, with the desires he had to be thoroughly acquainted
with Don Quixote's adventures. Therefore he gave order
to some of his men that they should ride to the inn, which
was hard by, and bring from thence what meat they could
find, sufficient to satisfy them all, because he meant likewise
to pass the hot time of the day in that place. To which one
of his men did answer, that their sumpter mule was by that
time, as he thought, in the inn, so copiously furnished with
provision of meat, that, as he supposed, they needed not buy
anything there but barley for their mules. 'If it be so,'
quoth the canon, 'let our mules be carried thither, and the
sumpter one returned hither.'
Whilst this passed, SancKo, being free from the continual
presence of the curate and barber, whom he held as sus-
pected persons, thought It a fit time to speak with his lord,
and therefore drew near to the cage wherein he sat, and
said to him in this manner: 'Sir, that I may discharge my
conscience, I will reveal unto you all that hath passed in
508 DON QUIXOTE
this affair of your enchantment, which briefly is, that those
two which ride with their faces covered, are the curate
of our village and the barber, and as I imagine they both
are the plotters of this your kind of carrying away, for mere
emulation that they see you surpass them both in achieving
of famous acts: this truth being presupposed, it follows that
you are not enchanted, but beguiled and made a fool ; for
the proof whereof I will but demand of you one question,
and if you do answer me according to my expectation, as
I believe you will, you shall feel the deceit with your own
hands, and perceive how you are not enchanted, but rather
have your wits turned upside-down.'
'Son Sancho, demand what thou wilt,' quoth Don Quixote,
'and I will satisfy thee, and answer directly to thy desire;
but as touching thy averment that those which go along
with us be the curate and barber, our gossips and old ac-
quaintance, it may well befall that they seem to be such,
but that they are so really, and in effect, I would not have
thee believe in any manner ; for that which thou art to be-
lieve and shouldst understand in this matter is, that if they
be like those our friends, as thou sayst, it must needs be
that those which have enchanted me have assumed their
semblance and likeness (for it is an easy thing for magicians
to put on any shape they please) thereby to give thee occa-
sion to think that which thou dost, to drive thee into such
a labyrinth of imaginations as thou shalt not afterwards
know how to sally out, although thou hadst the assistance
of Theseus' clue ; and withal to make me waver in mine un-
derstanding, to the end I may not conjecture from whence
this charm is derived unto me; for if thou on the one side
dost affirm that the barber and curate of our village do ac-
company me, and I on the other side find myself encaged,
and am so assured of mine own force that no human
strength, be it not supernatural, is able thus to encage me,
what wouldst thou have me to say or think, but that the
manner of mine enchantment exceeds as many as ever I read
throughout all the histories entreating of knights-errant
which have been enchanted? Wherefore thou mayst very
well appease and quiet thyself in that point of believing them
to be those thou sayst ; for they are those as much as I am a
SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE S09
Turk; and, as touching thy desire to demand somewhat of
me, speak; for I will answer thee, although thou puttest me
questions until to-morrow morning.'
'Our Lady assist me !' quoth Sancho, as loud as he could,
'and is it possible that you are so brain-sick and hard-
headed as you cannot perceive that I affirm the very pure
truth, and that malice hath a greater stroke in this your dis-
grace and employment than any enchantments ? But seeing
it is so, I will prove evidently that you are not enchanted;
if not, tell me, as God shall deliver you out of this tempest,
and as you shall see yourself, when you least think of it, in
my Lady Dulcinea's arms — ' 'Make an end of conjuring
me,' said Don Quixote, 'and ask me what question thou wilt ;
for I have already told thee that I will answer with all punc-
tuality.' 'That is it I demand,' quoth Sancho ; 'and the thing
I would know is, that you tell me, without adding or dimin-
ishing aught, but with all truth used or looked for of all
those which profess the exercise of arms as you do, under
the title of knights-errant.' 'I say,' answered Don Quixote,
'that I will not lie a jot; make therefore a beginning or an
end of these demands, for in good sooth thou dost weary
me with so many salutations, petitions, and preventions.'
Sancho replied, 'I say that I am secure of the bounty and
truth of my lord; and therefore, because it makes to the
purpose in our affair, I do, with all respect, demand whether
your worship, since your encagement and, as you imagine,
enchantment in that coop, have not had a desire to make
greater or less water, as men are wont to say?' 'I do not
understand, good Sancho, that phrase of making water; and
therefore explicate thyself, if thou wouldst have me to an-
swer thee directly.' 'And is it possible,' replied he, 'that your
worship understands not what it is to make great or little
waters? then go to some school and learn it of the boys,
and know that I would say, "Have you had a desire to do
that which cannot be undofte?"' 'Oh, now, now I under-
stand thee, Sancho. Yes, very many times; yea, and even
now I have. Wherefore* I pray thee, deliver me from the
extremity thereof; for I promise thee I am not altogether
so clean as I would be.'
CHAPTER XXII
Wherein the Discreet Discourse That Passed Between
Sancho Panza and His Lord Don Quixote
Is Expressed
' ~1 TA,' quoth Sancho, 'have I caught you at last? This
I I is that which I desired to know, as much as my soul
-■- J^ or life. Come now, sir, and tell me, can you deny
that which is wont to be said, when a body is ill-disposed,
*T know not what ails such a one; for he neither eats nor
drinks nor sleeps, nor answers directly to that which is de-
manded him, so as it seems that he is enchanted"? By which
may be collected, that such as neither eat, drink, sleep, nor
do the other natural things you wot of, are enchanted; but
not those which have a desire as you have, and eat meat
when they get it, and drink drink when it is given them, and
answer to all that is propounded unto them.' 'Thou sayst
true, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but I have told thee al-
ready that there are divers sorts of enchantments, and per-
haps they change with the times from one kind into another,
and that now the enchanted use to do all that which I do,
although they did not so in times past; and therefore there
is no disputing or drawing of conclusions against the customs
of the time. I know, and do verily persuade myself, that
I am enchanted, and that is sufficient for the discharge of my
conscience, which would be greatly burdened if I thought
that I were not enchanted, and yet permitted myself to be
borne away in this cage idly, and like a coward withholding
the succour I might give to many distressed and needy
persons, which even at this hour be like enough to have
extreme want of mine aid and assistance.' 'Yet say I, not-
withstanding,' replied Sancho, 'that for more abundant satis-
faction, your worship might do well to attempt the getting
out of this prison, the which I do oblige myself with all my
510
SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE 511
power to facilitate, yea, and to get out, and then you may
recount eftsoons on the good Rozinante, who also seems en-
chanted, so sad and melancholy he goes. And this being
done, we may again essay the fortune of seeking adventures,
which, if it have no good success, we have time enough to
return to our cage; wherein I promise, by the faith of a
good and loyal squire, to shut up myself together with you,
if you shall prove so unfortunate, or I so foolish, as not
to bring our designs to a good issue.* *I am content to do
what thou sayst, brother Sancho,' replied Don Quixote; 'and
when thou seest opportunity offered to free me, I will be
ruled by thee in everything; but yet thou shalt see how far
thou art over-wrought in the knowledge thou wilt seem to
have of my disgrace.'
The knight-errant and the ill-errant squire beguiled the
time in those discourses, until they arrived to the place where
the canon, curate, and barber expected them. And then,
Sancho alighting, and helping to take down the cage, the
wainman unyoked his oxen, permitting them to take the
benefit of pasture in that green and pleasant valley, whose
verdure invited not such to enjoy it as were enchanted like
Don Quixote, but rather such heedful and discreet persons
as was his man, who entreated the curate to license his lord
to come out but a little while, for otherwise the prison would
not be so cleanly as the presence of so worthy a knight as
his lord was required. The curate understood his meaning,
and answered that he would satisfy his requests very will-
ingly, but that he feared when he saw himself at liberty,
he would play them some prank or other, and go whither no-
body should ever set eye on him after. T will be his surety
that he shall not fly away,' quoth Sancho. 'And I also,
quoth the canon, 'if he will but promise me, as he is a knight,
that he will not depart from us without our consent.' *I
give my word that I will not„' quoth Don Quixote, who heard
all that they had said, 'and the rather because that en-
chanted bodies have not free will to dispose of themselves as
they list; for he that enchanted them may make them un-
able to stir from one place in three days; and if they make
an escape, he can compel them to return flying; and there-
fore, since it was so, they might securely set him at liberty.
512 DON QUIXOTE
especially seeing it would redound so much to all their bene-
fits; for if they did not free him, or get farther off, he pro-
tested that he could not forbear to offend their noses.' The
canon took his hand (although it were bound), and [Don
Quixote promised by] his faith and word that he would not
depart, and then they gave him liberty; whereat he in-
finitely rejoiced, especially seeing himself out of the cage.
The first thing that he did after was to stretch all his body,
and then he went towards Rozinante, and, striking him twice
or thrice on the buttocks, he said, 'I hope yet in God and
His blessed mother, O flower and mirror of horses ! that
we two shall see ourselves very soon in that state which our
hearts desire ; thou with thy lord on thy back, and I mounted
on thee, and exercising the function for which God sent
me into this world.' And, saying so, Don Quixote with his
squire Sancho retired himself somewhat from the company,
and came back soon after a little more lightened, but greatly
desiring to execute his squire's designs.
The canon beheld him very earnestly, and with admira-
tion, wondering to see the strangeness of his fond humour,
and how that he showed, in whatsoever he uttered, a very
good understanding, and only left the stirrups (as is said
before) when any mention was made of chivalry; and there-
fore, moved to compassion, after they were all laid down
along upon the grass, expecting their dinner, he said unto
him, 'Gentleman, is it possible that the idle and unsavoury
lecture of books of knighthood hath so much distracted your
wit as thus to believe that you are carried away enchanted,
with other things of that kind, as much wide from truth
as untruths can be from verity itself? Or how is it pos-
sible that any human understanding can frame itself to be-
lieve that in this world there have been such an infinity of
Amadises, such a crew of famous knights, so many emperors
of Trapisonda, such a number of Felixmartes of Hircania;
so many palfreys, damsels-errant, serpents, robbers, giants,
battles, unheard-of adventures, sundry kinds of enchant-
ments, such immeasureable encounters, such bravery of ap-
parel, such a multitude of enamoured and valiant princesses,
so many squires, earls, witty dwarfs, viragoes, love-letters,
amorous dalliances; and finally, so many, so unreasonable,
THE CANON ON ROMANCES 513
and impossible adventures as are contained in the books of
knighthood ?
'Thus much I dare avouch of myself, that vi^hen I read
them, as long as I do not think that they are all but toys and
untruths, they delight me ; but when I ponder seriously what
they are, I throw the very best of them against the walls,
yea, and would throw them into the fire if they were near
me, or in my hands, having well deserved that severity, as
false impostors and seducers of common sense, as broachers
of new sects and of uncouth courses of life, as those that
give occasion to the ignorant vulgar to believe in such ex-
orbitant untruths as are contained in them; yea, and are
withal so presumptuous, as to dare to confound the wits of
the most discreet and best descended gentlemen; as we may
clearly perceive by that they have done to yourself, whom
they have brought to such terms as it is necessary to shut
you up in a cage and carry you on a team of oxen, even
as one carries a lion or tiger from place to place, to gain
a living by the showing of him. Therefore, good Sir Don
Quixote, take compassion of yourself, and return into the
bosom of discretion, and learn to employ the most happy
talent of understanding and abundance of wit, wherewith
bountiful Heaven hath enriched you, to some other course
of study, which may redound to the profit of your soul; and
advancement of your credit and estate. And if, borne away
by your natural disposition, you will yet persist in the read-
ing of warlike and knightly discourses, read in the Holy
Scripture the Acts of Judges, for there you shall find sur-
passing feats and deeds, as true as valorous. Portugal had
a Viriathus; Rome a Caesar; Carthage a Hannibal; Greece
an Alexander; Castile an Earl Fernan Gonzalez; Valencia a
Cid ; Andalusia a Gonzalo Hernandez ; Estremadura a Diego
Garcia de Paredes ; Xerez a Garcia Perez de Vargas ; Toledo
a Garcilaso de la Vega ; Seville a Don Manuel de Leon :
the discourses of whose valorous acts may entertain, teach,
delight, and make to wonder the most sublime wit that
shall read them. Yea, this were indeed a study fit for your
sharp understanding, my dear Sir Don Quixote, for by this
you should become learned in histories, enamoured of vir-
tue, instructed in goodness, bettered in manners, valiant
514 DON QUIXOTE
without rashness, bold without cowardice; and all this to
God's honour, your own profit, and renown of the Mancha,
from whence, as I have learned, you deduce your beginning
and progeny.'
Don Quixote listened with all attention unto the canon's
admonition, and perceiving that he was come to an end of
them, after he had looked upon him a good while he said,
'Methinks, gentleman, that the scope of your discourse hath
been addressed to persuade me that there never were any
knights-errant in the world, and that all the books of chivalry
are false, lying, hurtful, and unprofitable to the common-
wealth, and that I have done ill to read them, worse to be-
lieve in them, and worst of all to follow them, by having
thus taken on me the most austere profession of wandering
knighthood, whereof they entreat; denying, moreover, that
there were ever any Amadises, either of Gaul or Greece; or
any of all the other knights wherewith such books are
stuffed.'
'All is just as you have said,' quoth the canon: whereto
Don Quixote replied thus, 'You also added, that such books
had done me much hurt, seeing they had turned my judg-
ment, and immured me up in this cage, and that it were
better for me to make some amendment, and alter my study,
reading other that are more authentic, and delight and in-
struct much better.'
'It is very true,' answered the canon.
'Why, then,' quoth Don Quixote, 'I find, by mine accounts,
that the enchanted and senseless man is yourself, seeing you
have bent yourself to speak so many blasphemies against a
thing so true, so current, and of such request in the world,
as he that should deny it, as you do, merits the same pun-
ishment which as you say you give to those books when the
reading thereof offends you ; for to go about to make men
believe that Amadis never lived, nor any other of those
knights wherewith histories are fully replenished, would be
none other than to persuade them that the sun lightens not,
the earth sustains not, nor the ice makes anything cold. See
what wit is there in the world so profound, that can induce
another to believe that the history of Guy of Burgundy and
the Princes Floripes was not true? Nor that of Fierabras,
DON QUIXOTE'S REPLY SIS
with the Bridge of Mantible, which befel in Charlemagne's
time, and is, I swear, as true as that it is day at this instant?
And if it be a lie, so must it be also that ever there was an
Hector, Achilles, or the war of Troy; the Twelve Peers of
France; or King Arthur of Britain, who goes yet about the
world in the shape of a crow, and is every foot expected in
his kingdom. And they will as well presume to say that the
History of Guarino Mezquino and of the quest of the Holy
San Greal be lies; and that for the love between Sir Tris-
tram and La Bella Ysoude, and between Queen Guenevor
and Sir Lancelot Dulake, we have no sufficient authority;
and yet there be certain persons alive which almost remember
that they have seen the Lady Queintanonina, who was one
of the best skinkers of wine that ever Great Britain had;
and this is so certain, as I remember that one of my grand-
mothers of my father's side was wont to say unto me, when
she saw my matron, with a long and reverend kerchief or
veil, "My boy, that woman resembles very much Lady
Queintanonina." From which I argue, that either she knew
her herself, or at the least had seen some portraiture of hers.
Who can, moreover, deny the certainty of the history of
Peter of Provence and the beautiful Magalona, seeing that,
until this very day, one may behold, in the king's armoury,
the pin wherewith he guided and turned anyway he listed
the horse of wood whereupon he rode through the air, which
pin is a little bigger than the thill of a cart ; and near unto
it is also seen Babieca his saddle ; and in Roncesvalles there
yet hangs Orlando's horn, which is as big as a very great
joist, whence is inferred that there were Twelve Peers, that
there was a Pierres of Provence, that also there were Cids,
and other such knights as those which the world terms ad-
venturers. If not, let them also tell me, that the valiant
Lusitanian, John de Melo, was no knight-errant, who went
to Burgundy, and in the city of Ras fought with the famous
lord of Charni, called Mosen Pierres, and after with Mosen
Henry of Ramestan, in the city of Basilea, and bore away
the victory in both the conflicts, to his eternal fame ; and
that there was no such curres as the adventures and single
combats begun and ended in Burgundy by the valiant Span-
iards, Pedro Garba and Guttierre Quixada (from whom I
HC XIV — 17
516 DON QUIXOTE
myself am lineally descended), who overcame the Earl of
Saint Paul's sons. They may also aver unto me that Don
Fernando de Guevarra w^ent not to seek adventures in Ger-
many, where he fought with Micer George, a knight of the
Duke of Austria his house. Let them likewise affirm that
Suero de Quinonnes of the Pass his jousts were but jests;
as also the enterprise of Mosen Louis de Falses against Don
Gonzalo de Guzman, a gentleman of Castile, with many
other renowned acts, done as well by Christian knights of
this kingdom as of other foreign lands, which are all so
authentic and true, as that I am compelled to reiterate what
I said before, which is, that whosoever denies them is de-
fective of reason and good discourse.'
Full of admiration remained the good canon to hear the
composition and medley that Don Quixote made of truths and
fictions together, and at the great notice he had of all things
that might anyway concern his knighthood-errant; and there-
fore he shaped him this answer : T cannot deny, Sir Don
Quixote, but that some part of that which you have said is
true, especially touching those Spanish adventurers of whom
you have spoken, and will likewise grant you that there were
Twelve Peers of France, but I will not believe that they
have accomplished all that which the Archbishop Turpin
hath left written of them; for the bare truth of the affair
is, that they were certain noblemen chosen out by the kings
of France, whom they called peers, because they were all
equal in valour, quality, and worth; or if they were not, it
was at least presumed that they were ; and they were not
much unlike the military orders of Saint James or Cala-
trava, were in request, wherein is presupposed that such as
are of the profession are, or ought to be, valorous and well-
descended gentlemen : and as now they say a knight of Saint
John or Alcantara, so in those times they said a knight of
the Twelve Peers, because they were twelve equals, chosen to
be of that military order. That there was a Cid and a
Bernard of Carpio is also doubtless; that they have done
the acts recounted of them I believe there is very great
cause to doubt. As touching the pin of the good Earl
Pierres, and that it is by Babieca his saddle in the king's
armoury, I confess that my sin hath made me so ignorant
HISTORY AND ROMANCE 517
or blind, that although I have viewed the saddle very well,
yet could I never get a sight of that pin, how great soever
you affirm it to be.'
'Well, it is there without question,' quoth Don Quixote;
'and for the greater confirmation thereof, they say it is
laid up in a case of neat's leather to keep it from rusting.'
'That may very well so be,' said the canon; 'yet by the or-
ders that I have received, I do not remember that ever I
saw it: and although I should grant it to be there, yet do
I not therefore oblige myself to believe the histories of all
the Amadises, nor those of the other rabblement of knights
which books do mention unto us; nor is it reason that so
honourable a man, adorned with so ma.y good parts and
endowed with such a wit as you are, should believe that so
many and so strange follies as are written in the raving
books of chivalry can be true.'
CHAPTER XXIII
Of the Discreet Contention Between Don Quixote and
THE Canon, With Other Accidents
* r I ^HAT were a jest indeed,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that
I books which are printed with the king's licence and
-*- approbation of those to whom their examination was
committed, and that are read with universal delight and ac-
ceptance, and celebrated by great and little, rich and poor,
learned and ignorant, plebeians and gentlemen, and finally,
by all kind of persons of what state or condition soever,
should be so lying and fabulous, specially seeing they have
such probability of truth, seeing they describe unto us the
father, mother, country, kinsfolk, age, town, and acts of
such a knight or knights, and that so exactly, point by
point, and day by day. Hold your peace, and never speak
again such a blasphemy, and believe me ; for I do sincerely
counsel you, what you, as a discreet man, ought to do herein ;
and if not, read them but once, and you shall see what
delight you shall receive thereby : if not, tell me, what
greater pleasure can there be than to behold, as one would
say, even here and before our eyes, a great lake of pitch
boiling hot, and many serpents, snakes, lizards, and other
kinds of cruel and dreadful beasts swimming athwart it,
and in every part of it, and that there issues out of the lake
a most lamentable voice, saying, "O thou knight, whatso-
ever thou art, which dost behold the fearful lake, if thou
desirest to obtain the good concealed under these horrid
and black waters, show the valour of thy strong breast,
and throw thyself into the midst of this sable and inflamed
liquor; for if thou dost not so, thou shalt not be worthy
to discover the great wonders hidden in the seven castles
of the seven fates, which are seated under these gloomy
waves" : and that scarce hath the knight heard the fearful
5] 8
DON QUIXOTE'S RHAPSODY 519
voice, when, without entering into any new discourses, or
once considering the danger whereinto he thrusts himself,
yea, or easing himself of the weight of his ponderous
armour, but only commending himself unto God and his
lady mistress, he plunges into the midst of that burning
puddle, and when he neither cares nor knows what may
befall him, he finds himself in the midst of flourishing fields,
with which the very Elysian plains can in no sort be com-
pared. There it seems to him that the element is more
transparent, and that the sun shines with a clearer light
than in our orb; there offers itself to his greedy and curi-
ous eye a most pleasing forest, replenished with so green
and wellspread trees as the verdure thereof both joys and
quickens the sight, whilst the ears are entertained by the
harmonious though artless songs of infinite and enamelled
birds, which traverse the intricate boughs of that shady habi-
tation ; here he discovers a small stream, whose fresh waters,
resembling liquid crystal, slide over the small sands and
white little stones, resembling sifted gold wherein oriental
pearls are enchased ; there he discerns an artificial fountain,
wrought of motley jasper and smooth marble; and hard by
it another, rudely and negligently framed, wherein the sun-
dry cockleshells, with the wreathed white and yellow houses
of the periwinkle and snail intermingled, and placed after a
disorderly manner (having now and then pieces of clear
crystal and counterfeit emeralds mingled among them), do
make a work of so graceful variety as art imitating nature
doth herein seem to surpass her.
'Suddenly he discovers a strong castle or goodly palace,
whose walls are of beaten gold, the pinnacles of diamonds,
the gates of jacinths; finally, it is of so exquisite workman-
ship, as although the materials whereof it is built are no
worse than diamonds, carbuncles, rubies, emeralds, pearls,
and gold, yet is the architecture thereof of more estimation
and value than they; and is there any more to be seen,
after the seeing hereof, than to see sally out at the castle
gates a goodly troop of lovely damsels, whose brave and
costly attire, if I should attempt to describe, as it is laid
down in histories, we should never make an end? And she
that seems the chiefest of all, to take presently our bold
520 DON QUIXOTE
knight, that threw himself into the boiHng lake, by the hand,
and carry him into the rich castle or palace without speak-
ing a word, and cause him to strip himself as naked as he
was when his mother bore him and bathe him in very tem-
perate waters, and afterwards anoint him all over with preci-
ous ointments, and put on him a shirt of most fine, odor-
iferous, and perfumed sendall ; and then another damsel to
come suddenly, and cast on his back a rich mantle, which
they say is wont to be worth, at the very least, a rich city,
yea, and more. Then what a sport it is, when they tell us
after, that after this he is carried into another hall, where
he finds the tables covered so orderly as he rests amazed !
what, to see cast on his hands water distilled all of amber,
and most fragrant flowers ! what, to see him seated in a
chair of ivory ! what, to see him served by all the damsels
with marvellous silence ! what, the setting before him such
variety of acates, and those so excellently dressed, as his
appetite knows not to which of them it shall first address
his hand ! what, to hear the music which sounds whilst he
is at dinner, without knowing who makes it, or whence it
comes ! And after that dinner is ended, and the tables taken
away, the knight to remain leaning on a chair, and perhaps
picking of his teeth, as the custom is, and on a sudden to
enter at the hall door another much more beautiful damsel
than any of the former, and to sit by his side, and begin
to recount unto him what castle that is, and how she is
enchanted therein, with many other things that amazed
the knight and amazed the readers. I will not enlarge my-
self any more in this matter, seeing that you may collect out
of that which I have said, that any part that is read of any
book of a knight-errant will delight and astonish him that
shall peruse it with attention. And therefore, I pray you,
believe me, and, as I have said already, read those kind of
books, and you shall find that they will exile all the melan-
choly that shall trouble you, and rectify your disposition, if
by fortune it be depraved. For I dare affirm of myself, that
since I am became a knight-errant, I am valiant, courteous,
liberal, well-mannered, generous, gentle, bold, mild, patient,
and an endurer of labours, imprisonments, and enchant-
ments. And although it be but so little a while since I was
DON QUIXOTE'S RHAPSODY S21
shut up in a cage like a madman, yet do I hope, by the
valour of mine arm (Heaven concurring, and fortune not
crossing me), to see myself within a few days the king of
some kingdoms, wherein I may show the bounty and liber-
ality included within my breast; for in good truth, sir, a
poor man is made unable to manifest the virtue of liberality
toward any other, although he virtually possess it himself
in a most eminent degree; and the will to gratify which, only
consisting of will, is a dead thing, as faith without works.
For which cause I do wish that fortune would quickly pre-
sent me some occasion whereby I might make myself an
emperor, that I may discover the desire I have to do good
unto my friends, but especially to this my poor squire Sancho
Panza, who is one of the honestest men in the world, on
whom I would fain bestow the earldom which I promised
him many days past, but that I fear me he will not be able
to govern his estate.'
Sancho, overhearing those last words of his master's, said,
'Labour you, Sir Don Quixote, to get me that earldom as of-
ten promised by you, as much longed for by me; and I prom-
ise you that I will not want sufficiency to govern it; and
though I should, yet have I heard say that there are men in
the world who take lordships to farm, paying the lord so
much by the year, and undertaking the care of the govern-
ment thereof, whilst the lord himself, with outstretched legs,
doth live at his ease, enjoying the rents they bring him, and
caring for nothing else ; and so will I do, and will not stand
racking it to the utmost, but presently desist from all ad-
ministration, and live merrily upon my rent, like a young
duke, and so let the world wag and go how it will.' 'That,
friend Sancho, is to be understood,' quoth the canon, 'of
enjoying the revenues; but as concerning the administration
of justice, the lord of the seigniory is bound to look to it:
in that is required a sufficiency and ability to govern, and
above all a good intention to deal justly and determine
rightly; for if this be wanting when we begin, our means and
ends will always be subject to error; and therefore is God
wont as well to further the good designs of the simple, as
to disfavour the bad ones of those that be wittily wicked.'
'I understand not those philosophies,' quoth Sancho Panza;
522 . DON QUIXOTE
'but this I know well, that I wovild I had as speedily the
earldom as I could tell how to govern it; for I have as
much soul as another, and as much body as he that hath
most; and I would be as absolute a king in my estate as
any one would be in his ; and being such, I would do what
I liked; and doing what I liked, I would take my pleas-
ure, and taking my pleasure, I would be content; and
when one is content, he hath no more to desire; and
having no more to desire, the matter were ended: and then,
come the estate when it will, or farewell it, and let us be-
hold ourselves, as one blind man said to another.' 'They are
no bad philosophies which thou comest out with, kind
Sancho,' quoth the canon; 'but yet for all that, there is
much to be said concerning this matter of earldoms.' To
that Don Quixote replied, 'I know not what more may be
said, only I govern myself by the example of Amadis de
Gaul, who made his squire earl of the Firm Island, and there-
fore I may without scruple of conscience make Sancho
Panza an earl ; for he is one of the best squires that ever
knight-errant had.' The canon abode amazed at the well-
compacted and orderly ravings of Don Quixote ; at the man-
ner wherewith he had deciphered the adventure of the
Knight of the Lake ; at the impression which his lying books
had made into him ; and finally, he wondered at the sim-
plicity of Sancho Panza, who so earnestly desired to be made
earl of the county his lord had promised him.
By this time the canon's serving-men, which had gone to
the inn for the sumpter mule, were returned; and, making
their table of a carpet and of the green grass of that meadow,
they sat down under the shadow of the trees, and did eat
there, to the end that the wainman might not lose the com-
modity of the pasture, as we have said before. And as they
sat at dinner, they suddenly heard the sound of a little bell
issuing from among the briers and brambles that were at
hand; and instantly after they saw come out of the thicket
a very fair she-goat, whose hide was powdered all over with
black, white, and brown spots: after her followed a goat-
herd, crying unto her, and in his language bidding her stay
or return to the fold ; but the fugitive goat, all affrighted and
fearful, ran towards the company, and, as it were, seeking
THE GOATHERD 523
in her dumb manner to be protected, strayed near unto them.
Then did the goatherd arrive; and, laying hold of her horns
(as if she had been capable of his reprehension), said unto
her, 'O ye wanton ape, ye spotted elf ! how come ye to halt
with me of late days? What wolves do scare you, daughter?
Will you not tell me, fair, what the matter is? But what
can it be other than that you are a female, and therefore
can never be quiet? A foul evil take your conditions, and all
theirs whom you so much resemble ! Turn back, love, turn
back; and though you be not so content withal, yet shall you
at least be more safe in your own fold, and among the rest
of your fellows; for if you that should guide and direct them
go thus distracted and wandering, what then must they do?
What will become of them?'
The goatherd's words did not a little delight the hearers,
but principally the canon, who said unto him, 'I pray thee,
good fellow, take thy rest here a while, and do not hasten
that goat so much to her fold ; for, seeing she is a female,
as thou sayst, she will follow her natural instinct^ how much
soever thou opposest thyself unto it. Take therefore that
bit, and drink a draught wherewithal thou mayst temper
thy choler, and the goat will rest her the whilst.' And, say-
ing so, he gave him the hinder quarter of a cold rabbit;
which he receiving, rendered him many thanks, and, drink-
ing a draught of wine, did pacify himself, and said presently
after, T would not have you, my masters, account me simple,
although I spoke to this beast in so earnest a fashion ; for in
truth the words which I used unto her were not without some
mystery. I am indeed rustic, and yet not so much but that
I know how to converse with men and with beasts.' T be-
lieve that easily,' quoth the curate; 'for I know already, by
experience, that the woods breed learned men, and sheep-
cotes contain philosophers.' 'At the least, sir,' replied the
goatherd, 'they have among them experienced men ; and that
you may give the more credit to this truth, and, as it were,
touch it with your own hands (although, till I be bidden, I
may see'iTi to invite myself), I will, if you please to hear me
but a while, relate unto you a very true accident, which shall
make good what this gentleman' (pointing to the curate)
'and myself have affirmed.' To this Don Quixote answered,
524 DON QUIXOTE
'Because the case doth seem to have in it some shadow of
knightly adventures I v^^ill, for my part, listen unto thee with
a very good will : and I presume that all these gentlemen will
do the like, so great is their discretion and desire to know
any curious novelty which amaze, delight, and entertain the
senses, as I do certainly believe thy history will. Therefore
begin it, friend, and all of us will lend our ears unto it.' 'I
except mine,' quoth Sancho; 'for I will go with this pasty
unto that little stream, where I mean to fill myself for three
days; for I have heard my lord Don Quixote say that a
knight-errant's squire must eat when he can, and always as
much as he can, because that oftentimes they enter by chance
into some wood so intricate as they cannot get out of it again
in five or six days, and if a man's paunch be not then well
stuffed, or his wallet well stored, he may there remain, and
be turned, as many times it happens, into mummy.'
'Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote;
'go, therefore, where thou wilt, and eat what thou mayst;
for I am already satisfied, and only want refection for my
mind, which now I will give it by listening to this good fel-
low.' 'The same will we also give unto ours,' quoth the
canon, who therewithal entreated the goatherd to keep
promise, and begin his tale. Then he, stroking once or
twice his pretty goat (which he yet held fast by the horns),
said thus, 'Lie down, pied fool, by me; for we shall have
time enough to return home again.' It seemed that the goat
understood him; for as soon as her master sat down, she
quietly stretched herself along by him, and, looking him in
the face, did give to understand that she was attentive to
what he was saying; and then he began his history in this
manner.
CHAPTER XXIV
Relating That Which the Goatherd Told to Those
That Carried Away Don Quixote
^f I ^HERE is a village distant some three leagues from this
I valley, which, albeit it be little, is one of the richest of
-L this commark: therein some time did dwell a wealthy
farmer of good respect, and so good, as although reputation
and riches are commonly joined together, yet that which he
had was rather got him by his virtue than by any wealth he
possessed ; but that which did most accumulate his happi-
ness (as he himself was wont to say) was, that he had a
daughter of so accomplished beauty, so rare discretion, come-
liness, and virtue, that as many as knew and beheld her
admired to see the passing endowments wherewith Heaven
and nature had enriched her. Being a child she was fair;
and, increasing daily in feature, she was at the age of six-
teen most beautiful : the fame whereof extended itself over
all the bordering villages. But why say I the bordering
villages alone, if it spread itself over the furthest cities,
yea, and entered into the king's palace, and into the ears
of all kind of people, so that they came from all parts to
behold her, as a rare thing and pattern of miracles? Her
father did carefully keep her, and she likewise heeded her-
self; for there is neither guard, lock, nor bolt able to keep
a maiden better than is her own wariness and care. The
wealth of the father and worth of the daughter moved
divers, as well of his own village as strangers, to demand
her to wife; but he (as one whom the disposal of so rich a
jewel most nearly concerned) was much perplexed, and
unable to determine on whom, among such an infinite num-
ber of importunate wooers, he might bestow her. Among
others that bore this goodwill towards her. I myself was
one to whom they gave many and very great hopes of good
525
526 DON QUIXOTE
success ; the knowledge that her father had of me, my birth
in the same village, my descent honest, and blood untainted,
flourishing in years, very rich in goods, and no less in gifts
of the mind. Another of the same village and qualities was
also a suitor unto her; which was an occasion to hold her
in suspense, and put his will in the balance, deeming, as he
did, that she might be bestowed on either of us two. And
that he might be rid of that doubt, he resolved to tell it
to Leandra (for so do they call the rich maid which hath
brought me to extreme misery), noting discreetly that, see-
ing we both were equals, it would not be amiss to leave
in his dear daughter's power the making choice of whether
she liked best: a thing worthy to be noted by all those par-
ents that would have their children marry ; wherein my mean-
ing is not that they should permit them to make a bad or a
base choice, but that they propound certain good ones, and
refer to their liking which of them they will take. I know
not what was the liking of Leandra, but only know this
that the father posted us off, by alleging the over-green years
of his daughter, and using general terms, which neither
obliged him nor discharged us. My rival was called An-
selmo, and myself Eugenio, that you may also have some
knowledge of the persons which were actors in this tragedy,
whose conclusion is yet depending, but threatens much future
disaster.
About the very same time there arrived to our village
one Vincent de la Rosa, son to a poor labourer of the same
place, which Vincent returned as then from Italy and divers
other countries, wherein he had been a soldier ; for, being
of some twelve years of age, a certain captain, that with
his company passed along by our village, did carry him away
with him; and the youth, after a dozen years more, came
back again attired like a soldier, and painted with a hundred
colours, full of a thousand devices of crystal [and with]
five steel chains. To-day he would put on some gay thing,
the next day some other, but all of them slight, painted,
and of little weight, less worth. The clownish people, which
are naturally malicious, and if they have but ever so little
idleness or leisure become malice itself, did note and reckon
up all his braveries and jewels, and found that he had but
THE GOATHERD'S STORY 527
three suits of apparel of different colours, with garters and
stockings answerable to them; but he used so many dis-
guisements, varieties, transformations, and inventions, which
they, as if they had not counted them all, some one would
have sworn that he had made show of more than ten suits
of apparel, and more than twenty plumes of feathers ; and
let not that which I tell you of the apparel be counted im-
pertinent, or from the matter, for it makes a principal part
in the history. He would sit on a bench that stood under a
great poplar-tree in the midst of the market-place, and there
would hold us all with gaping mouths, listening to the gal-
lant adventures and resolute acts he recounted unto us.
There was no land in all the world whose soil he had not
trodden on, no battle wherein he had not been present; he
had slain more Moors than the kingdoms of Morocco and
Tunis contained, and undertaken more single combats, as
he said, than ever did either Gante, Luna, or Diego Garcia
de Paredes, and a thousand others whom he named ; and
yet he still came away with the victory, without having ever
left one drop of blood. On the other side, he would show
us signs of wounds, which, although they could not be dis-
cerned, yet would he persuade us that they were the marks
of bullets which he received in divers skirmishes and wars.
Finally, he would "thou" his equals, and those which knew
him very well, with marvellous arrogancy ; and said that
his arm was his father, his works his lineage, and that be-
side his being a soldier he owed not a whit to the king. To
these his arrogancies was annexed some superficial skill in
music, for he could scratch a little on a gitern, and some'
would say that he made it speak ; but his many graces made
not a stop there, for he had likewise some shadows of poetry,
and so would make a ballad of a league and a-half long upon
every toy that happened in the village.
'This soldier, therefore, whom I have deciphered, this
Vincent of the Rose, this braggart, this musician, this poet,
eyed and beheld many times by Leandra, from a certain
window of her house that looked into the market-place; and
the golden show of his attire enamoured her, and his ditties
enchanted her; for he would give twenty copies of every
one he composed. The report of his worthy acts, beauti-
528 DON QUIXOTE
fied by himself, came also unto her ears; and finally (for
so it is likely the devil had ordered the matter) she became
in love v^rith him, before he presumed to think once of so-
liciting her. And, as in love-adventures no one is accom-
plished with more facility than that which is favoured by
the woman's desire, Leandra and Vincent made a short and
easy agreement; and ere any one of her suitors could once
suspect her desires, she had fully satisfied them, abandoned
her dear and loving father's house (for her mother lives
not), and running away from the village with the soldier,
who departed with more triumph from that enterprise than
from all the others which he had arrogated to himself. The
accident amazed all the town; yea, and all those to whom
the rumour thereof arrived were astonished, Anselmo amazed,
her father sorrowful, her kinsfolk ashamed, the ministers of
justice careful, and the troopers ready to make pursuit. All
the ways were laid, and the woods and every other place
nearly searched; and at the end of three days they found the
lustful Leandra hidden in a cave within a wood, naked in her
smock, and despoiled of a great sum of money and many
precious jewels which she had brought away with her. They
returned her to her doleful father's presence, where, asking
how she became so despoiled, she presently confessed that
Vincent de la Rosa had deceived her; for, having passed
his word to make her his wife, he persuaded her to leave
her father's house, and made her believe that he would
carry her to the richest and most delightful city of the
world, which was Naples; and that she, through indiscre-
tion and his fraud, had given credit to his words, and, rob-
bing her father, stole away with him the very same night
that she was missed; and that he carried her to a very
rough thicket, and shut her up in that cave wherein they
found her. She also recounted how the soldier, without
touching her honour, had robbed her of all that she carried,
and, leaving her in that cave, was fled away; which success
struck us into greater admiration than all the rest, for we
could hardly be induced to believe the young gallant's conti-
nency; but she did so earnestly protest it as it did not a
little comfort her comfortless father, who made no reckoning
of the riches he had lost, seeing his daughter had yet reserved
THE GOATHERD'S STORY 529
that jewel which, being once gone, could never again be
recovered. The same day that Leandra appeared, she also
vanished out of our sights, being conveyed away by her
father, and shut up in a nunnery at a certain town not far
off, hoping that time would illiterate some part of the bad
opinion already conceived of his daughter's facility. Lean-
dra her youth served to excuse her error, at least with those
which gained nothing by her being good or ill; but such as
knew her discretion and great wit did not attribute her sin
to ignorance, but rather to her too much lightness, and the
natural infirmity of that sex, which for the most part is in-
considerate and slippery. Leandra being shut up, Anselmo's
eyes lost their light, or at least beheld not anything that
could delight them ; and mine remained in darkness without
light that could address them to any pleasing object, in
Leandra's absence. Our griefs increased, our patience di-
minished; we cursed the soldier's ornaments, and abhorred
her father's want of looking to her. To be brief, Anselmo
and myself resolved to abandon the village and come to this
valley, where, he feeding a great flock of sheep of his own,
and I as copious a herd of goats of mine, we pass our lives
among these trees, giving vent to our passions, either by
singing together the beautiful Leandra's praises or dispraises,
or by sighing alone, and alone communicating our quarrel-
some complaints with Heaven. Many others of Leandra's
suitors have since, by our example, come to these intricate
woods, where they use our very exercise ; and they are so
many as it seems that this place is converted into the pas-
toral Arcadia; it is full of shepherds and sheepfolds, and
there is no one part thereof wherein the name of the beauti-
ful Leandra resoundeth not. There one doth curse hei", and
termeth her humours inconstant and dishonest; another con-
demns her of being so facile and light; some one absolves
and pardons her ; another condemns and despises her, and
celebrates her beauty ; another execrates her disposition ; and
finally, all blame, but yet adore her; and the raving distrac-
tion of them all doth so far extend itself, as some one com-
plains of disdain that never spoke word unto her, and som.e
one laments and feels the enraged fits of jealousy though
she never ministered any occasion thereof; for, as I have
530 DON QUIXOTE
said, her sin was known before her desires. There is no cleft
of a rock, no bank of a stream, nor shadow of a tree, with-
out some shepherd or other, that breathes out his misfortunes
to the silent air. The echo repeats Leandra's name where-
sover it can be formed; the woods resound Leandra; the
brooks do murmur Leandra; and Leandra holds us all per-
plexed and enchanted, hoping without hope, and fearing with-
out knowledge what we fear.
'And among all this flock of frantic men, none shows
more or less judgment than my companion, Anselmo, who,
having so many other titles under which he might plain
him, only complains of absence, and doth to the sound of a
rebec (which he handles admirably well) sing certain doleful
verses, which fully discover the excellency of his conceit.
I follow a more easy and, in mine opinion, a m.ore certain
way — to wit, I rail on the lightness of women, on their in-
constancy, double-dealing, dead promises, cracked trust, and
the small discretion they show in placing of their affections;
and this, sir, was the occasion of the words and reasons I
lately used to this goat, whom I do esteem but little because
she is a female, although she be otherwise the best of all my
herd. And this is the history which I promised to tell you,
wherein, if I have been prolix, I will be altogether as large
in doing you any service ; for I have here at hand my cabin,
and therein store of fresh milk and savoury cheese, with
many sorts of excellent fruit, no less agreeable to the sight
than pleasing to the taste.'
CHAPTER XXV
Of the Falling Out of Don Quixote and the Goatherd;
WITH THE Adventure of the Disciflinants, to Which
THE Knight Gave End to His Cost
THE goatherd's tale bred a general delight in all the
hearers, but specially in the canon, who did exactly
note the manner wherewithal he delivered it, as differ-
ent from the style or discourse of a rude goatherd, and ap-
proaching to the discretion of a perfect courtier; and there-
fore he said that the curate had spoken very judiciously in
affirming that the woods bred learned men. All of them
made bountiful tenders of their friendship and service to
Eugenio, but he that enlarged himself more than the rest
was Don Quixote, who said unto him, 'Certes, friend goat-
herd, if I were at this time able to undertake any adventure,
I would presently set forward, and fall in hand with it to do
you a good turn; and I would take Leandra out of the mon-
astery (wherein, without doubt, she is restrained against her
will), in despite of the lady abbess, and all those that should
take her part; and would put her into your hands, to the
end you might dispose of her at your pleasure, yet still ob-
serving the laws of knighthood, which command that no
man do any wrong and offer violence unto a damsel. Yet I
hope in our Lord God, that the skill of a malicious enchanter
shall not be of such force, but that the science of a better-
meaning wizard shall prevail against him ; and whensoever
that shall befall, I do promise you my help and favour, as I
am bound, by my profession, which chiefly consists in as-
sisting the weak and distressed.'
The goatherd beheld him, and, seeing the knight so ill
arrayed, and of so evil-favoured a countenance, he wondered,
and questioned the barber, who sat near to him, thus : T
pray you, sir, who is this man of so strange a figure, and
531
532 DON QUIXOTE
that speaks so oddly?' 'Who else should he be,' answered
the barber, 'but the famous Don Quixote of the Mancha,
the Tighter of wrongs, the redresser of injuries, the protector
of damsels, the affrighter of giants, and the overcomer of
battles ?'
'That which you say of this man,' answered the goatherd,
'is very like that which in books of chivalry is written of
knights-errant, who did all those things which you apply to
this man; and yet I believe that either you jest, or else that
this gentleman's head is void of brains.'
'Thou art a great villain,' said Don Quixote, 'and thou art
he whose pate wants brains; for mine is fuller than the
very, very whore's that bore thee' ; and, saying so, and
snatching up a loaf of bread that stood by him, he raught
the goatherd so furious a blow withal, as it beat his nose
flat to his face; but the other, who was not acquainted with
such jests, and saw how ill he was handled, without having
respect to the carpet, napkins, or those that were eating, he
leaped upon Don Quixote, and, taking hold of his collar
with both the hands, would certainly have strangled him, if
Sancho Panza had not arrived at that very instant, and, tak-
ing him fast behind, had not thrown him back on the table,
crushing dishes, breaking glasses, and shedding and over-
throwing all that did lie upon it. Don Quixote, seeing him-
self free, retu-ned to get upon the goatherd, who, all be-
smeared with blood, and trampled to pieces under Sancho's
feet, groped here and there, grovelling as he was, for some
knife or other, to take a bloody revenge withal, but the canon
and curate prevented his purpose ; and yet, by the barber's
assistance, he got under him Don Quixote, on whom he
rained such a shower of buffets, as he poured as much blood
from the poor knight's face as had done from his own. The
canon and curate were ready to burst for laughter; the
troopers danced for sport; every one hissed, as men use to
do when dogs fall out, and quarrel together; only Sancho
Panza was wood, because he could not get from one of the
canon's serving-men, who withheld him from going to help
his master. In conclusion, all being very merry save the
two buffetants, that tugged one another extremely, they heard
the sound of a trumpet, so doleful as it made them turn their
GOATHERD AND DON 533
faces towards that part from whence it seemed to come.
But he that was most troubled at the noise thereof was Don
Quixote, who, although he was under the goatherd full sore
against his will, and by him exceedingly bruised and bat-
tered, yet said unto him, 'Brother devil (for it is impossible
that thou canst be any other, seeing that thou hast had
valour and strength to subject my forces), I pray thee, let
us make truce for one only hour; for the dolorous sound of
that trumpet, which toucheth our ears, doth, methinks, in-
vite me to some new adventure.' The goatherd, who was
weary of buffeting, and being beaten, left him off inconti-
nently ; and Don Quixote stood up, and turned himself to-
wards the place from whence he imagined the noise to pro-
ceed; and presently he espied, descending from a certain
height, many men apparelled in white, like disciplinants. The
matter indeed was, that the clouds had that year denied to
bestow their dew on the earth, and therefore they did insti-
tute rogations, processions, and disciplines throughout all
that country, to desire Almighty God to open the hands of
His mercy, and to bestow some rain upon them ; and to this
effect, the people of a village near unto that place, came in
procession to a devout hermitage, built upon one of the hills
that environed that valley.
Don Quixote, noting the strange attire of the disciplin-
ants, without any calling to memory how he had often
seen the like before, did forthwith imagine that it was some
new adventure, and that the trial thereof only appertained
to him, as to a knight-errant; and this his presumption was
fortified the more, by believing that an image which they
carried, all covered over with black, was some principal
lady whom those miscreants and discourteous knights did
bear away perforce. And as soon as this fell into his brain,
he leaped lightly towards Rozinante, that went feeding up
and down the plains, and dismounting from his pommel the
bridle and his target that hanged thereat he bridled him in
a trice ; and, taking his sword from Sancho, got instantly
upon his horse, and then, embracing his target, said in a
loud voice to all those that were present: 'You shall now
see, O valorous company, how important a thing it is to
have in the world such knights as profess the order of chiv-
534 DON QUIXOTE
airy-errant. Now, I say, you shall discern, by the freeing of
that good lady, who is there carried captive away, whether
knights-adventurous are to be held in price'; and, saying so,
he struck Rozinante with his heels (for spurs he had none),
and making him to gallop (for it is not read in any part of
this true history that Rozinante did ever pass one formal or
full career), he posted to encounter the disciplinants, al-
though the curate, canon, and barber did what they miglit
to withhold him ; but all was not possible, and much less
could he be detained by these outcries of Sancho, saying,
'Whither do you go, Sir Don Quixote? What devils do ye
bear in your breast, that incite you to run thus against the
Catholic faith ? See, sir, unfortunate that I am ! how that
is a procession of disciplinants, and that the lady whom they
bear is the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin. Look,
sir, what you do ; for at this time it may well be said that you
are not you know what.' But Sancho laboured in vain; for
his lord rode with so greedy a desire to encounter the white
men, and deliver the mourning lady, as he heard not a word,
and although he had, yet would he not then have returned
back at the king's commandment. Being come at last near
to the procession, and stopping Rozinante (who had already
a great desire to rest himself a while), he said, with a
troubled and hoarse voice, 'O you that cover your faces, per-
haps because you are not good men, give ear and listen to
what I shall say.' The first that stood at this alarm were
those which carried the image; and one of the four priests
which sung the litanies, beholding the strange shape of
Don Quixote, the leanness of Rozinante, and other circum-
stances worthy of laughter, which he noted in our knight,
returned him quickly this answer: 'Good sir, if you would
say anything to us, say it instantly ; for these honest men,
as you see, are toiled extremely, and therefore we cannot,
nor is it reason we should, stand lingering to hear anything,
if it be not so brief as it may be delivered in two words.'
'I will say it in one,' said Don Quixote, 'and it is this: that
you do forthwith give liberty to that beautiful lady, whose
tears and pitiful semblance clearly denote that you carry
her away against her will, and have done her some notable
injury; and I, who was born to right such wrongs, will not
THE DISCIPLINANTS 535
permit her to pass one step forward, until she be wholly pos-
sessed of the freedom she doth so much desire and deserve.'
All those that overheard Don Quixote gathered by his words
that he was some distracted man, and therefore began to
laugh very heartily, which laughing seemed to add gunpowder
to his choler; for, laying his hand on his sword, without
any more words, he presently assaulted the image-carriers;
one whereof, leaving the charge of the burden to his fellows,
came out to encounter the knight with a wooden fork
(whereon he supported the bier whensoever they made a
stand), and receiving upon it a great blow which Don Quix-
ote discharged at him, it parted the fork in two; and yet he
with the piece that remained in his hand, returned the knight
such a thwack upon the shoulder, on the sword side, as his
target not being able to make resistance against that rustic
force, poor Don Quixote was overthrown to the ground, and
extremely bruised.
Sancho Panza, who had followed him puffing and blow-
ing as fast as he could, seeing him overthrown, cried to his
adversary that he should strike no more ; for he was a poor
enchanted knight, that had never all the days of his life
done any man harm; but that which detained the swain was
not Sancho's outcries, but to see that Don Quixote stirred
neither hand nor foot; and therefore, believing that he had
slain him, he tucked up his coat to his girdle as soon as he
could, and fled away through the fields like a deer. In the
meanwhile Don Quixote's companions did hasten to the place
where he lay, when those of the procession seeing them (but
principally the troopers of the Holy Brotherhood, with their
crossbows) run towards them, did fear some disastrous suc-
cess; and therefore they gathered together in a troop about
the image, and, lifting up their hoods and laying fast hold
on their whips, and the priests on their tapers, they awaited
the assault, with resolution both to defend themselves, and
of¥end the assailants if they might. But fortune disposed
the matter better than they expected ; for Sancho did nothing
else than throw himself on his lord's body, making over him
the most dolorous and ridiculous lamentation of the world,
and believing that he was dead. The curate was known by
the other curate that came in the procession, and their ac-
536 DON QUIXOTE
quaintance appeased the conceived fear of the two squadrons.
The first curate, in two words, told the other what Don
Quixote was; and therefore he, and all the crew of the dis-
ciplinants, went over to see whether the poor knight wert.
dead or alive; and then might hear Sancho Panza, with the
tears in his eyes, bewailing him in this manner: 'O flower
of chivalry, who hast with one blow alone ended the career
of thy so well bestowed peers ! O renown of this lineage,
the honour and glory of all the Mancha ! yea, and of all the
world beside ! which, seeing it wanteth thee, shall remain
full of miscreants, secure from being punished for their mis-
deeds ! O liberal beyond all Alexanders, seeing thou hast
given me only for eight months' service the best island that
the sea doth compass or engirt ! O humbler of the proud,
and stately to the humbled, undertaker of perils, endurer of
affronts, enamoured without cause, imitator of good men,
whip of the evil, enemy of the wicked, and, in conclu-
sion, knight-errant than which no greater thing may be
said!'
Don Quixote was called again to himself by Sancho his
outcries, and then the first word that ever he spake was:
*He that lives absented from thee, most sweet Dulcinea, is
subject to greater miseries than this ! Help me, friend
Sancho, to get up into the enchanted chariot again ; for I
am not in plight to oppress Rozinante's saddle, having this
shoulder broken all into pieces.' 'That I will do with a
very good will, my dear lord,' replied the squire ; 'and let us
return to my village with those gentlemen, which desire your
welfare so much ; and there we will take order for some
other voyage, which may be more profitable and famous than
this hath been.' 'Thou speakest reasonable, Sancho,' quoth
Don Quixote ; 'and it will be a great wisdom to let overpass
the cross aspect of those planets that reign at this present.'
The canon, curate, and barber commended his resolution ; and
so, having taken delight enough in Sancho Panza's simplic-
ity, they placed Don Quixote, as before, in the team. The
processioners returning into their former order, did prosecute
their way. The goatherd took leave of them all. The troop-
ers would not ride any farther; and therefore the curate
satisfied them for the pains they had taken. The canon '
THE RETURN HOME S37
entreated the curate to let him understand all that succeeded
of Don Quixote, to wit, whether he amended of his frenzy
or grew more distracted; and then he took leave to con-
tinue his journey. Lastly, all of them departed; the curate,
barber, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the good Rozinante
only remaining behind. Then the wainman yoked his oxen,
and accommodated the knight on a bottle of hay, and after-
wards followed on in his wonted [s] low manner, that way
which the curate directed. At the end of two days they
arrived to Don Quixote's village, into which they entered
about noon. This befel on a Sunday, when all the people
were in the market-sted, through the middle whereof Don
Quixote's cart did pass : all of them drew near to see what
came in it, and when they knew their countryman they were
marvellously astonished; the whilst a little boy ran home
before, to tell the old wife and the knight's niece that their
lord and uncle was returned, very lean, pale, disfigured, and
stretched all along on a bundle of hay.
It would have moved one to compassion to have heard
the lamentations and outcries then raised by the two good
women, the blows they gave themselves, and the curses and
execrations which they poured out against all books of
knighthood; all which was again renewed when they saw
Don Quixote himself entered in at their doors. At the news
of this his arrival, Sancho Panza's wife repaired also to
get some tidings of her goodman ; for she had learned that
he was gone away with the knight, to serve him as his
squire; and as soon as ever she saw her husband, the ques-
tion she asked him was, whether the ass were in health or
no? Sancho answered that he was come in better health
than his master. 'God be thanked,' quoth she, 'who hath
done me so great a favour; but tell me now, friend, what
profit hast thou reaped by this thy squireship? What petti-
coat hast thou brought me home? What shoes for thy little
boys?' 'I bring none of these things, good wife,' quoth
Sancho ; 'although I bring other things of more moment and
estimation.' 'I am very glad of that,' quoth his wife: 'show
me those things of more moment and estimation, good friend ;
for I would fain see them, to the end that this heart of mine
may be cheered, which hath been so swollen and sorrowful
538 DON QUIXOTE
all the time of thine absence.' 'Thou shalt see them at home,'
quoth Sancho, 'and therefore rest satisfied for this time; for
and it please God that we travel once again to seek adven-
tures, thou shalt see me shortly after an earl or governor
of an island, and that not of every ordinary one neither, but
of one of the best in the world.' 'I pray God, husband, it
may be so,' replied she, 'for we have very great need of it.
But what means that island? for I understand not the word.'
'Honey is not made for the ass's mouth,' quoth Sancho;
'wife, thou shalt know it in good time, yea, and shalt won-
der to hear the title of ladyship given thee by all thy vas-
sals.' 'What is that thou speakest, Sancho, of lordships,
islands, and vassals?' answered Joan Panza (for so was she
called, although her husband and she were not kinsfolk, but
by reason that in the Mancha the wives are usually called
after their husband's surname). 'Do not busy thyself, Joan,'
quoth Sancho, 'to know these things on such a sudden ; let it
suffice that I tell thee the truth, and therewithal sew up thy
mouth. I will only say thus much unto thee, as it were by
the way, that there is nothing in the world so pleasant as
for an honest man to be the squire of a knight-errant that
seeks adventures. It is very true that the greatest number
of adventures found out succeeded not to a man's satisfac-
tion so much as he would desire ; for of a hundred that are
encountered, the ninety-and-nine are wont to be cross and
untoward ones. I know it by experience, for I have come
away myself out of some of them well canvassed, and out of
others well beaten. But yet, for all that, it is a fine thing
to expect events, traverse groves, search woods, tread on
rocks, visit castles, and lodge in inns at a man's pleasure,
without paying the devil a cross.'
All these discourses passed between Sancho Panza and
his wife Joan Panza, whilst the old woman and Don Quix-
ote's niece did receive him, put off his clothes, and lay him
down in his ancient bed: he looked upon them very ear-
nestly, and could not conjecture where he was. The curate
charged the niece to cherish her uncle very carefully, and
Chat they should look well that he made not the third escape,
relating at large all the ado that they had to bring him home.
Here both the women renewed their exclamations ; their exe-
THE RETURN HOME S39
crations of all books of knighthood here came to be reit-
erated; here they besought Heaven to throw down, into the
very centre of the bottomless pit, the authors of so many lies
and ravings ; finally, they remained perplexed and timorous
that they should lose again their master and uncle, as soon
as he was anything recovered: and it befel just as they sus-
pected; but the author of this history, although he have with
all diligence and curiosity inquired after the acts achieved
by Don Quixote in his third sally to seek adventures, yet
could he never attain, at least by authentic writings, to any
notice of them : only fame hath left in the memories of the
Mancha, that Don Quixote after his third escape was at
Saragossa, and present at certain famous jousts made in that
city, and that therein befel him events most worthy of his
valour and good wit; but of his end he could find nothing,
nor ever should have known aught, if good fortune had not
offered to his view an old physician, who had in his custody
a leaden box, which, as he affirmed, was found in the ruins
of an old hermitage as it was a-repairing; in which box were
certain scrolls of parchment written with Gothical charac-
ters, but containing Castilian verses, which comprehended
many of his acts, and specified Dulcinea of Toboso her
beauty, deciphered Rozinante, and entreated of Sancho Pan-
za's fidelity, as also of Don Quixote's sepulchre, with sundry
epitaphs and elogies of his life and manners; and those that
could be read and copied out thoroughly were those that are
here set down by the faithful author of this new and un-
matched relation ; which author demands of the readers no
other guerdon in regard of his huge travel spent in the search
of all the old records of the Mancha, for the bringing thereof
unto light, but that they will deign to afford it as much
credit as discreet men are wont to give unto books of knight-
hood, which are of so great reputation now-a-days in the
world ; for herewith he will rest most fully contented and
satisfied, and withal encouraged to publish and seek out for
other discourses, if not altogether so true as this, at least of
as great both invention and recreation. The first words writ-
ten in the scroll of parchment, that was found in the leaden
box, were these.
540 DON QUIXOTE
THE ACADEMICS OF ARGAMASILLA, A TOWN OF
THE MANCHA, ON THE LIFE AND DEATH OF
THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE OF THE MANCHA:
HOC SCRIPSERUNT.
An Epitaph of Monicongo, the Academic of Argamasilla, to
Don Quixote's Sepulchre.
The clatt'ring thunderbolt that did adorn
The Mancha, with more spoils than Jason Crete ;
The wit, whose weathercock was sharp as thorn,
When somewhat flatter it to be was meet ;
The arm which did his power so much dilate,
As it Gaeta and Cathay did retch ;
The dreadfuU'st muse, and eke discreetest, that
In brazen sheets did praises ever stretch ;
He that the Amadises left behind,
And held the Galaors but in small esteem.
Both for his bravery and his loving mind;
He dumb that made Don Belianis to seem;
And he that far on Rozinante err'd.
Under this frozen stone doth lie interr'd.
Paniagando, an Academic of Argamasilla, in Praise op
DULCINEA of ToBOSO.
She which you view, with triple face and sheen,
High-breasted and courageous, like a man,
Is tall Dulcinea, of Toboso queen ;
Of great Quixote well-beloved than.
He, for her sake, treads the one and the other side
Of the brown mountain, and the famous fields
Of Montiel and Aranjuez so wide.
On foot, all tired, loaden with spear and shield
(The fault was Rozinante's). O hard star!
That this Manchegan dame and worthy knight.
In tender years, when people strongest are.
She lost by death the glimpse of beauty bright;
And he, although in marble richly done.
Yet love's wrath and deceits she could not shun.
EPITAPHS AND EULOGIES 541
G^PRICHIOSO, THE MOST INGENIOUS ACADEMIC OF ArGAMASILLA, IN
Praise of Rozinante, Don Quixote his Steed.
Into the proud erected diamond stock,
Which Mars with bloody plants so often bored.
Half wood with valour, the Manchegan stuck
His wav'ring standard ; and his arms restored :
For them thereon he hung, and his bright sword,
Wherewith he hacks, rents, parts, and overthrows
(New prowesses), to which art must afford
New styles on this new Palatine to gloze.
And if Gaul much her Amadis doth prize.
Whose brave descendants have illustred Greece,
And filled it full of trophies and of fame ;
Much more Bellona's court doth solemnise
Quixote, whose like in Gaul or Grecia is ;
So honoured none as in Mancha his name.
Let no oblivion his glory stain.
Seeing in swiftness Rozinante his steed
Even Bayard doth, and Briliador exceed.
BuRLADOR, Academic of Argamasilla, to Sancho Panza.
This Sancho Panza is of body little ;
But yet, O miracle ! in valour great ;
The simplest squire, and, sooth to say, least subtle
That in this world, I swear, lived ever yet.
From being an earl, he scarce was a thread's breadth,
Had not at once conspired to cross his guerdon
The malice of the times, and men misled,
Which scarce, an ass encount'ring, would him pardon.
Upon the like he rode : Oh, give me leave
To tell how this meek squire after the horse
Mild Rozinante, and his lord, did drive !
Oh, then, vain hopes of men! what thing is worse?
Which proves us, desired ease to lend,
Yet do at last in smokes our glories end.
542 EPITAPHS AND EULOGIES
Chachidiablo, Academic of Argamasilla, on Don Quixots
HIS Tomb.
AN epitaph.
The worthy knight lies there,
Well bruised, but evil-andant.
Who, borne on Rozinante,
Rode ways both far and near.
Sancho, his faithful squire,
Panza yclept also,
Lieth beside him too ;
In his trade without peer.
TiQuiTOC, Academic of Argamasilla, on Dulcinea of
ToBOso's Sepulchre.
AN epitaph.
Dulcinea here beneath
Lies, though of flesh so round,
To dust and ashes ground
By foul and ugly death.
She was of gentle breath.
And somewhat like a dame.
Being great Quixote's flame,
And her town's glory, eath.
These were the verses that could be read. As for the rest,
in respect that they were half consumed and eaten away by
time, they were delivered to a scholar, that he might by con-
jectures declare their meaning; and we have had intelligence
that he hath done it, with the cost of many nights' watching
and other great pains, and that he means to publish them,
and also gives hope of a third sally made by Don Quixote.
GLOSSARY
Abased, lowered.
Aboard, v. approach, accost.
Address, direct.
Addressing, straightening.
Admire, astonish.
Admired, in a state of admiration.
Advertised, warned.
Affect, feel affection for.
Affront, encounter.
All and some, total, sum.
Allowed, approved.
Altisonant, nigh sounding.
Ambages, equivocal courses.
Anatomy, dissection.
Ancient, ensign, standard-bearer.
Animous, spirited.
Answerable, corresponding.
Antic, strange figure.
Antonomasia, the use of an epithet
or title instead of a true name.
Apaid, pleased.
Apart, V. remove.
Argument, indication.
Arguinents, proofs.
Artificial, constructed by rules of
art.
Attending, awaiting.
Auctress, authoress.
Authorise (autorisar), do credit to,
maintain the dignity of.
Aveer (encaminase), approach.
Avoided, discharged, emptied.
Bait, V. attract.
Beadstones, the larger beads in a
rosary.
Beaver, luncheon.
Beaver, lower part of a helmet.
Benefit, profit.
Be-thouing, talking as a superior to
an inferior.
Bias, " set out of all bias," discon-
cert.
Billing, caressing.
Bittor, bittern.
Bombase (algodones), a cotton tex-
ture.
Brabbles (pendencias), quarrels.
Brag, boast.
Break, open, communicate.
Bruit, noise.
Bucking, washing.
Bugles, wild oxen.
Bulks, great bodies.
Burden, chorus, undersong.
Burnished {Hamante), brilliant, con-
spicuous.
Buyal, purchase.
Camarades, comrades.
Canvassing, tossing in a blanket.
Capable, able to understand.
Capouch, hood or cape.
Careful, anxious.
Cavillous, apt to raise objections.
Cefecloth, waxed cloth.
Charily, carefully, jealously.
Cheapen, bargain for.
Clew, skein.
Close castle, a kind of helmet.
Cockering, feasting.
Coil, " keep a," make a fuss.
Commark, district.
Commodity, convenience, oppor-
tunity, occasion.
Compassive (compasivo), sympa-
thetic.
Conclude, finish off, destroy.
Confer, compare.
Confratriety, confraternity.
Cony catching, knavery.
Crackling, talkativeness.
Crowd, fiddle.
Curiosity {puntualidad) , careful-
ness.
Curious, painstaking.
Curres, encounters.
Damage, harm, trouble.
Debates, contests.
Debile, feeble.
Delicate, faint, feeble.
Depending, hung up, suspended.
Deputed (diputo), set down as, con-
sidered.
Detect, reveal.
Dight, array.
Dilate, defer, expound.
Disastrous (desdichada) , suffering
disaster.
Disgrace (desgracia), inconvenience,
misfortune.
Disgustful, distasteful.
Disgusts, dislikes.
Disventures {disventuras) , misad-
ventures.
Dodkin {dos maravedis), a Dutch
farthing.
Doit, a JDutch coin worth about a
farthing.
543
544
GLOSSARY
Dolour, grief.
Drafts, designs.
Draughts, devices, tricks.
Drive, hurry on.
Earnest, payment in advance.
Eftsoons, soon after.
Embosk (emboscasen), shelter, con-
ceal.
Embushing, concealing.
Empannel, put pannels on an ass.
Emulated, regarded as a rival.
Encash, envelope.
Every foot {por momentos), contin-
ually.
Exigent, pitch, point demanding
action.
Expect, await.
Exprobates, reviles, casts in the
teeth.
Facility, looseness.
Facinoroiis {facineroso), evil doing.
Parsed, stuffed.
Fauno, faun, wild creature.
File, thread.
Files (filos), edges.
Fluent, stream.
Fond, foolish.
Force, " of force," of necessity.
Forced, stuffed.
Forcible, inevitable.
Foreslozvs itself, tarries.
Fortitude, luck.
Frequentation, resort, habitation.
Frisk les, capers.
Frumps, flouts, insults, slaps.
Fulling mace, hammer for beating
clothes clean.
Gallimaufry, hodge-podge, hash.
Gamashoes, leggings.
Gard, trimming.
Gaudeamus, O be joyful.
Gittern, small guitar.
Gratify (agradecia), thank for.
Grossly, heavily.
Gusts (gusto), pleasures.
Gymnosophists, naked philosophers.
Gypson, gypsy.
Herd, herdsman.
Hight, was called.
Hippogriff, griffin.
His, its.
Ignoring, being ignorant of.
Uliterate, wipe out.
Illude, deceive.
Illuded, frustrated.
Illustrate, render illustrious.
Imbosk, conceal.
Impertinent, unsuitable, inconven-
ient.
Impregned, burdened.
Impress (impresa), device.
Impudency, unchastity.
Inceasable, incessant.
Incharge, burden.
Ingrateful, ungrateful.
Inhabitable, not habitable.
Intercur, intervene.
Intertexed, interwoven.
Jennet-wise, the stirrups short, the
legs trussed up.
Journey, day's fight
Kenned, knew.
Kennel, dogs.
Key-cold, cold as a key.
Laughsome, ready to laugh.
Leasings, lies.
Lecture, reading.
Let, hindrance.
Links, torches.
Malet, mail, wallet.
Malign (.maligna), evil spirit.
Marvedi, maravedi, the smallest
Spanish coin, half a farthing.
Meddled, intermixed.
Minuity, small matter, detail.
Mochachoes. mustachios.
Mumpsimiis, any one who has got
hold of a wrong word (" Mump-
simus " instead of " Sumpsimus "
in the Mass), an ignorant person.
Murrey, mulberry coloured.
Mushrubs, mushrooms.
Neeze, sneeze.
North, lode-star.
Nousled, nourished, nursed.
Occurred, ran up.
Offend, ward off.
Opinion, reputation.
Oppugning, opposing.
Ordinary, " walked the ordinary '*
(habiendo paseado las acoStunt-
bradas), made the roupds, i. e.,
been exhibited through the streets.
Paragon with, rival.
Particular, in a private station.
Pash, blow.
Pawns, pledges.
Pensative (pensativo), pensive.
Period, limit, end.
Pie, magpie.
Pilled, robbed.
Pillow-bere, pillow-case, lady's trav«
elling bag.
Plain, lament.
Plumes, feathers of a bed.
Poor John, a coarse fish.
Portraited, depicted.
Posted off, put off.
Powdering, seasoning.
Presently, immediately.
Prevent, anticipate.
Prevention, prelude.
GLOSSARY
545
Price, esteem.
Pricked, rode hastily.
Propension, inclination, affection for.
Prosecuted (prosiguio), continued.
Provant, provender, food.
Proverb (pensamiento), design.
Publish, show abroad.
Quader, square with, fit in.
euick, alive.
uitasoll, parasol.
RavKching, tearing, clawing.
Reasons, arguments.
Rebec, small harp.
Reccheless, thoughtless.
Recchelessness, thoughtlessness.
Receivers, acknowledgments.
Reduce, bring back.
Resolution " in resolution " {en
resolution), finally.
Respectlessncss, absence of respect.
Restiness, obstinacy.
Rounded, whispered.
Rumour, noise, tumult.
Runagates, renegades.
Seconding (segundar), repeating.
Securely, without anxiety.
Shot, bill, reckoning.
Sideling, sideways.
Skill, plan, reason.
Skinkers, hard drinkers.
Snaphances, springlocks.
Sort, issue in.
Squamy, scaly.
Staccado, stockade.
Stomach, pride.
Strait, narrow.
Succeeded, befallen, occurred.
Success, event.
Successes, experiences, issues, acci-
dents.
Succory water, chicory-water.
Tables, backgammon.
Tallage, tax.
Terms (termo), goal.
Thill, shaft.
Torment, judicial torture.
Tracts, drawing ropes.
Trance, swoon.
Trance ipaso), plight.
Trances, passages, episodes.
Transversals, side strokes.
Travails, labours.
Treachour, traitor.
Trucks, a kind of billiards.
Umhrills (qiiitasoles), parasols.
Unhappiness, ill-luck, awkwardness.
Unhappy, awkward.
Underprop, support.
Untaxing, without taxing.
Untowardly, crossly.
Vent (rastrear), v. discover.
Vent (venta), tavern.
Viewed, examined.
Virtue, curative quality.
Want, be lacking.
Warder-house, pantry.
Warner, beadle.
Welted, quilted.
Winches, sharp turns.
Wistly, wistfully.
Wood, mad.
Wreathings, windings.
y
''>
a?^
/
■ yyy ^/ X'/^ ^^,
/9 y W^'
.v^
vMjkM,
'y y -y
^^ ^^^''t^Z^^
/. . y y /y'^^'v'^A
/
/ /
///^'y//W>'y4y>,p^
/
/y.
/.y
y
/^y^/yy/yif*y,y'y 4/ /^ "///%/:
^y^y^^ ^. y^^y /^y V
^M'^M/J^y: ^M
'^; '.y/^ ''."/. '.
y 'yV
//,/. ^-^ /y y/y/y^&
