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Title: Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote
Author: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Release date: March 4, 2008 [eBook #24754]
Language: English
Credits: E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Turgut Dincer, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WIT AND WISDOM OF DON QUIXOTE ***
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Turgut Dincer,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(https://www.pgdp.net)
CERVANTES.
Wit and Wisdom
of
Don Quixote.
Patch grief with proverbs.—Shakespeare.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1882.
Copyright, 1882,
By Roberts Brothers.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.
INDEX.
- Abadexo, 9.
Adam, the first head scratched, 168.
Adventure of the dead body, 51.
Adventures of Esplandian, 17.
Alamos of Medina del Campo, 199.
Aldermen, the braying, 169.
Altisidora, songs of, 219, 265.
Amadis de Gaul, 4, 17.
Amadis de Greece, 19.
Arms, the honorable profession of, 173.
Araucana, 24.
Austriada, 24.
Bacallao, 9.
Barabbas, wife for, 115.
Barataria, the island of, 220, 223, 250.
Barber's basin, taken for Mambrino's helmet, 58.
Basilius the Poor, adventure of, 147.
Belfreys and palfreys much the same, 125.
Boar hunt, the, 182.
Bray, town of, 172.
Cane, the hollow, 227.
Carrasco, views upon critics, 109;
made executor, 286.
Chrysostom, story of, 37;
interment of, 41;
song of, 45;
epitaph upon, 49.
viii
Clavileno, flight of, 203.
Comedy, adherence to the unities necessary, 89.
Countryman, the tale of, 239.
Critic, not cricket, 163.
Cuenza, cloth of, 180.
Cupid's address at wedding of Quiteria, 153.
Curadillo, 9.
Cure of jealousy, 23.
Dapple, 181, 182, 184, 197.
Darinel, 18.
Dead body, adventure of, 51.
Death, Sancho's views on, 165.
Description of a lady, 33.
Diana, the, of Montemayor, 20, 23.
Disenchantment of Dulcinea, 187, 196.
Don Bellionis, 20.
Don Diego de Miranda, 20.
Don Galaor, serving no especial mistress, 36.
Don Olivante de Laura, 18.
Don Kyrie Eleison of Montalvan, 20.
Don Quixote, income of, 1;
family of, 1;
age of, 1;
fancies of, 2;
his armor, 2;
his steed, 3;
begins his adventures, 5;
arrival at inn, 6;
seeks knighthood, 10;
watches his armor, 13;
is knighted, 14;
his self-confidence, 14;
his library destroyed, 16, 25;
his squire, 25;
extolls the Golden Age, 29;
his requisites for a knight-errant, 35;
at the interment of Chrysostom, 41;
his adventure with a dead body, 51;
captures Mambrino's helmet, 56;
performs penance, 63;
his views of knight-errantry, 76, 82;
receives a visit from the lady Dulcinea, 126;
adventure with the lions, 133;
attends the wedding of Quiteria the Fair, 147;
a "sensible madman," 197;
counsels Sancho, 203, 210, 225;
his views upon poetry, 131;
of love, 161;
ix
of marriage, 162;
upon long finger-nails, 211;
of proverbs, 212;
converses with an author, 273;
returns home, 282;
his will, 284, 285;
his death, 287;
epitaph upon, 288.
Duke and Duchess, the, 181.
Dulcinea, described by Don Quixote, 37;
letters to, 65;
lines to, 66;
disenchantment of, 187, 196;
lines to, 66;
sonnet to, 96.
Earldom, Sancho's views of the management of one, 91.
El Cancionero, 23.
Enchanter's errand, the, 188.
Epitaphs on Don Quixote, 96, 98, 288.
Epitaphs on Dulcinea, 99.
Ermine, a modest women compared to one, 73.
Fabila, the fate of, 184.
Fish Nicholas, 143.
Florismarle of Hyrcania, 18.
Fort, Sonnet on the, 84.
Frasso, Antonio de lo, 23.
Friendship, sonnet to, 69.
Galatea of Cervantes, 24.
Genealogies reduced to four kinds, 119.
Gil Polo, 23.
Golden Age, panegyric upon the, 29.
Goleta, sonnet upon the, 83.
Governor's round of inspection, 245.
Gratitude a duty, 61.
Heaven, death by the hand of, demands patience, 55.
Herdsmen, the purse of the, 199.
Herradura, the, 199.
x
Industry tranquillizing, 281.
Instructions for government of Island, 203-210.
Island of Sancho Panza, promise of, 25, 26;
possession taken of, 220, 223.
Julius Cæsar, anecdote of, 174.
Knighted, Don Quixote, 14.
Knight-errant, the, without a mistress, 4, 36, 177;
food of, 28;
impiety of, 35;
defence of, 35;
hunger of, 71;
compared to the courtier-knight, 118;
extolled, 141;
compared to the saints, 122, 123;
his need of money never recorded, 12.
Knight-errantry, the surpassing excellence of, 76;
compared to the life of a scholar or soldier, 78, 79;
science of, 142.
Knighthood, ceremonies of, 14, 15.
Knight of the Cross, 19.
Knight Platir, 19.
Knight, the, reproved, 198;
if poor, his rank is manifested by his virtues, 128.
Lace-bone, 263.
Lace worn in Purgatory, 281.
La Mancha, 1, 95, 288.
Lanzarote, romance of, 8.
Learning of Sancho Panza, 28, 205.
Letters, from Don Quixote, 255;
from the Duchess, 251;
from the Duke, 237;
from Sancho, 196, 258;
from Teresa, 261.
Library of Don Quixote destroyed, 16.
Licentiate, story of, 100.
Lions, adventure with, 133.
Lucifer, the first tumbler, 168.
xi
Mambrino's helmet, 56.
Manuscript discovered in Saragossa, 95.
Marcela, cruelty of, 33, 37, 39.
Marriage of Camacho the Rich, 147.
Mateo Boyardo, 19.
Merlin, 188-190.
Miraguardia, castle of, 20.
Mirror of chivalry, 19.
Molinera buckles the spurs, 15.
Monteil, plains of, 26.
Monsurato, 24.
Montesinos, care of, 181.
Nymphs of Enares, 23.
Olalia, poem to, 31.
Oran, general of, 133.
Palinurus, 84.
Panza, Sancho, vide Sancho Panza.
Panza, Teresa, vide Teresa Panza.
Parley about the penance, 189.
Pastor Fido, 274.
Penance, a pleasing, 65.
Penance of Don Quixote, 63.
Poem addressed to Dulcinea, 66.
Poem addressed to Olalia, 31.
Poetry, views of Don Quixote upon, 131
Praise of poverty, 217.
Proverbs. See Index To Proverbs.
Proverbs, Don Quixote's dislike of, 186, 212, 215, 215.
Proverbs of Sancho Panza, 212.
Pyramus and Thisbe, story of, 145.
xii
Queen Pintiquinestra, 18.
Quexana, Antonia, heiress of Don Quixote, 286.
Quixote, Don, vide Don Quixote.
Quiteria, the Fair, 147.
Retention, definition of, 63.
Rosinante, named, 3;
encomiums upon, 6;
sonnet to, 97, 124.
Saints and knights-errant compared, 123.
Sancha Mary, a match for her considered, 113-115.
Sanchica, 263.
Sancho Panza, becomes a squire, 25;
counselled to ambition, 27;
defines retention, 63;
love to God, 71;
his views upon administration, 91;
is received by his wife, 93;
plain speaking of, 105;
conditions of his service, 110;
self-confidence of, 111;
rejoicing at rejoining Don Quixote, 112;
homecomings of, 117;
at the wedding of Quiteria, 147;
views upon death, 165;
upon penance, 189, 196;
upon sleep, 277;
his conundrum, 168;
description of, 168;
plight of, 181;
at the boar hunt, 183;
submits to penance, 195;
government of, 197;
official dress of, 205;
learning of, 28, 205;
proverbs of, 212;
receives advice, 213;
assumes the governorship, 220;
encounter with the doctor, 233;
advises the countryman, 239;
makes a round of inspection, 245;
returns home, 282.
Saragossa, 95.
Scholars, sufferings of, 78, 79.
Serenade, a, 218.
Seville, story of lunatic of, 100.
Shepherd of Iberia, 23.
Shepherd of Filida, 23.
Sleep, Sancho's views upon, 277.
Soldier, sufferings of the, 79, 80.
xiii
Tailor, the secret of a, 224.
Tasters, story of, 129.
Tears of St. Peter, 72.
Tembleque, 200.
Teresa Panza, receives Sancho, 93;
counsels him, 114;
her good sense, 116;
receives the page, 249;
writes Sancho, 261.
Tirante the White, 20.
Tolosa, girds on sword of Don Quixote, 14.
Truchuela, 9.
Truth, the mother of history, 29.
Wife, but one good, 160.
Zamora, a bagpipe, 152.
xiv
INDEX TO PROVERBS.
Actions, when prejudicial, not to be recorded, 106.
Advice, a woman's, to be taken, 120.
Affront, an, to be maintained, 177.
Animals, lessons to be learned from, 127.
Analysis of fables, 87.
Army, the, a school for generosity, 82.
Associates, character indicated by self-chosen ones, 124.
Beauty, all does not inspire to love, 49.
Beauty in a modest woman, 49.
Beautiful objects infinite, 49.
Benefits conferred on the base, 61.
Bird, a, in the hand, 71, 120, 127, 282.
Birds, none in last year's nests, 218.
Biters, the, are bit, 245.
Book, good in every, 109.
Books, no, no bacon, 124.
Brevity pleasing, 60.
Building on impossibilities, 74.
By-and-by, the streets of, 162.
Cats, by night all are gray, 180.
Church, the, the court, the sea, 83.
Clergyman, a, what he should be to be beloved, 33.
Companions, a man known by his, 124.
xv
Comparisons offensive, 104.
Course, the middle, the one of valor, 104.
Customs not all invented at once, 6.
Death, a remedy for everything but, 210.
Delay breeds danger, 86, 281.
Devil, the, assumes an angel form, 74.
Diligence, the mother of success, 86.
Disquietude designed for knights, 34.
Drinker, a good, covered by a bad cloak, 186.
Enemy, an, the merits of his cause, 209.
Epics, prose, 88.
Ermine, an, a modest woman compared to, 73.
Fables, analysis of, 87.
Fast bind, fast find, 120.
Fear, the effect of, 49.
Fiction, better as it resembles truth, 87.
Finger, a, between two eye-teeth, 215.
Flattery, the sway of, 145.
Forewarned, forearmed, 132.
Fortune, good, seldom comes single, 83.
Fortune like a mill-wheel, 87.
Friend, a, consolation, 62.
Frying-pan, out of, 50.
God's mercy more glorious than His justice, 210.
Good in every book, 109.
Gold, all that glitters is not, 244.
Governing pleasant, 203.
Gratitude, a compensation, 271; a duty, 61.
Grievance, no, can keep the sufferer from kindness, 70.
xvi
Handle, the right one of things, 56.
Happiness as reckoned by sages, 130.
History, a sacred subject, 108.
History, faithful, will survive, 280.
Holy days to be kept peacefully, 122.
Hope and love coincident, 74.
Host, to reckon without the, 104.
Hypocrite, a, less dangerous than the open transgressor, 173.
Jest, a painful, no jest, 272.
Jesting, a time for, 123.
Judge, a, should lean toward compassion, 209.
King, serving the, in war, 173.
Knights, all, not courteous, 118.
Lance, the, never blunted the pen, 49.
Learned men among mountains. 93.
Leap, a, better than a prayer, 60.
Liberality, the blessings of, 288.
Liberty, the blessings of, 2.
Light, the, shines upon all, 245.
Lineages, two kinds of, 60.
Liver, the good, the best preacher, 166.
Love, a leveller, 29.
Love, the eyes of, 70.
Love, unconstrained, 49.
Love, uncompromising, 56.
Love, conquered by flight, 74.
Love, vanities of, 76.
Love, wears spectacles, 163.
Lovers, external actions of, 124.
xvii
Madness, the followers of, 129.
Maiden, a, her reserve her defence, 104.
Many littles make a mickle, 121.
Man, a dishonored, 71.
Manners, good, cheap, 202.
Master, a, judged by his servants, 176.
Mayor, he whose father is a, 214.
Might overcomes, 86.
Mischance, one, invites another, 70.
Misfortunes never single, 70.
Money willingly lent to officials, 118.
Music, the effect of, 70.
Nail, a, in Fortune's wheel, 162.
Nature is like a potter, 176.
Nobility, true, 76.
Pains, those of others are easy to bear, 176.
Patience, and shuffle the cards, 168.
Paymaster, a good, needs no security, 176.
Peace, no, in scruples of conscience, 104.
Philosophers in cottages, 93.
Purpose, the honest, favored, 76.
Railing is neighbor to forgiveness, 281.
Remedy, a, for everything but death, 210.
Retreat sometimes wise, 61.
Riches, two roads to, 120.
Riches, of little avail against trouble, 62.
Rome, when in, 264.
Rules for obtaining excellence, 62.
Seeing is believing, 128.
Severity is not disdain, 50.
xviii
Sleep, a cure for trouble, 280.
Soldier, a covetous, a monster, 82.
Soldier, equal to a captain, 34.
Song, the relief of, 61.
Sorrow, concealed, 73.
Sorrow, a blessing, 128.
Thing, a, begun is half finished, 202.
Thing, a, the right handle of, 56.
To-day here, to-morrow gone, 121.
Tongues as weapons, 177.
Tricks of a town, 86.
Truffles, to look for, in the sea, 105.
Truth, the mother of history, 29.
Truth may bend, 124.
Virtue more persecuted than beloved, 86.
Walls have ears, 244.
Wealth, its gratification is a right application, 119.
Wise, a word to the, 202.
Wit and humor, attributes of genius, 108.
Woman, varieties of, 70.
Woman, the burden to which she is born, 118.
Woman, her advice, to be taken, 120.
Yes or no of a woman, between the, 162.
xix-xx
xxi
CERVANTES.
A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.
The most trivial act of the daily life of some men
has a unique interest, independent of idle curiosity,
which dissatisfies us with the meagre food of date,
place, and pedigree. So in the "Cartas de Indias"
was published, two years ago, in Spain, a facsimile
letter from Cervantes when tax-gatherer to Philip II.,
informing him of the efforts he had made to collect the
taxes in certain Andalusian villages.
It is difficult, from the slight social record that we
have of Cervantes, to draw the line where imagination
begins and facts end.
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, the contemporary of
Shakspeare, Galileo, Camoens, Rubens, Tasso, and
Lope de Vega, was born obscurely and in poverty, but
with good antecedents. His grandfather, Juan de Cervantes,
was the corregidor, or mayor, of Ossuna, and
our poet was the youngest son of Rodrigo and Leonora
de Cortiños, of the Barajas family. On either side he
belonged to illustrious houses. He speaks of his birthplace
xxii
as the "famous Henares,"—"Alcala de Henares,"
sometimes called Alcala de San Justo, from the saint
San Justo having there suffered martyrdom under the
traitor Daciamos. The town is beautifully situated on
the borders of the Henares River, two thousand feet
above the level of the sea.
He was born on Sunday, October 9, 1547, and was
baptized in the church of Santa Maria la Mayor, receiving
his name on the fête day of his patron Saint
Miguel, which some biographers have confounded with
that of his birthday.
We may be forgiven for a few words about Alcala de
Henares, since, had it only produced so rare a man as
was Cervantes, it would have had sufficient distinction;
but it was a town of an eventful historical record.
It was destroyed about the year 1000, and rebuilt and
possessed by the Moors, was afterwards conquered by
Bernardo, Archbishop of Toledo. Three hundred years
later it was the favorite retreat of Ximenes, then Cardinal
Archbishop of Toledo, who returned to it, after
his splendid conquests, laden with gold and silver spoil
taken from the mosques of Oran, and with a far richer
treasure of precious Arabian manuscripts, intended for
such a university as had long been his ambition to
create, and the corner-stone of which he laid with his
own hands in 1500. There was a very solemn ceremonial
at the founding of this famous university, and a
xxiii
hiding away of coins and inscriptions under its massive
walls, and a pious invocation to Heaven for a special
blessing on the archbishop's design! At the end of
eight years the extensive and splendid buildings were
finished and the whole town improved. With the
quickening of literary labor and the increase of opportunities
of acquiring knowledge, the reputation of the
university was of the highest.
The cardinal's comprehensive mind included in its
professorships all that he considered useful in the arts.
Emulation was encouraged, and every effort was made
to draw talent from obscurity. To this enlightened
ecclesiastic is the world indebted for the undertaking
of the Polyglot Bible, which, in connection with other
learned works, led the university to be spoken of as
one of the greatest educational establishments in the
world. From far and near were people drawn to it.
King Ferdinand paid homage to his subject's noble
testimonial of labor, by visiting the cardinal at Alcala
de Henares, and acknowledging that his own reign had
received both benefit and glory from it. The people of
Alcala punningly said, the church of Toledo had never
had a bishop of greater edification than Ximenes; and
Erasmus, in a letter to his friend Vergara, perpetrates
a Greek pun on the classic name of Alcala, intimating
the highest opinion of the state of science there. The
reclining statue of Ximenes, beautifully carved in alabaster,
xxiv
now ornaments his sepulchre in the College of
St. Ildefonso.
Cervantes shared the honor of the birthplace with the
Emperor Ferdinand; he of "blessed memory," who
failed to obtain permission from the Pope for priests
to marry, but who, in spite of turbulent times, maintained
religious peace in Germany, and lived to see the
closing of the Council of Trent, marking his reign as
one of the most enlightened of the age.
Alcala also claims Antonio de Solis, the well-known
historian, whose "Conquest of Mexico" has been translated
into many languages, as well as Teodora de Beza,
a zealous Calvinistic reformer and famous divine, a
sharer of Calvin's labors in Switzerland and author
of the celebrated manuscripts known as Beza's manuscripts.
Judging from the character of the town and the
refining educational influence that so grand a university
must have had over its inhabitants, we have a
right to believe that Cervantes was early imbued with
all that was noble and good, and it is difficult to understand
why, with all the advantages which the College
of St. Ildefonso opened to him, he should have been
sent away from it to that of Salamanca. Even allowing
that the supposition of early poverty was correct, it
would have appeared an additional reason for his being
educated in his native town, particularly as liberal founxxvdations
were made for indigent students. The fact of
his being sent to Salamanca would seem to disprove the
supposition of pecuniary necessity. In its early days,
the university of Salamanca was justly celebrated for
its progress in astronomy and familiarity with Greek
and Arabian writers; but, during the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries, it seems to have remained very stationary,
little attention being paid to aught beside
medicine and dogmatic theology.
After being two years at Salamanca he changed to
Madrid, where he is supposed to have made great
progress, under the care of Juan Lopez de Hoyos, a
professor of belles lettres, who spoke of Cervantes as
"our dear and beloved pupil." Hoyos was himself
a poet, and occasionally published collections to which
Cervantes contributed his pastoral "Filena," which
was much admired at the time. He also wrote several
ballads; but ballads generally belong to their own age,
and those that remain to us of his have lost much of
their poignancy. Two poems, written on the death
of Isabella of Valois, wife of Philip II., specially pleased
Hoyos, who at the time gave full credit to his promising
pupil. That eighth wonder of the world, the Escurial,
was in progress during Cervantes' time in Madrid; built
as expiatory by the king, the husband of the same
unfortunate Isabella. He was that subtle tyrant of
Spain, who had the grace to say, on the destructionxxvi
of the Invincible Armada, "I sent my fleet to combat
with the English, not with the elements. God's will
be done."
While he was yet a boy, bull-fights were introduced
into Spain:—
"Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain,
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain."
The attention of the Cardinal Acquaviva was called
to him through his composition of "Filena," and, in
1568 or 1569, he joined the household of the cardinal
and accompanied him to Rome. It is sad to think that
only a few meagre items are all that remain to tell us
of his daily life at this important period of his life.
By some of his biographers he is mentioned as being
under the protection of the cardinal; by one as seeking
to better his penniless condition; by another as having
the place of valet de chambre; and still again, we find
him mentioned as a chamberlain in the household.
Monsignor Guilio Acquaviva, in 1568, went as ambassador
to Spain to offer the king the condolences of the
Pontiff on the death of Don Carlos. The cardinal was
a man of high position, young, yet of great accomplishments,
and with cultivated literary tastes. What then
could have been more natural than that he should havexxvii
found companionship in Cervantes, and have desired to
attach him to himself as a friend or as a confidential
secretary, to be always near him. It is more than probable
that his impressions of Southern France, which
he immortalized in his early pastoral romance of "Galatea"
were imbibed while making the journey to Rome
with the cardinal, in whose service he must have remained
three years, as in October 7, 1571, we find him
joining the united Venetian, Papal, and Spanish expedition
commanded by Don John of Austria, against
the Turks and the African corsairs.
In the naval engagement at Lepanto, Cervantes was
badly wounded, and finally lost his left hand and part
of the arm. For six months he was immured in the
hospital at Messina. After his recovery, he joined the
expedition to the Levant, commanded by Marco Antonio
Colonna, Duke of Valiano. He joined at intervals
various other expeditions, and not till after his prominence
in the engagement at Tunis, did he, in 1575,
start to return to Spain, the land of his heart, the theme
of the poet, and the region supposed by the Moors to
have dropped from heaven. Don John of Austria and
Don Carlos of Arragon, Viceroy of Sicily, each bore
the warmest testimony to the bravery and heroism of
our poet, and each gave him strong letters of commendation
to the king of Spain.
In company with his own brother Roderigo, and other
xxviii
wounded soldiers who were returning home, he started
in the ship El Sol, which had the misfortune, September
26, 1575, to be captured by an Algerine squadron.
Then it happened that the letters from the two kings,
so highly prized and upon which he had built so many
hopes, proved a great misfortune to him. The pirates
cast lots for the captives. Cervantes fell to the share
of the captain, Dali Mami by name, who, in consequence
of finding these two letters, imagined he must
be some Don of great importance and worth a heavy
ransom. He was watched and guarded with great
strictness, loaded with heavy fetters, and subjected to
cruelties of every kind, till his captor, not finding
him of so much account as he had supposed, and
no money being offered for his ransom, the captain
finally sold him for five hundred escudos to the Dey
Azan.
Inasmuch as a change might lead to something better,
Cervantes rejoiced. His gallant spirit, ever hopeful,
looked for the open door in misfortune. But, alas!
his increased sufferings with the Dey reached a climax
almost beyond endurance. He made every struggle to
escape; but even in the midst of all his own sufferings,
he found ways of aiding his fellow-victims and inspiring
them with the hopes denied to himself. Roderigo
had escaped long before, and from that time was making
constant exertion to raise the needful amount to redeem
xxix
Miguel from the Dey, but not till September, 1580, did
he succeed in effecting his release; some biographers
making it a still later date.
His father had long been dead, and his mother and
sisters gathered what they could, but the combined
family efforts were insufficient. There was a society
of pious and generous monks, who made special exertions
to assist in the liberation of Christian captives,
and they finally made up the amount demanded by Azan
for Cervantes' release.
Worn down in spirit, broken in health, crushed at
heart, who may venture to speak of the effect upon him
when he once more found himself at home and in the
embraces of his family? He himself says: "What
transport in life can equal that which a man feels on
the restoration of his liberty?" There is probably no
more thrilling or exact an account of the Algerine
slavery than he has given in "Don Quixote." Whether
his love for a military life still pursued him, whether
he desired an opportunity for revenge upon his persecutors,
or whether it was fatality,—maimed and ruined
as he was he once more entered the army. We cannot
analyze his motive. He makes his bachelor Sampson
say, "The historian must pen things not as they ought
to have been but as they really were, without adding to
or diminishing aught from the truth." The lives of
literary men are not always devoid of stirring incidents.
xxx
M. Viardot says of him: "Cervantes was an illustrious
man before he became an illustrious author; the doer
of great deeds before he produced an immortal book."
Don Lope de Figueras then commanded a regiment of
tried and veteran soldiers in the army of the Duke of
Alva, in Portugal. His brother Roderigo was serving
in it when he joined it; and as Figueras had known
Cervantes in former campaigns, it is most probable he
was in his regiment. Later on, we find Cervantes accompanying
the Marquis de Santa Cruz on an expedition
to the Azores, serving long and bravely under him.
The conquest of the Azores is described as a fiercely
won but brilliant victory over all the islands; and Cervantes
immortalized the genius and gallantry of the
admiral in a sonnet.
The spirit of adventure ran high among the Castilians,
while the whole nation was at the same time in
course of mental as well as moral development. We
are obliged to acknowledge that Spain in many ways
was far behind Italy, though hardly as some would have
it, at the distance of half a century. We must remember
that, in 1530, there were only two hundred printing-presses
in the whole of Europe, and that when the first
one was set up in London, the Westminster abbot exclaimed,
"Brethren, this is a tremendous engine! We
must control it, or it will conquer us." The first press
in Spain was set up in Valencia, in 1474, and Clemencin
xxxi
says that more printing-presses in the infancy of
the art were probably at work in Spain than there are
at the present day.
A change seemed to have crept gradually over the
whole national character of Spain after the brilliant
and prosperous reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, commencing
with the severity of the Inquisition and continuing
under the tyranny of Philip II., predisposing
the army to savage deeds, till even the women and
children were infected and the literature of the period
slightly tinged.
Cervantes is too often merged into Don Quixote as
if he had no separate existence. He accomplished more
for the improvement of Spanish literature with his well-timed
satire than all the laws or sermons could effect.
His remarkable mind seems to have escaped the influence
of the times, unless we make an exception of his
drama "Numancia," which, while it excites the imagination,
fills us with horror at its details, and fails to touch
our hearts, but is full of historical truths. Schlegel,
however, reviews it with enthusiasm. He calls his
"Life in Algiers" a comedy, but undoubtedly it is a
true picture of his own captivity. We are touched and
filled with gloom at its perusal, and only remember it
as a tragedy. These two dramas were lost sight of till
the end of the eighteenth century, and they are superior
to later dramatic efforts. He was proud of his original
xxxii
conception of a tragedy composed of ideal and allegorical
characters which he permitted to have part in the "Life
in Algiers," as well as in "Numancia." Of the thirty
plays spoken of as given to the stage but few now
remain; but others may yet be found. The Spaniards
say the faults of a great writer are not left in the ink-stand.
Spain, in Cervantes' day, had passed the chivalric
age, though many relics of it still remained in its
legends, songs, and proverbs. Cervantes becomes his
own critic in his "Supplement to a Journey to Parnassus,"
and speaking of his dramas, says: "I should
declare them worthy the favor they have received were
they not my own." Unfortunately, his comedy of "La
Confusa" is among the lost ones. He alludes to it as
a good one among the best.
We have known Cervantes as a student, a soldier, a
captive, and an author, and now we have to imagine
our maimed and bronzed soldier-poet, after his many
fortunes of war, in the new character of a lover. In
thought we trace his noble features, his intelligent look
and expressive eye, combined with his dignified bearing
and thoughtful manner, and in so tracing we find it
congenial to imagine him as being well dressed and
enveloped in the ample Spanish cloak thrown gracefully
over his breast and left shoulder, concealing the poor
mutilated arm, and at the same time making it all the
more difficult to believe that the right one had ever
xxxiii
wielded a "Toledo blade" or sworn that very strongest
vow of loyalty, "A fe de Rodrigo."1
We find him much interested in the quaint old-fashioned
town of Esquivias, making many friends therein,
and sometimes gossiping with the host of the fonda,
so famed for the generous wines of Esquivias that it
needed no "bush;" and while enjoying his cigarito and
taking an occasional morsel from the dish of quisado
before him, he is learning from the same gossiping host
many items of interest about the very illustrious families
of Esquivias,—for it was famed for its chivalrous
prowess and its "claims of long descent." He had
commenced his "Galatea," and in it he was painting
living portraits, and with great delicacy he was, as the
shepherd Elicio, portraying his passion for Catalina, the
daughter of Fernando de Salazar ý Voxmediano and
Catalina de Palacios, both of illustrious families. Her
father was dead, and she had been educated by her
uncle, Francisco de Salazar, who left her a legacy in
his will.
The fair Catalina, like other Spanish señoritas, was
under the espionage of a strict dueña, and his opportunities
of seeing her were very limited. Sometimes we
fancy him awaiting the passing of the hour of the siesta
and knocking at the grating of the heavy door of the
house of the Salazars, and in reply to the porter's question
xxxiv
of Quien es? answering, in his melodious tones,
Gente de paz (literally, "a friend"),—a precaution
which still continues in Spain. Meanwhile, his romance
of "Galatea" and of his own life are both growing.
The occasion inspires him. He is still in Esquivias,
wandering through the olive groves and by the river
side, sometimes resting, and drinking in the fragrance
from an orange-tree while his untold wealth of brain
was seeking for its exit. Sometimes he had Catalina
for a companion, the dueña lingering slightly behind.
Sometimes he saw her at the church like a fair saint,
kneeling; but oftener he wandered alone with his now
happy thoughts, scarce knowing that the night was
closing about him, or scarce heeding the watchman who
cried, "All hail, Mary, mother of Jesus! half past
twelve o'clock and a cloudy morning!" and thus, to
this day, are the Spaniards warned of the hour and
the weather. His "Galatea" remains unfinished. He
had not meant that all this song should be for the public
ear. The end was for his love alone!
On the 12th of December, 1584, he was married to
Catalina. Not many years ago, the marriage contract
was found in the public registry of Esquivias. It
contains an inventory of the marriage-dowry promised
by the bride's mother, of "lands, furniture, utensils,
and live-stock." Then follows the details, "several
vineyards, amounting to twelve acres, beds, chairs,
xxxv
brooms, brushes, poultry, and sundry sacks of flour."
It is spoken of as a very respectable dowry at a time
when sacks of wheat were worth eight reals. Then follows,
in the same document, his own settlement upon
his wife, which is stated to be one hundred ducats. By
the custom of the time that was one-tenth of his whole
property, or to quote again, which "must have amounted
to a thousand ducats, which at present would be equivalent
to about four hundred and fifty pounds sterling."
Gladly would we find some pleasant items of happy
home life, though, for the next four years, he lived
quietly at Esquivias, and cared for the vineyards like
any landholder, till, perhaps, he tired and went on to
Seville, where he took up some mercantile business,
though never entirely giving up the pen; but from 1598
till 1605, there are no real traces of him, when it would
appear that he had removed to Valladolid.
There is little doubt but that he suffered both in purse
and feeling from want of appreciation; but the Spanish
proverb says, "An author's work who looks to money
is the coat of a tailor who works late on the vespers of
Easter Sunday." He had too noble a mind to harbor
so mean a sentiment as jealousy, and was far in advance
of his age. His countrymen, with characteristic indolence,
were ready to cry, manaña, manaña (to-morrow,
to-morrow), and so it was left for later generations to
honor his memory, for his power of invention and purity
xxxvi
of imagination can never be rivalled. While acting
as clerk in Seville to Antonio de Guevara, the Commissary-General
to the Indian and American dependencies,
he must have been sadly disappointed, particularly as,
during that time, he had been unjustly thrown into
prison on the plea of not accounting for trust-money
with satisfaction. Mr. Ticknor gives the following
interesting account: "During his residence at Seville,
Cervantes made an ineffectual application to the king
for an appointment in America, setting forth by the
exact documents a general account of his adventures,
services, and sufferings while a soldier in the
Levant, and of the miseries of his life while a slave in
Algiers; but no other than a formal answer seems to
have been returned to his application, and the whole
affair leaves us to infer the severity of that distress
which could induce him to seek relief in exile to a
colony of which he has elsewhere spoken as the great
resort for rogues." The appointment he desired was
either corregidor (or mayor) of the city of Paz or the
auditorship of New Grenada, the governorship of the
province of Socunusco or that of the galleys of Carthagena.
His removal to Valladolid seems to have been
by command of the revenue authorities, where he still
collected taxes for public and private persons. While
collecting for the prior of the order of St. John, he was
again ill-treated and thrown into prison.
xxxviiNot till he was fifty-eight years old did he give to
the world his master-piece, and thus immortalizes La
Mancha, in return for his inhospitable and cruel treatment.
"Don Quixote" was licensed at Valladolid in
1604, and printed at Madrid in 1605. Its success was
so great that, during his lifetime, thirty thousand volumes
were printed, which in that day was little short
of marvellous. Four editions were published the first
year, two at Madrid, one at Valencia, and one at Lisbon.
Byron says: "Cervantes laugh'd Spain's chivalry
away!" So popular was it, that a spurious second
part, under the fictitious authorship of Avellanada was
published. Cervantes was furious, and called him a
blockhead; but Germond de Lavigue, the distinguished
Spanish scholar, rashly asserts that but for this Avellanada,
he would never have finished "Don Quixote."
Even before it was printed, jealousy evidently existed
in the hearts of rival writers, for in one of
Lope's letters he refers to it, and spitefully hints that
no poet could be found to write commendatory verses
on it.
He recognized the fact of universal selfishness when
he makes Sancho Panza refuse to learn the Don's love-letter
and say, "Write it, your worship, for it's sheer
nonsense to trust anything to my memory."
Spain is so full of rich material for romance that
from it his mature mind seemed to inaugurate a new
xxxviii
age in Spanish literature. After the gloomy intolerance
of Philip II., the advent of Philip III. added
much to the literary freedom of Spain, which still belonged
to the "Age of Chivalry," and to this day the
true Spaniard nourishes the lofty and romantic qualities
which, combined with a tone of sentiment and
gravity and nobility of conversation, embellishes the
legitimate grandee. Sismondi de Sismondi says the
style of "Don Quixote" is inimitable. Montesquieu
says: "It is written to prove all others useless." To
some it is an allegory, to some a tragedy, to some a
parable, and to others a satire. As a satirist we think
him unrivalled, and this spirit found a choice opportunity
for vent when the troops of Don Carlos I. marched
upon Rome, taking Pope Clement VII. prisoner, while
at the same time the king was having prayers said in
the churches of Madrid for the deliverance of the Pope,
on the plea that "he was obliged to make war against
the temporal sovereign of Rome, but not upon the spiritual
head of the Church!" No wonder the king, after
proving himself so good a Catholic, should end his days
in a monastery, or that he should mortify himself by
lying in a coffin, wrapped in a shroud, while funeral
services were performed over him. What, again, could
have appealed more to his sense of the ridiculous than
the contest between the priests and the authorities over
the funeral obsequies of Philip II., so intolerant a tyrant
xxxix
that he caused every Spaniard to breathe more freely
as he ceased so to do. He used his people as
"Broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
With human hearts."
We can easily believe in the greater freedom during
the reign of Philip III. "Viva el Rey."
The Count de Lemos was his near friend and protector
when he brought out the second part of "Don
Quixote," and ridiculed his rival imitator. He was a
pioneer of so elevated a character as to preclude the
possibility of followers. Every one is familiar with it
as a story, and the mishaps of the gentle, noble-minded,
kind-hearted old Don, as well as the delusions, simplicity,
and selfishness of the devoted squire, will never
lose their power to amuse. It may be extravagant, but
it is not a burlesque. The strong character painting,
the ideas, situations, and language, clothed in such simplicity
that at times it becomes almost solemn, give it a
grandeur that no other book, considered as a romance,
possesses. The old anecdote of the king observing a
student walking by the river side and bursting into involuntary
fits of laughter over a book, exclaiming, "The
man is either mad or reading 'Don Quixote,'" is well
preserved. One peculiar feature of the book is that, even
now, for some places, it would be a useful guide, many
xl
of the habits and customs of Spain three hundred years
ago being still the same. What a volume of wit and wisdom
is contained in the proverbs and aphorisms. One
might quote from it indefinitely had he not told us that
"without discretion there is no wit." His own motive
in writing it we find in the last paragraph of the book,
namely, "My sole object has been to expose to the contempt
they deserved the extravagant and silly tricks of
chivalry, which this my true and genuine 'Don Quixote'
has nearly accomplished, their worldly credit being
now actually tottering, and will doubtless soon sink,
never to rise again."
Now, all languages have it. There are eight translations
into English alone; but it is always impossible
for the translator to render its true spirit or to give it
full justice. With all its vivacity and drollery, its delicate
satire and keen ridicule, it has a mournful tinge
of melancholy running through, and here and there
peeping out, only to have been gathered from such
experience as his. He wrote with neither bitterness
nor a diseased imagination, always realizing what is
due to himself and with a full appreciation of and desire
for fame. Many scenes of real suffering appear under
a dramatic guise, and here and there creep out bits of
personal history. His nature was chivalrous in the
highest degree. His sorrows were greater than his
joys. Born for the library, he prefers the camp, and
xli
abandons literature to fight the Turks. Does he not make
the Don say, "Let none presume to tell me the pen is
preferable to the sword." Again he says: "Allowing
that the end of war is peace, and that in this it exceeds
the end of learning, let us weigh the bodily labors the
scholar undergoes against those the warrior suffers, and
then see which are the greatest." Then he enumerates:
"First, poverty; and having said he endures
poverty, methinks nothing more need be urged to express
his misery, for he that is poor enjoys no happiness,
but labors under this poverty in all its guises, at
one time in hunger, at another in cold, another in
nakedness, and sometimes in all of them together."
Later on he makes him say: "It gives me some concern
to think that powder and lead may suddenly cut
short my career of glory."
The world can only be grateful that "his career of
glory" did not end in the military advancement he had
the right to expect. Had he been a general, his Rozinante
might still have been wandering without a name,
and Sancho Panza have died a common laborer. Again
he says: "Would to God I could find a place to serve
as a private tomb for this wearisome burden of life
which I bear so much against my inclination." Surviving
almost unheard-of grievances only to emerge
from them with greater power; depicting in his works
true outlines of his own adventures, sometimes by a
xlii
proverb, often by a romance, he never loses one jot of
his pride, giving golden advice to Sancho when a governor,
and finishing with the expression, "So may'st
thou escape the PITY of the world." In May, 1605, he
was called upon as a witness in a case of a man who was
mortally wounded and dragged at night into his apartment,
which almost accidentally gives us his household,
consisting of his wife; his natural daughter Isabel,
twenty years of age, unmarried; his sister, a widow,
above fifty years; her unmarried daughter, aged twenty-eight;
his half-sister, a religieuse; and a maid-servant.
His "Española Inglesa" appeared in 1611. His moral
tales, the pioneers in Spanish literature, are a combination
without special plan of serious and comic, romance
and anecdote, evidently giving, under the guise of fiction,
poetically colored bits of his own experience in
Italy and Africa. In his story of "La Gitanilla" (the
gipsy girl) may be found the argument of Weber's
opera of "Preciosa." "Parnassus" was written two
years before his death, after which he wrote eight comedies
and a sequel to his twelve moral tales. In his story
of "Rinconete ý Cortadilla" he evidently derives the
names from rincon (a corner) and cortar (to cut). His
last work was "Persiles and Sigismunda," the preface
of which is a near presentiment of his closing labors.
He says: "Farewell, gayety; farewell, humor; farewell,
my pleasant friends. I must now die, and I desire
xliii
nothing more than to soon see you again happy in another
world." His industry was wonderful. We can
but have a grateful feeling towards the Count de Lemos
for adding to his physical comfort for the last few years,
and feel a regret that the Count, who had lingered in
Naples, could not have arrived in time to see him once
more when he so ardently desired it. In a dedication
to the Count of his final romance, written only four
days before his death, he very touchingly says: "I
could have wished not to have been obliged to make
so close a personal application of the old verses commencing
'With the foot already in the stirrup,' for
with very little alteration I may truly say that with my
foot in the stirrup, feeling this moment the pains of
dissolution, I address this letter to you. Yesterday I
received extreme unction. To-day I have resumed my
pen. Time is short, my pains increase, my hopes diminish,
yet I do wish my life might be prolonged till
I could see you again in Spain." His wish was not to
be gratified; the Count, unaware of the near danger
of his friend, only returned to find himself overwhelmed
with grief at his loss.
After sixty-nine years of varied fortunes and many
struggles, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra breathed his
last, unsoothed by the hands he had loved, for even this
privilege seems to have been denied to him. At the
near end of his life he had joined the kindly third order
xliv
of the Franciscan friars, and the brethren cared for him
at the last. His remarkable clearness of intellect never
failed him, and on April 23, 1616, the very day that
Shakspeare died at Stratford, Cervantes died at Madrid.
Unlike the great English contemporary, whose undisturbed
bones have lain quietly under peril of his malediction,
the bones of the great Spanish poet were irrevocably
lost when the old Convent of the Trinity, in
the Calle del Humilladero, was destroyed. Ungrateful
Spain! the spot had never been marked with a common
tombstone.
The old house2 in the Calle de Francos, where he
died, was so dilapidated that, in 1835, it was destroyed.
It was rebuilt, and a marble bust of Cervantes was
placed over the entrance by the sculptor, Antonio Sola.
The "Madrid Epoca," under the heading of "The
Prison of Cervantes," calls attention to the alarming
state of decay of the house in Argamasilla del Alba,
in the cellar of which, as an extemporized dungeon,
tradition asserts that Cervantes was imprisoned, and
where he penned at least a portion of his work. It was
in this cellar that, a few years since, the Madrid publishing
house of Rivadeneyra erected a press and
xlv
printed their edition de luxe of "Don Quijote." The
house was, some years since, purchased by the late Infante
Don Sebastian, with a view to a complete and
careful restoration; but political changes and his death
prevented a realization of his project. The "Epoca"
now calls public attention to the state of decay of the
house, with a view to an immediate restoration.
In the Plaza de las Cortes, the city of Madrid has
placed a beautiful bronze statue of Cervantes upon a
square pedestal of granite. Upon the sides are bas-reliefs
representing subjects taken from "Don Quijote
de la Mancha."
The present time honors his memory; and for all
time he will live in the hearts of all true lovers of
genius.
EMMA THOMPSON.
SANCHO PANZA.
1
WIT AND WISDOM
OF
DON QUIXOTE.
Down in a village of La Mancha, the name of
which I have no desire to recollect, there lived, not
long ago, one of those gentlemen who usually keep
a lance upon a rack, an old buckler, a lean horse,
and a coursing grayhound. Soup, composed of somewhat
more mutton than beef, the fragments served up
cold on most nights, lentils on Fridays, collops and
eggs on Saturdays, and a pigeon by way of addition
on Sundays, consumed three-fourths of his income;
the remainder of it supplied him with a cloak of fine
cloth, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same for
holidays, and a suit of the best homespun, in which
he adorned himself on week-days. His family consisted
of a housekeeper above forty, a niece not quite
twenty, and a lad who served him both in the field and
at home, who could saddle the horse or handle the
pruning-hook. The age of our gentleman bordered
upon fifty years: he was of a strong constitution,
spare-bodied, of a meagre visage, a very early riser,
2
and a lover of the chase. Some pretend to say that
his surname was Quixada or Quesada, for on this
point his historians differ; though, from very probable
conjectures, we may conclude that his name was
Quixana. This is, however, of little importance to
our history; let it suffice that, in relating it, we do
not swerve a jot from the truth.
In fine, his judgment being completely obscured, he
was seized with one of the strangest fancies that ever
entered the head of any madman; this was, a belief
that it behooved him, as well for the advancement of
his glory as the service of his country, to become a
knight-errant, and traverse the world, armed and
mounted, in quest of adventures, and to practice all
that had been performed by knights-errant of whom
he had read; redressing every species of grievance,
and exposing himself to dangers, which, being surmounted,
might secure to him eternal glory and renown.
The poor gentleman imagined himself at
least crowned Emperor of Trebisond, by the valor
of his arm; and thus wrapped in these agreeable delusions
and borne away by the extraordinary pleasure
he found in them, he hastened to put his designs into
execution.
The first thing he did was to scour up some rusty
armor which had been his great-grandfather's, and
had lain many years neglected in a corner. This
he cleaned and adjusted as well as he could; but he
found one grand defect,—the helmet was incomplete,
having only the morion. This deficiency, however,
he ingeniously supplied by making a kind of visor of
3
pasteboard, which, being fixed to the morion, gave the
appearance of an entire helmet. It is true, indeed,
that, in order to prove its strength, he drew his sword,
and gave it two strokes, the first of which instantly
demolished the labor of a week; but not altogether
approving of the facility with which it was destroyed,
and in order to secure himself against a similar misfortune,
he made another visor, which, having fenced
in the inside with small bars of iron, he felt assured of
its strength, and, without making any more experiments,
held it to be a most excellent helmet.
In the next place he visited his steed; and although
this animal had more blemishes than the horse of Gonela,
which, "tantum pellis et ossa fuit," yet, in his
eyes, neither the Bucephalus of Alexander nor the
Cid's Babieca, could be compared with him. Four
days was he deliberating upon what name he should
give him; for, as he said to himself, it would be very
improper that a horse so excellent, appertaining to a
knight so famous, should be without an appropriate
name; he therefore endeavored to find one that should
express what he had been before he belonged to a
knight-errant, and also what he now was: nothing
could, indeed, be more reasonable than that, when the
master changed his state, the horse should likewise
change his name and assume one pompous and high-sounding,
as became the new order he now professed.
So, after having devised, altered, lengthened, curtailed,
rejected, and again framed in his imagination a variety
of names, he finally determined upon Rozinante, a
name in his opinion lofty, sonorous, and full of meaning;
4
importing that he had only been a rozin—a
drudge horse—before his present condition, and that
now he was before all the rozins in the world.
Having given his horse a name so much to his satisfaction,
he resolved to fix upon one for himself. This
consideration employed him eight more days, when at
length he determined to call himself Don Quixote;
whence some of the historians of this most true history
have concluded that his name was certainly Quixada,
and not Quesada, as others would have it. Then
recollecting that the valorous Amadis, not content with
the simple appellation of Amadis, added thereto the
name of his kingdom and native country, in order to
render it famous, styling himself Amadis de Gaul; so
he, like a good knight, also added the name of his
province, and called himself Don Quixote de la Mancha;
whereby, in his opinion, he fully proclaimed his
lineage and country, which, at the same time, he honored
by taking its name.
His armor being now furbished, his helmet made
perfect, his horse and himself provided with names,
he found nothing wanting but a lady to be in love
with, as he said,—
"A knight-errant without a mistress was a tree
without either fruit or leaves, and a body without a
soul!"
One morning before day, being one of the most sultry
in the month of July, he armed himself cap-a-pie,
mounted Rozinante, placed the helmet on his head,
braced on his target, took his lance, and, through the
private gate of his back yard, issued forth into the open
5
plain, in a transport of joy to think he had met with
no obstacles to the commencement of his honorable
enterprise. But scarce had he found himself on the
plain when he was assailed by a recollection so terrible
as almost to make him abandon the undertaking; for
it just then occurred to him that he was not yet dubbed
a knight; therefore, in conformity to the laws of chivalry,
he neither could nor ought to enter the lists against
any of that order; and, if he had been actually dubbed
he should, as a new knight, have worn white armor,
without any device on his shield, until he had gained
one by force of arms. These considerations made him
irresolute whether to proceed, but frenzy prevailing
over reason, he determined to get himself made a
knight by the first one he should meet, like many
others of whom he had read. As to white armor, he
resolved, when he had an opportunity, to scour his
own, so that it should be whiter than ermine. Having
now composed his mind, he proceeded, taking whatever
road his horse pleased; for therein, he believed, consisted
the true spirit of adventure. Everything that
our adventurer saw and conceived was, by his imagination,
moulded to what he had read; so in his eyes the inn
appeared to be a castle, with its four turrets, and pinnacles
of shining silver, together with its drawbridge,
deep moat, and all the appurtenances with which such
castles are visually described. When he had advanced
within a short distance of it, he checked Rozinante, expecting
some dwarf would mount the battlements, to
announce by sound of trumpet the arrival of a knight-errant
at the castle; but, finding them tardy, and Rozinante
6
impatient for the stable, he approached the inn-door,
and there saw the two girls, who to him appeared
to be beautiful damsels or lovely dames enjoying themselves
before the gate of their castle.
It happened that, just at this time, a swineherd collecting
his hogs (I make no apology, for so they are
called) from an adjoining stubblefield, blew the horn
which assembles them together, and instantly Don
Quixote was satisfied, for he imagined it was a dwarf
who had given the signal of his arrival. With extraordinary
satisfaction, therefore, he went up to the inn;
upon which the ladies, being startled at the sight of a
man armed in that manner, with lance and buckler,
were retreating into the house; but Don Quixote, perceiving
their alarm, raised his pasteboard visor, thereby
partly discovering his meagre, dusty visage, and with
gentle demeanor and placid voice, thus addressed them:
"Fly not, ladies, nor fear any discourtesy, for it would
be wholly inconsistent with the order of knighthood,
which I profess, to offer insult to any person, much less
to virgins of that exalted rank which your appearance
indicates." The girls stared at him, and were endeavoring
to find out his face, which was almost concealed
by the sorry visor; but hearing themselves called virgins,
they could not forbear laughing, and to such a
degree that Don Quixote was displeased, and said to
them: "Modesty well becomes beauty, and excessive
laughter proceeding from slight cause is folly."
This language, so unintelligible to the ladies, added
to the uncouth figure of our knight, increased their
laughter; consequently he grew more indignant, and
7
would have proceeded further but for the timely appearance
of the innkeeper, a very corpulent and therefore
a very pacific man, who, upon seeing so ludicrous
an object, armed, and with accoutrements so ill-sorted
as were the bridle, lance, buckler, and corselet, felt disposed
to join the damsels in demonstrations of mirth;
but, in truth, apprehending some danger from a form
thus strongly fortified, he resolved to behave with civility,
and therefore said, "If, Sir Knight, you are seeking
for a lodging, you will here find, excepting a bed (for
there are none in this inn), everything in abundance."
Don Quixote, perceiving the humility of the governor
of the fortress,—for such to him appeared the innkeeper,—answered,
"For me, Signor Castellano, anything
will suffice, since arms are my ornaments, warfare
my repose." The host thought he called him Castellano
because he took him for a sound Castilian, whereas
he was an Andalusian of the coast of St. Lucar, as great
a thief as Cacus and not less mischievous than a collegian
or a page; and he replied, "If so, your worship's
beds must be hard rocks, and your sleep continual
watching; and that being the case, you may dismount
with a certainty of finding here sufficient cause for
keeping awake the whole year, much more a single
night." So saying, he laid hold of Don Quixote's
stirrup, who alighted with much difficulty and pain,
for he had fasted the whole of the day. He then desired
the host to take especial care of his steed, for it
was the finest creature ever fed; the innkeeper examined
him, but thought him not so good by half as his
master had represented him. Having led the horse to
8
the stable he returned to receive the orders of his guest,
whom the damsels, being now reconciled to him, were
disarming; they had taken off the back and breast
plates, but endeavored in vain to disengage the gorget,
or take off the counterfeit beaver, which he had fastened
with green ribbons in such a manner that they
could not be untied, and he would upon no account
allow them to be cut; therefore he remained all that
night with his helmet on, the strangest and most ridiculous
figure imaginable.
While these light girls, whom he still conceived to
be persons of quality and ladies of the castle, were
disarming him, he said to them, with infinite grace:
"Never before was knight so honored by ladies as Don
Quixote, after his departure from his native village!
damsels attended upon him; princesses took charge of
his steed! O Rosinante,—for that, ladies, is the name
of my horse, and Don Quixote de la Mancha my own;
although it was not my intention to have discovered
myself until deeds performed in your service should
have proclaimed me; but impelled to make so just an
application of that ancient romance of Lanzarote to my
present situation, I have thus prematurely disclosed my
name: yet the time shall come when your ladyships
may command, and I obey; when the valor of my arm
shall make manifest the desire I have to serve you."
The girls, unaccustomed to such rhetorical flourishes,
made no reply, but asked whether he would please to
eat anything. "I shall willingly take some food,"
answered Don Quixote, "for I apprehend it would be
of much service to me." That day happened to be
9
Friday, and there was nothing in the house but some
fish of that kind which in Castile is called Abadexo;
in Andalusia, Bacallao; in some parts, Curadillo: and
in others, Truchuela. They asked if his worship would
like some truchuela, for they had no other fish to offer
him. "If there be many troutlings," replied Don
Quixote, "they will supply the place of one trout; for
it is the same to me whether I receive eight single rials
or one piece-of-eight. Moreover, these troutlings may
be preferable, as veal is better than beef, and kid superior
to goat. Be that as it may, let it come immediately,
for the toil and weight of arms cannot be
sustained by the body unless the interior be supplied
with aliments." For the benefit of the cool air, they
placed the table at the door of the inn, and the landlord
produced some of his ill-soaked and worse-cooked
bacallao, with bread as foul and black as the knight's
armor. But it was a spectacle highly risible to see
him eat; for his hands being engaged in holding his
helmet on and raising the beaver, he could not feed
himself, therefore one of the ladies performed that office
for him; but to drink would have been utterly impossible
had not the innkeeper bored a reed, and placing
one end into his mouth at the other poured in the wine;
and all this he patiently endured rather than cut the
lacings of his helmet.
dubbed a knight.
It troubled him to reflect that he was not yet a knight,
feeling persuaded that he could not lawfully engage in
10
any adventure until he had been invested with the
order of knighthood.
Agitated by this idea, he abruptly finished his scanty
supper, called the innkeeper, and, shutting himself up
with him in the stable, he fell on his knees before him
and said, "Never will I arise from this place, valorous
knight, until your courtesy shall vouchsafe to grant a
boon which it is my intention to request,—a boon that
will redound to your glory and to the benefit of all
mankind." The innkeeper, seeing his guest at his
feet and hearing such language, stood confounded and
stared at him without knowing what to do or say; he
entreated him to rise, but in vain, until he had promised
to grant the boon he requested. "I expected no
less, signor, from your great magnificence," replied
Don Quixote; "know, therefore, that the boon I have
demanded, and which your liberality has conceded, is
that on the morrow you will confer upon me the honor
of knighthood. This night I will watch my arms in the
chapel of your castle, in order that, in the morning,
my earnest desire may be fulfilled and I may with propriety
traverse the four quarters of the world in quest
of adventures for the relief of the distressed, conformable
to the duties of chivalry and of knights-errant,
who, like myself, are devoted to such pursuits."
The host, who, as we have said, was a shrewd fellow,
and had already entertained some doubts respecting the
wits of his guest, was now confirmed in his suspicions;
and to make sport for the night, determined to follow
his humor. He told him, therefore, that his desire was
very reasonable, and that such pursuits were natural
11
and suitable to knights so illustrious as he appeared to
be, and as his gallant demeanor fully testified; that
he had himself in the days of his youth followed that
honorable profession, and travelled over various parts
of the world in search of adventures; failing not to visit
the suburbs of Malaga, the isles of Riaran, the compass
of Seville, the market-place of Segovia, the olive-field
of Valencia, the rondilla of Grenada, the coast of St.
Lucar, the fountain of Cordova, the taverns of Toledo,
and divers other parts, where he had exercised the
agility of his heels and the dexterity of his hands;
committing sundry wrongs, soliciting widows, seducing
damsels, cheating youths,—in short, making himself
known to most of the tribunals in Spain; and that,
finally, he had retired to this castle, where he lived upon
his revenue and that of others, entertaining therein all
knights-errant of every quality and degree solely for
the great affection he bore them, and that they might
share their fortune with him in return for his good
will. He further told him that in his castle there was
no chapel wherein he could watch his armor, for it had
been pulled down in order to be rebuilt; but that, in
cases of necessity, he knew it might be done wherever
he pleased. Therefore, he might watch it that night
in a court of the castle, and the following morning, if
it pleased God, the requisite ceremonies should be performed,
and he should be dubbed so effectually that
the world would not be able to produce a more perfect
knight. He then inquired if he had any money about
him. Don Quixote told him he had none, having never
read in their histories that knights-errant provided
12
themselves with money. The innkeeper assured him
he was mistaken; for, admitting that it was not mentioned
in their history, the authors deeming it unnecessary
to specify things so obviously requisite as money
and clean shirts, yet was it not therefore to be inferred
that they had none; but, on the contrary, he might
consider it as an established fact that all knights-errant,
of whose histories so many volumes are filled,
carried their purses well provided against accidents;
that they were also supplied with shirts, and a small
casket of ointments to heal the wounds they might
receive, for in plains and deserts, where they fought
and were wounded, no aid was near unless they had
some sage enchanter for their friend, who could give them
immediate assistance by conveying in cloud through
the air some damsel or dwarf, with a phial of water
possessed of such virtue that, upon tasting a single
drop of it, they should instantly become as sound as
if they had received no injury. But when the knights
of former times were without such a friend, they always
took care that their esquires should be provided with
money and such necessary articles as lint and salves;
and when they had no esquires—which very rarely
happened—they carried these things themselves upon
the crupper of their horse, in wallets so small as to be
scarcely visible, that they might seem to be something
of more importance; for, except in such cases, the
custom of carrying wallets was not tolerated among
knights-errant. He therefore advised, though, as his
godson (which he was soon to be), he might command
him, never henceforth to travel without money and the
13
aforesaid provisions, and he would find them serviceable
when he least expected it. Don Quixote promised
to follow his advice with punctuality: and an order was
now given for performing the watch of the armor in a
large yard adjoining the inn. Don Quixote, having
collected it together placed it on a cistern which was
close to a well; then, bracing on his target and grasping
his lance, with graceful demeanor he paced to and
fro before the pile, beginning his parade as soon as it
was dark.
The innkeeper informed all who were in the inn of
the frenzy of his guest, the watching of his armor, and
of the intended knighting.
The host repeated to him that there was no chapel in
the castle, nor was it by any means necessary for what
remained to be done; that the stroke of knighting consisted
in blows on the neck and shoulders, according to
the ceremonial of the order, which might be effectually
performed in the middle of the field; that the duty of
watching his armor he had now completely fulfilled,
for he had watched more than four hours, though only
two were required. All this Don Quixote believed,
and said that he was there ready to obey him, requesting
him, at the same time, to perform the deed as soon
as possible; because, should he be assaulted again
when he found himself knighted, he was resolved not
to leave one person alive in the castle, excepting those
whom, out of respect to him, and at his particular request,
he might be induced to spare. The constable,
thus warned and alarmed, immediately brought forth
a book in which he kept his account of the straw and
14
oats he furnished to the carriers, and attended by a boy,
who carried an end of candle, and the two damsels
before mentioned, went towards Don Quixote, whom
he commanded to kneel down; he then began reading
in his manual, as if it were some devout prayer,
in the course of which he raised his hand and gave
him a good blow on the neck, and, after that, a handsome
stroke over the shoulders, with his own sword,
still muttering between his teeth, as if in prayer.
This being done, he commanded one of the ladies to
gird on his sword, an office she performed with much
alacrity, as well as discretion, no small portion of
which was necessary to avoid bursting with laughter at
every part of the ceremony; but indeed the prowess
they had seen displayed by the new knight kept their
mirth within bounds.
At girding on the sword, the good lady said:
"God grant you may be a fortunate knight and successful
in battle."
Don Quixote inquired her name, that he might
thenceforward know to whom he was indebted for the
favor received, as it was his intention to bestow upon
her some share of the honor he should acquire by the
valor of his arm. She replied, with much humility,
that her name was Tolosa, and that she was the daughter
of a cobbler at Toledo, who lived at the stalls of
Sanchobienaya; and that, wherever she was, she would
serve and honor him as her lord. Don Quixote, in
reply, requested her, for his sake, to do him the favor
henceforth to add to her name the title of don, and
call herself Donna Tolosa, which she promised to do.
15
The other girl now buckled on his spur, and with her
he held nearly the same conference as with the lady of
the sword; having inquired her name, she told him it
was Molinera, and that she was daughter to an honest
miller of Antiquera: he then requested her likewise to
assume the don, and style herself Donna Molinera,
renewing his proffers of service and thanks.
These never-till-then-seen ceremonies being thus
speedily performed, Don Quixote was impatient to find
himself on horseback, in quest of adventures. He
therefore instantly saddled Rozinante, mounted him,
and, embracing his host, made his acknowledgments
for the favor he had conferred by knighting him, in
terms so extraordinary, that it would be in vain to attempt
to repeat them. The host, in order to get rid of
him the sooner, replied, with no less flourish, but more
brevity; and, without making any demand for his lodging,
wished him a good journey.
The tongue slow and the eyes quick.
Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.
The brave man carves out his own fortune.
Very full of pain, yet soon as he was able to stir, he
began to roll himself on the ground, and to repeat, in
what they affirm was said by the wounded knight of
the wood:—
"Where art thou, mistress of my heart,
Unconscious of thy lover's smart?
Ah me! thou know'st not my distress,
Or thou art false and pitiless."
16
"I know who I am," answered Don Quixote; "and
I know, too, that I am not only capable of being those
I have mentioned, but all the twelve peers of France,
yea, and the nine worthies, since my exploits will far
exceed all that they have jointly or separately
achieved."
Long and heavy was the sleep of Don Quixote:
meanwhile the priest having asked the niece for the
key of the chamber containing the books, those authors
of the mischief, which she delivered with a very
good will, they entered, attended by the housekeeper,
and found above a hundred large volumes well bound,
besides a great number of smaller size. No sooner
did the housekeeper see them than she ran out of the
room in great haste, and immediately returned with a
pot of holy water and a bunch of hyssop, saying:
"Signor Licentiate, take this and sprinkle the room,
lest some enchanter of the many that these books
abound with should enchant us, as a punishment for
our intention to banish them out of the world."
The priest smiled at the housekeeper's simplicity,
and ordered the barber to reach him the books one by
one, that they might see what they treated of, as they
might perhaps find some that deserved not to be chastised
by fire.
"No," said the niece, "there is no reason why any
of them should be spared, for they have all been mischief-makers:
so let them all be thrown out of the window
into the courtyard; and having made a pile of
17
them, set fire to it; or else make a bonfire of them in
the back yard, where the smoke will offend nobody."
The housekeeper said the same, so eagerly did they
both thirst for the death of those innocents. But the
priest would not consent to it without first reading the
titles at least.
The first that Master Nicholas put into his hands was
"Amadis de Gaul," in four parts; and the priest
said: "There seems to be some mystery in this, for I
have heard say that this was the first book of chivalry
printed in Spain, and that all the rest had their foundation
and rise from it; I think, therefore, as head of
so pernicious a sect, we ought to condemn him to the
fire without mercy."
"Not so," said the barber; "for I have heard also
that it is the best of all the books of this kind: therefore,
as being unequalled in its way, it ought to be spared."
"You are right," said the priest, "and for that reason
its life is granted for the present. Let us see that
other next to him."
"It is," said the barber, "the 'Adventures of Esplandian,'
the legitimate son of 'Amadis de Gaul.'"
"Verily," said the priest, "the goodness of the
father shall avail the son nothing; take him, Mistress
Housekeeper; open that casement, and throw him into
the yard, and let him make a beginning to the pile for
the intended bonfire."
The housekeeper did so with much satisfaction, and
good Esplandian was sent flying into the yard, there
to wait with patience for the fire with which he was
threatened.
18
"Proceed," said the priest.
"The next," said the barber, "is 'Amadis of
Greece;' yea, and all these on this side, I believe, are
of the lineage of Amadis."
"Then into the yard with them all!" quoth the
priest; "for rather than not burn Queen Pintiquiniestra,
and the shepherd Darinel with his eclogues, and
the devilish perplexities of the author, I would burn
the father who begot me, were I to meet him in the
shape of a knight-errant."
"Of the same opinion am I," said the barber.
"And I too," added the niece.
"Well, then," said the housekeeper, "away with
them all into the yard." They handed them to her;
and, as they were numerous, to save herself the trouble
of the stairs, she threw them all out of the window.
"What tun of an author is that?" said the priest.
"This," answered the barber, "is 'Don Olivante de
Laura.'"
"The author of that book," said the priest, "was
the same who composed the 'Garden of Flowers;' and
in good truth I know not which of the two books
is the truest, or rather, the least lying: I can only
say that this goes to the yard for its arrogance and
absurdity."
"This that follows is 'Florismarte of Hyrcania,'"
said the barber.
"What! is Signor Florismarte there?" replied the
priest; "now, by my faith, he shall soon make his appearance
in the yard, notwithstanding his strange
birth and chimerical adventures; for the harshness
19
and dryness of his style will admit of no excuse. To
the yard with him, and this other, Mistress Housekeeper.
"With all my heart, dear sir," answered she, and
with much joy executed what she was commanded.
"Here is the 'Knight Platir,'" said the barber.
"That," said the priest, "is an ancient book, and I
find nothing in him deserving pardon: without more
words, let him be sent after the rest;" which was
accordingly done. They opened another book, and
found it entitled the "Knight of the Cross." "So
religious a title," quoth the priest, "might, one would
think, atone for the ignorance of the author; but it is a
common saying 'the devil lurks behind the cross:' so
to the fire with him."
The barber, taking down another book, said, "This
is 'The Mirror of Chivalry.'"
"Oh! I know his worship very well," quoth the
priest. "I am only for condemning this to perpetual
banishment because it contains some things of the
famous Mateo Boyardo.
"If I find him here uttering any other language than
his own, I will show no respect; but if he speaks in his
own tongue, I will put him upon my head."
"I have him in Italian," said the barber, "but I do
not understand him."
"Neither is it any great matter, whether you understand
him or not," answered the priest; "and we would
willingly have excused the good captain from bringing
him into Spain and making him a Castilian; for he has
deprived him of a great deal of his native value; which,
20
indeed, is the misfortune of all those who undertake
the translation of poetry into other languages; for, with
all their care and skill, they can never bring them on a
level with the original production. This book, neighbor,
is estimable upon two accounts; the one, that it is
very good of itself; and the other, because there is a tradition
that it was written by an ingenious king of Portugal.
All the adventures of the castle of Miraguarda
are excellent, and contrived with much art; the dialogue
courtly and clear; and all the characters preserved
with great judgment and propriety. Therefore, Master
Nicholas, saving your better judgment, let this and 'Amadis
de Gaul' be exempted from the fire, and let all the
rest perish without any further inquiry."
"Not so, friend," replied the barber; "for this which
I have here is the renowned 'Don Bellianis.'"
The priest replied: "This, and the second, third, and
fourth parts, want a little rhubarb to purge away their
excess of bile; besides, we must remove all that relates
to the castle of Fame, and other absurdities of greater
consequence; for which let sentence of transportation
be passed upon them, and, according as they show signs
of amendment, they shall be treated with mercy or justice.
In the mean time, neighbor, give them room in
your house; but let them not be read."
"With all my heart," quoth the barber; and without
tiring himself any farther in turning over books of chivalry,
bid the housekeeper take all the great ones and
throw them into the yard. This was not spoken to the
stupid or deaf, but to one who had a greater mind to be
burning them than weaving the finest and largest web;
21
and therefore, laying hold of seven or eight at once, she
tossed them out at the window.
But, in taking so many together, one fell at the barber's
feet, who had a mind to see what it was, and found
it to be the history of the renowned knight Tirante the
White. "Heaven save me!" quoth the priest, with a
loud voice, "is Tirante the White there? Give him to
me, neighbor; for in him I shall have a treasure of delight,
and a mine of entertainment. Here we have Don
Kyrie-Eleison of Montalvan, a valorous knight, and his
brother Thomas of Montalvan, with the knight Fonseca,
and the combat which the valiant Tirante fought
with the bull-dog, and the witticisms of the damsel
Plazerdemivida; also the amours and artifices of the
widow Reposada; and madam the Empress in love with
her squire Hypolito. Verily, neighbor, in its way it is
the best book in the world: here the knights eat and
sleep, and die in their beds, and make their wills before
their deaths; with several things which are not to be
found in any other books of this kind. Notwithstanding
this I tell you, the author deserved, for writing so
many foolish things seriously, to be sent to the galleys
for the whole of his life: carry it home, and read it, and
you will find all I say of him to be true."
"I will do so," answered the barber: "but what
shall we do with these small volumes that remain?"
"Those," said the priest, "are, probably, not books of
chivalry, but of poetry." Then opening one he found
it was the 'Diana' of George de Montemayor, and, concluding
that all the others were of the same kind, he
said, "These do not deserve to be burnt like the rest;
22
for they cannot do the mischief that those of chivalry
have done; they are works of genius and fancy, and do
injury to none."
"O sir," said the niece, "pray order them to be
burnt with the rest; for should my uncle be cured of
this distemper of chivalry, he may possibly, by reading
such books, take it into his head to turn shepherd, and
wander through the woods and fields, singing and playing
on a pipe; and what would be still worse, turn poet,
which, they say, is an incurable and contagious disease."
"The damsel says true," quoth the priest, "and it
will not be amiss to remove this stumbling-block out of
our friend's way. And, since we begin with the 'Diana'
of Montemayor, my opinion is that it should not be
burnt, but that all that part should be expunged which
treats of the sage Felicia, and of the enchanted fountain,
and also most of the longer poems; leaving him,
in God's name, the prose and also the honor of being
the first in that kind of writing."
"The next that appears," said the barber, "is the
Diana, called the second, by Salmantino; and another,
of the same name, whose author is Gil Polo."
"The Salmantinian," answered the priest, "may accompany
and increase the number of the condemned—to
the yard with him: but let that of Gil Polo be preserved,
as if it were written by Apollo himself. Proceed,
friend, and let us despatch; for it grows late."
"This," said the barber, opening another, "is the
'Ten Books of the Fortune of Love,' composed by Antonio
de lo Frasso, a Sardinian poet."
23
"By the holy orders I have received!" said the
priest, "since Apollo was Apollo, the muses muses, and
the poets poets, so humorous and so whimsical a book
as this was never written; it is the best, and most extraordinary
of the kind that ever appeared in the world;
and he who has not read it may be assured that he has
never read anything of taste: give it me here, neighbor,
for I am better pleased at finding it than if I had been
presented with a cassock of Florence satin." He laid
it aside, with great satisfaction, and the barber proceeded,
saying:—
"These which follow are the 'Shepherd of Iberia,' the
'Nymphs of Enares,' and the 'Cure of Jealousy.'"
"Then you have only to deliver them up to the secular
arm of the housekeeper," said the priest, "and ask
me not why, for in that case we should never have
done."
"The next is the 'Shepherd of Filida.'"
"He is no shepherd," said the priest, "but an ingenious
courtier; let him be preserved, and laid up as a
precious jewel."
"This bulky volume here," said the barber, "is entitled
the 'Treasure of Divers Poems.'"
"Had they been fewer," replied the priest, "they
would have been more esteemed: it is necessary that
this book should be weeded and cleared of some low
things interspersed amongst its sublimities: let it be
preserved, both because the author is my friend, and
out of respect to other more heroic and exalted productions
of his pen."
"This," pursued the barber, "is 'El Cancionero' of
Lopez Maldonado."
24
"The author of that book," replied the priest, "is
also a great friend of mine: his verses, when sung by
himself, excite much admiration; indeed such is the
sweetness of his voice in singing them, that they are
perfectly enchanting. He is a little too prolix in his
eclogues; but there can never be too much of what is
really good: let it be preserved with the select. But
what book is that next to it?"
"The 'Galatea' of Miguel de Cervantes," said the
barber.
"That Cervantes has been an intimate friend of
mine these many years, and I know that he is more
versed in misfortunes than in poetry. There is a good
vein of invention in his book, which proposes something,
though nothing is concluded. We must wait for
the second part, which he has promised: perhaps, on
his amendment, he may obtain that entire pardon
which is now denied him; in the mean time, neighbor,
keep him a recluse in your chamber."
"With all my heart," answered the barber. "Now,
here come three together: the 'Araucana' of Don
Alonzo de Ercilla, the 'Austriada' of Juan Rufo, a
magistrate of Cordova, and the 'Monserrato' of Christoval
de Virves, a poet of Valencia."
"These three books," said the priest, "are the best
that are written in heroic verse in the Castilian tongue,
and may stand in competition with the most renowned
works of Italy. Let them be preserved as the best productions
of the Spanish Muse."
The priest grew tired of looking over so many books,
and therefore, without examination, proposed that all
25
the rest should be burnt; but the barber, having already
opened one called the "Tears of Angelica," "I should
have shed tears myself," said the priest, on hearing the
name, "had I ordered that book to be burnt; for its
author was one of the most celebrated poets, not only
of Spain, but of the whole world: his translations from
Ovid are admirable."
The same night the housekeeper set fire to and burnt
all the books that were in the yard and in the house.
Some must have perished that deserved to be treasured
up in perpetual archives, but their destiny or the indolence
of the scrutineer forbade it; and in them was
fulfilled the saying, that—
"The just sometimes suffer for the unjust."
In the mean time Don Quixote tampered with a
laborer, a neighbor of his, and an honest man (if such
an epithet can be given to one that is poor), but shallow
brained; in short, he said so much, used so many
arguments, and made so many promises, that the poor
fellow resolved to sally out with him and serve him in
the capacity of a squire. Among other things, Don
Quixote told him that he ought to be very glad to
accompany him, for such an adventure might some
time or the other occur, that by one stroke an island
might be won, where he might leave him governor.
With this and other promises, Sancho Panza (for that
was the laborer's name) left his wife and children and
engaged himself as squire to his neighbor.
Sancho Panza proceeded upon his ass, like a patriarch,
with his wallet and leathern bottle, and with a
26
vehement desire to find himself governor of the island,
which his master had promised him. Don Quixote
happened to take the same route as on his first expedition,
over the plain of Montiel, which he passed with
less inconvenience than before, for it was early in the
morning, and the rays of the sun, darting on them horizontally,
did not annoy them. Sancho Panza now said
to his master: "I beseech your worship, good sir
knight-errant, not to forget your promise concerning
that same island; for I shall know how to govern it,
be it ever so large."
To which Don Quixote answered: "Thou must
know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was a custom
much in use among the knights-errant of old to make
their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they
conquered, and I am determined that so laudable a
custom, shall not be lost through my neglect; on the
contrary, I resolve to outdo them in it: for they sometimes,
and perhaps most times, waited till their squires
were grown old; and when they were worn out in their
service, and had endured many bad days and worse
nights, they conferred on them some title, such as
count, or at least marquis, of some valley or province
of more or less account; but if you live, and I live,
before six days have passed I may probably win such
a kingdom as may have others depending on it, just fit
for thee to be crowned king of one of them. And do
not think this any extraordinary matter, for things fall
out to knights by such unforeseen and unexpected ways,
that I may easily give thee more than I promise."
"So then," answered Sancho Panza, "if I were a
27
king by some of those miracles your worship mentions,
Joan Gutierrez, my duck, would come to be a queen,
and my children infantas!"
"Who doubts it?" answered Don Quixote.
"I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "for I am verily
persuaded that, if God were to rain down kingdoms
upon the earth, none of them would sit well upon the
head of Mary Gutierrez; for you must know, sir, she
is not worth two farthings for a queen. The title of
countess would sit better upon her, with the help of
Heaven and good friends."
"Recommend her to God, Sancho," answered Don
Quixote, "and he will do what is best for her, but do
thou have a care not to debase thy mind so low as to
content thyself with being less than a viceroy."
"Heaven grant us good success, and that we may
speedily get this island which costs me so dear. No
matter then how soon I die."
"I have already told thee, Sancho, to give thyself
no concern upon that account; for, if an island cannot be
had, there is the kingdom of Denmark or that of Sobradisa,
which will fit thee like a ring to the finger. Besides,
as they are upon terra firma, thou shouldst prefer them.
But let us leave this to its own time, and see if thou
hast anything for us to eat in thy wallet. We will then
go in quest of some castle, where we may lodge this
night and make the balsam that I told thee of, for I
declare that my ear pains me exceedingly."
"I have here an onion and a piece of cheese, and I
know not how many crusts of bread," said Sancho,
"but they are not eatables fit for so valiant a knight
as your worship."
28
"How little dost thou understand of this matter!"
answered Don Quixote. "I tell thee, Sancho, that it
is honorable in knights-errant not to eat once in a
month; and, if they do taste food, it must be what
first offers: and this thou wouldst have known hadst
thou read as many histories as I have done; for, though
I have perused many, I never yet found in them any
account of knights-errant taking food, unless it were
by chance and at certain sumptuous banquets prepared
expressly for them. The rest of their days they lived,
as it were, upon smelling. And though it is to be presumed
they could not subsist without eating and satisfying
all other wants,—as, in fact, they were men,—yet,
since they passed most part of their lives in wandering
through forests and deserts, and without a cook,
their usual diet must have consisted of rustic viands,
such as those which thou hast now offered me. Therefore,
friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee which
gives me pleasure, nor endeavor to make a new world,
or to throw knight-errantry off its hinges."
"Pardon me, sir," said Sancho; "for, as I can neither
read nor write, as I told you before, I am entirely unacquainted
with the rules of the knightly profession;
but henceforward I will furnish my wallet with all sorts
of dried fruits for your worship, who are a knight; and
for myself, who am none, I will supply it with poultry
and other things of more substance."
There cannot be too much of a good thing.
What is lost to-day may be won to-morrow.
29
A saint may sometimes suffer for a sinner.
Many go out for wool and return shorn.
Matters of war are most subject to continual change.
Every man that is aggrieved is allowed to defend
himself by all laws human and divine.
Truth is the mother of history, the rival of time, the
depository of great actions, witness of the past, example
and adviser of the present, and oracle of future
ages.
Love, like knight-errantry, puts all things on a
level.
He that humbleth himself God will exalt.3
After Don Quixote had satisfied his hunger, he took
up a handful of acorns, and, looking on them attentively,
gave utterance to expressions like these:—
"Happy times and happy ages were those which the
ancients termed the Golden Age! Not because gold,
so prized in this our Iron age, was to be obtained, in
that fortunate period, without toil; but because they
who then lived were ignorant of those two words, Mine
and Thine. In that blessed age all things were in common;
to provide their ordinary sustenance no other
30
labor was necessary than to raise their hands and take
it from the sturdy oaks, which stood liberally inviting
them to taste their sweet and relishing fruit. The
limpid fountains and running streams offered them,
in magnificent abundance, their delicious and transparent
waters. In the clefts of rocks, and in hollow trees,
the industrious and provident bees formed their commonwealths,
offering to every hand, without interest, the
fertile produce of their most delicious toil. The stately
cork-trees, impelled by their own courtesy alone, divested
themselves of their light and expanded bark, with which
men began to cover their houses, supported by rough
poles, only as a defence against the inclemency of the
heavens. All then was peace, all amity, all concord.
The heavy colter of the crooked plough had not yet
dared to force open and search into the tender bowels
of our first mother, who, unconstrained, offered from
every part of her fertile and spacious bosom whatever
might feed, sustain, and delight those, her children,
by whom she was then possessed."
Yes, lovely nymph, thou art my prize;
I boast the conquest of thy heart,
Though nor the tongue, nor speaking eyes,
Have yet revealed the latent smart.
Thy wit and sense assure my fate,
In them my love's success I see;
Nor can he be unfortunate
Who dares avow his flame for thee.
31
Yet sometimes hast thou frowned, alas!
And given my hopes a cruel shock;
Then did thy soul seem formed of brass,
Thy snowy bosom of the rock.
But in the midst of thy disdain,
Thy sharp reproaches, cold delays,
Hope from behind to ease my pain,
The border of her robe displays.
Ah, lovely maid! in equal scale
Weigh well thy shepherd's truth and love,
Which ne'er but with his breath can fail,
Which neither frowns nor smiles can move.
If love, as shepherds wont to say,
Be gentleness and courtesy,
So courteous is Olalia,
My passion will rewarded be.
And if obsequious duty paid,
The grateful heart can never move,
Mine sure, my fair, may well persuade
A due return and claim thy love.
For, to seem pleasing in thy sight,
I dress myself with studious care,
And, in my best apparel dight,
My Sunday clothes on Monday wear.
And shepherds say I'm not to blame,
For cleanly dress and spruce attire
32
Preserve alive love's wanton flame
And gently fan the dying fire.
To please my fair, in mazy ring
I join the dance, and sportive play;
And oft beneath thy window sing,
When first the cock proclaims the day.
With rapture on each charm I dwell,
And daily spread thy beauty's fame;
And still my tongue thy praise shall tell,
Though envy swell, or malice blame.
Teresa of the Berrocal,
When once I praised you, said in spite,
Your mistress you an angel call,
But a mere ape is your delight.
Thanks to the bugle's artful glare,
And all the graces counterfeit;
Thanks to the false and curléd hair,
Which wary Love himself might cheat.
I swore 'twas false, and said she lied;
At that her anger fiercely rose;
I boxed the clown that took her side,
And how I boxed my fairest knows.
I court thee not, Olalia,
To gratify a loose desire;
My love is chaste, without alloy
Of wanton wish or lustful fire.
33
The church hath silken cords, that tie
Consenting hearts in mutual bands:
If thou, my fair, its yoke will try,
Thy swain its ready captive stands.
If not, by all the saints I swear
On these bleak mountains still to dwell,
Nor ever quit my toilsome care,
But for the cloister and the cell.
I think I see her now, with that goodly presence,
looking as if she had the sun on one side of her and the
moon on the other; and above all, she was a notable
housewife, and a friend to the poor; for which I believe
her soul is at this very moment in heaven.
A clergyman must be over and above good, who makes all his
parishioners speak well of him.
Parents ought not to settle their children against their
will.
Though she does not fly or shun the company and
conversation of the shepherds, but treats them in a
courteous and friendly manner, yet, when any one of
them ventures to discover his intention, though it be as
just and holy as that of marriage, she casts him from
her as out of a stone-bow. And by this sort of behavior
she does more mischief in this country than if she
carried the plague about with her; for her affability and
beauty win the hearts of those who converse with her,
34
and incline them to serve and love her; but her disdain
and frank dealing drive them to despair; and so they
know not what to say to her, and can only exclaim
against her, calling her cruel and ungrateful, with such
other titles as plainly denote her character; and, were
you to abide here, sir, awhile, you would hear these
mountains and valleys resound with the complaints of
those rejected wretches that yet follow her. There is
a place not far hence, where about two dozen of tall
beeches grow, and not one of them is without the name
of Marcela written and engraved on its smooth bark;
over some of them is carved a crown, as if the lover
would more clearly observe that Marcela deserves and
wears the crown of all human beauty.
Revels, banquets, and repose, were invented for
effeminate courtiers; but toil, disquietude, and arms
alone were designed for those whom the world calls
knights-errant.
For never sure was any knight
So served by damsel, or by dame,
As Lancelot, that man of might,
When he at first from Britain came.
The soldier who executes his captain's command is no less
valuable than the captain who gave the order.
"I am of the same opinion," replied the traveller;
"but one thing, among many others which appear to
me to be censurable in knights-errant, is that, when
they are prepared to engage in some great and perilous
35
adventure to the manifest hazard of their lives, at the
moment of attack they never think of commending
themselves to God, as every Christian is bound to do at
such a crisis, but rather commend themselves to their
mistresses, and that with as much fervor and devotion
as if they were really their God; a thing which to me
savors of paganism."
"Signor," answered Don Quixote, "this can by no
means be otherwise; and the knight-errant who should
act in any other manner would digress much from his
duty; for it is a received maxim and custom in chivalry,
that the knight-errant, who, on the point of engaging
in some great feat of arms, has his lady before him,
must turn his eyes fondly and amorously towards her,
as if imploring her favor and protection in the hazardous
enterprise that awaits him; and, even if nobody
hear him, he must pronounce some words between his
teeth, by which he commends himself to her with his
whole heart; and of this we have innumerable examples
in history. Nor is it thence to be inferred that they
neglect commending themselves to God; for there is
time and opportunity enough to do it in the course of
the action."
"Notwithstanding all that," replied the traveller,
"better had it been if the words he spent in commending
himself to his lady, in the midst of the career, had
been employed as the duties of a Christian require;
particularly as I imagine that all knights-errant have
not ladies to commend themselves to, because they are
not all in love."
"That cannot be," answered Don Quixote: "I say
36
there cannot be a knight-errant without a mistress; for
it is as essential and as natural for them to be enamored
as for the sky to have stars; and most certainly, no
history exists in which a knight-errant is to be found
without an amour; for, from the very circumstance of
his being without, he would not be acknowledged as a
legitimate knight, but a bastard who had entered the
fortress of chivalry, not by the gate, but over the pales,
like a thief and robber."
"Nevertheless," said the traveller, "if I am not
mistaken, I remember having read that Don Galaor,
brother to the valorous Amadis de Gaul, never had a
particular mistress, to whom he might commend himself;
notwithstanding which, he was no less esteemed,
and was a very valiant and famous knight."
To which our Don Quixote answered: "Signor, one
swallow does not make a summer." 4
"If it is essential that every knight-errant be a
lover," said the traveller, "it may well be presumed
that you are yourself one, being of the profession; and,
if you do not pique yourself upon the same secrecy as
Don Galaor, I earnestly entreat you, in the name of all
this good company and in my own, to tell us the name,
country, quality, and beauty of your mistress, who cannot
but account herself happy that all the world should
know that she is loved and served by so worthy a
knight."
Here Don Quixote breathed a deep sigh, and said:
"I cannot positively affirm whether that sweet enemy
37
of mine is pleased or not that the world should know
I am her servant. I can only say, in answer to what
you so very courteously inquire of me, that her name
is Dulcinea; her country Toboso, a town of la Mancha:
her quality at least that of a princess, since she is my
queen and sovereign lady; her beauty more than human,
since in her all the impossible and chimerical attributes
of beauty which the poets ascribe to their mistresses
are realized; for her hair is gold, her forehead the Elysian
Fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her
cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck,
alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her whiteness
snow, and her whole person without parallel. She
is of those of Toboso de la Mancha; a lineage which,
though modern, is yet such as may give a noble beginning
to the most illustrious families of future ages; and
in this let no one contradict me, unless it be on the conditions
that Zerbino fixed under the arms of Orlando,
where it said:—
'That knight alone these arms shall move,
Who dares Orlando's prowess prove.'"
"Comrades," said he, "do you know what is passing
in the village?"
"How should we know?" answered one of them.
"Know, then," continued the youth, "that the famous
shepherd and scholar, Chrysostom, died this morning;
and it is rumored that it was for love of that saucy
girl Marcela, daughter of William the rich; she who
38
rambles about these woods and fields in the dress of a
shepherdess."
"For Marcela, say you?" quoth one.
"For her, I say," answered the goatherd; "and the
best of it is, he has ordered in his will that they should
bury him in the fields, like a Moor, at the foot of the
rock, by the cork-tree fountain, which, according to report,
and as they say, he himself declared was the very
place where he first saw her. He ordered also other
tilings so extravagant that the clergy say they must not
be performed; nor is it fit that they should, for they
seem to be heathenish. But his great friend Ambrosio,
the student, who accompanied him, dressed also like a
shepherd, declares that the whole of what Chrysostom
enjoined shall be executed: and upon this the village is
all in an uproar: but by what I can learn, they will at
last do what Ambrosio and all his friends require; and
to-morrow they come to inter him, with great solemnity,
in the place I mentioned; and, in my opinion, it will be
a sight well worth seeing; at least, I shall not fail to
go, although I were certain of not returning to-morrow
to the village."
"We will do the same," answered the goatherds;
"and let us cast lots who shall stay behind to look after
the goats."
"You say well, Pedro," quoth another; "but it will
be needless to make use of this expedient, for I will remain
for you all: and do not attribute this to self-denial
or want of curiosity in me, but to the thorn which stuck
into my foot the other day, and hinders me from
walking."
39
"We thank you, nevertheless," answered Pedro.
Don Quixote requested Pedro to give him some account
of the deceased man and the shepherdess. To
which Pedro answered, "that all he knew was, that the
deceased was a wealthy gentleman, and inhabitant of a
village situate among these mountains, who had studied
many years at Salamanca; at the end of which time he
returned home, with the character of a very learned and
well read person; particularly, it was said, he understood
the science of the stars, and what the sun and
moon are doing in the sky; for he told us punctually the
clipse of the sun and moon."
"Friend," quoth Don Quixote, "the obscuration of
those two luminaries is called an eclipse, and not a
clipse."
But Pedro, not regarding niceties, went on with his
story, saying, "He also foretold when the year would
be plentiful or starel."
"Sterile, you would say, friend," quoth Don Quixote.
"Sterile, or starel," answered Pedro, "comes all to
the same thing. And, as I was saying, his father and
friends, who gave credit to his words, became very rich
thereby; for they followed his advice in everything.
This year he would say, 'Sow barley, and not wheat;
in this you may sow vetches, and not barley; the next
year there will be plenty of oil; the three following
there will not be a drop.'"
"This science they call astrology," said Don Quixote.
"I know not how it is called," replied Pedro, "but I
know that he knew all this, and more too. In short,
not many months after he came from Salamanca, on a
40
certain day he appeared dressed like a shepherd, with
his crook and sheepskin jacket, having thrown aside his
scholar's gown; and with an intimate friend of his,
called Ambrosio, who had been his fellow-student, and
who now put on likewise the apparel of a shepherd. I
forgot to tell you how the deceased Chrysostom was a
great man at making verses; insomuch that he made
the carols for Christmas-eve and the religious plays for
Corpus Christi, which the boys of the village represented;
and everybody said they were most excellent.
When the people of the village saw the two scholars so
suddenly habited like shepherds, they were amazed, and
could not get at the cause that induced them to make
that strange alteration in their dress. About this time
the father of Chrysostom died, and he inherited a large
estate, in lands and goods, flocks, herds, and money, of
all which the youth remained absolute master; and, indeed,
he deserved it all, for he was a very good companion,
a charitable man, and a friend to those that were
good, and had a face like any blessing. Afterwards it
came to be known that he changed his habit for no other
purpose but that he might wander about these desert
places after that shepherdess Marcela, with whom, as
our lad told you, he was in love.
"As all that I have related is certain truth, I can more
readily believe what our companion told us concerning
the cause of Chrysostom's death; and therefore I advise
you, sir, not to fail being to-morrow at his funeral,
which will be very well worth seeing; for Chrysostom
had a great many friends, and it is not half a league
hence to the place of interment appointed by himself."
41
"I will certainly be there," said Don Quixote, "and
I thank you for the pleasure you have given me by the
recital of so entertaining a story."
Morning scarcely had dawned through the balconies
of the east, when five of the six goatherds got up and
went to awake Don Quixote, whom they asked whether
he continued in his resolution of going to see the famous
interment of Chrysostom, for, if so, they would bear
him company. Don Quixote, who desired nothing
more, arose, and ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel
immediately, which he did with great expedition; and
with the same dispatch they all set out on their journey.
They had not gone a quarter of a league, when upon
crossing a pathway, they saw six shepherds advancing
towards them, clad in jackets of black sheepskin, with
garlands of cypress and bitter rosemary on their heads;
each of them having in his hand a thick holly club.
There came also with them two gentlemen on horseback,
well equipped for travelling, who were attended by
three lackeys on foot. When the two parties met they
courteously saluted each other, and finding upon inquiry
that all were proceeding to the place of burial,
they continued their journey together.
Proceeding on, they discerned through a cleft between
two high mountains about twenty shepherds coming
down, all clad in jerkins of black wool, and crowned
with garlands, some of which were of yew, and some of
cypress. Six of them carried a bier covered with various
flowers and boughs. One of the goatherds said:
"Those who come hither are bearing the corpse of
Chrysostom, and at the foot of yonder mountain is the
42
place where he desired to be interred." Four of them,
with sharp pickaxes, were making the grave by the side
of a sharp rock. Upon the bier lay a dead body,
strewed with flowers, in the dress of a shepherd, apparently
about thirty years of age; and though dead, it was
evident that his countenance had been beautiful and
his figure elegant. Several books and a great number
of papers, some open and some folded, lay round him
on the bier. All that were present, spectators as well
as those who were opening the grave, kept a marvellous
silence, until one said to another: "Observe carefully,
Ambrosio, whether this be the place which Chrysostom
mentioned since you wish to be so exact in executing
his will."
"It is here," answered Ambrosio; "for in this very
place my unhappy friend often told me of his woe.
Here it was, he told me, that he first beheld that mortal
enemy of the human race; here it was that he declared
to her his no less honorable than ardent passion;
here it was that Marcela finally undeceived and treated
him with such disdain that she put an end to the
tragedy of his miserable life; and here, in memory of
so many misfortunes, he desired to be deposited in the
bowels of eternal oblivion."
Then, addressing himself to Don Quixote and the
travellers, he thus continued: "This body, sirs, which
you are regarding with compassionate eyes, was the
receptacle of a soul upon which Heaven had bestowed
an infinite portion of its treasures; this is the body of
Chrysostom, who was a man of rare genius, matchless
courtesy, and unbounded kindness; he was a phœnix
43
in friendship, magnificent without ostentation, grave
without arrogance, cheerful without meanness; in
short, the first in all that was good, and second to none
in all that was unfortunate. He loved, and was abhorred;
he adored, and was scorned; he courted a savage;
he solicited a statue; he pursued the wind; he
called aloud to the desert; he was the slave of ingratitude,
whose recompense was to leave him, in the middle
of his career of life, a prey to death, inflicted by a certain
shepherdess, whom he endeavored to render immortal in
the memories of men; as these papers you are looking
at would sufficiently demonstrate, had he not ordered
me to commit them to the flames at the same time that
his body was deposited in the earth."
"You would then be more rigorous and cruel to
them," said Vivaldo, "than their master himself.
"It is neither just nor wise to fulfil the will of him
who commands what is utterly unreasonable.
"Augustus Cæsar deemed it wrong to consent to the
execution of what the divine Mantuan commanded in
his will; therefore, Signor Ambrosio, although you
commit your friend's body to the earth, do not commit
his writings also to oblivion; and if he has ordained
like a man aggrieved, do not you fulfil like one without
discretion, but rather preserve those papers, in
order that the cruelty of Marcela may be still remembered,
and serve for an example to those who shall live
in times to come, that they may avoid falling down
the like precipices; for I am acquainted, as well
as my companions here, with the story of this your
enamored and despairing friend; we know also your
44
friendship, and the occasion of his death, and what he
ordered on his deathbed; from which lamentable history
we may conclude how great has been the cruelty
of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and the sincerity of
your friendship; and also learn the end of those who
run headlong in the path that delirious passion presents
to their view. Last night we heard of Chrysostom's
death, and that he was to be interred in this place; led,
therefore, by curiosity and compassion, we turned out
of our way, and determined to behold with our eyes
what had interested us so much in the recital; and, in
return for our pity, and our desire to give aid, had it
been possible, we beseech you, oh wise Ambrosio—at
least I request it on my own behalf—that you will
not burn the papers, but allow me to take some of
them."
Then, without waiting for the shepherd's reply, he
stretched out his hand and took some of those that
were nearest to him: upon which Ambrosio said:
"Out of civility, signor, I will consent to your keeping
those you have taken; but if you expect that I shall
forbear burning those that remain, you are deceived."
Vivaldo, desirous of seeing what the papers contained,
immediately opened one of them, and found
that it was entitled, "The Song of Despair." Ambrosio,
hearing it, said: "This is the last thing which
the unhappy man wrote; and that all present may conceive,
signor, to what a state of misery he was reduced,
read it aloud; for you will have time enough while they
are digging the grave."
"That I will do with all my heart," said Vivaldo;
45
and, as all the bystanders had the same desire, they
assembled around him, and he read in an audible voice
as follows:—
chrysostom's song.
i.
Since, cruel maid, you force me to proclaim
From clime to clime, the triumph of your scorn,
Let hell itself inspire my tortured breast
With mournful numbers, and untune my voice;
Whilst the sad pieces of my broken heart
Mix with the doleful accents of my tongue,
At once to tell my griefs and thy exploits,
Hear, then, and listen with attentive ear—
Not to harmonious sounds, but echoing groans,
Fetched from the bottom of my laboring breast,
To ease, in spite of thee, my raging smart.
ii.
The lion's roar, the howl of midnight wolves,
The scaly serpent's hiss, the raven's croak,
The burst of fighting winds that vex the main,
The widowed owl and turtle's plaintive moan,
With all the din of hell's infernal crew,
From my grieved soul forth issue in one sound—
Leaving my senses all confused and lost.
For ah! no common language can express
The cruel pains that torture my sad heart.
iii.
Yet let not Echo bear the mournful sounds
To where old Tagus rolls his yellow sands,
46
Or Betis, crowned with olives, pours his flood,
But here, 'midst rocks and precipices deep,
Or to obscure and silent vales removed,
On shores by human footsteps never trod,
Where the gay sun ne'er lifts his radiant orb,
Or with the envenomed face of savage beasts
That range the howling wilderness for food,
Will I proclaim the story of my woes—
Poor privilege of grief!—while echoes hoarse
Catch the sad tale, and spread it round the world.
iv.
Disdain gives death; suspicions, true or false,
O'erturn the impatient mind: with surer stroke
Fell jealousy destroys; the pangs of absence
No lover can support; nor firmest hope
Can dissipate the dread of cold neglect;
Yet I, strange fate! though jealous, though disdained,
Absent, and sure of cold neglect, still live.
And amidst the various torments I endure,
No ray of hope e'er darted on my soul,
Nor would I hope; rather in deep despair
Will I sit down, and, brooding o'er my griefs,
Vow everlasting absence from her sight.
v.
Can hope and fear at once the soul possess,
Or hope subsist with surer cause of fear?
Shall I, to shut out frightful jealousy,
Close my sad eyes, when every pang I feel
Presents the hideous phantom to my view?
47
What wretch so credulous but must embrace
Distrust with open arms, when he beholds
Disdain avowed, suspicions realized,
And truth itself converted to a lie?
Oh, cruel tyrant of the realm of love,
Fierce Jealousy, arm with a sword this hand,
Or thou, Disdain, a twisted cord bestow!
vi.
Let me not blame my fate; but, dying, think
The man most blest who loves, the soul most free
That love has most enthralled. Still to my thoughts
Let fancy paint the tyrant of my heart
Beauteous in mind as face, and in myself
Still let me find the source of her disdain,
Content to suffer, since imperial Love
By lover's woes maintains his sovereign state.
With this persuasion, and the fatal noose,
I hasten to the doom her scorn demands,
And, dying, offer up my breathless corse,
Uncrowned with garlands, to the whistling winds.
vii.
Oh thou, whose unrelenting rigor's force
First drove me to despair, and now to death;
When the sad tale of my untimely fall
Shall reach thy ear, though it deserve a sigh,
Veil not the heaven of those bright eyes in grief,
Nor drop one pitying tear, to tell the world
At length my death has triumphed o'er thy scorn:
48
With laughter and each circumstance of joy
The festival of my disastrous end.
Ah! need I bid thee smile? too well I know
My death's thy utmost glory and thy pride.
viii.
Come, all ye phantoms of the dark abyss:
Bring, Tantalus, thy unextinguished thirst,
And Sisyphus, thy still returning stone;
Come, Tityus, with the vulture at thy heart;
And thou, Ixion, bring thy giddy wheel;
Nor let the toiling sisters stay behind.
Pour your united griefs into this breast,
And in low murmurs sing sad obsequies
(If a despairing wretch such rites may claim)
O'er my cold limbs, denied a winding sheet.
And let the triple porter of the shades,
The sister Furies, and chimeras dire,
With notes of woe the mournful chorus join.
Such funeral pomp alone befits the wretch
By beauty sent untimely to the grave.
ix.
And thou, my song, sad child of my despair,
Complain no more; but since thy wretched fate
Improves her happier lot who gave thee birth,
Be all thy sorrows buried in my tomb.
None of the shepherds departed until, the grave being
made and the papers burnt, the body of Chrysostom was
interred, not without many tears from the spectators.
49
They closed the sepulchre with a large fragment of a rock
until a tombstone was finished, which Ambrosio said
it was his intention to provide, and to inscribe upon it
the following epitaph:—
chrysostom's epitaph.
The body of a wretched swain,
Killed by a cruel maid's disdain,
In this cold bed neglected lies.
He lived, fond, hapless youth! to prove
Th' inhuman tyranny of love,
Exerted in Marcela's eyes.
Then they strewed abundance of flowers and boughs
on the grave, and after expressions of condolence to his
friend Ambrosio, they took their leave of him.
All beauty does not inspire love; some please the
sight without captivating the affections. If all beauties
were to enamour and captivate, the hearts of mankind
would be in a continual state of perplexity and confusion—for
beautiful objects being infinite, the sentiments
they inspire should also be infinite.
True love cannot be divided, and must be voluntary and
unconstrained.
The viper deserves no blame for its sting, although it be
mortal—because it is the gift of Nature.
Beauty in a modest woman is like fire or a sharp sword at a
distance; neither doth the one burn nor the other wound
those that come not too near them.
50
Honor and virtue are ornaments of the soul, without which
the body, though it be really beautiful, ought not to be
thought so.
Let him who is deceived complain.
Let him to whom faith is broken despair.
She who loves none can make none jealous, and sincerity
ought not to pass for disdain.
Much time is necessary to know people thoroughly.
We are sure of nothing in this life.
There is no remembrance which time does not obliterate, nor
pain which death does not terminate.
Fortune always leaves some door open in misfortune.
Sometimes we look for one thing and find another.
Self-praise depreciates.
The cat to the rat—the rat to the rope—the rope to the
gallows.
Out of the frying-pan into the fire.
One man is no more than another, only inasmuch as he does
more than another.
51
The lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.
A mouth without teeth is like a mill without a stone.
The dead to the bier, and the living to good cheer.
One effect of fear is to disturb the senses, and make things
not to appear what they really are.
They saw, advancing towards them, on the same
road, a great number of lights, resembling so many
moving stars. Sancho stood aghast at the sight of them,
nor was Don Quixote unmoved. The one checked his
ass and the other his horse, and both stood looking before
them with eager attention. They perceived that
the lights were advancing towards them, and that as
they approached nearer they appeared larger. Sancho
trembled like quicksilver at the sight, and Don Quixote's
hair bristled upon his head; but, somewhat recovering
himself, he exclaimed: "Sancho, this must be
a most perilous adventure, wherein it will be necessary
for me to exert my whole might and valor."
"Woe is me!" answered Sancho; "should this prove
to be an adventure of goblins, as to me it seems to be,
where shall I find ribs to endure?"
"Whatsoever phantoms they may be," said Don
Quixote, "I will not suffer them to touch a thread of
thy garment: for if they sported with thee before, it
was because I could not get over the wall; but we are
52
now upon even ground, where I can brandish my sword
at pleasure."
"But, if they should enchant and benumb you, as
they did then," quoth Sancho, "what matters it whether
we are in the open field or not?"
"Notwithstanding that," replied Don Quixote, "I
beseech thee, Sancho, to be of good courage; for experience
shall give thee sufficient proof of mine."
"I will, if it please God," answered Sancho; and,
retiring a little on one side of the road, and again endeavoring
to discover what those walking lights might
be, they soon after perceived a great many persons
clothed in white.
This dreadful spectacle completely annihilated the
courage of Sancho, whose teeth began to chatter, as if
seized with a quartan ague; and his trembling and
chattering increased as more of it appeared in view;
for now they discovered about twenty persons in white
robes, all on horseback, with lighted torches in their
hands; behind them came a litter covered with black,
which was followed by six persons in deep mourning;
the mules on which they were mounted being covered
likewise with black down to their heels; for that they
were mules, and not horses, was evident by the slowness
of their pace. Those robed in white were muttering
to themselves in a low and plaintive tone.
This strange vision, at such an hour, and in a place
so uninhabited might well strike terror into Sancho's
heart, and even into that of his master; and so it would
have done had he been any other than Don Quixote.
As for Sancho, his whole stock of courage was now exhausted.
53
But it was otherwise with his master, whose
lively imagination instantly suggested to him that this
must be truly a chivalrous adventure. He conceived
that the litter was a bier, whereon was carried some
knight sorely wounded, or slain, whose revenge was
reserved for him alone; he, therefore, without delay
couched his spear, seated himself firm in his saddle,
and with grace and spirit advanced into the middle of
the road by which the procession must pass; and, when
they were near, he raised his voice and said: "Ho,
knights, whoever ye are, halt, and give me an account
to whom ye belong; whence ye come, whither ye are
going, and what it is ye carry upon that bier; for in all
appearance either ye have done some injury to others,
or others to you: and it is expedient and necessary that
I be informed of it, either to chastise ye for the evil ye
have done, or to revenge ye of wrongs sustained."
"We are in haste," answered one in the procession;
"the inn is a great way off, and we cannot stay to give
so long an account as you require." Then, spurring
his mule, he passed forward.
Don Quixote, highly resenting this answer, laid hold
of his bridle and said: "Stand, and with more civility
give me the account I demand; otherwise I challenge
ye all to battle."
The mule was timid, and started so much upon his
touching the bridle, that, rising on her hind legs, she
threw her rider over the crupper to the ground. A
lacquey that came on foot, seeing the man in white
fall, began to revile Don Quixote, whose choler being
now raised, he couched his spear, and immediately
54
attacking one of the mourners, laid him on the ground
grievously wounded; then turning about to the rest,
it was worth seeing with what agility he attacked and
defeated them; and it seemed as if wings at that instant
had sprung on Rozinante—so lightly and swiftly
he moved! All the white-robed people, being timorous
and unarmed, soon quitted the skirmish and ran
over the plain with their lighted torches, looking like
so many masqueraders on a carnival or festival night.
The mourners were so wrapped up and muffled in their
long robes that they could make no exertion; so that
Don Quixote, with entire safety, assailed them all, and,
sorely against their will, obliged them to quit the field;
for they thought him no man, but the devil from hell
broke loose upon them to seize the dead body they were
conveying in the litter.
All this Sancho beheld with admiration at his master's
intrepidity, and said to himself: "This master
of mine is certainly as valiant and magnanimous as he
pretends to be."
A burning torch lay upon the ground near the first
whom the mule had overthrown, by the light of which
Don Quixote espied him, and going up to him, placed
the point of his spear to his throat, commanding him
to surrender, on pain of death. To which the fallen
man answered: "I am surrendered enough already,
since I cannot stir, for one of my legs is broken. I
beseech you, sir, if you are a Christian gentleman, do
not kill me: you would commit a great sacrilege,
for I am a licentiate and have taken the lesser
orders."
55
"Who the devil, then," said Don Quixote, "brought
you hither, being an ecclesiastic?"
"Who, sir?" replied the fallen man; "my evil fortune."
"A worse fate now threatens you," said Don Quixote,
"unless you reply satisfactorily to all my first questions."
"Your worship shall soon be satisfied," answered the
licentiate; "and therefore you must know, sir, that
though I told you before I was a licentiate, I am in
fact only a bachelor of arts, and my name is Alonzo
Lopez. I am a native of Alcovendas, and came from
the city of Baeza with eleven more ecclesiastics, the
same who fled with the torches. We were attending
the corpse in that litter to the city of Segovia. It is
that of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was
deposited till now, that, as I said before, we are carrying
his bones to their place of burial in Segovia, where
he was born."
"And who killed him?" demanded Don Quixote.
"God," replied the bachelor, "by means of a pestilential
fever."
"Then," said Don Quixote, "our Lord hath saved
me the labor of revenging his death, in case he had
been slain by any other hand. But, since he fell by
the hand of Heaven, there is nothing expected from us
but patience and a silent shrug; for just the same must
I have done had it been His pleasure to pronounce the
fatal sentence upon me. It is proper that your reverence
should know that I am a knight of La Mancha,
Don Quixote by name, and that it is my office and profession
56
to go over the world righting wrongs and redressing
grievances."
He that seeketh danger perisheth therein.
Fear hath many eyes.
Evil to him that evil seeks.
Everybody has not discretion to take things by the right
handle.
He loves thee well who makes thee weep.
About this time it began to rain a little, and Sancho
proposed entering the fulling-mill; but Don Quixote
had conceived such an abhorrence of them for the late
jest, that he would by no means go in: turning, therefore,
to the right hand, they struck into another road,
like that they had travelled through the day before.
Soon after, Don Quixote discovered a man on horseback,
who had on his head something which glittered as
if it had been of gold; and scarcely had he seen it when,
turning to Sancho, he said, "I am of opinion, Sancho,
there is no proverb but what is true, because they are
all sentences drawn from experience itself, the mother of
all the sciences; especially that which says, 'Where one
door is shut another is opened.' I say this because, if
fortune last night shut the door against what we
sought, deceiving us with the fulling-mills, it now
57
opens wide another, for a better and more certain
adventure; in which, if I am deceived, the fault will be
mine, without imputing it to my ignorance of fulling-mills,
or to the darkness of night. This I say because,
if I mistake not, there comes one towards us who
carries on his head Mambrino's helmet, concerning
which thou mayest remember I swore the oath."
"Take care, sir, what you say, and more what you
do," said Sancho; "for I would not wish for other
fulling-mills, to finish the milling and mashing our
senses."
"The devil take thee!" replied Don Quixote: "what
has a helmet to do with fulling-mills?"
"I know not," answered Sancho; "but in faith, if I
might talk as much as I used to do, perhaps I could
give such reasons that your worship would see you are
mistaken in what you say."
"How can I be mistaken in what I say, scrupulous
traitor?" said Don Quixote. "Tell me, seest thou
not yon knight coming towards us on a dapple-gray
steed, with a helmet of gold on his head?"
"What I see and perceive," answered Sancho, "is
only a man on a gray ass like mine, with something on
his head that glitters."
"Why, that is Mambrino's helmet," said Don Quixote;
"retire, and leave me alone to deal with him,
and thou shalt see how, in order to save time, I shall
conclude this adventure without speaking a word, and
the helmet I have so much desired remain my own."
"I shall take care to get out of the way," replied
Sancho; "but Heaven grant, I say again, it may not
prove another fulling-mill adventure."
58
"I have already told thee, Sancho, not to mention
those fulling-mills, nor even think of them," said Don
Quixote: "if thou dost—I say no more, but I vow to
mill thy soul for thee!" Sancho held his peace, fearing
lest his master should perform his vow, which had
struck him all of a heap.
Now the truth of the matter, concerning the helmet,
the steed, and the knight which Don Quixote saw, was
this. There were two villages in that neighborhood,
one of them so small that it had neither shop nor barber,
but the other adjoining to it had both; therefore
the barber of the larger served also the less, wherein
one customer now wanted to be let blood and another
to be shaved; to perform which, the barber was now on
his way, carrying with him his brass basin; and it so
happened that while upon the road it began to rain,
and to save his hat, which was a new one, he clapped
the basin on his head, which being lately scoured was
seen glittering at the distance of half a league; and he
rode on a gray ass, as Sancho had affirmed. Thus Don
Quixote took the barber for a knight, his ass for a dapple-gray
steed, and his basin for a golden helmet; for
whatever he saw was quickly adapted to his knightly
extravagances: and when the poor knight drew near,
without staying to reason the case with him, he advanced
at Rozinante's best speed, and couched his
lance, intending to run him through and through; but,
when close upon him, without checking the fury of his
career, he cried out, "Defend thyself, caitiff! or instantly
surrender what is justly my due."
The barber, so unexpectedly seeing this phantom
59
advancing upon him, had no other way to avoid the
thrust of the lance than to slip down from the ass; and
no sooner had he touched the ground than, leaping up
nimbler than a roebuck, he scampered over the plain
with such speed that the wind could not overtake him.
The basin he left on the ground; with which Don
Quixote was satisfied, observing that the pagan had
acted discreetly, and in imitation of the beaver, which,
when closely pursued by the hunters, tears off with his
teeth that which it knows by instinct to be the object
of pursuit. He ordered Sancho to take up the helmet;
who, holding it in his hand, said, "Before Heaven,
the basin is a special one, and is well worth a piece of
eight, if it is worth a farthing."
He then gave it to his master, who immediately
placed it upon his head, turning it round in search of
the visor; but not finding it he said, "Doubtless the
pagan for whom this famous helmet was originally
forged must have had a prodigious head—the worst of
it is that one half is wanting."
When Sancho heard the basin called a helmet, he
could not forbear laughing; which, however, he instantly
checked on recollecting his master's late choler.
"What dost thou laugh at, Sancho?" said Don
Quixote.
"I am laughing," answered he, "to think what a
huge head the pagan had who owned that helmet,
which is for all the world just like a barber's basin."
"Knowest thou, Sancho, what I conceive to be the
case? This famous piece, this enchanted helmet, by
some strange accident must have fallen into the possession
60
of one who, ignorant of its true value as a helmet
and seeing it to be of the purest gold, hath inconsiderately
melted down the one-half for lucre's sake, and of
the other half made this, which, as thou sayest, doth
indeed look like a barber's basin; but to me, who know
what it really is, its transformation is of no importance,
for I will have it so repaired in the first town where
there is a smith, that it shall not be surpassed nor even
equalled by that which the god of smiths himself made
and forged for the god of battles. In the mean time I
will wear it as I best can, for something is better than
nothing; and it will be sufficient to defend me from
stones."
Be brief in thy discourse, for what is prolix cannot be
pleasing.
Never stand begging for that which you have the power to
take.
There are two kinds of lineages in the world. Some
there are who derive their pedigree from princes and
monarchs, whom time has gradually reduced until they
have ended in a point, like a pyramid; others have had
a low origin, and have risen by degrees, until they have
become great lords. So that the difference is, that
some have been what they now are not, and others are
now what they were not before.
A leap from a hedge is better than the prayer of a bishop.
A snatch from behind a bush is better than the prayer of
good men.
61
Customs come not all together, neither were they all
invented at once.
Who sings in grief procures relief.
Let every one turn himself round, and look at home, and he
will find enough to do.
To be grateful for benefits received is the duty of honest
men—one of the sins that most offendeth God is ingratitude.
Benefits conferred on base-minded people are like drops of
water thrown into the sea.
Retreating is not running away, nor is staying wisdom when
the danger overbalances the hope; and it is the part of wise
men to secure themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not to
venture all upon one throw.
The wicked are always ungrateful.
Necessity urges desperate measures.
sonnet.
Know'st thou, O love, the pangs that I sustain,
Or, cruel, dost thou view those pangs unmov'd?
Or has some hidden cause its influence proved,
By all this sad variety of pain?
62
Love is a god, then surely he must know,
And knowing, pity wretchedness like mine;
From other hands proceeds the fatal blow—
Is then the deed, unpitying Chloe, thine?
Ah, no! a form so exquisitely fair
A soul so merciless can ne'er enclose.
From Heaven's high will my fate resistless flows,
And I, submissive, must its vengeance bear.
Nought but a miracle my life can save,
And snatch its destined victim from the grave.
The devil is subtle, and lays stumbling-blocks in our way,
over which we fall without knowing how.
In all misfortunes the greatest consolation is a
sympathizing friend.
Riches are but of little avail against the ills inflicted by
the hand of Heaven.
He that buys and denies, his own purse belies.
Till you hedge in the sky, the starlings will fly.
If a painter would be famous in his art, he must endeavor to
copy after the originals of the most excellent masters; the
same rule is also applicable to all the other arts and
sciences which adorn the commonwealth; thus, whoever aspires
to a reputation for prudence and patience, must imitate
Ulysses, in whose person and toils Homer draws a lively
63
picture of those qualities; so also Virgil, in the
character of Æneas, delineates filial piety, courage, and
martial skill, being representations of not what they really
were, but of what they ought to be, in order to serve as
models of virtue to succeeding generations.
The absent feel and fear every ill.
"I have heard say," quoth Sancho, "'from hell there
is no retention.'"
"I know not," said Don Quixote, "what retention
means."
"Retention," answered Sancho, "means that he who
is once in hell never does, nor ever can, get out again.
I must strip off all my armor, and remain as naked as I
was born, if I should determine upon imitating Orlando,
in my penance, instead of Amadis."
While they were thus discoursing, they arrived at the
foot of a high mountain, which stood separated from
several others that surrounded it, as if it had been hewn
out from them. Near its base ran a gentle stream,
that watered a verdant and luxuriant vale, adorned
with many wide-spreading trees, plants, and wild flowers
of various hues. This was the spot in which the
knight of the sorrowful figure chose to perform his penance;
and, while contemplating the scene, he thus broke
forth in a loud voice:—
"This is the place, O ye heavens! which I select and
appoint for bewailing the misfortune in which ye have
involved me. This is the spot where my flowing tears
shall increase the waters of this crystal stream, and my
64
sighs, continual and deep, shall incessantly move the
foliage of these lofty trees, in testimony and token of
the pain my persecuted heart endures. O ye rural
deities, whoever ye be, that inhabit these remote deserts,
give ear to the complaints of an unhappy lover,
whom long absence and some pangs of jealousy have
driven to bewail himself among these rugged heights,
and to complain of the cruelty of that ungrateful fair,
the utmost extent and ultimate perfection of all human
beauty! O ye wood-nymphs and dryads, who are accustomed
to inhabit the dark recesses of the mountain
groves (so may the nimble and lascivious satyrs, by
whom ye are wooed in vain, never disturb your sweet
repose), assist me to lament my hard fate, or at least be
not weary of hearing my groans! O my Dulcinea del
Toboso, light of my darkness, glory of my pain, the
north-star of my travels, and overruling planet of my
fortune (so may Heaven listen to all thy petitions), consider,
I beseech thee, to what a condition thy absence
hath reduced me, and reward me as my fidelity deserves!
O ye solitary trees, who henceforth are to be the companions
of my retirement, wave gently your branches,
to indicate that my presence does not offend you! And,
O thou my squire, agreeable companion in my prosperous
and adverse fortunes, carefully imprint on thy memory
what thou shalt see me here perform, that thou mayest
recount and recite it to her who is the sole cause of all!"
"There is no reason why you should threaten me,"
quoth Sancho, "for I am not a man to rob or murder
anybody. Let every man's fate kill him, or God who
65
made him. My master is doing a certain penance
much to his liking in the midst of yon mountains."
Don Quixote took out the pocket-book, and, stepping
aside, began with much composure to write the letter;
and having finished, he called Sancho and said he would
read it to him that he might have it by heart, lest he
might perchance lose it by the way, for everything was
to be feared from his evil destiny. To which Sancho
answered: "Write it, sir, two or three times in the
book, and give it me, and I will take good care of it;
but to suppose that I can carry it in my memory is a
folly, for mine is so bad that I often forget my own
name. Your worship, however, may read it to me. I
shall be glad to hear it, for it must needs be very much
to the purpose."
"Listen, then," said Don Quixote, "this is what I
have written ":—
High and Sovereign Lady:—He who is stabbed
by the point of absence, and pierced by the arrows of
love, O sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso, greets thee with
wishes for that health which he enjoys not himself.
If thy beauty despise me, if thy worth favor me not,
and if thy disdain still pursue me, although inured to
suffering, I shall ill support an affliction which is not
only severe but lasting. My good squire Sancho will
tell thee, O ungrateful fair and most beloved foe, to
what a state I am reduced on thy account. If it be
thy pleasure to relieve me, I am thine; if not, do
66
what seemeth good to thee,—for by my death I shall
at once appease thy cruelty and my own passion.
The Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.
One should not talk of halters in the house of the hanged.
Ye lofty trees, with spreading arms,
The pride and shelter of the plain;
Ye humble shrubs and flowery charms,
Which here in springing glory reign!
If my complaints may pity move,
Hear the sad story of my love!
While with me here you pass your hours,
Should you grow faded with my cares,
I'll bribe you with refreshing showers;
You shall be watered with my tears.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
Love's truest slave, despairing, chose
This lonely wild, this desert plain,
This silent witness of the woes
Which he, though guiltless, must sustain.
Unknowing why these pains he bears,
He groans, he raves, and he despairs.
67
With lingering fires Love racks my soul:
In vain I grieve, in vain lament;
Like tortured fiends I weep, I howl,
And burn, yet never can repent.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
While I through Honor's thorny ways,
In search of distant glory rove,
Malignant fate my toil repays
With endless woes and hopeless love.
Thus I on barren rocks despair,
And curse my stars, yet bless my fair.
Love, armed with snakes, has left his dart,
And now does like a fury rave;
And scourge and sting on every part,
And into madness lash his slave.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
When the stars are adverse, what is human power?
Who is there in the world that can boast of having fathomed
and thoroughly penetrated the intricate and ever-changing
nature of a woman?
What causes all my grief and pain?
Cruel disdain.
What aggravates my misery?
Accursed jealousy.
68
How has my soul its patience lost?
By tedious absence crossed.
Alas! no balsam can be found
To heal the grief of such a wound.
When absence, jealousy, and scorn
Have left me hopeless and forlorn.
What in my breast this grief could move?
Neglected love.
What doth my fond desires withstand?
Fate's cruel hand.
And what confirms my misery?
Heaven's fixed decree.
Ah me! my boding fears portend,
This strange disease my life will end:
For die I must, when three such foes,
Heaven, fate, and love, my bliss oppose.
My peace of mind, what can restore?
Death's welcome hour.
What gains love's joys most readily?
Fickle inconstancy.
Its pains what medicine can assuage?
Wild frenzy's rage.
'Tis therefore little wisdom, sure,
For such a grief to seek a cure,
That knows no better remedy
Than frenzy, death, inconstancy.
The hour, the season, the solitude, the voice, and the
skill of the singer, all conspired to impress the auditors
69
with wonder and delight, and they remained for some
time motionless, in expectation of hearing more; but,
finding the silence continue, they resolved to see who
it was who had sung so agreeably, and were again
detained by the same voice regaling their ears with
this sonnet:—
Friendship, thou hast with nimble flight
Exulting gained the empyreal height,
In heaven to dwell, while here below
Thy semblance reigns in mimic show;
From thence to earth, at thy behest,
Descends fair peace, celestial guest!
Beneath whose veil of shining hue
Deceit oft lurks, concealed from view.
Leave, friendship! leave thy heavenly seat,
Or strip thy livery off the cheat.
If still he wears thy borrowed smiles,
And still unwary truth beguiles,
Soon must this dark terrestrial ball
Into its first confusion fall.
What is sudden death to a protracted life of anguish?
"O heavens! have I then at last found a place which may
afford a secret grave for this wretched body? Yes, if the
silence of this rocky desert deceive me not, here I may die
in peace. Ah, woe is me! Here at least I may freely pour
forth my lamentations to Heaven, and shall be less wretched
than among men, from whom I should in vain seek counsel,
70
redress, or consolation."
One evil produces another, and misfortunes never come
singly.
O memory, thou mortal enemy of my repose! wherefore now
recall to me the incomparable beauty of that adored enemy of
mine! Were it not better, thou cruel faculty! to represent
to my imagination her conduct at that period—that moved by
so flagrant an injury, I may strive if not to avenge it, at
least to end this life of pain?
For no grievance can harass or drive the afflicted to such
extremity, while life remains, as to make them shut their
ears against that counsel which is given with the most
humane and benevolent intention.
Music lulls the disordered thoughts, and elevates the
dejected spirits.
All women, let them be never so homely, are pleased to hear
themselves celebrated for beauty.
The eyes of love or of idleness are like those of a lynx.
One mischance invites another, and the end of one misfortunep
is often the beginning of a worse.
Among friends we ought not to stand upon trifles.
No man can command the first emotions of his passions.
71
Every new fault deserves a new penance.
Where is the wonder one devil should be like another?
Gifts are good after Easter.
A sparrow in the hand is worth more than a bustard on the
wing.
He that will not when he may, when he would he shall have
nay.
Men may prove and use their friends, and not presume upon
their friendship in things contrary to the decrees of
Heaven.
A man dishonored is worse than dead.
"I have heard it preached," quoth Sancho, "that
God is to be loved with this kind of love, for Himself
alone, without our being moved to it by hope of reward
or fear of punishment; though, for my part, I am inclined
to love and serve Him for what He is able to do
for me."
"The devil take thee for a bumpkin," said Don
Quixote; "thou sayest ever and anon such apt things
that one would almost think thee a scholar."
"And yet, by my faith," quoth Sancho, "I cannot
so much as read."
Squires and knight-errants are subject to much hunger and
72
ill-luck.
A man on whom Heaven has bestowed a beautiful wife should be
as cautious respecting the friends he introduces at home as
to her female acquaintance abroad.
If from equal parts we take equal parts, those that remain
are equal.
To attempt voluntarily that which must be productive of evil
rather than good, is madness and folly. Difficult works are
undertaken for the sake of Heaven, or of the world, or both:
the first are such as are performed by the saints while they
endeavor to live the life of angels in their human frames;
such as are performed for love of the world are encountered
by those who navigate the boundless ocean, traverse
different countries and various climates to acquire what are
called the goods of fortune. Those who assail hazardous
enterprises for the sake of both God and man are brave
soldiers, who no sooner perceive in the enemy's wall a
breach made by a single cannon-ball, than, regardless of
danger and full of zeal in the defence of their faith, their
country, and their king, they rush where death in a thousand
shapes awaits them. These are difficulties commonly
attempted, and, though perilous, are glorious and
profitable.
tears of st. peter.
Shame, grief, remorse, in Peter's breast increase,
Soon as the blushing morn his crime betrays;
When most unseen, then most himself he sees,
And with due horror all his soul surveys.
73
For a great spirit needs no censuring eyes
To wound his soul, when conscious of a fault;
But, self-condemn'd, and e'en self-punished, lies,
And dreads no witness like upbraiding Thought.
Expect not, therefore, by concealment, to banish sorrow;
for, even though you weep not openly, tears of blood will
flow from your heart. So wept that simple doctor, who,
according to the poet, would venture to make a trial of the
cup which the more prudent Rinaldo wisely declined doing;
and although this be a poetical fiction, there is a
concealed moral in it worthy to be observed and followed.
There is no jewel in the world so valuable as a chaste and
virtuous woman. The honor of women consists in the good
opinion of the world; and since that of your wife is
eminently good, why would you have it questioned? Woman, my
friend, is an imperfect creature; and, instead of laying
stumbling-blocks in her way, we should clear the path before
her, that she may readily attain that virtue which is
essential in her. Naturalists inform us that the ermine is a
little creature with extremely white fur, and that when the
hunters are in pursuit of it, they spread with mire all the
passes leading to its haunts, to which they then drive it,
knowing that it will submit to be taken rather than defile
itself. The virtuous and modest woman is an ermine, and her
character whiter than snow; and in order to preserve it, a
very different method must be taken from that which is used
with the ermine.
74
The reputation of a woman may also be compared to a mirror
of crystal, shining and bright, but liable to be sullied by
every breath that comes near it. The virtuous woman must be
treated like a relic—adored but not handled; she should be
guarded and prized, like a fine flower-garden, the beauty
and fragrance of which the owner allows others to enjoy only
at a distance, and through iron rails.
The devil, when he would entrap a cautious person, assumes
an angel form till he carries his point, when the cloven
foot appears.
He who builds on impossibilities should be denied the
privilege of any other foundation.
Hope is ever born with love.
Castles should not be left without governors, nor armies
without generals.
The passion of love is to be conquered by flight alone; it
is vain to contend with a power which, though human,
requires more than human strength to subdue.
sonnet.
In the dead silence of the peaceful night,
When others' cares are hushed in soft repose,
The sad account of my neglected woes
To conscious Heaven and Chloris I recite.
And when the sun, with his returning light,
75
Forth from the east his radiant journey goes,
With accents such as sorrow only knows,
My griefs to tell is all my poor delight.
And when bright Phœbus from his starry throne
Sends rays direct upon the parched soil,
Still in the mournful tale I persevere;
Returning night renews my sorrow's toil;
And though from morn to night I weep and moan,
Nor Heaven nor Chloris my complainings hear.
Are we to take all that enamored poets sing for truth?
sonnet.
Believe me, nymph, I feel th' impending blow,
And glory in the near approach of death;
For when thou see'st my corse devoid of breath,
My constancy and truth thou sure wilt know,
Welcome to me Oblivion's shade obscure!
Welcome the loss of fortune, life, and fame!
But thy loved features, and thy honored name,
Deep graven on my heart, shall still endure.
And these, as sacred relics, will I keep
Till that sad moment when to endless night
My long-tormented soul shall take her flight
Alas for him who on the darkened deep
Floats idly, sport of the tempestuous tide,
No port to shield him, and no star to guide!
He who gives freely gives twice.
76
That which is lightly gained is little valued.
For love sometimes flies and sometimes walks—runs with one
person, and goes leisurely with another: some he warms, and
some he burns; some he wounds, and others he kills: in one
and the same instant he forms and accomplishes his projects.
He often in the morning lays siege to a fortress which in
the evening surrenders to him—for no force is able to
resist him.
Heaven always favors the honest purpose.
Rank is not essential in a wife.
True nobility consists in virtue.
It is no derogation to rank to elevate beauty adorned with
virtue.
Time will discover.
"Certainly, gentlemen, if we rightly consider it,
those who make knight-errantry their profession often
meet with surprising and most stupendous adventures.
For what mortal in the world, at this time entering
within this castle, and seeing us sit together as we do,
will imagine and believe us to be the same persons
which in reality we are? Who is there that can judge
that this lady by my side is the great queen we all
know her to be, and that I am that Knight of the Sorrowful
Figure so universally made known by fame?
It is, then, no longer to be doubted but that this exercise
and profession surpasses all others that have been
77
invented by man, and is so much the more honorable as
it is more exposed to dangers. Let none presume to
tell me that the pen is preferable to the sword. This
may be ascertained by regarding the end and object
each of them aims at; for that intention is to be most
valued which makes the noblest end its object. The
scope and end of learning, I mean human learning (in
this place I speak not of divinity, whose aim is to guide
souls to Heaven, for no other can equal a design so infinite
as that), is to give a perfection to distribute justice,
bestowing upon every one his due, and to procure
and cause good laws to be observed; an end really generous,
great, and worthy of high commendation, but
yet not equal to that which knight-errantry tends to,
whose object and end is peace, which is the greatest
blessing man can wish for in this life. And, therefore,
the first good news that the world received was that
which the angels brought in the night—the beginning
of our day—when they sang in the air, 'Glory to God
on high, peace on earth, and to men good-will.' And
the only manner of salutation taught by our great Master
to His friends and favorites was, that entering any
house they should say, 'Peace be to this house.' And
at other times He said to them, 'My peace I give to
you,' 'My peace I leave to you,' 'Peace be among you.'
A jewel and legacy worthy of such a donor, a jewel
so precious that without it there can be no happiness
either in earth or heaven. This peace is the true end of
war; for arms and war are one and the same thing. Allowing,
then, this truth, that the end of war is peace, and
that in this it excels the end of learning, let us now weigh
78
the bodily labors the scholar undergoes against those
the warrior suffers, and then see which are the greatest.
"These, then, I say, are the sufferings and hardships
a scholar endures. First, poverty (not that they are all
poor, but to urge the worst that may be in this case);
and having said he endures poverty, methinks nothing
more need be urged to express his misery; for he that
is poor enjoys no happiness, but labors under this poverty
in all its parts, at one time in hunger, at another in
cold, another in nakedness, and sometimes in all of
them together; yet his poverty is not so great, but still
he eats, though it be later than the usual hour, and of
the scraps of the rich; neither can the scholar miss of
somebody's stove or fireside to sit by; where, though he
be not thoroughly heated, yet he may gather warmth,
and at last sleep away the night under a roof. I will
not touch upon other less material circumstances, as
the want of linen, and scarcity of shoes, thinness and
baldness of their clothes, and their surfeiting when
good fortune throws a feast in their way; this is the
difficult and uncouth path they tread, often stumbling
and falling, yet rising again and pushing on, till they
attain the preferment they aim at; whither being arrived,
we have seen many of them, who, having been
carried by a fortunate gale through all these quick-sands,
from a chair govern the world; their hunger
being changed into satiety, their cold into comfortable
warmth, their nakedness into magnificence of apparel,
and the mats they used to lie upon, into stately beds of
costly silks and softest linen, a reward due to their virtue.
But yet their sufferings, being compared to those
79
the soldier endures, appear much inferior, as I shall in
the next place make out."
Don Quixote, after a short pause, continued his discourse
thus:—"Since, in speaking of the scholar, we
began with his poverty and its several branches, let us
see whether the soldier be richer. We shall find that
poverty itself is not more poor: for he depends on his
wretched pay, which comes late, and sometimes never;
or upon what he can pillage, at the imminent risk of
his life and conscience. Such often is his nakedness
that his slashed buff-doublet serves him both for finery
and shirt; and in the midst of winter, on the open
plain, he has nothing to warm him but the breath of
his mouth, which, issuing from an empty place, must
needs be cold. But let us wait, and see whether night
will make amends for these inconveniences: if his bed be
too narrow it is his own fault, for he may measure out
as many feet of earth as he pleases, and roll himself
thereon at pleasure without fear of rumpling the sheets.
Suppose the moment arrived of taking his degree—I
mean, suppose-the day of battle come: his doctoral cap
may then be of lint, to cover some gun-shot wound,
which perhaps has gone through his temples, or deprived
him of an arm or leg.
"And even suppose that Heaven in its mercy should
preserve him alive and unhurt, he will probably remain
as poor as ever; for he must be engaged and victorious
in many battles before he can expect high promotion;
and such good fortune happens only by a miracle: for
you will allow, gentlemen, that few are the number of
those that have reaped the reward of their services,
80
compared with those who have perished in war. The
dead are countless; whereas those who survived to be rewarded
may be numbered with three figures. Not so
with scholars, who by their salaries (I will not say
their perquisites) are generally handsomely provided
for. Thus the labors of the soldier are greater, although
his reward is less. It may be said in answer to
this, that it is easier to reward two thousand scholars
than thirty thousand soldiers: for scholars are rewarded
by employments which must of course be given to men
of their profession; whereas the soldier can only be rewarded
by the property of the master whom, he serves;
and this defence serves to strengthen my argument.
"But, waiving this point, let us consider the comparative
claims to pre-eminence: for the partisans of
each can bring powerful arguments in support of their
own cause. It is said in favor of letters that without
them arms could not subsist; for war must have its
laws, and laws come within the province of the learned.
But it may be alleged in reply, that arms are necessary
to the maintenance of law; by arms the public roads
are protected, cities guarded, states defended, kingdoms
preserved, and the seas cleared of corsairs and pirates.
In short, without arms there would be no safety for
cities, commonwealths or kingdoms. Besides, it is
just to estimate a pursuit in proportion to the cost of its
attainment. Now it is true that eminence in learning
is purchased by time, watching, hunger, nakedness,
vertigo, indigestion, and many other inconveniences
already mentioned; but a man who rises gradually to
be a good soldier endures all these, and far more. What
81
is the hunger and poverty which menace the man of
letters compared with the situation of the soldier, who,
besieged in some fortress, and placed as sentinel in
some ravelin or cavalier, perceives that the enemy is
mining toward the place where he stands, and yet he
must on no account stir from his post or shun the imminent
danger that threatens him? All that he can do
in such a case is to give notice to his officer of what
passes, that he may endeavor to counteract it; in the
meantime he must stand his ground, in momentary expectation
of being mounted to the clouds without
wings, and then dashed headlong to the earth. And if
this be thought but a trifling danger, let us see whether
it be equalled or exceeded by the encounter of two
galleys, prow to prow, in the midst of the white
sea, locked and grappled together, so that there is no
more room left for the soldier than the two-foot plank
at the break-head; and though he sees as many threatening
ministers of death before him as there are pieces
of artillery pointed at him from the opposite side, not
the length of a lance from his body; though he knows
that the first slip of his foot sends him to the bottom of
the sea; yet, with an undaunted heart, inspired by
honor, he exposes himself as a mark to all their fire,
and endeavors by that narrow pass to force his way into
the enemy's vessel! And, what is most worthy of admiration,
no sooner is one fallen, never, to rise again in
this world, than another takes his place; and if he also
fall into the sea, which lies in wait to devour him, another
and another succeeds without intermission! In
all the extremities of war there is no example of courage
82
and intrepidity to exceed this. Happy those ages
which knew not the dreadful fury of artillery!—those
instruments of hell (where, I verily believe, the inventor
is now receiving the reward of his diabolical ingenuity),
by means of which the cowardly and the base
can deprive the bravest soldier of life. While a gallant
spirit animated with heroic ardor is pressing to glory,
comes a chance ball, sent by one who perhaps fled in
alarm at the flash of his own accursed weapon, and in
an instant cuts short the life of him who deserved to
live for ages! When I consider this, I could almost
repent having undertaken this profession of knight-errantry
in so detestable an age; for though no danger
can daunt me, still it gives me some concern to think
that powder and lead may suddenly cut short my career
of glory. But Heaven's will be done! I have this satisfaction,
that I shall acquire the greater fame if I succeed,
inasmuch as the perils by which I am beset are
greater than those to which the knights-errant of past
ages were exposed."
The army is a school in which the miser becomes
generous, and the generous prodigal.
A covetous soldier is a monster which is rarely seen.
Liberality may be carried too far in those who have
children to inherit from them.
How seldom promises made in slavery are remembered
after a release from bondage.
83
Good fortune seldom comes pure and single, unattended
by some troublesome or unexpected circumstance.
Though we love the treason we abhor the traitor.
What transport in life can equal that which a man
feels on the restoration of his liberty?
"The church, the court, or the sea;" as if it more
fully expressed the following advice,—He that would
make his fortune, ought either to dedicate his time to
the church, go to sea as a merchant, or attach himself
to the court: for it is commonly observed, that "the
king's crumb is worth the baron's batch."5
sonnet upon the goleta.
O happy souls, by death at length set free
From the dark prison of mortality,
By glorious deeds, whose memory never dies—
From earth's dim spot exalted to the skies!
What fury stood in every eye confessed!
What generous ardor fired each manly breast,
While slaughtered heaps distained the sandy shore,
And the tinged ocean blushed with hostile gore!
O'erpowered by numbers, gloriously ye fell:
Death only could such matchless courage quell;
Whilst dying thus ye triumphed o'er your foes—
Its fame the world, its glory heaven, bestows!
84
sonnet on the fort.
From 'midst these walls, whose ruins spread around,
And scattered clods that heap the ensanguined ground,
Three thousand souls of warriors, dead in fight,
To better regions took their happy flight.
Long with unconquered souls they bravely stood,
And fearless shed their unavailing blood:
Till, to superior force compelled to yield,
Their lives they quitted in the well-fought field.
This fatal soil has ever been the tomb
Of slaughtered heroes, buried in its womb:
Yet braver bodies did it ne'er sustain,
Nor send more glorious soul the skies to gain.
i.
Tossed in a sea of doubts and fears,
Love's hapless mariner, I sail,
Where no inviting port appears,
To screen me from the stormy gale.
ii.
At distance viewed, a cheering star
Conducts me through the swelling tide;
A brighter luminary, far,
Than Palinurus o'er descried.
iii.
My soul, attracted by its blaze,
Still follows where it points the way,
And while attentively I gaze,
Considers not how far I stray.
iv.
85
But female pride, reserved and shy,
Like clouds that deepen on the day,
Oft shroud it from my longing eye,
When most I need the genial ray.
v.
O lovely star, so pure and bright!
Whose splendor feeds my vital fire,
The moment thou deny'st thy light,
Thy lost adorer will expire!
song.
Unconquered hope, thou bane of fear,
And last deserter of the brave,
Thou soothing ease of mortal care,
Thou traveller beyond the grave;
Thou soul of patience, airy food,
Bold warrant of a distant good,
Reviving cordial, kind decoy;
Though fortune frowns and friends depart,
Though Silvia flies me, flattering joy,
Nor thou, nor love, shall leave my doting heart.
No slave, to lazy ease resigned,
E'er triumphed over noble foes;
The monarch fortune most is kind
To him who bravely dares oppose.
They say, Love rates his blessing high,
But who would prize an easy joy?
86
My scornful fair then I'll pursue,
Though the coy beauty still denies;
I grovel now on earth, 'tis true,
But, raised by her, the humble slave may rise.
Might overcomes.
Him to whom God giveth may St. Peter bless.
Diligence is the mother of success, and in many
important causes experience hath shown that the assiduity
of the solicitor hath brought a very doubtful suit
to a very fortunate issue; but the truth of this maxim
is nowhere more evinced than in war, where activity
and despatch anticipate the designs of the enemy, and
obtain the victory before he has time to put himself in
a posture of defence.
The common adage that delays are dangerous acts as
spurs upon the resolution.
There are more tricks in the town than are dreamt
of.
Virtue is always more persecuted by the wicked than
beloved by the righteous.
Virtue is so powerful that of herself she will, in spite
of all the necromancy possessed by the first inventor,
Zoroaster, come off conqueror in every severe trial, and
shine refulgent in the world, as the sun shines in the
heavens.
87
Fables should not be composed to outrage the understanding;
but by making the wonderful appear possible,
and creating in the mind a pleasing interest, they may
both surprise and entertain; which cannot be effected
where no regard is paid to probability. I have never yet
found a regular, well-connected fable in any of our books
of chivalry—they are all inconsistent and monstrous;
the style is generally bad; and they abound with incredible
exploits, lascivious amours, absurd sentiment, and
miraculous adventures; in short, they should be banished
every Christian country.
Just are virtue's fears where envy domineers.
Bounty will not stay where niggards bear the sway.
Fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel, and those who
were yesterday at top, may find themselves at bottom
to-day.
Every one is the son of his own works.
The mind receives pleasure from the beauty and consistency
of what is presented to the imagination, not
from that which is incongruous and unnatural.
Fiction is always the better the nearer it resembles
truth, and agreeable in proportion to the probability it
bears and the doubtful credit which it inspires. Wherefore,
all such fables ought to be suited to the understanding
of those who read them, and written so as
88
that, by softening impossibilities, smoothing what is
rough, and keeping the mind in suspense, they may surprise,
agreeably perplex, and entertain, creating equal
admiration and delight; and these never can be excited
by authors who forsake probability and imitation, in
which the perfection of writing consists.
Epics may be written in prose as well as verse.
To assert that there never was an Amadis in the
world, nor any other of the knights-adventurers of whom
so many records remain, is to say that the sun does not
enlighten, the frost produce cold, nor the earth yield
sustenance.
The approbation of the judicious few should far outweigh**
the censure of the ignorant.
An author had better be applauded by the few that
are wise, than laughed at by the many that are foolish.
Our modern plays, not only those which are formed
upon fiction, but likewise such as are founded on the
truth of history, are all, or the greatest part, universally
known to be monstrous productions, without either head
or tail, and yet received with pleasure by the multitude,
who approve and esteem them as excellent performances,
though they are far from deserving that title; and if
the authors who compose, and the actors who represent
them, affirm that this and no other method is to be practised,
because the multitude must be pleased; that
89
those which bear the marks of contrivance, and produce
a fable digested according to the rules of art, serve
only for entertainment to four or five people of taste,
who discern the beauties of the plan, which utterly escape
the rest of the audience; and that it is better for
them to gain a comfortable livelihood by the many, than
starve upon reputation with the few; at this rate, said
I, if I should finish my book, after having scorched
every hair in my whiskers in poring over it, to preserve
those rules and precepts already mentioned, I
might fare at last like the sagacious botcher, who sewed
for nothing and found his customers in thread.
It is not a sufficient excuse to say that the object in
permitting theatrical exhibitions being chiefly to provide
innocent recreation for the people, it is unnecessary
to limit and restrain the dramatic author within strict
rules of composition; for I affirm that the same object
is, beyond all comparison, more effectually attained by
legitimate works. The spectator of a good drama is
amused, admonished, and improved by what is diverting,
affecting, and moral in the representation; he is
cautioned against deceit, corrected by example, incensed
against vice, stimulated to the love of virtue.
Comedy, according to Tully, ought to be the mirror
of life, the exemplar of manners, and picture of truth;
whereas those that are represented in this age are mirrors
of absurdity, exemplars of folly, and pictures of
lewdness; for sure, nothing can be more absurd in a
dramatic performance, than to see the person, who, in
90
the first scene of the first act, was produced a child in
swaddling-clothes, appear a full-grown man with a
beard in the second; or to represent an old man active
and valiant, a young soldier cowardly, a footman eloquent,
a page a counsellor, a king a porter, and a
princess a scullion. Then what shall we say concerning
their management of the time and place in which
the actions have, or may be supposed to have happened?
I have seen a comedy, the first act of which was laid
in Europe, the second in Asia, and the third was finished
in Africa; nay, had there been a fourth, the
scene would have shifted to America, so that the fable
would have travelled through all the four divisions of the
globe. If imitation be the chief aim of comedy, how
can any ordinary understanding be satisfied with seeing
an action that passed in the time of King Pepin
and Charlemagne, ascribed to the Emperor Heraclius,
who, being the principal personage, is represented,
like Godfrey of Boulogne, carrying the cross into Jerusalem,
and making himself master of the holy sepulchre,
an infinite number of years having passed
between the one and the other? Or, when a comedy
is founded upon fiction, to see scraps of real history
introduced, and facts misrepresented both with regard
to persons and times, not with any ingenuity of contrivance,
but with the most manifest and inexcusable
errors and stupidity; and what is worst of all, there is
a set of ignorant pretenders who call this the perfection
of writing, and that every attempt to succeed
by a contrary method is no other than a wild-goose
chase.
91
The bow cannot remain always bent; and relaxation,
both of body and mind, is indispensable to all.
Can you deny what is in everybody's mouth, when a
person is in the dumps? It is always then said, "I
know not what such a one ails—he neither eats, nor
drinks, nor sleeps, nor answers to the purpose, like
other men—surely he is enchanted." Wherefore, it
is clear that such, and such only, are enchanted who
neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep, and not they who eat
and drink when they can get it, and answer properly
to all that is asked them.
The poor man is unable to exercise the virtue of
liberality; and the gratitude which consists only in
inclination is a dead thing, even as faith without works
is dead. I shall, therefore, rejoice when fortune presents
me with an opportunity of exalting myself, that
I may show my heart in conferring benefits on my
friends, especially on poor Sancho Panza here, my
squire, who is one of the best men in the world; and
I would fain bestow on him an earldom, as I have long
since promised; although I am somewhat in doubt of
his ability in the government of his estate.
Sancho, overhearing his master's last words, said:
"Take you the trouble, Signor Don Quixote, to procure
me that same earldom, which your worship has so
often promised, and I have been so long waiting for,
and you shall see that I shall not want ability to govern
it. But even if I should, there are people, I have
92
heard say, who farm these lordships; and paying the
owners so much a year, take upon themselves the government
of the whole, while his lordship lolls at his
ease, enjoying his estate, without concerning himself
any further about it. Just so will I do, and give myself
no more trouble than needs mast, but enjoy myself
like any duke, and let the world rub."
"This, brother Sancho," said the canon, "may be
done, as far as regards the management of your revenue;
but the administration of justice must be attended
to by the lord himself, and requires capacity,
judgment, and, above all, an upright intention, without
which nothing prospers; for Heaven assists the
good intent of the simple, and disappoints the evil designs
of the cunning."
"I do not understand these philosophies," answered
Sancho; "all that I know is, that I wish I may as
surely have the earldom as I should know how to govern
it; for I have as large a soul as another, and as
large a body as the best of them; and I should be as
much king of my own dominion as any other king;
would do what I pleased; and, doing what I pleased, I
should have my will; and having my will, I should be
contented; and, being content, there is no more to be
desired; and when there is no more to desire, there is
an end of it."
"These are no bad philosophies, as you say, Sancho,"
quoth the canon; "nevertheless, there is a great deal
more to be said upon the subject of earldoms."
"That may be," observed Don Quixote; "but I am
guided by the numerous examples offered on this subject
93
by knights of my own profession; who, in compensation
for the loyal and signal services they had received
from their squires, conferred upon them extraordinary
favors, making them absolute lords of cities and islands:
indeed, there was one whose services were so great that
he had the presumption to accept of a kingdom. But
why should I say more, when before me is the bright
example of the great Amadis de Gaul, who made his
squire knight of the Firm Island? Surely I may,
therefore, without scruple of conscience, make an earl
of Sancho Panza, who is one of the best squires that
ever served knight-errant."
The mountains breed learned men, and the cottages
of shepherds contain philosophers.
Upon the news of Don Quixote's arrival, Sancho
Panza's wife repaired thither, and on meeting him, her
first inquiry was whether the ass had come home well.
Sancho told her that he was in a better condition than
his master.
"The Lord be praised," replied she, "for so great a
mercy to me! But tell me, husband,** what good have
you got by your squireship? Have you brought a petticoat
home for me, and shoes for your children?"
"I have brought you nothing of that sort, dear wife,"
quoth Sancho; "but I have got other things of greater
consequence."
"I am very glad of that," answered the wife, "pray
show me your things of greater consequence, friend;
for I would fain see them, to gladden my heart, which
94
has been so sad, all the long time you have been
away."
"You shall see them at home, wife," quoth Sancho,
"and be satisfied at present; for if it please God that we
make another sally in quest of adventures, you will soon
see me an earl or governor of an island, and no common
one either, but one of the best that is to be had."
"Grant Heaven it may be so, husband," quoth the
wife, "for we have need enough of it. But pray tell
me what you mean by islands; for I do not understand
you."
"Honey is not for the mouth of an ass," answered
Sancho: "in good time, wife, you shall see, yea, and
admire to hear yourself styled ladyship by all your
vassals."
"What do you mean, Sancho, by ladyship, islands,
and vassals?" answered Teresa Panza; for that was
Sancho's wife's name, though they were not of kin, but
because it is the custom in La Mancha for the wife to
take the husband's name.
"Be not in so much haste, Teresa, to know all this,"
said Sancho; "let it suffice that I tell you the truth, and
sew up your mouth. But for the present know that
there is nothing in the world so pleasant to an honest
man, as to be squire to a knight-errant, and seeker of
adventures. It is true indeed, most of them are not so
much to a man's mind as he could wish; for ninety-nine
of a hundred one meets with fall out cross and
unlucky. This I know by experience; for I have sometimes
come off tossed in a blanket, and sometimes well
cudgelled. Yet, for all that, it is a fine thing to be in expectation
95
of accidents, traversing mountains, searching
woods, marching over rocks, visiting castles, lodging in
inns, all at discretion, and the devil a farthing to pay."
Fame has preserved in the memoirs of La Mancha,
that Don Quixote, the third time he sallied from home,
went to Saragossa, where he was present at a famous
tournament in that city, and that there befell him things
worthy of his valor and good understanding. Nor would
the chronicler have learned any thing concerning his death
had he not fortunately become acquainted with an aged
physician, who had in his custody a leaden box, found,
as he said, under the ruins of an ancient hermitage then
rebuilding: in which box was found a manuscript of
parchment written in Gothic characters, but in Castilian
verse, containing many of his exploits, and giving an
account of the beauty of Dulcinea del Toboso, the figure
of Rozinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza, and the
burial of Don Quixote himself, with several epitaphs
and eulogies on his life and manners. All that could
be read, and perfectly made out, were those inserted
here by the faithful author of this strange and never-before-seen
history; which author desires no other reward
from those who shall read it, in recompense of the
vast pains it has cost him to inquire into and search all
the archives of La Mancha to bring it to light, but that
they would afford him the same credit that ingenious
people give to books of knight-errantry, which are so
well received in the world; and herewith he will reckon
himself well paid, and will rest satisfied; and will moreover
be encouraged to seek and find out others, if not
96
as true, at least of as much invention and entertainment.
The first words, written in the parchment which
was found in the leaden box, were these:—
A Town of la Mancha,
On the Life and Death of the Valorous
Don Quixote de la Mancha,
Hoc scripserunt.
Don Quixote.
epitaph.
La Mancha's thunderbolt of war,
The sharpest wit and loftiest muse,
The arm which from Gaëta far
To Catai did its force diffuse;
He who, through love and valor's fire,
Outstripped great Amadis's fame
Bid warlike Galaor retire,
And silenced Belianis' name:
He who, with helmet, sword, and shield,
On Rozinante, steed well known,
Adventures fought in many a field,
Lies underneath this frozen stone.
Del Toboso.
sonnet.
She whom you see the plump and lusty dame,
With high erected chest and vigorous mien,
97
Was erst th' enamored knight Don Quixote's flame,
he fair Dulcinea, of Toboso, queen.
For her, armed cap-à-pie with sword and shield,
He trod the sable mountain o'er and o'er;
For her he traversed Montiel's well-known field,
And in her service toils unnumbered bore.
Hard fate! that death should crop so fine a flower!
And love o'er such a knight exert his tyrant power!
praise of Don Quixote's Horse Rozinante.
sonnet.
On the aspiring adamantine trunk
Of a huge tree, whose root, with slaughter drunk
Sends forth a scent of war, La Mancha's knight,
Frantic with valor, and returned from fight,
His bloody standard trembling in the air,
Hangs up his glittering armor beaming far,
With that fine-tempered steel whose edge o'erthrows,
Hacks, hews, confounds, and routs opposing foes.
Unheard-of prowess! and unheard-of verse!
But art new strains invents, new glories to rehearse.
If Amadis to Grecia gives renown,
Much more her chief does fierce Bellona crown.
Prizing La Mancha more than Gaul or Greece,
As Quixote triumphs over Amadis.
Oblivion ne'er shall shroud his glorious name,
Whose very horse stands up to challenge fame!
98
Illustrious Rozinante, wondrous steed!
Not with more generous pride or mettled speed,
Or his mad lord, Orlando's Brilladore.
sonnet.
See Sancho Panza, view him well,
And let this verse his praises tell.
His body was but small, 'tis true,
Yet had a soul as large as two.
No guile he knew, like some before him
But simple as his mother bore him.
This gentle squire on gentle ass
Went gentle Rozinante's pace,
Following his lord from place to place.
To be an earl he did aspire,
And reason good for such desire;
But worth in these ungrateful times,
To envied honor seldom climbs.
Vain mortals! give your wishes o'er,
And trust the flatterer Hope no more,
Whose promises, whate'er they seem,
End in a shadow or a dream.
Don Quixote.
epitaph.
Here lies an evil-errant knight,
Well bruised in many a fray,
99
Whose courser, Rozinante hight,
Long bore him many a way.
Close by his loving master's side
Lies booby Sancho Panza,
A trusty squire of courage tried,
And true as ever man saw.
del Toboso.
Dulcinea, fat and fleshy, lies
Beneath this frozen stone;
But, since to frightful death a prize,
Reduced to skin and bone.
Of goodly parentage she came,
And had the lady in her;
She was the great Don Quixote's flame,
But only death could win her.
These were all the verses that could be read: the rest,
the characters being worm-eaten, were consigned to one
of the Academicians, to find out their meaning by conjectures.
We are informed he has done it, after many
lucubrations and much pains, and that he designs to
publish them, giving us hopes of Don Quixote's third
sally.
The noble mind may be clouded by adversity, but
cannot be wholly concealed; for true merit shines by a
100
light of its own, and, glimmering through the rents
and crannies of indigence, is perceived, respected, and
honored by the generous and the great.
seville.
A certain man, being deranged in his intellects,
was placed by his relations in the mad-house of Seville.
He had taken his degrees in the canon law at Ossuna;
but had it been at Salamanca, many are of opinion he
would, nevertheless, have been mad. This graduate,
after some years' confinement, took into his head that
he was quite in his right senses, and therefore wrote
to the archbishop, beseeching him, with great earnestness
and apparently with much reason, that he would
be pleased to deliver him from that miserable state of
confinement in which he lived; since, through the
mercy of God, he had regained his senses; adding that
his relations, in order to enjoy part of his estate, kept
him still there, and, in spite of the clearest evidence,
would insist upon his being mad as long as he lived.
The archbishop, prevailed upon by the many sensible
epistles he received from him, sent one of his chaplains
to the keeper of the mad-house to inquire into the
truth of what the licentiate had alleged, and also to
talk with him, and if it appeared that he was in his
senses, to set him at liberty. The chaplain accordingly
went to the rector, who assured him that the man
was still insane, for though he sometimes talked very
sensibly, it was seldom for any length of time without
betraying his derangement; as he would certainly find
101
on conversing with him. The chaplain determined to
make the trial, and during the conversation of more
than an hour, could perceive no symptom of incoherence
in his discourse; on the contrary, he spoke with
so much sedateness and judgment that the chaplain
could not entertain a doubt of the sanity of his intellects.
Among other things he assured him that the
keeper was bribed by his relations to persist in reporting
him to be deranged; so that his large estate was
his great misfortune, to enjoy which his enemies had
recourse to fraud, and pretended to doubt of the
mercy of Heaven in restoring him from the condition
of a brute to that of a man. In short, he talked so
plausibly that he made the rector appear venal and
corrupt, his relations unnatural, and himself so discreet
that the chaplain determined to take him immediately
to the archbishop, that he might be satisfied he
had done right.
With this resolution the good chaplain desired the
keeper of the house to restore to him the clothes which he
wore when he was first put under his care. The keeper
again desired him to beware what he did, since he
might be assured that the licentiate was still insane;
but the chaplain was not to be moved either by his cautions
or entreaties; and as he acted by order of the
archbishop, the keeper was compelled to obey him.
The licentiate put on his new clothes, and now, finding
himself rid of his lunatic attire, and habited like a
rational creature, he entreated the chaplain, for charity's
sake, to permit him to take leave of his late companions
in affliction. Being desirous of seeing the
102
lunatics who were confined in that house, the chaplain,
with several other persons, followed him upstairs, and
heard him accost a man who lay stretched in his cell
outrageously mad; though just then composed and
quiet. "Brother," said he to him, "have you any
commands for me? for I am going to return to my own
house, God having been pleased, of His infinite goodness
and mercy, without any desert of mine, to restore
me to my senses. I am now sound and well, for with
God nothing is impossible; put your whole trust and
confidence in Him, and he will doubtless restore you
also. I will take care to send you some choice food;
and fail not to eat it: for I have reason to believe,
from my own experience, that all our distraction proceeds
from empty stomachs, and brains filled with
wind. Take heart, then, my friend, take heart; for
despondence under misfortune impairs our health, and
hastens our death."
This discourse was overheard by another madman,
who was in an opposite cell; and raising himself up
from an old mat, whereon he had thrown himself stark
naked, he demanded aloud, who it was that was going
away recovered and in his senses.
"It is I, brother," answered the licentiate, "that am
going; for I need stay no longer here, and am infinitely
thankful to heaven for having bestowed so great a blessing
upon me."
"Take heed, licentiate, what you say, let not the devil
delude you," replied the madman; "stir not a foot, but
keep where you are, and you will spare yourself the
trouble of being brought back."
103
"I know," replied the licentiate, "that I am perfectly
well, and shall have no more occasion to visit the
station churches."6
"You well?" said the madman; "we shall soon see
that; farewell! but I swear by Jupiter, whose majesty
I represent on earth, that for this offence alone, which
Seville is now committing, in carrying you out of this
house, and judging you to be in your senses, I am determined
to inflict such a signal punishment on this
city, that the memory thereof shall endure for ever and
ever, Amen. Know you not, little crazed licentiate,
that I can do it, since, as I say, I am thundering
Jupiter, who hold in my hands the flaming bolts, with
which I can, and use, to threaten and destroy the
world? But in one thing only will I chastise this ignorant
people; and that is, there shall no rain fall on
this town, or in all its district, for three whole years,
reckoning from the day and hour in which this threatening
is denounced. You at liberty, you recovered,
and in your right senses! and I a madman, I distempered
and in bonds! I will no more rain than I will
hang myself."
All the bystanders were very attentive to the madman's
discourse: but our licentiate, turning himself
to our chaplain, and holding him by both hands, said
to him: "Be in no pain, good sir, nor make any
account of what this madman has said; for, if he is
Jupiter and will not rain, I, who am Neptune, the
104
father and the god of the waters, will rain as often as I
please, and whenever there shall be occasion." To
which the chaplain answered: "However, signor Neptune,
it will not be convenient at present to provoke
signor Jupiter; therefore, pray stay where you are;
for, some other time, when we have a better opportunity
and more leisure, we will come for you." The rector
and the bystanders laughed; which put the chaplain
half out of countenance. They disrobed the licentiate,
who remained where he was; and there is an end of
the story.
True valor lies in the middle, between the extremes of
cowardice and rashness.
No padlocks, bolts, or bars can secure a maiden so well as
her own reserve.
Honey is not for the mouth of an ass.
He must be blind, indeed, who cannot see through a sieve.
Comparisons, whether as to sense, courage, beauty, or rank,
are always offensive.
Scruples of conscience afford no peace.
You have reckoned without your host.
When the head aches, all the members ache also.
105
Me pondra en la espina de Santa Lucia;—i. e., Will put
me on St. Lucia's thorn; applicable to any uneasy situation.
Let every man lay his hand upon his heart, and not take
white for black, nor black for white; for we are all as God
made us, and oftentimes a great deal worse.
"First and foremost, then," said Sancho, "the common
people take your worship for a downright madman,
and me for no less a fool. The gentry say that, not
content to keep to your own proper rank of a gentleman,
you call yourself Don, and set up for a knight,
with no more than a paltry vineyard and a couple of
acres of land. The cavaliers say they do not choose to
be vied with by those country squires who clout their
shoes, and take up the fallen stitches of their black
stockings with green silk."
"That," said Don Quixote, "is no reflection upon
me; for I always go well clad, and my apparel is never
patched; a little torn it may be, but more by the fretting
of my armor than by time."
"As to your valor, courtesy, achievements, and undertakings,"
continued Sancho, "there are many different
opinions. Some say you are mad, but humorous;
others, valiant, but unfortunate; others, courteous, but
absurd; and thus they pull us to pieces, till they leave
neither your worship nor me a single feather upon our
backs."
"Take notice, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that,
when virtue exists in an eminent degree, it is always
persecuted."
106
"There cannot be a more legitimate source of gratification
to a virtuous and distinguished man," said Don
Quixote, "than to have his good name celebrated during
his lifetime, and circulated over different nations;
I say his good name, for if it were otherwise than good,
death in any shape would be preferable."
To be represented otherwise than with approbation is worse
than the worst of deaths.
There are as many different opinions as there are different
tastes.
Pedir cotufas en el golfo, signifies to look for truffles
in the sea, a proverb applicable to those who are too
sanguine in their expectations and unreasonable in their
desires.
"There is no necessity for recording actions which are
prejudicial to the hero, without being essential to the
history. It is not to be supposed that Æneas was in all his
actions so pure as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so
uniformly prudent as he is described by Homer."
"True," replied Sampson; "but it is one thing to
write as a poet, and another to write as an historian.
The poet may say or sing, not as things were, but as
they ought to have been; but the historian must pen
them not as they ought to have been, but as they really
were, without adding to or diminishing aught from the
truth."
107
There is no human history that, does not contain reverses of
fortune.
Let every man take care how he speaks or writes of honest
people, and not set down at a venture the first thing that
comes uppermost.
"Sancho, thou art an arch rogue," replied Don Quixote,
"and in faith, upon some occasions, hast no want
of memory."
"Though I wanted ever so much to forget what my
poor body has suffered," quoth Sancho, "the tokens
that are still fresh on my ribs would not let me."
"Peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and let signor
bachelor proceed, that I may know what is further said
of me in the history."
"And of me too," quoth Sancho, "for I hear that I
am one of the principal parsons in it."
"Persons, not parsons, friend Sancho," quoth
Sampson.
"What, have we another corrector of words?" quoth
Sancho; "if we are to go on at this rate, we shall make
slow work of it."
"As sure as I live, Sancho," answered the bachelor,
"you are the second person of the history; nay, there
are those who had rather hear you talk than the finest
fellow of them all; though there are also some who
charge you with being too credulous in expecting the
government of that island promised you by Signor Don
Quixote, here present."
"There is still sunshine on the wall," quoth Don
108
Quixote; "and when Sancho is more advanced in age,
with the experience that years bestow, he will be better
qualified to be a governor than he is at present."
"'Fore Gad! sir," quoth Sancho, "if I am not fit
to govern an island at these years, I shall be no better,
able at the age of Methusalem. The mischief of it is,
that the said island sticks somewhere else, and not in
my want of a headpiece to govern it."
"Recommend the matter to God, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, "and all will be well—perhaps better than
thou mayst think; for not a leaf stirs on the tree without
his permission."
"That is very true," quoth Sampson; "and if it
please God, Sancho will not want a thousand islands to
govern, much less one."
"I have seen governors ere now," quoth Sancho,
"who, in my opinion, do not come up to the sole of my
shoe; and yet they are called 'your lordship,' and eat
their victuals upon plate."
With hay or with straw it is all the same.
Much knowledge and a mature understanding are requisite for
an historian.
Wit and humor belong to genius alone.
The wittiest person in the comedy is he that plays the fool.
History is a sacred subject, because the soul of it is
109
truth; and where truth is, there the divinity will reside;
yet there are some who compose and cast off books as if they
were tossing up a dish of pancakes.
There is no book so bad but something good may be
found in it.
Printed works may be read leisurely, their defects
easily seen, so they are scrutinized more or less strictly
in proportion to the celebrity of the author.
"Men of great talents, whether poets or historians,
seldom escape the attacks of those who, without ever
favoring the world with any production of their own,
take delight in criticising the works of others."
"Nor can we wonder at that," said Don Quixote,
"when we observe the same practice among divines,
who, though dull enough in the pulpit themselves, are
wonderfully sharp-sighted in discovering the defects of
other preachers."
"True, indeed, Signor Don Quixote," said Carrasco;
"I wish critics would be less fastidious, nor dwell so
much upon the motes which may be discerned even in
the brightest works; for, though aliquando bonus dormitat
Homerus, they ought to consider how much he was
awake to produce a work with so much light and so
little shade; nay, perhaps even his seeming blemishes
are like moles, which are sometimes thought to be
rather an improvement to beauty. But it cannot be
denied that whoever publishes a book to the world, exposes
himself to imminent peril, since, of all things,
nothing is more impossible than to satisfy everybody.
Above all, I would let my master know that, if he takes
110
me with him, it must be upon condition that he shall
battle it all himself, and that I shall only have to tend
his person—I mean, look after his clothes and food;
all which I will do with a hearty good-will; but if he
expects I will lay hand to my sword, though it be only
against beggarly wood-cutters with hooks and hatchets,
he is very much mistaken. I, Signor Sampson, do not
set up for being the most valiant, but the best and most
faithful squire that ever served knight-errant; and if
my lord Don Quixote, in consideration of my many and
good services, shall please to bestow on me some one
of the many islands his worship says he shall light upon,
I shall be much beholden to him for the favor; and if
he give me none, here I am, and it is better to trust
God than each other; and mayhap my government
bread might not go down so sweet as that which I
should eat without it; and how? do I know but the devil,
in one of these governments, might set up a stumbling-block
in my way, over which I might fall, and dash out
my grinders? Sancho I was born, and Sancho I expect
to die; yet for all that, if, fairly and squarely, without
much care or much risk, Heaven should chance to throw
an island, or some such thing, in my way, I am not
such a fool neither as to refuse it; for, as the saying
is, 'when the heifer is offered, be ready with the rope.'"
When good fortune knocks, make haste to bid her
welcome.
"Brother Sancho," quoth the bachelor, "you have
spoken like any professor; nevertheless, trust in Heaven
111
and Signor Don Quixote, and then you may get not
only an island but even a kingdom."
"One as likely as the other," answered Sancho,
"though I could tell Signor Carrasco that my master
will not throw the kingdom he gives me into a rotten
sack; for I have felt my pulse, and find myself strong
enough to rule kingdoms and govern islands; and so
much I have signified before now to my master."
"Take heed, Sancho," quoth the bachelor, "for
honors change manners; and it may come to pass,
when you are a governor, that you may not know even
your own mother."
"That," answered Sancho, "may be the case with
those that are born among the mallows, but not with
one whose soul, like mine, is covered four inches thick
with the grace of an old Christian. No, no, I am not
one of the ungrateful sort."
"Heaven grant it," said Don Quixote; "but we
shall see when the government comes, and methinks
I have it already in my eye."
Sancho went home in such high spirits that his wife
observed his gayety a bow-shot off, insomuch that she
could not help saying, "What makes you look so
blithe, friend Sancho?"
To which he answered: "Would to Heaven, dear
wife, I were not so well pleased as I seem to be!"
"I know not what you mean, husband," replied she,
"by saying you wish you were not so much pleased;
now, silly as I am, I cannot guess how any one can
desire not to be pleased."
"Look you, Teresa," answered Sancho, "I am thus
112
merry because I am about to return to the service of
my master, Don Quixote, who is going again in search
after adventures, and I am to accompany him, for so
my fate wills it. Besides, I am merry with the hopes
of finding another hundred crowns like those we have
spent, though it grieves me to part from you and my
children; and if Heaven would be pleased to give me
bread, dryshod and at home, without dragging me over
crags and cross-paths, it is plain that my joy would be
better grounded, since it is now mingled with sorrow
for leaving you; so that I was right in saying that I
should be glad if it pleased Heaven I were not so Well
pleased."
"Look you, Sancho," replied Teresa, "ever since
you have been a knight-errant man you talk in such a
roundabout manner that nobody can understand you."
"It is enough, wife," said Sancho, "that God understands
me, for He is the understander of all things;
and so much for that. And do you hear, wife, it behooves
you to take special care of Dapple for these
three or four days to come, that he may be in a condition
to bear arms; so double his allowance, and get the
pack-saddle in order and the rest of his tackling, for
we are not going to a wedding, but to roam about the
world and to give and take with giants, fiery dragons,
and goblins, and to hear hissings, roarings, bellowings,
and bleatings, all which would be but flowers of lavender
if we had not to do with Yangueses and enchanted
Moors."
"I believe, indeed, husband," replied Teresa, "that
your squires-errant do not eat their bread for nothing,
113
and therefore I shall not fail to beseech Heaven to deliver
you speedily from so much evil hap."
"I tell you, wife," answered Sancho, "that did I
not expect, ere long, to see myself governor of an island,
I vow I should drop down dead upon the spot."
"Not so, good husband," quoth Teresa, "let the hen
live, though it be with the pip. Do you live, and the
devil take all the governments in the world! Without
a government you came into the world, without a government
you have lived till now, and without it you can
be carried to your grave whenever it shall please God.
How many folks are there in the world that have no
government! and yet they live and are reckoned among
the people. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and
as that is never wanting to the poor, they always eat
with a relish. But if, perchance, Sancho, you should
get a government, do not forget me and your children.
Consider that your son Sancho is just fifteen years old,
and it is fit he should go to school if his uncle the abbot
means to breed him up to the church. Consider, also,
that Mary Sancha, your daughter, will not break her
heart if we marry her; for I am mistaken if she has
not as much mind to a husband as you have to a government.
And verily say I, better a daughter but
humbly married than highly kept."
"In good faith, dear wife," said Sancho, "if Heaven
be so good to me that I get anything like a government,
I will match Mary Sancha so highly that there will be
no coming near her without calling her your ladyship."
"Not so, Sancho," answered Teresa, "the best way
is to marry her to her equal; for if you lift her from
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clouted shoes to high heels, and instead of her russet
coat of fourteenpenny stuff, give her a farthingale and
petticoats of silk, and instead of plain Molly and thou
she be called madam and your ladyship, the girl will
not know where she is and will fall into a thousand
mistakes at every step, showing her homespun country
stuff."
"Peace, fool!" quoth Sancho, "she has only to
practise two or three years and the gravity will set
upon her as if it were made for her; and if not, what
matters it? Let her be a lady, and come of it what
will."
"Measure yourself by your condition, Sancho,"
answered Teresa, "and do not seek to raise yourself
higher, but remember the proverb, 'Wipe your neighbor's
son's nose and take him into your house.' It
would be a pretty business, truly, to marry our Mary
to some great count or knight, who, when the fancy
takes him, would look upon her as some strange thing,
and be calling her country-wench, clod-breaker's brat,
and I know not what else. No, not while I live, husband;
I have not brought up my child to be so used.
Do you provide money, Sancho, and leave the matching
of her to my care; for there is Lope Tocho, John
Tocho's son, a lusty, hale young man, whom we know,
and I am sure he has a sneaking kindness for the girl.
To him she will be very well married, considering he is
our equal, and will be always under our eye; and we
shall be all as one, parents and children, grandsons and
sons-in-law, and so the peace and blessing of Heaven
will be among us all; and do not you be for marrying
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her at your courts and great palaces, where they will
neither understand her nor she understand herself."
"Hark you, beast, and wife for Barabbas," replied
Sancho, "why would you now, without rhyme or reason,
hinder me from marrying my daughter with one
who may bring me grandchildren that may be styled
your lordships? Look you, Teresa, I have always
heard my betters say, 'He that will not when he may,
when he will he shall have nay'; and it would be wrong,
now that fortune is knocking at our door, not to open
it and bid her welcome. Let us spread our sail to the
favorable gale, now that it blows.' ... Can't you perceive,
animal, with half an eye," proceeded Sancho,
"that I shall act wisely, in devoting this body of mine
to some beneficial government that will lift us out of
the dirt, and enable me to match Mary Sancha according
to my own good pleasure; then wilt thou hear thyself
called Donna Teresa Panza, and find thyself seated
at church upon carpets, cushions, and tapestry, in despite
and defiance of all the small gentry in the parish;
and not be always in the same moping circumstances,
without increase or diminution, like a picture in the
hangings. But no more of this; Sanchica shall be a
countess, though thou shouldst cry thy heart out."
"Look before you leap, husband," answered Teresa;
"after all, I wish to God this quality of my daughter
may not be the cause of her perdition; take your own
way, and make her duchess or princess, or what you
please; but I'll assure you it shall never be with my
consent or good-will; I was always a lover of equality,
my dear, and can't bear to see people hold their heads
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high without reason. Teresa was I christened, a bare
and simple name, without the addition, garniture, and
embroidery of Don or Donna; my father's name is
Cascajo, and mine, as being your spouse, Teresa Panza,
though by rights I should be called Teresa Cascajo; but
as the king minds, the law binds; and with that name
am I contented, though it be not burdened with a Don,
which weighs so heavy that I should not be able to bear
it. Neither will I put it in the power of those who see
me dressed like a countess or governor's lady, to say:
'Mind Mrs. Porkfeeder, how proud she looks! it was
but yesterday she toiled hard at the distaff, and went to
mass with the tail of her gown about her head, instead
of a veil; but now, forsooth, she has got her fine farthingales
and jewels, and holds up her head as if we
did not know her.' If God preserves me in my seven
or five senses, or as many as they be, I shall never bring
myself into such a quandary. As for your part, spouse,
you may go to your governments and islands, and be as
proud as a peacock; but as for my daughter and me,
by the life of my father! we will not stir one step from
the village; for, the wife that deserves a good name,
stays at home as if she were lame; and the maid must
be still a-doing, that hopes to see the men come awooing."
He that covers, discovers.
The poor man is scarcely looked at, while every eye
is turned upon the rich; and if the poor man grows
rich and great, then I warrant you there is work enough
117
for your grumblers and backbiters, who swarm everywhere
like bees.
"The first time, he was brought home to us laid
athwart an ass, all battered and bruised. The second
time he returned in an ox-wagon, locked up in a cage,
and so changed, poor soul, that his own mother would not
have known him; so feeble, wan, and withered, and his
eyes sunk into the farthest corner of his brains, insomuch
that it took me above six hundred eggs to get him
a little up again, as Heaven and the world is my witness,
and my hens, that will not let me lie."
"I can easily believe that," answered the bachelor;
"for your hens are too well bred and fed to say one
thing and mean another."
All objects present to the view exist, and are impressed
upon the imagination with much greater energy and
force, than those which we only remember to have seen.
When we see any person finely dressed, and set off
with rich apparel and with a train of servants, we are
moved to show him respect; for, though we cannot but
remember certain scurvy matters either of poverty or
parentage, that formerly belonged to him, but which
being long gone by are almost forgotten, we only think
of what we see before our eyes. And if, as the preacher
said, the person so raised by good luck, from nothing,
as it were, to the tip-top of prosperity, be well behaved,
generous, and civil, and gives himself no ridiculous
airs, pretending to vie with the old nobility, take my
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word for it, Teresa, nobody will twit him with what he
was, but will respect him for what he is; except, indeed
the envious, who hate every man's good luck.
People are always ready enough to lend their money
to governors.
Clothe the boy so that he may look not like what he
is, but what he may be.
To this burden women are born, they must obey their
husbands if they are ever such blockheads.
He that's coy when fortune's kind, may after seek but
never find.
All knights cannot be courtiers, neither can all courtiers
be knights.
The courtier knight travels only on a map, without
fatigue or expense; he neither suffers heat nor cold,
hunger nor thirst; while the true knight-errant explores
every quarter of the habitable world, and is by
night and day, on foot or on horseback, exposed to all
the vicissitudes of the weather.
All are not affable and well-bred; on the contrary,
some there are extremely brutal and impolite. All
those who call themselves knights, are not entitled to
that distinction; some being of pure gold, and others
of baser metal, notwithstanding the denomination
they assume. But these last cannot stand the touch-stone
119
of truth; there are mean plebeians, who sweat
and struggle to maintain the appearance of gentlemen;
and, on the other hand, there are gentlemen of
rank who seem industrious to appear mean and degenerate;
the one sort raise themselves either by ambition
or virtue, while the other abase themselves by viciousness
or sloth; so that we must avail ourselves of our
understanding and discernment in distinguishing those
persons, who, though they bear the same appellation, are
yet so different in point of character. All the genealogies
in the world may be reduced to four kinds. The
first are those families who from a low beginning have
raised and extended themselves, until they have
reached the highest pinnacle of human greatness; the
second are those of high extraction, who have preserved
their original dignity; the third sort are those who,
from a great foundation, have gradually dwindled, until,
like a pyramid, they terminate in a small point.
The last, which are the most numerous class, are those
who have begun and continue low, and who must end
the same.
Genealogies are involved in endless confusion, and
those only are illustrious and great who are distinguished
by their virtue and liberality, as well as their riches;
for the great man who is vicious is only a great sinner,
and the rich man who wants liberality is but a miserly
pauper.
The gratification which wealth can bestow is not in
mere possession, nor in lavishing it with prodigality,
but in the wise application of it.
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The poor knight can only manifest his rank by his
virtues and general conduct. He must be well-bred,
courteous, kind, and obliging; not proud nor arrogant;
no murmurer. Above all, he must be charitable, and
by two maravedis given cheerfully to the poor he shall
display as much generosity as the rich man who bestows
large alms by sound of bell. Of such a man no
one would doubt his honorable descent, and general
applause wall be the sure reward of his virtue.
There are two roads by which men may attain riches
and honor: the one by letters, the other by arms.
The path of virtue is narrow, that of vice is spacious
and broad; as the great Castilian poet expresses it:—
"By these rough paths of toil and pain
The immortal seats of bliss we gain,
Denied to those who heedless stray
In tempting pleasure's flowery way."
Fast bind, fast find.
He who shuffles is not he who cuts.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Though there is little in a woman's advice, yet he
that won't take it is not over-wise.
We are all mortal: here to-day and gone to-morrow.
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The lamb goes to the spit as soon as the sheep.
No man in this world can promise himself more hours
of life than God is pleased to grant him; because death
if deaf, and when he knocks at the door of life is always
in a hurry, and will not be detained either by fair
means or force, by sceptres or mitres, as the report
goes, and as we have often heard it declared from the
pulpit.
The hen sits, if it be but upon one egg.
Many littles make a mickle, and he that is getting
aught is losing naught.
While there are peas in the dove-cote, it shall never
want pigeons.
A good reversion is better than bad possession, and
a good claim better than bad pay.
The bread eaten, the company broke up.
A man must be a man, and a woman a woman.
Nothing inspires a knight-errant with so much valor
as the favor of his mistress.
O envy! thou root of infinite mischief and canker-worm
of virtue! The commission of all other vices,
Sancho, is attended with some sort of delight; but envy
produces nothing in the heart that harbors it but rage,
rancor, and disgust.
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The love of fame is one of the most active principles
in the human breast.
Let us keep our holy days in peace, and not throw
the rope after the bucket.
"And now pray tell me which is the most difficult, to
raise a dead man to life or to slay a giant?"
"The answer is very obvious," answered Don Quixote;
"to raise a dead man."
"There I have caught you!" quoth Sancho. "Then
his fame who raises the dead, gives sight to the blind,
makes the lame walk, and cures the sick; who has
lamps burning near his grave, and good Christians always
in his chapels, adoring his relics upon their knees,—his
fame, I say, shall be greater both in this world
and the next than that which all the heathen emperors
and knights-errant in the world ever had or ever shall
have."
"I grant it," answered Don Quixote.
"Then," replied Sancho, "the bodies and relics of
saints have this power and grace, and these privileges,
or how do you call them, and with the license of our
holy mother church have their lamps, winding-sheets,
crutches, pictures, perukes, eyes, and legs, whereby
they increase people's devotion and spread abroad their
own Christian fame. Kings themselves carry the bodies
or relics of saints upon their shoulders, kiss the
fragments of their bones, and adorn their chapels and
most favorite altars with them."
"Certainly, but what wouldst thou infer from all
this, Sancho?" quoth Don Quixote.
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"What I mean," said Sancho, "is, that we had better
turn saints immediately, and we shall then soon get that
fame we are seeking after. And pray take notice, sir,
that it was but yesterday—I mean very lately—a
couple of poor barefooted friars were canonized, and
people now reckon it a greater happiness to touch or
kiss the iron chains that bound them, and which are
now held in greater veneration than Orlando's sword in
the armory of our lord the king, Heaven save him; so
that it is better to be a poor friar of the meanest order
than the bravest knight-errant, because four dozen of
good penitent lashes are more esteemed in the sight of
God than two thousand tilts with a lance, though it be
against giants, goblins, or dragons."
"I confess," answered Don Quixote, "all this is
true. We cannot all be friars, and many and various
are the ways by which God conducts his elect to
Heaven. Chivalry is a kind of religious profession,
and some knights are now saints in glory."
"True," quoth Sancho, "but I have heard say there
are more friars in Heaven than knights-errant."
"It may well be so," replied Don Quixote, "because
their number is much greater than that of knights-errant."
"And yet," quoth Sancho, "there are abundance of
the errant sort."
"Abundance, indeed," answered Don Quixote, "but
few who deserve the name of knight."
There is a time for jesting, and a time when jokes
are unseasonable.
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Truth may bend but never break, and will ever rise
above falsehood, like oil above water.
With lovers the external actions and gestures are
couriers, which bear authentic tidings of what is passing
in the interior of the soul.
A stout heart flings misfortune.
Where you meet with no books you need expect no
bacon.
The hare often starts where the hunter least expects
her.
There is a remedy for everything but death, who will
take us in his clutches spite of our teeth.
Show me who thou art with, and I will tell thee what
thou art.
Not with whom thou wert bred, but with whom thou
art fed.
Sorrow was made for man, not for beasts; yet if men
encourage melancholy too much, they become no better
than beasts.
"Thou bringest me good news, then?" cried Don
Quixote.
"So good," answered Sancho, "that your worship has
only to clap spurs to Rozinante, and get out upon the
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plain, to see the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who, with a
couple of her damsels, is coming to pay your worship a
visit."
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Don Quixote, "what
dost thou say? Take care that thou beguilest not my
real sorrow by a counterfeit joy."
"What should I get," answered Sancho, "by deceiving
your worship, only to be found out the next moment?
Come, sir, put on, and you will see the princess
our mistress all arrayed and adorned—in short, like
herself. She and her damsels are one blaze of naming
gold; all strings of pearls, all diamonds, all rubies, all
cloth of tissue above ten hands deep; their hair loose
about their shoulders, like so many sunbeams blowing
about in the wind; and what is more, they come mounted
upon three pied belfreys, the finest you ever laid eyes
on."
"Palfreys, thou wouldst say, Sancho," quoth Don
Quixote.
"Well, well," answered Sancho, "belfreys and palfreys
are much the same thing; but let them be mounted
how they will, they are sure the finest creatures one
would wish to see; especially my mistress the princess
Dulcinea, who dazzles one's senses."
They were now got out of the wood, and saw the
three wenches very near.
Don Quixote looked eagerly along the road towards
Toboso, and seeing nobody but the three wenches, he
asked Sancho, in much agitation, whether they were
out of the city when he left them.
"Out of the city!" answered Sancho; "are your
126
worship's eyes in the nape of your neck, that you do not
see them now before you, shining like the sun at noon-day?"
"I see only three country girls," answered Don Quixote,
"on three asses."
"Now, Heaven keep me from the devil," answered
Sancho; "is it possible that three palfreys, or how do
you call them, white as the driven snow, should look to
you like asses? As the Lord liveth, you shall pluck off
this beard of mine if it be so."
"I tell thee, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote,
"that it is as certain they are asses, as that I am Don
Quixote and thou Sancho Panza;—at least, so they
seem to me."
"Sir," quoth Sancho, "say not such a thing; but
snuff those eyes of yours, and come and pay reverence
to the mistress of your soul." So saying he advanced
forward to meet the peasant girls, and, alighting from
Dapple, he laid hold of one of their asses by the halter,
and bending both knees to the ground, said to the girl:
"Queen, princess, and duchess of beauty, let your
haughtiness and greatness be pleased to receive into
grace and good-liking your captive knight, who stands
turned there into stone, all disorder, and without any
pulse, to find himself before your magnificent presence.
I am Sancho Panza, his squire, and he is that way-worn
knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise
called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure."
It is not courage, but rashness, for one man singly to
encounter an army, where death is present, and where
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emperors fight in person, assisted by good and bad
angels.
Good Christians should never revenge injuries.
A sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on the
wing.
At the conclusion of this drama of life, death strips
us of the robes which make the difference between
man and man, and leaves us all on one level in the
grave.
From a friend to a friend,7 etc.
Nor let it be taken amiss that any comparison should
be made between the mutual cordiality of animals and
that of men; for much useful knowledge and many
salutary precepts have been taught by the brute creation.
We may learn gratitude as well as vigilance from
cranes, foresight from ants, modesty from elephants,
and loyalty from horses.
Harken, and we shall discover his thoughts by his
song, for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh.8
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sonnet.
Bright authoress of my good or ill,
Prescribe the law I must observe;
My heart, obedient to thy will,
Shall never from its duty swerve.
If you refuse my griefs to know,
The stifled anguish seals my fate;
But if your ears would drink my woe,
Love shall himself the tale relate.
Though contraries my heart compose,
Hard as the diamond's solid frame,
And soft as yielding wax that flows,
To thee, my fair, 'tis still the same.
Take it, for every stamp prepared;
Imprint what characters you choose;
The faithful tablet, soft or hard,
The dear impression ne'er shall lose.
The sorrows that may arise from well-placed affections,
ought rather to be accounted blessings than calamities.
Good fare lessens care.
The rarest sporting is that we find at other people's
cost.
Covetousness bursts the bag.
Other folk's burdens break the ass's back.
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There is no road so smooth but it has its stumbling-places.
Madness will have more followers than discretion.
Comparisons in grief lessen its weight.
If the blind lead the blind, both may fall into the
ditch.
A good paymaster needs no pledge.
Nobody knows the heart of his neighbor; some go
out for wool and come home shorn.
Let us drink and live, for time takes care to rid us
of our lives, without our seeking ways to go before our
appointed term and season.
"You must know I have had in my family, by the
father's side, two of the rarest tasters that were ever
known in La Mancha; and I will give you a proof of their
skill. A certain hogshead was given to each of them
to taste, and their opinion asked as to the condition,
quality, goodness, or badness, of the wine. One tried
it with the tip of his tongue; the other only put it to
his nose. The first said the wine savored of iron; the
second said it had rather a twang of goat's leather.
The owner protested that the vessel was clean, and the
wine neat, so that it could not taste either of iron or
leather. Notwithstanding this, the two famous tasters
130
stood positively to what they had said. Time went
on; the wine was sold off, and, on cleaning the cask, a
small key, hanging to a leathern thong, was found at
the bottom. Judge then, sir, whether one of that race
may not be well entitled to give his opinion in these
matters."
"That being the case," quoth he of the wood, "we
should leave off seeking adventures, and, since we have
a good loaf, let us not look for cheesecakes."
The conquered must be at the discretion of the conqueror.
It is easy to undertake, but more difficult to finish a
thing.
"Pray, which is the greater madman, he who is so
because he cannot help it, or he who is so on purpose?"
"The difference between these two sorts of madmen
is," replied Sampson, "that he who cannot help it will
remain so, and he who deliberately plays the fool may
leave off when he thinks fit."
Heaven knows the truth of all things.
The ancient sages, who were not enlightened with
the knowledge of the true God, reckoned the gifts of
fortune and nature, abundance of friends, and increase
of dutiful children, as constituting part of the supreme
happiness.
Letters without virtue are like pearls on a dunghill.
131
Poetry I regard as a tender virgin, young and extremely
beautiful, whom divers other virgins—namely,
all the other sciences—are assiduous to enrich, to polish,
and adorn. She is to be served by them, and they
are to be ennobled through her. But the same virgin is
not to be rudely handled, nor dragged through the
streets, nor exposed in the market-places, nor posted on
the corners of gates of palaces. She is of so exquisite
a nature that he who knows how to treat her will convert
her into gold of the most inestimable value. He
who possesses her should guard her with vigilance;
neither suffering her to be polluted by obscene, nor degraded
by dull and frivolous works. Although she
must be in no wise venal, she is not, therefore, to despise
the fair reward of honorable labors, either in heroic
or dramatic composition. Buffoons must not come
near her, neither must she be approached by the ignorant
vulgar, who have no sense of her charms; and
this term is equally applicable to all ranks, for whoever
is ignorant is vulgar. He, therefore, who, with the
qualifications I have named, devotes himself to poetry,
will be honored and esteemed by all nations distinguished
for intellectual cultivation.
Indeed, it is generally said that the gift of poesy is
innate—that is, a poet is born a poet, and, thus endowed
by Heaven, apparently without study or art,
composes things which verify the saying, Est Deus in
nobis, etc. Thus the poet of nature, who improves himself
by art, rises far above him who is merely the creature
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of study. Art may improve, but cannot surpass
nature; and, therefore, it is the union of both which
produces the perfect poet.
Let him direct the shafts of satire against vice, in all
its various forms, but not level them at individuals,
like some who, rather than not indulge their mischievous
wit, will hazard a disgraceful banishment to the
Isles of Pontus. If the poet be correct in his morals,
his verse will partake of the same purity: the pen is
the tongue of the mind, and what his conceptions are,
such will be his productions. The wise and virtuous
subject who is gifted with a poetic genius is ever honored
and enriched by his sovereign, and crowned with
the leaves of the tree which the thunderbolt hurts not,
as a token that all should respect those brows which are
so honorably adorned.
Forewarned, forearmed; to be prepared is half the
victory.
It is a nobler sight to behold a knight-errant assisting
a widow in solitude than a courtier-knight complimenting
a damsel in the city.
Well I know that fortitude is a virtue placed between
the two extremes of cowardice and rashness: but it is
better the valiant should rise to the extreme of temerity
than sink to that of cowardice, for, as it is easier for
the prodigal than the miser to become liberal, so it is
much easier for the rash than the cowardly to become
truly brave.
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Don Quixote, after having wiped his head, face,
beard, and helmet, again put it on, and fixing himself
firm in his stirrups, adjusting his sword, and grasping
his lance, he exclaimed, "Now, come what may, I am
prepared to encounter Satan himself!"
They were soon overtaken by the cart with flags,
which was attended only by the driver, who rode upon
one of the mules, and a man sitting upon the fore part
of it. Don Quixote planted himself just before them,
and said, "Whither go ye, brethren? What carriage
is this? What does it contain, and what are those
banners?"
"The cart is mine," answered the carter, "and in it
are two fierce lions, which the general of Oran is sending
to court as a present to his majesty; the flags belong
to our liege the king, to show that what is in the
cart belongs to him."
"And are the lions large?" demanded Don Quixote.
"Larger never came from Africa to Spain," said the
man on the front of the cart; "I am their keeper, and
in my time have had charge of many lions, but never
of any so large as these. They are a male and a female;
the male is in the first cage, and the female
is in that behind. Not having eaten to-day, they are
now hungry and therefore, sir, stand aside, for we
must make haste to the place where they are to be fed."
"What!" said Don Quixote, with a scornful smile,
"lion-whelps against me! Against me, your puny
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monsters! and at this time of day! By yon blessed
sun! those who sent them hither shall see whether I
am a man to be scared by lions. Alight, honest friend!
and, since you are their keeper, open the cages and turn
out your savages of the desert: for in the midst of this
field will I make them know who Don Quixote de la
Mancha is, in spite of the enchanters that sent them
hither to me."
"So, so," quoth the gentleman to himself, "our good
knight has now given us a specimen of what he is;
doubtless the curds have softened his skull, and made
his brains mellow."
Sancho now coming up to him, "For Heaven's sake,
sir," cried he, "hinder my master from meddling with
these lions; for if he does they will tear us all to
pieces."
"What, then, is your master so mad," answered the
gentleman, "that you really fear he will attack such
fierce animals?"
"He is not mad," answered Sancho, "but daring."
"I will make him desist," replied the gentleman;
and, going up to Don Quixote, who was importuning
the keeper to open the cages, "Sir," said he, "Knights-errant
should engage in adventures that, at least, afford
some prospect of success, and not such as are altogether
desperate; for the valor which borders on temerity
has in it more of madness than courage. Besides,
sir knight, these lions do not come to assail you: they
are going to be presented to his majesty; and it is,
therefore, improper to detain them or retard their
journey."
135
"Sweet sir," answered Don Quixote, "go hence,
and mind your decoy partridge, and your stout ferret,
and leave every one to his functions. This is
mine, and I shall see whether these gentlemen lions will
come against me or not." Then, turning to the keeper,
he said, "I vow to Heaven, Don Rascal, if thou dost
not instantly open the cages, with this lance I will pin
thee to the cart."
The carter seeing that the armed lunatic was resolute,
"Good sir," said he, "for charity's sake, be pleased to
let me take off my mules and get with them out of danger,
before the lions are let loose: for should my cattle
be killed, I am undone for ever, as I have no other
means of living than by this cart and these mules."
"Incredulous wretch!" cried Don Quixote, "unyoke
and do as thou wilt; but thou shalt soon see that thy
trouble might have been spared."
The carter alighted and unyoked in great haste.
The keeper then said aloud, "Bear witness, all here
present, that against my will, and by compulsion, I
open the cages and let the lions loose. I protest against
what this gentleman is doing, and declare all the mischief
done by these beasts shall be placed to his account,
with my salary and perquisites over and above. Pray,
gentlemen, take care of yourselves before I open the
door; for, as to myself, I am sure they will do me no
hurt."
Again the gentleman pressed Don Quixote to desist
from so mad an action; declaring to him that he was
thereby provoking God's wrath. Don Quixote replied
that he knew what he was doing. The gentleman rejoined,
136
and entreated him to consider well of it, for he
was certainly deceived.
"Nay, sir," replied Don Quixote, "if you will not be
a spectator of what you think will prove a tragedy, spur
your flea-bitten, and save yourself."
Sancho, too, besought him, with tears in his eyes, to
desist from an enterprise compared with which that of
the windmills, the dreadful one of the fulling-mills, and
in short, all the exploits he had performed in the whole
course of his life, were mere tarts and cheesecakes.
"Consider, sir," added Sancho, "here is no enchantment,
nor anything like it; for I saw, through the
grates and chinks of the cage, the paw of a true lion;
and I guess, by the size of its claw, that it is bigger than
a mountain."
"Thy fears," answered Don Quixote, "would make
it appear to thee larger than half the world. Retire,
Sancho, and leave me; and if I perish here, thou knowest
our old agreement: repair to Dulcinea—I say no
more." To these he added other expressions, which
showed the firmness of his purpose, and that all argument
would be fruitless. The gentleman would fain
have compelled him to desist, but thought himself unequally
matched in weapons and armor, and that it
Would not be prudent to engage with a madman, whose
violence and menaces against the keeper were now redoubled;
the gentleman therefore spurred his mare,
Sancho his Dapple, and the carter his mules, and all
endeavored to get as far off as possible from the cart,
before the lions were let loose. Sancho bewailed the
death of his master; verily believing it would now
137
overtake him between the paws of the lions; he cursed
his hard fortune, and the unlucky hour when he again entered
into his service. But, notwithstanding his tears
and lamentations, he kept urging on his Dapple to get
far enough from the cart. The keeper, seeing that the
fugitives were at a good distance, repeated his arguments
and entreaties, but to no purpose: Don Quixote
answered that he heard him, and desired he would
trouble himself no more, but immediately obey his commands,
and open the door.
Whilst the keeper was unbarring the first gate, Don
Quixote deliberated within himself whether it would be
best to engage on horseback or not, and finally determined
it should be on foot, as Rozinante might be terrified
at the sight of the lions. He therefore leaped
from his horse, flung aside his lance, braced on his
shield, and drew his sword; and marching slowly, with
marvellous intrepidity and an undaunted heart, he
planted himself before the car, devoutly commending
himself, first to God and then to his mistress Dulcinea.
Here it is to be noted that the author of this faithful
history, coming to this passage, falls into exclamations,
and cries out, O strenuous and beyond all expression
courageous Don Quixote de la Mancha! thou mirror
wherein all the valiant ones of the world may behold
themselves, thou second and new Don Manuel de Leon,
who was the glory and honor of the Spanish knights!
With what words shall I relate this tremendous exploit?
By what arguments shall I render it credible
to succeeding ages? or what praises, though above all
hyperboles hyperbolical, do not fit and become thee?
138
Thou, alone, on foot, intrepid and magnanimous, with
a single sword, and that none of the sharpest, with a
shield not of the brightest and most shining steel, standest
waiting for and expecting two of the fiercest lions
that the forests of Africa ever bred. Let thy own deeds
praise thee, valorous Manchegan! for here I must leave
off for want of words whereby to enhance them. Here
the author ends his exclamation, and resumes the thread
of the history, saying:—
The keeper, seeing Don Quixote fixed in his posture,
and that he could not avoid letting loose the male lion
on pain of falling under the displeasure of the angry
and daring knight, set wide open the door of the first
cage, where lay the lion, which appeared to be of an
extraordinary bigness and of a hideous and frightful
aspect. The first thing he did was to turn himself
round in the cage, reach out a paw, and stretch himself
at full length. Then he gaped and yawned very
leisurely; then licked the dust off his eyes, and washed
his face, with some half a yard of tongue. This done,
he thrust his head out of the cage and stared round
on all sides with eyes of fire-coals,—a sight and aspect
enough to have struck terror into temerity itself. Don
Quixote only observed him with attention, wishing he
would leap out from the car and grapple with him, that
he might tear him in pieces, to such a pitch of extravagance
had his unheard-of madness transported him.
But the generous lion, more civil than arrogant,
taking no notice of his vaporing and bravados, after
having stared about him, as has been said, turned his
back and showed his posteriors to Don Quixote, and
139
with great phlegm and calmness laid himself down
again in the cage; which Don Quixote perceiving, he
ordered the keeper to give him some blows and provoke
him to come forth.
"That I will not do," answered the keeper; "for,
should I provoke him, I myself shall be the first he will
tear in pieces. Be satisfied, signor cavalier, with what
is done, which is all that can be said in point of courage,
and do not tempt fortune a second time. The lion
has the door open, and it is in his choice to come forth
or not; and since he has not yet come out, he will not
come out all this day. The greatness of your worship's
courage is already sufficiently shown. No brave combatant,
as I take it, is obliged to more than to challenge
his foe, and expect him in the field; and if the antagonist
does not meet him, the disgrace falls on him, while
the challenger is entitled to the crown of victory."
"That is true," answered Don Quixote; "shut the
door, and give me a certificate in the best form you
can of what you have here seen me perform. It should
be known that you opened the door to the lion; that I
waited for him; that he came not out; again I waited
for him; again he came not out; and again he laid
himself down. I am bound to no more,—enchantments
avaunt! So Heaven prosper right and justice
and true chivalry! Shut the door, as I told thee, while
I make a signal to the fugitive and absent, that from
your own mouth they may have an account of this
exploit."
The keeper closed the door, and Don Quixote, having
fixed the linen cloth with which he had wiped the curds
140
from his face upon the point of his lance, began to hail
the troop in the distance, who, with the gentleman in
green at their head, were still retiring, but looking round
at every step, when suddenly Sancho observed the signal
of the white cloth.
"May I be hanged," cried he, "if my master has
not vanquished the wild beasts, for he is calling to
us!"
They all stopped, and saw that it was Don Quixote
that made the sign; and, their fear in some degree
abating, they ventured to return slowly till they could
distinctly hear the words of Don Quixote, who continued
calling to them. When they had reached the cart again,
Don Quixote said to the driver: "Now, friend, put on
your mules again, and in Heaven's name proceed; and,
Sancho, give two crowns to him and the keeper, to make
them amends for this delay."
"That I will, with all my heart," answered Sancho;
"but what has become of the lions? are they dead or
alive?"
The keeper then very minutely, and with due pauses,
gave an account of the conflict, enlarging, to the best
of his skill, on the valor of Don Quixote, at sight of
whom the daunted lion would not, or durst not, stir
out of the cage, though he had held open the door a
good while; and, upon his representing to the knight
that it was tempting God to provoke the lion, and to
force him out, he had at length, very reluctantly, permitted
him to close it again.
"What sayest thou to this, Sancho?" said Don
Quixote; "can any enchantment prevail against true
141
courage? Enchanters may, indeed, deprive me of good
fortune, but of courage and resolution they never can."
Sancho gave the gold crowns; the carter yoked his
mules; the keeper thanked Don Quixote for his present,
and promised to relate this valorous exploit to the
king himself when he arrived at court.
"If, perchance, his majesty," said Don Quixote,
"should inquire who performed it, tell him the Knight
of the Lions; for henceforward I resolve that the title
I have hitherto borne, of the Knight of the Sorrowful
Figure, shall be thus changed, converted, and altered;
and herein I follow the ancient practice of knights-errant,
who changed their names at pleasure."
It is a gallant sight to see a cavalier in shining armor
prancing over the lists at some gay tournament in sight
of the ladies; it is a gallant sight when, in the middle
of a spacious square, a brave cavalier, before the eyes
of his prince, transfixes with his lance a furious bull;
and a gallant show do all those knights make, who, in
military or other exercises, entertain, enliven, and do
honor to their prince's court; but far above all these
is the knight-errant, who, through deserts and solitudes,
through cross-ways, through woods, and over mountains,
goes in quest of perilous adventures, which he
undertakes and accomplishes only to obtain a glorious
and immortal fame.
All knights have their peculiar functions. Let the
courtier serve the ladies, adorn his prince's court with
rich liveries, entertain the poorer cavaliers at his splendid
142
table, order his jousts, manage tournaments, and
show himself great, liberal, and magnificent; above all,
a good Christian, and thus will he fulfil his duties.
In enterprises of every kind, it is better to lose the
game by a card too much than one too little; for it
sounds better to be called rash and daring than timorous
and cowardly.
"Signor Don Diego de Miranda, your father, sir,
has informed me of the rare talents you possess, and
particularly that you are a great poet."
"Certainly not a great poet," replied Lorenzo; "it
is true I am fond of poetry, and honor the works of
good poets; but I have no claim to the title my father
is pleased to confer upon me."
"I do not dislike this modesty," answered Don Quixote;
"for poets are usually very arrogant, each thinking
himself the greatest in the world."
"There is no rule without an exception," answered
Don Lorenzo; "and surely there may be some who do
not appear too conscious of their real merits."
"Very few, I believe," said Don Quixote.
"It is a science," replied Don Quixote, "which comprehends
all, or most of the other sciences; for he who
professes it must be learned in the law, and understand
distributive and commutative justice, that he may
know not only how to assign to each man what is truly
his own, but what is proper for him to possess; he must
143
be conversant in divinity, in order to be able to explain,
clearly and distinctly, the Christian faith which
he professes; he must be skilled in medicine, especially
in botany, that he may know both how to cure the
diseases with which he may be afflicted, and collect the
various remedies which Providence has scattered in the
midst of the wilderness, nor be compelled on every
emergency to be running in quest of a physician to heal
him; he must be an astronomer, that he may if necessary
ascertain by the stars the exact hour of the night
and what part or climate of the world he is in; he
must understand mathematics, because he will have
occasion for them; and taking it for granted that he
must be adorned with all the cardinal and theological
virtues, I descend to other more minute particulars,
and say that he must know how to swim as well as it is
reported of Fish Nicholas;9 he must know how to shoe
a horse and repair his saddle and bridle: and to return
to higher concerns, he must preserve his faith
inviolable towards Heaven, and also to his mistress;
he must be chaste in his thoughts, modest in his words,
liberal in good works, valiant in exploits, patient in
toils, charitable to the needy, and steadfastly adhering
to the truth, even at the hazard of his life. Of all
these great and small parts a good knight-errant is
composed."
144
the text.
Could I recall departed joy,
Though barred the hopes of greater gain,
Or now the future hours employ
That must succeed my present pain.
the paraphrase.
All fortune's blessings disappear,
She's fickle as the wind;
And now I find her as severe
As once I thought her kind.
How soon the fleeting pleasures passed!
How long the lingering sorrows last!
Unconstant goddess, in thy haste,
Do not thy prostrate slave destroy,
I'd ne'er complain, but bless my fate,
Could I recall departed joy.
Of all thy gifts I beg but this,
Glut all mankind with more,
Transport them with redoubled bliss,
But only mine restore.
With thought of pleasure once possessed,
I'm now as cursed as I was blessed:
Oh, would the charming hours return,
How pleased I'd live, how free from pain,
I ne'er would pine, I ne'er would mourn.
Though barred the hopes of greater gain.
But oh, the blessing I implore
Not fate itself can give!
145
Since time elapsed exists no more,
No power can bid it live.
Our days soon vanish into naught,
And have no being but in thought.
Whate'er began must end at last,
In vain we twice would youth enjoy,
In vain would we recall the past,
Or now the future hours employ.
Deceived by hope, and racked by fear,
No longer life can please;
I'll then no more its torments bear,
Since death so soon can ease.
This hour I'll die—but, let me pause—
A rising doubt my courage awes.
Assist, ye powers that rule my fate,
Alarm my thoughts, my rage restrain,
Convince my soul there's yet a state
That must succeed my present pain.
O Flattery, how potent is thy sway! How wide the
bounds of thy pleasing jurisdiction!
sonnet.
The nymph who Pyramus with love inspired
Pierces the wall, with equal passion fired:
Cupid from distant Cyprus thither flies,
And views the secret breach with laughing eyes.
146
Here silence, vocal, mutual vows conveys,
And whispering eloquent, their love betrays:
Though chained by fear, their voices dare not pass,
Their souls, transmitted through the chink, embrace.
Ah, woful story of disastrous love!
Ill-fated haste that did their ruin prove!
One death, one grave, unite the faithful pair,
And in one common fame their memories share.
No parents can see the deformity of their own children,
and still stronger is this self-deception with
respect to the offspring of the mind.
At parting, Don Quixote addressing himself to Don
Lorenzo: "I know not," said he, "whether I have already
told your worship, but if I have, let me now
repeat the intimation, that when you are inclined to
take the shortest and easiest road to the inaccessible
summit of the temple of fame, you have no more to do,
but to leave on one side the path of poetry, which is
pretty narrow, and follow that of knight-errantry,
which, though the narrowest of all others, will conduct
you to the throne of empire in the turning of a straw."
Riches are able to solder abundance of flaws.
Every sheep to its like.
Let every goose a gander choose.
147
an account of the marriage of camacho the
rich; and also the adventure of basilius
the poor.
"Come with us, and you will see one of the greatest
and richest weddings that has ever been celebrated in
La Mancha, or for many leagues round."
"The nuptials of some prince, I presume?" said Don
Quixote.
"No," replied the scholar, "only that of a farmer
and a country maid: he the wealthiest in this part of
the country, and she the most beautiful that eyes ever
beheld. The preparations are very uncommon: for the
wedding is to be celebrated in a meadow near the village
where the bride lives, who is called Quiteria the
Fair, and the bridegroom Camacho the Rich: she is
about the age of eighteen, and he twenty-two, both
equally matched, though some nice folks, who have all
the pedigrees of the world in their heads, pretend that
the family of Quiteria the Fair has the advantage over
that of Camacho; but that is now little regarded, for
riches are able to solder up abundance of flaws. In
short, this same Camacho is as liberal as a prince; and,
intending to be at some cost in this wedding, has taken
it into his head to convert a whole meadow into a kind
of arbor, shading it so that the sun itself will find some
difficulty to visit the green grass beneath. He will also
have morris-dances, both with swords and bells; for
there are people in the village who jingle and clatter
them with great dexterity. As to the number of shoe-clappers
10
invited, it is impossible to count them; but
148
what will give the greatest interest to this wedding is
the effect it is expected to have on the slighted Basilius.
"This Basilius is a swain of the same village as
Quiteria; his house is next to that of her parents, and
separated only by a wall, whence Cupid took occasion
to revive the ancient loves of Pyramus and Thisbe: for
Basilius was in love with Quiteria from his childhood,
and she returned his affection with a thousand modest
favors, insomuch that the loves of the two children,
Basilius and Quiteria, became the common talk of the
village. When they were grown up, the father of Quiteria
resolved to forbid Basilius the usual access to his
family; and to relieve himself of all fears on his account,
he determined to marry his daughter to the rich
Camacho; not choosing to bestow her on Basilius,
whose endowments are less the gifts of fortune than of
nature: in truth he is the most active youth we
know; a great pitcher of the bar, an excellent wrestler,
a great player at cricket, runs like a buck, leaps
like a wild goat, and plays at ninepins as if by witchcraft;
sings like a lark, and touches a guitar delightfully
and, above all, he handles a sword like the most
skilful fencer."
It now began to grow dark, and as they approached
the village there appeared before them a new heaven,
blazing with innumerable stars. At the same time they
heard the sweet and mingled sounds of various instruments—such
as flutes, tambourines, psalters, cymbals,
drums, and bells; and, drawing still nearer, they perceived
a spacious arbor, formed near the entrance into
the town, hung round with lights that shone undisturbed
149
by the breeze; for it was so calm that not a leaf
was seen to move. The musicians, who are the life
and joy of such festivals, paraded in bands up and
down this delightful place, some dancing, others singing,
and others playing upon different instruments: in
short, nothing was there to be seen but mirth and pleasure.
Several were employed in raising scaffolds, from
which they might commodiously behold the shows and
entertainments of the following day, that were to be
dedicated to the nuptial ceremony of the rich Camacho
and the obsequies of poor Basilius.
If he is poor he cannot think to wed Quiteria. A
pleasant fancy, forsooth, for a fellow who has not a
groat in his pocket to look for a yoke-mate above the
clouds. Faith, sir, in my opinion a poor man should
be contented with what he finds, and not be seeking for
truffles at the bottom of the sea.
The first thing that presented itself to Sancho's sight
was a whole bullock spitted upon a large elm. The fire
it was roasted by was composed of a middling mountain
of wood, and round it were placed six pots, not
cast in common moulds; for they were half-jars, each
containing a whole shamble of flesh; and entire sheep
were sunk and swallowed up in them, as commodiously
as if they were only so many pigeons. The hares ready
cased, and the fowls ready plucked, that hung about
upon the branches, in order to be buried in the caldrons,
were without number. Infinite was the wild fowl and
venison hanging about the trees, that the air might
cool them. Sancho counted above threescore skins,
each of above twenty-four quarts, and all, as appeared
afterwards, full of generous wines.
150
There were also piles of the whitest bread, arranged
like heaps of wheat on the threshing-floor, and
cheeses, piled up in the manner of bricks, formed a
kind of wall. Two caldrons of oil, larger than dyers'
vats, stood ready for frying all sorts of batter-ware;
and, with a couple of stout peels, they shovelled them
up when fried, and forthwith immersed them in a kettle
of prepared honey that stood near. The men and
women cooks were about fifty in number, all clean, all
active, and all in good humor. In the bullock's distended
belly were sewed up a dozen sucking pigs, to
make it savory and tender. The spices of various
kinds, which seemed to have been bought, not by the
pound, but by the hundredweight, were deposited in a
great chest, and open to every hand. In short the
preparation for the wedding was all rustic, but in sufficient
abundance to have feasted an army.
Sancho beheld all with wonder and delight. The
first that captivated and subdued his inclinations were
the flesh-pots, out of which he would have been glad to
have filled a moderate pipkin; next the wine-skins drew
his affections; and lastly the products of the frying-pans—if
such capacious vessels might be so called;
and, being unable any longer to abstain, he ventured
to approach one of the busy cooks, and in persuasive
and hungry terms begged leave to sop a luncheon of
bread in one of the pots.
To which the cook answered, "This, friend, is not a
day for hunger to be abroad—thanks to rich Camacho.
Alight, and look about you for a ladle to skim
out a fowl or two, and much good may they do you."
151
"I see no ladle," answered Sancho.
"Stay," said the cook. "Heaven save me, what a
helpless varlet!" So saying, he laid hold of a kettle,
and sousing it into one of the half-jars, he fished out
three pullets and a couple of geese, and said to Sancho,
"Eat, friend, and make your breakfast of this scum,
to stay your stomach till dinner-time."
"I have nothing to put it in," answered Sancho.
"Then take ladle and all," quoth the cook; "for
Camacho's riches and joy supply everything."
While Sancho was thus employed, Don Quixote stood
observing the entrance of a dozen peasants at one side
of the spacious arbor, each mounted on a beautiful
mare, in rich and gay caparisons, hung round with
little bells. They were clad in holiday apparel, and in
a regular troop made sundry careers about the meadow,
with a joyful Moorish cry of "Long live Camacho and
Quiteria! he as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest
of the world!"
Don Quixote hearing this, said to himself, "These
people, it is plain, have never seen my Dulcinea del
Toboso; otherwise they would have been less extravagant
in the praise of their Quiteria."
Soon after there entered, on different sides of the
arbor, various sets of dancers, among which was one
consisting of four-and-twenty sword-dancers; handsome,
sprightly swains, all arrayed in fine white linen,
and handkerchiefs wrought with several colors of fine
silk. One of those mounted on horseback inquired of
a young man who led the sword-dance, whether any of
his comrades were hurt.
152
"No," replied the youth; "thank Heaven, as yet we
are all well;" and instantly he twined himself in among
his companions with so many turns, and so dexterously,
that though Don Quixote had often seen such dances
before, none had ever pleased him so well. Another
dance also delighted him much, performed by twelve
damsels, young and beautiful, all clad in green stuff of
Cuenza, having their hair partly plaited, and partly
flowing, all of golden hue, rivalling the sun itself, and
covered with garlands of jessamine, roses and woodbine.
They were led up by a venerable old man and
an ancient matron, to whom the occasion had given
more agility than might have been expected from their
years. A Zamora bagpipe regulated their motions,
which being no less sprightly and graceful than their
looks were modest and maidenly, more lovely dancers
were never seen in the world.
A pantomimic dance now succeeded, by eight nymphs,
divided into two ranks—"Cupid" leading the one,
and "Interest," the other; the former equipped with
wings, bow, quiver, and arrows; the latter gorgeously
apparelled with rich and variously colored silks, embroidered
with gold. The nymphs in Cupid's band
displayed their names, written in large letters on their
backs. "Poetry" was the first: then succeeded "Discretion,"
"Good Lineage," and "Valor." The followers
of "Interest" were "Liberality," "Bounty,"
"Wealth," and "Security." This band was preceded
by a wooden castle, drawn by savages, clad so naturally
in ivy and green cloth, coarse and shaggy, that
Sancho was startled. On the front and sides of the
153
edifice was written, "The Castle of Reserve." Four
skilful musicians played on the tabor and pipe; Cupid
began the dance, and after two movements, he raised
his eyes, and bending his bow, pointed an arrow towards
a damsel that stood on the battlements of the
castle; at the same time addressing to her the following
verses:—
cupid's address.
I am the god whose power extends
Through the wide ocean, earth, and sky;
To my soft sway all nature bends,
Compelled by beauty to comply.
Fearless I rule, in calm and storm,
Indulge my pleasure to the full;
Things deemed impossible perform,
Bestow, resume, ordain, annul.
Cupid, having finished his address, shot an arrow
over the castle, and retired to his station; upon which
Interest stepped forth, and after two similar movements,
the music ceasing, he said:—
My power exceeds the might of love,
For Cupid bows to me alone;
Of all things framed by heaven above,
The most respected, sought, and known.
My name is Interest; mine aid
But few obtain, though all desire:
Yet shall thy virtue, beauteous maid,
My constant services acquire.
154
Interest then withdrew, and Poetry advanced; and,
fixing her eyes on the damsel of the castle, she said:—
Let Poetry, whose strain divine
The wondrous power of song displays,
Her heart to thee, fair nymph, consign,
Transported in melodious lays:
If haply thou wilt not refuse
To grant my supplicated boon,
Thy fame shall, wafted by the muse,
Surmount the circle of the moon.
Poetry having retired from the side of Interest, Liberality
advanced; and, after making her movements,
said:—
My name is Liberality,
Alike beneficent and wise,
To shun wild prodigality,
And sordid avarice despise.
Yet, for thy favor lavish grown,
A prodigal I mean to prove;
An honorable vice I own,
But giving is the test of love.
In this manner all the figures of the two parties advanced
and retreated, and each made its movements
and recited its verses, some elegant, and some ridiculous
of which Don Quixote, who had a very good
memory, treasured up the foregoing only.
The bridal pair proceeded towards a theatre on one
side of the arbor, decorated with tapestry and garlands,
where the nuptial ceremony was to be performed, and
155
whence they were to view the dances and shows prepared
for the occasion. Immediately on their arrival
at that place, a loud noise was heard at a distance,
amidst which a voice was distinguished calling aloud,
"Hold a little, rash and thoughtless people!" On
turning their heads they saw that these words were
uttered by a man who was advancing towards them,
clad in a black doublet, welted with flaming crimson.
He was crowned with a garland of mournful cypress,
and held in his hand a large truncheon; and, as he
drew near, all recognized the gallant Basilius, and
waited in fearful expectation of some disastrous result
from this unseasonable visit.
At length he came up, tired and out of breath, and
placed himself just before the betrothed couple; then,
pressing his staff, which was pointed with steel, into
the ground, he fixed his eyes on Quiteria, and in a
broken and tremulous voice thus addressed her: "Ah,
false and forgetful Quiteria, well thou knowest that,
by the laws of our holy religion, thou canst not marry
another man whilst I am living; neither art thou ignorant
that, while waiting till time and mine own industry
should improve my fortune, I have never failed in
the respect due to thy honor. But thou hast cast aside
every obligation due to my lawful love, and art going
to make another man master of what is mine: a man
who is not only enriched, but rendered eminently
happy by his wealth; and, in obedience to the will of
Heaven, the only impediment to his supreme felicity I
will remove, by withdrawing this wretched being.
Long live the rich Camacho with the ungrateful Quiteria!
156
Long and happily may they live, and let poor
Basilius die, who would have risen to good fortune had
not poverty clipped his wings and laid him in an early
grave!"
So saying, he plucked his staff from the ground, and,
drawing out a short tuck, to which it had served as a
scabbard, he fixed what might be called the hilt into
the ground, and, with a nimble spring and resolute air,
he threw himself on the point, which, instantly appearing
at his back, the poor wretch lay stretched on the
ground, pierced through and through, and weltering
in his blood.
His friends, struck with horror and grief, rushed
forward to help him, and Don Quixote, dismounting,
hastened also to lend his aid, and taking the dying
man in his arms, found that he was still alive. They
would have drawn out the tuck, but the priest who was
present thought that it should not be done till he had
made his confession; as, the moment it was taken out
of his body he would certainly expire. But Basilius,
not having quite lost the power of utterance, in a faint
and doleful voice said: "If, cruel Quiteria, in this
my last and fatal agony, thou wouldst give me thy
hand, as my spouse, I should hope my rashness might
find pardon in heaven, since it procured me the blessing
of being thine." Upon which the priest advised
him to attend rather to the salvation of his soul than
to his bodily appetites, and seriously implore pardon
of God for his sins, especially for this last desperate
action. Basilius replied that he could not make any
confession till Quiteria had given him her hand in marriage
157
as that would be a solace to his mind, and enable
him to confess his sins.
Don Quixote, hearing the wounded man's request,
said, in a loud voice, that Basilius had made a very
just and reasonable request, and, moreover, a very
practicable one; and that it would be equally honorable
for Signor Camacho to take Quiteria, a widow of
the brave Basilius, as if he received her at her father's
hand; nothing being required but the simple word,
"Yes," which could be of no consequence, since, in
these espousals, the nuptial bed must be the grave.
Camacho heard all this, and was perplexed and undecided
what to do or say; but so much was he importuned
by the friends of Basilius to permit Quiteria to
give him her hand, and thereby save his soul from
perdition, that they at length moved, nay forced him
to say that if it pleased Quiteria to give it to him, he
should not object, since it was only delaying for a moment
the accomplishment of his wishes. They all immediately
applied to Quiteria, and, with entreaties,
tears, and persuasive arguments, pressed and importuned
her to give her hand to Basilius; but she, harder
than marble, and more immovable than a statue, returned
no answer, until the priest told her that she must
decide promptly, as the soul of Basilius was already
between his teeth, and there was no time for hesitation.
Then the beautiful Quiteria, in silence, and to all
appearance troubled and sad, approached Basilius,
whose eyes were already turned in his head, and he
breathed short and quick, muttering the name of Quiteria,
and giving tokens of dying more like a heathen
158
than a Christian. At last Quiteria, kneeling down by
him, made signs to him for his hand. Basilius unclosed
his eyes, and fixing them steadfastly upon her,
said "O Quiteria! thou relentest at a time when thy
pity is a sword to put a final period to this wretched
life; for now I have not strength to bear the glory
thou conferrest upon me in making me thine, nor will
it suspend the pain which shortly will veil my eyes
with the dreadful shadow of death. What I beg of
thee, O fatal star of mine! is that thou give not thy
hand out of compliment, or again to deceive me, but to
declare that thou bestowest it upon me as thy lawful
husband, without any compulsion on thy will—for it
would be cruel in this extremity to deal falsely or impose
on him who has been so true to thee."
Here he fainted, and the bystanders thought his soul
was just departing. Quiteria, all modesty and bashfulness,
taking Basilius's right hand in hers, said: "No
force would be sufficient to bias my will; and therefore,
with all the freedom I have, I give thee my hand
to be thy lawful wife, and receive thine, if it be as
freely given, and if the anguish caused by thy rash act
doth not trouble and prevent thee."
"Yes, I give it thee," answered Basilius, "neither
discomposed nor confused, but with the clearest understanding
that Heaven was ever pleased to bestow on
me; and so I give and engage myself to be thy husband."
"And I to be thy wife," answered Quiteria,
"whether thou livest many years, or art carried from
my arms to the grave."
159
"For one so much wounded," observed Sancho,
"this young man talks a great deal. Advise him to
leave off his courtship and mind the business of his
soul; though to my thinking he has it more on his
tongue than between his teeth."
Basilius and Quiteria being thus, with hands joined,
the tender-hearted priest, with tears in his eyes, pronounced
the benediction upon them, and prayed to
Heaven for the repose of the bridegroom's soul; who,
as soon as he had received the benediction, suddenly
started up, and nimbly drew out the tuck which was
sheathed in his body. All the spectators were astonished,
and some more simple than the rest cried out
"A miracle, a miracle!" But Basilius replied, "no
miracle, no miracle, but a stratagem, a stratagem!"
The priest, astonished and confounded, ran to feel,
with both his hands, the wound, and found that the
sword had passed, not through Basilius's flesh and ribs,
but through a hollow iron pipe, cunningly fitted to the
place, and filled with blood, so prepared as not to congeal.
In short, the priests, Camacho, and the rest of
the spectators, found they were imposed upon, and
completely duped. The bride showed no signs of
regret at the artifice: on the contrary, hearing it said
the marriage, as being fraudulent, was not valid, she
said that she confirmed it anew; it was, therefore,
generally supposed that the matter had been concerted
with the privity and concurrence of both parties;
which so enraged Camacho and his friends that they
immediately had recourse to vengeance, and unsheathing
abundance of swords they fell upon Basilius, in
160
whose behalf as many more were instantly drawn, and
Don Quixote, leading the van on horseback, his lance
upon his arm, and well covered with his shield, made
them all give way.
Don Quixote cried aloud, "Hold, sirs, hold! It is
not right to avenge the injuries committed against us
by love. Remember that the arts of warfare and courtship
are in some points alike; in war, stratagems are
lawful, so likewise are they in the conflicts and rivalships
of love, if the means employed be not dishonorable.
Quiteria and Basilius were destined for each
other by the just and favoring will of Heaven. Camacho
is rich, and may purchase his pleasure when,
where and how he pleases. Basilius has but this one
ewe-lamb; and no one, however powerful, has a right
to take it from him; for those whom God hath joined
let no man sunder, and whoever shall attempt it must
first pass the point of this lance." Then he brandished
it with such vigor and dexterity that he struck terror
into all those who did not know him.
Quiteria's disdain made such an impression upon
Camacho, that he instantly banished her from his
heart. The persuasions, therefore, of the priest, who
was a prudent, well-meaning man, had their effect;
Camacho and his party sheathed their weapons and
remained satisfied, blaming rather the fickleness of
Quiteria than the cunning of Basilius. With much
reason Camacho thought within himself that if Quiteria
loved Basilius when a virgin, she would love him
also when married, and that he had more cause to
thank Heaven for so fortunate an escape than to repine
161
at the loss he had sustained. The disappointed bridegroom
and his followers, being thus consoled and appeased,
those of Basilius were so likewise; and the
rich Camacho, to show that his mind was free from
resentment, would have the diversions and entertainments
go on as if they had been really married. The
happy pair, however, not choosing to share in them,
retired to their own dwelling, accompanied by their
joyful adherents; for, if the rich man can draw after
him attendants and flatterers, the poor man who is virtuous
and deserving is followed by friends who honor
and support him.
Don Quixote joined the party of Basilius, having
been invited by them as a person of worth and bravery;
while Sancho, finding it impossible to remain and share
the relishing delights of Camacho's festival, which continued
till night, with a heavy heart accompanied his
master, leaving behind the flesh-pots of Egypt, the
skimmings of which, though now almost consumed, still
reminded him of the glorious abundance he had lost.
"If love only were to be considered," said Don
Quixote, "parents would no longer have the privilege
of judiciously matching their children. Were daughters
left to choose for themselves, there are those who would
prefer their father's serving-man, or throw themselves
away on some fellow they might chance to see in the
street, mistaking, perhaps, an impostor and swaggering
poltroon for a gentleman, since passion too easily blinds
the understanding, so indispensably necessary in deciding
on that most important point, matrimony, which
162
is peculiarly exposed to the danger of a mistake, and
therefore needs all the caution that human prudence
can supply, aided by the particular favor of Heaven.
A person who proposes to take a long journey, if he is
prudent, before he sets forward will look out for some
safe and agreeable companion; and should not he who
undertakes a journey for life use the same precaution,
especially as his fellow-traveller is to be his companion
at bed and board and in all other situations? The wife
is not a commodity which, when once bought, you can
exchange or return; the marriage bargain, once struck,
is irrevocable. It is a noose which, once thrown about
the neck, turns to a Gordian knot, and cannot be unloosed
till cut asunder by the scythe of death."
By the streets of "by-and-by" one arrives at the
house of "never."
God who gives the wound sends the cure.
Nobody knows what is to come. A great many
hours come in between this and to-morrow; and in
one hour, yea, in one minute, down falls the house.
I have seen rain and sunshine at the same moment.
A man may go to bed well at night and not be able to
stir next morning: and tell me who can boast of having
driven a nail in fortune's wheel?
Between the yes and no of a woman I would not
undertake to thrust the point of a pin.
163
"Love, as I have heard say, wears spectacles, through
which copper looks like gold, rags like rich apparel, and
specks in the eye like pearls."
"A curse on thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote;
"what wouldst thou be at? When once thy stringing
of proverbs begins, Judas alone—I wish he had thee!—can
have patience to the end. Tell me, animal!
what knowest thou of nails and wheels, or of anything
else?"
"Oh, if I am not understood," replied Sancho, "no
wonder that what I say passes for nonsense. But no
matter for that,—I understand myself. Neither have
I said many foolish things, only your worship is such a
cricket."
"Critic, not cricket, fool! thou corrupter of good
language!" said the knight.
"Pray, sir, do not be so sharp upon me," answered
Sancho, "for I was not bred at court nor studied in
Salamanca, to know whether my words have a letter
short or one too many. As Heaven shall save me, it
is unreasonable to expect that beggarly Sayagnes should
talk like Toledans; nay, even some of them are not
over-nicely spoken."
Purity, propriety, and elegance of style will always
be found among polite, well-bred, and sensible men.
I have heard it said of your fencers that they can
thrust you the point of a sword through the eye of a
needle.
164
O happy thou above all that live on the face of the
earth, who, neither envying nor envied, canst take thy
needful rest with tranquillity of soul, neither persecuted
by enchanters nor affrighted by their machinations!
Sleep on! a hundred times I say, sleep on! No jealousies
on thy lady's account keep thee in perpetual
watchings, nor do anxious thoughts of debts unpaid
awake thee; nor care how on the morrow thou and
thy little straitened family shall be provided for.
Ambition disquiets thee not, nor does the vain pomp of the
world disturb thee; for thy chief concern is the care
of thy ass, since to me is committed the comfort and
protection of thine own person,—a burden imposed on
the master by nature and custom. The servant sleeps,
and the master lies awake considering how he is to maintain,
assist, and do him kindness. The pain of seeing
the heavens obdurate in withholding the moisture necessary
to refresh the earth touches only the master, who
is bound to provide in times of sterility and famine for
those who served him in the season of fertility and
abundance.
So much thou art worth as thou hast, and so much
thou hast as thou art worth.
There are only two families in the world,—the have
somethings and the have nothings. Nowadays we are
apt to feel more often the pulse of property than of
wisdom.
An ass with golden trappings makes a better appearance
than a horse with a pack-saddle.
165
"That ought not to be called deception which aims
at a virtuous end," said Don Quixote; "and no end
is more excellent than the marriage of true lovers;
though love," added he, "has its enemies, and none
greater than hunger and poverty, for love is all gayety,
joy, and content."
"In good sooth, signor," said the squire, "there is
no trusting to Mrs. Ghostly, I mean Death, who gobbles
up the gosling as well as the goose; and, as I have
heard our curate observe, tramples down the lofty turrets
of the prince as well as the lowly cottage of the
swain. That same lady, who is more powerful than coy,
knows not what it is to be dainty and squeamish; but
eats of everything, and crams her wallet with people of
all nations, degrees, and conditions; she is none of
your laborers that take their afternoon's nap, but mows
at all hours, cutting down the dry stubble as well as
the green grass; nor does she seem to chew, but rather
swallows and devours everything that falls in her way;
for she is gnawed by a dog's hunger that is never satisfied;
and though she has no belly, plainly shows herself
dropsical, and so thirsty as to drink up the lives of
all the people upon earth, just as one would swallow a
draught of cool water."
"Enough, friend Sancho," cried the knight, interrupting
him in this place; "keep thyself well, now
thou art in order, and beware of stumbling again; for
really a good preacher could not speak more to the purpose
than thou hast spoken upon Death, in thy rustic
166
manner of expression; I say unto thee, Sancho, if thy
discretion were equal to thy natural parts, thou mightest
ascend the pulpit, and go about teaching and preaching
to admiration."
"He is a good preacher who is a good liver," answered
Panza, "and that is all the divinity I know."
"And that is sufficient," said the knight; "yet I
shall never understand or comprehend, as the fear of
God is the beginning of wisdom, how thou, who art
more afraid of a lizard than of thy Maker, should be
so wise?"
"Signor," replied Sancho, "I desire your worship
would determine in your own affairs of chivalry, without
taking the trouble to judge of other people's valor
or fears; for my own part, I am as pretty a fearer of
God as one would desire to see in any neighbor's child;
wherefore, I beseech your worship, let me discuss this
same scum; for everything else is idle chat, of which we
shall be able to give a bad account in the other world."
"The poor man of honor (if a poor man can deserve
that title) possesses, in a beautiful wife, a jewel; and
when that is taken away, he is deprived of his honor,
which is murdered; a beautiful and chaste woman,
whose husband is poor, deserves to be crowned with
laurel and palms of triumph; for beauty alone attracts
the inclinations of those who behold it; just as the royal
eagle and soaring hawk stoop to the savory lure; but if
that beauty is incumbered by poverty and want, it is
likewise attacked by ravens, kites, and other birds of
prey; and if she who possesses it firmly withstands all
167
these assaults, she well deserves to be called the crown
of her husband.
"Take notice, dearest Basilius," added the knight,
"it was the opinion of a certain sage, that there was
but one good wife in the whole world; and he advised
every husband to believe she had fallen to his
share, and accordingly be satisfied with his lot. I
myself am not married, nor hitherto have I entertained
the least thought of changing my condition; nevertheless,
I will venture to advise him who asks my advice,
in such a manner, that he may find a woman to his
wish; in the first place, I would exhort him to pay more
regard to reputation than to fortune; for a virtuous
woman does not acquire a good name merely by being
virtuous; she must likewise maintain the exteriors of
deportment, for the honor of the sex suffers much
more from levity and freedom of behavior in public,
than from any private misdeeds. If thou bringest a
good woman to thy house, it will be an easy task to preserve
and even improve her virtue; but, shouldst thou
choose a wife of a different character, it will cost thee
abundance of pains to mend her; for it is not very
practicable to pass from one extreme to another; I do
not say it is altogether impossible, though I hold it for a
matter of much difficulty."
The ox that is loose is best licked.
Sancho, who had been attentive to the student's discourse,
said: "Tell me, sir—so may heaven send you
good luck with your books—can you resolve me—but
168
I know you can, since you know every thing—who was
the first man that scratched his head? I for my part
am of opinion it must have been our father Adam."
"Certainly," answered the scholar; "for there is no
doubt but Adam had a head and hair; and, this being
granted, he, being the first man in the world, must
needs have been the first who scratched his head."
"That is what I think," said Sancho; "but tell me
now, who was the first tumbler in the world?"
"Truly, brother," answered the scholar, "I cannot
determine that point till I have given it some consideration,
which I will surely do when I return to my books,
and will satisfy you when we see each other again, for
I hope this will not be the last time."
"Look ye, sir," replied Sancho, "be at no trouble
about the matter, for I have already hit upon the answer
to my question. Know, then, that the first tumbler
was Lucifer, when he was cast or thrown headlong from
heaven, and came tumbling down to the lowest abyss."
"Sancho," quoth Don Quixote, "thou hast said
more than thou art aware of; for some there are who
bestow much labor in examining and explaining things
which when known are not worth recollecting."
I am thoroughly satisfied that all the pleasures of
this life pass away like a shadow or dream, or fade
like a flower of the field.
Patience, and shuffle the cards.
We are all bound to respect the aged.
169
Tell me thy company and I will tell thee what thou
art.
Whatever is uncommon appears impossible.
"You must know, gentlemen, that in a town four
leagues and a half from this place, a certain alderman
happened to lose his ass, all through the artful contrivance
(too long to be told) of a wench his maid-servant;
and though he tried every means to recover his
beast, it was to no purpose. Fifteen days passed, as
public fame reports, after the ass was missing, and while
the unlucky alderman was standing in the market-place,
another alderman of the same town came up to him,
and said, 'Pay me for my good news, gossip, for your
ass has made its appearance.'
"'Most willingly, neighbor,' answered the other;
'but tell me—where has he been seen?'
"'On the mountain,' answered the other; 'I saw him
there this morning, with no panel or furniture upon him
of any kind, and so lank that it was grievous to behold
him. I would have driven him before me and brought
him to you, but he is already become so shy that when
I went near him he took to his heels and fled to a distance
from me. Now, if you like it we will both go
seek him; but first let me put up this of mine at home,
and I will return instantly.'
"'You will do me a great favor,' said the owner of
the lost ass, 'and I shall be happy at any time to do as
much for you.'
170
"In short the two aldermen, hand in hand and side
by side, trudged together up the hill; and on coming
to the place where they expected to find the ass, they
found him not, nor was he anywhere to be seen, though
they made diligent search. Being thus disappointed,
the alderman who had seen him said to the other,
'Hark you, friend, I have thought of a stratagem by
which we shall certainly discover this animal, even
though he had crept into the bowels of the earth, instead
of the mountain; and it is this: I can bray marvellously
well, and if you can do a little in that way the business
is done.'
"'A little, say you, neighbor?' quoth the other,
'before Heaven, in braying I yield to none—no, not
to asses themselves.'
"'We shall soon see that,' answered the second
alderman; 'go you on one side of the mountain, while
I take the other, and let us walk round it, and every
now and then you shall bray, and I will bray; and the
ass will certainly hear and answer us, if he still remains
in these parts.' 'Verily, neighbor, your device
is excellent, and worthy your good parts,' said the
owner of the ass.
"They then separated, according to agreement, and
both began braying at the same instant, with such
marvellous truth of imitation that, mutually deceived,
each ran towards the other, not doubting but that the
ass was found; and, on meeting, the loser said, 'Is
it possible, friend, that it was not my ass that
brayed?'
"'No, it was I,' answered the other.
171
"'I declare, then,' said the owner, 'that, as far as
regards braying, there is not the least difference between
you and an ass; for in my life I never heard
anything more natural.'
"'These praises and compliments,' answered the
author of the stratagem, 'belong rather to you than to
me, friend; for by Him that made me, you could give
the odds of two brays to the greatest and most skilful
brayer in the world; for your tones are rich, your time
correct, your notes well sustained, and cadences abrupt
and beautiful; in short, I own myself vanquished, and
yield to you the palm in this rare talent.'
"'Truly,' answered the ass owner, 'I shall value
and esteem myself the more henceforth, since I am not
without some endowment. It is true, I fancy that I
brayed indifferently well, yet never flattered myself that
I excelled so much as you are pleased to say.'
"'I tell you,' answered the second, 'there are rare
abilities often lost to the world, and they are ill-bestowed
on those who know not how to employ them
to advantage.'
"'Right, brother,' quoth the owner, 'though, except
in cases like the present, ours may not turn to
much account; and even in this business, Heaven
grant it may prove of service.'
"This said, they separated again, to resume their
braying; and each time were deceived as before, and
met again, till they at length agreed, as a signal, to
distinguish their own voices from that of the ass, that
they should bray twice together, one immediately after
the other. Thus, doubling their brayings, they made
172
the tour of the whole mountain, without having any
answer from the stray ass, not even by signs. How,
indeed, could the poor creature answer, whom at last
they found in a thicket, half devoured by wolves? On
seeing the body, the owner said, 'Truly, I wondered
at his silence; for, had he not been dead, he certainly
would have answered us, or he were no true ass; nevertheless,
neighbor, though I have found him dead, my
trouble in the search has been well repaid in listening
to your exquisite braying.'
"'It is in good hands, friend,' answered the other;
'for if the abbot sings well, the novice comes not far
behind him.'
"Hereupon they returned home hoarse and disconsolate,
and told their friends and neighbors all that
had happened to them in their search after the ass;
each of them extolling the other for his excellence in
braying. The story spread all over the adjacent villages,
and the devil, who sleeps not, as he loves to sow
discord wherever he can, raising a bustle in the wind,
and mischief out of nothing, so ordered it that all the
neighboring villagers, at the sight of any of our towns-people,
would immediately begin to bray, as it were
hitting us in the teeth with the notable talent of our
aldermen. The boys fell to it, which was the same as
falling into the hands and mouths of a legion of devils;
and thus braying spread far and wide, insomuch that
the natives of the town of Bray are as well known and
distinguished as the negroes are from white men.
And this unhappy jest has been carried so far that our
people have often sallied out in arms against their
173
scoffers, and given them battle: neither king nor rook,
nor fear nor shame, being able to restrain them. Tomorrow,
I believe, or next day, those of our town will
take the field against the people of another village
about two leagues from us, being one of those which
persecute us most: and I have brought the lances and
halberds which you saw, that we may be well prepared
for them."
The hypocrite who cloaks his knavery is less dangerous
to the commonwealth than he who transgresses
in the face of day.
He who only wears the garb of piety does less harm
than the professed sinner.
I had rather serve the king in his wars abroad, than
be the lackey of any beggarly courtier at home.
There is nothing more honorable, next to the service
which you owe to God, than to serve your king
and natural lord, especially in the profession of arms,
which, if less profitable than learning, far exceeds it
in glory. More great families, it is true, have been
established by learning, yet there is in the martial
character a certain splendor, which seems to exalt it
far above all other pursuits. But allow me, sir, to
offer you a piece of advice, which, believe me, you will
find worth your attention. Never suffer your mind to
dwell on the adverse events of your life; for the worst
that can befall you is death, and when attended with
174
honor there is no event so glorious. Julius Cæsar,
that valorous Roman, being asked which was the kind
of death to be preferred, "That," said he, "which is
sudden and unforeseen!"
Though he answered like a heathen, who knew not
the true God, yet, considering human infirmity, it was
well said. For, supposing you should be cut off in the
very first encounter, either by cannon-shot or the
springing of a mine, what does it signify? it is but
dying, which is inevitable, and, being over, there it
ends. Terence observes that the corpse of a man who
is slain in battle looks better than the living soldier
who has saved himself by flight; and the good soldier
rises in estimation according to the measure of his
obedience to those who command him. Observe,
moreover, my son, that a soldier had better smell of
gunpowder than of musk; and if old age overtakes
you in this noble profession, though lame and maimed,
and covered with wounds, it will find you also covered
with honor; and of such honor as poverty itself cannot
deprive you. From poverty, indeed, you are secure;
for care is now taken that veteran and disabled
soldiers shall not be exposed to want, nor be treated
as many do their negro slaves, when old and past service,
turning them out of their houses, and, under
pretence of giving them freedom, leave them slaves to
hunger, from which they can have no relief but in
death.
There are often rare abilities lost to the world that
are but ill-bestowed on those who do not know how to
employ them to advantage.
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Who reads and travels much, sees and learns much.
It is the prerogative of God alone to truly comprehend
all things. To Him there is nothing past or
future. Everything is present.
There is nothing that Time, the discoverer of all
things, will not bring to light, even though it be hidden
in the bowels of the earth.
Length begets loathing.
Heaven is merciful, and sends relief in the greatest
distress.
Affectation is the devil.
Heaven help every one to what is their just due, but
let us have plain dealing.
When choler once is born,
The tongue all curb doth scorn.
When a brave man flies, he must have discovered
foul play.
To retire is not to fly. The valor which has not prudence
for its basis is termed rashness, and the successful
exploits of the rash are rather to be ascribed to good
fortune than to courage.
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Other men's pains are easily borne.
He who errs and mends,
Himself to Heaven commends.
Those who sin and kiss the rod,
Find favor in the sight of God.
If you obey the commands of your lord,
You may sit as a guest at his board.
In this world there is nothing but plots and counter-plots,
mines and countermines.
A good paymaster needs no surety; and where there
is plenty, dinner is soon dressed.
Often the hare starts where she is least expected.
I have heard it said that the power called Nature is
like a potter, who, if he can make one beautiful vessel,
can in like manner make two, three, ay, and a hundred.
Wit and gay conceits proceed not from dull heads.
Every man must speak of his wants wherever he
may be.
Modesty is as becoming a knight-errant as courage.
The master is respected in proportion to the discretion
and good breeding of his servants.
177
Who sets up for a talker and a wit, sinks at the first
trip into a contemptible buffoon.
The weapons of gownsmen, like those of women, are
their tongues.
Keep company with the good, and you will be one of
them.
Not where you were born, but where you were bred.
Well sheltered shall he be
Who leans against a sturdy tree.
An affront must come from a person who not only
gives it, but who can maintain it when it is given; an
injury may come from any hand.
He who can receive no affront can give none.
One must live long to see much.
He who lives long; must suffer much.
To deprive a knight-errant of his mistress is to rob
him of the eyes with which he sees, the sun by which
he is enlightened, and the support by which he is maintained.
I have many times said, and now I repeat the
observation, that a knight-errant without a mistress is
like a tree without leaves, a building without cement,
and a shadow without the substance by which it is
produced.
178
Possessing beauty without blemish, dignity without
pride, love with modesty, politeness springing from
courtesy, and courtesy from good breeding, and, finally,
of illustrious descent: for the beauty that is of a noble
race shines with more splendor than that which is
meanly born.
Virtue ennobles blood, and a virtuous person of
humble birth is more estimable than a vicious person
of rank.
I must inform your graces that Sancho Panza is
one of the most pleasant squires that ever served a
knight-errant. Sometimes his simplicity is so arch,
that to consider whether he is more fool or wag yields
abundance of pleasure. He has roguery enough to pass
for a knave, and absurdities sufficient to confirm him a
fool. He doubts everything and believes everything;
and often, when I think he is going to discharge nonsense,
he will utter apothegms that will raise him to the skies.
In a word, I would not exchange him for any other
squire, even with a city to boot; and therefore I am in
doubt whether or not it will be expedient to send him
to that government which your grace has been so good
as to bestow upon him, although I can perceive in him
a certain aptitude for such an office; so that, when his
understanding is a very little polished, he will agree
with any government, like the king with his customs;
for we know by repeated experience that great talents
and learning are not necessary in a governor, as there
are a hundred at least who govern like gerfalcons,
179
though they can hardly read their mother tongue. Provided
their intention is righteous and their desire to do
justice, they will never want counsellors to direct them
in every transaction, like your military governors, who
being illiterate themselves, never decide without the
advice of an assessor. I shall advise him corruption
to eschew, but never quit his due, and inculcate some
other small matters that are in my head, which, in
process of time, may redound to his own interest as
well as to the advantage of the island under his command.
The customs of countries, or of great men's houses,
are good as far as they are agreeable.
"Faith, madam," quoth Sancho, "that same scruple
is an honest scruple, and need not speak in a whisper,
but plain out, or as it lists; for I know it says true, and
had I been wise, I should long since have left my master
but such is my lot, or such my evil-errantry, I
cannot help it,—follow him I must. We are both
of the same town; I have eaten his bread; I love him,
and he returns my love; he gave me his ass-colts.
Above all, I am faithful, so that nothing in the world,
can part us but the sexton's spade and shovel; and if
your highness does not choose to give me the government
you promised, God made me without it, and perhaps
it may be all the better for my conscience if I do
not get it; for fool as I am, I understand the proverb,
'The pismire had wings to her sorrow;' and perhaps it
may be easier for Sancho the squire to get to heaven
180
than for Sancho the governor. They make as good
bread here as in France, and by night all cats are gray.
Unhappy is he who has not breakfasted at three, and
no stomach is a span bigger than another, and may be
filled as they say, with straw or with hay.
"Of the little birds in the air, God himself takes the
care; and four yards of coarse cloth of Cuenza are
warmer than as many of fine Segovia serge; and in
travelling from this world to the next, the road is no
wider for the prince than the peasant. The Pope's
body takes up no more room than that of the sexton,
though a loftier person, for in the grave we must pack
close together whether we like it or not; so good-night
to all.
"And let me tell you again that if your highness will
not give me the island because I am a fool, I will be
wise enough not to care a fig for it. I have heard say
the devil lurks behind the cross; all is not gold that
glitters. From the plough-tail Bamba was raised to
the throne of Spain, and from his riches and revels
was Roderigo cast down to be devoured by serpents,
if ancient ballads tell the truth."
None shall dare the loaf to steal
From him that sifts and kneads the meal.
An old dog is not to be coaxed with a crust.
No man is ever a scholar at his birth, and bishops
are made of men, not of stones.
181
There is a Judge in heaven who knows the heart.
A good name is better than tons of gold.
"And you, Signor Panza, be quiet and leave the care
of making much of Dapple to me; for being a jewel of
Sancho's, I will lay him upon the apple of my eye."
"Let him lie in the stable, my good lady," answered
Sancho, "for upon the apple of your grandeur's eye
neither he nor I are worthy to lie one single moment,—'slife!
they should stick me like a sheep sooner than I
would consent to such a thing; for though my master
says that, in respect to good manners, we should rather
lose the game by a card too much than too little, yet,
when the business in hand is about asses and eyes, we
should step warily, with compass in hand."
"Carry him, Sancho," quoth the Duchess, "to your
government, and there you may regale him as you
please, and set him free from further labor."
"Think not, my lady Duchess," quoth Sancho, "that
you have said much, for I have seen more asses than
one go to governments, and therefore, if I should carry
mine, it would be nothing new."
The Duke and Duchess were extremely diverted with
the humors of their two guests; and resolving to improve
their sport by practising some pleasantries that
should have the appearance of a romantic adventure,
they contrived to dress up a very choice entertainment
from Don Quixote's account of the Cave of Montesinos,
182
taking that subject because the Duchess had observed
with astonishment that Sancho now believed his lady
Dulcinea was really enchanted, although he himself had
been her sole enchanter! Accordingly, after the servants
had been well instructed as to their deportment
towards Don Quixote, a boar-hunt was proposed, and
it was determined to set out in five or six days with a
princely train of huntsmen. The knight was presented
with a hunting suit proper for the occasion, which,
however, he declined, saying that he must soon return
to the severe duties of his profession, when, having no
sumpters nor wardrobes, such things would be superfluous.
But Sancho readily accepted a suit of fine green
cloth which was offered to him, intending to sell it the
first opportunity.
The appointed day being come, Don Quixote armed
himself, and Sancho in his new suit mounted Dapple
(which he preferred to a horse that was offered him)
and joined the troop of hunters. The Duchess issued
forth magnificently attired, and Don Quixote, out of
pure politeness, would hold the reins of the palfrey,
though the Duke was unwilling to allow it. Having
arrived at the proposed scene of their diversion,
which was in a wood between two lofty mountains,
they posted themselves in places where the toils were
to be pitched; and all the party having taken their
different stations, the sport began with prodigious noise
and clamor, insomuch that between the shouts of the
huntsmen, the cry of the hounds, and the sound of
the horns, they could not hear each other.
The Duchess alighted, and with a boar-spear in her
183
hand, took her stand in a place where she expected
the boars would pass. The Duke and Don Quixote
dismounted also, and placed themselves by her side;
while Sancho took his station behind them all, with
his Dapple, whom he would not quit, lest some mischance
should befall him. Scarcely had they ranged
themselves in order when a hideous boar of monstrous
size rushed out of cover, pursued by the dogs and hunters,
and made directly towards them, gnashing his teeth
and tossing foam with his mouth.
Don Quixote, on seeing him approach, braced his
shield, and drawing his sword, stepped before the rest
to meet him. The Duke joined him with his boar-spear,
and the Duchess would have been the foremost
had not the Duke prevented her. Sancho alone stood
aghast, and at the sight of the fierce animal, leaving
even his Dapple, ran in terror towards a lofty oak, in
which he hoped to be secure; but his hopes were in
vain, for, as he was struggling to reach the top, and
had got half-way up, unfortunately a branch to which
he clung, gave way, and falling with it, he was caught
by the stump of another, and here left suspended in the
air, so that he could neither get up nor down.
Finding himself in this situation, with his new green
coat tearing, and almost in reach of the terrible creature
should it chance to come that way, he began to
bawl so loud and to call for help so vehemently, that
all who heard him and did not see him thought verily
he was between the teeth of some wild beast. The
tusked boar, however, was soon laid at length by the
numerous spears that were levelled at him from all
184
sides, at which time Sancho's cries and lamentations
reached the ears of Don Quixote, who, turning round,
beheld him hanging from the oak with his head downwards,
and close by him stood Dapple, who never forsook
him in adversity,—indeed, it was remarked by Cid
Hamet, that he seldom saw Sancho Panza without
Dapple, or Dapple without Sancho Panza, such was
the amity and cordial love that subsisted between
them!
Don Quixote hastened to the assistance of his squire,
who was no sooner released than he began to examine
the rent in his hunting suit, which grieved him to the
soul, for he looked upon that suit as a rich inheritance.
The huge animal they had slain was laid across
a sumpter-mule, and after covering it with branches of
rosemary and myrtle, they carried it, as the spoils of
victory, to a large field-tent, erected in the midst of the
wood, where a sumptuous entertainment was prepared,
worthy of the magnificence of the donor. Sancho,
showing the wounds of the torn garments to the Duchess,
said: "Had hares or birds been our game, I should
not have had this misfortune. For my part I cannot
think what pleasure there can be in beating about for
a monster that, if it reaches you with a tusk, may be
the death of you. There is an old ballad which says,—
"'May fate of Fabila be thine,
And make thee food for bears or swine.'"
"That Fabila," said Don Quixote, "was a king of
the Goths, who, going to the chase, was devoured by
a bear."
185
"What I mean," quoth Sancho, "is, that I would
not have kings and other great folks run into such
dangers merely for pleasure; and, indeed, methinks
it ought to be none to kill poor beasts that never meant
any harm."
"You are mistaken, Sancho," said the duke, "hunting
wild beasts is the most proper exercise for knights
and princes. The chase is an image of war: there you
have stratagems, artifices, and ambuscades to be employed,
in order to overcome your enemy with safety to
yourself. There, too, you are often exposed to the
extremes of cold and heat; idleness and ease are despised;
the body acquires health and vigorous activity:
in short, it is an exercise which may be beneficial to
many and injurious to none. Besides, it is not a vulgar
amusement, but, like hawking, is the peculiar sport
of the great. Therefore, Sancho, change your opinion
before you become a governor, for then you will find
your account in these diversions."
"Not so, i' faith," replied Sancho, "the good governor
and the broken leg should keep at home. It
would be fine, indeed, for people to come after him
about business and find him gadding in the mountains
for his pleasure. At that rate what would become of
his government? In good truth, sir, hunting and such
like pastimes are rather for your idle companions than
for governors. The way I mean to divert myself shall
be with brag at Easter and at bowls on Sundays and
holidays; as for your hunting, it befits neither my condition
nor conscience."
"Heaven grant you prove as good as you promise,"
186
said the duke, "but saying and doing are often wide
apart."
"Be that as it will," replied Sancho, "the good
paymaster wants no pawn; and God's help is better
than early rising, and the belly carries the legs, and
not the legs the belly,—I mean that, with the help of
Heaven and a good intention, I warrant I shall govern
better than a gos-hawk. Ay, ay, let them put their
fingers in my mouth and try whether or not I can
bite."
"A curse upon thy proverbs," said Don Quixote,
"when will the day come that I shall hear thee utter
one coherent sentence without that base intermixture!
Let this blockhead alone, I beseech your excellencies,
He will grind your souls to death, not between two, but
two thousand proverbs, all timed as well and as much
to the purpose as I wish God may grant him health, or
me, if I desire to hear them."
"Sancho Panza's proverbs," said the duchess, "though
more numerous than those of the Greek commentator,
are equally admirable for their sententious brevity."
He who has been a good squire will never be a bad
governor.
A bad cloak often covers a good drinker.
When a friend drinks one's health, who can be so
hard-hearted as not to pledge him?
God's help is better than early rising.
187
Flame may give light and bonfires may illuminate,
yet we may easily be burnt by them; but music is
always a sign of feasting and merriment.
the account of the method prescribed to don
quixote for disenchanting dulcinea; with
other wonderful events.
As the agreeable music approached, they observed
that it attended a stately triumphal car, drawn by six
gray mules covered with white linen, and upon each of
them rode a penitent of light, clothed also in white, and
holding a lighted torch in his hand. The car was more
than double the size of the others which had passed,
and twelve penitents were ranged in order within it,
all carrying lighted torches,—a sight which at once
caused surprise and terror. Upon an elevated throne
sat a nymph, covered with a thousand veils of silver
tissue, bespangled with innumerable flowers of gold,
so that her dress, if not rich, was gay and glittering.
Over her head was thrown a transparent gauze, so thin
that through its folds might be seen a most beautiful
face; and from the multitude of lights, it was easy to
discern that she was young as well as beautiful, for she
was evidently under twenty years of age, though not
less than seventeen. Close by her sat a figure, clad in
a magnificent robe reaching to the feet, having his head
covered with a black veil.
The moment this vast machine arrived opposite to
where the duke and duchess and Don Quixote stood,
the attending music ceased, as well as the harps and
188
lutes within the car. The figure in the gown then
stood up, and throwing open the robe and uncovering
his face; displayed the ghastly countenance of death,
looking so terrific that Don Quixote started, Sancho
was struck with terror, and even the duke and duchess
seemed to betray some symptoms of fear. This living
Death, standing erect, in a dull and drowsy tone and
with a sleepy articulation, spoke as follows:—
the enchanter's errand.
Merlin I am, miscalled the devil's son
In lying annals, authorized by time;
Monarch supreme, and great depositary
Of magic art and Zoroastic skill;
Rival of envious ages, that would hide
The glorious deeds of errant cavaliers,
Favored by me and my peculiar charge.
Though vile enchanters, still on mischief bent,
To plague mankind their baleful art employ,
Merlin's soft nature, ever prone to good,
His power inclines to bless the human race.
In Hades' chambers, where my busied ghost
Was forming spells and mystic characters,
Dulcinea's voice, peerless Tobosan maid,
With mournful accents reached my pitying ears;
I knew her woe, her metamorphosed form,
From high-born beauty in a palace graced,
To the loathed features of a cottage wench.
With sympathizing grief I straight revolved
The numerous tomes of my detested art,
189
And in the hollow of this skeleton
My soul enclosing, hither am I come,
To tell the cure of such uncommon ills.
O glory thou of all that case their limbs
In polished steel and fenceful adamant!
Light, beacon, polar star, and glorious guide
Of all who, starting from the lazy down,
Banish ignoble sleep for the rude toil
And hardy exercise of errant arms!
Spain's boasted pride, La Mancha's matchless knight,
Whose valiant deeds outstrip pursuing fame!
Wouldst thou to beauty's pristine state restore
The enchanted dame, Sancho, thy faithful squire,
Must to his brawny buttocks, bare exposed,
Three thousand and three hundred stripes apply,
Such as may sting and give him smarting pain:
The authors of her change have thus decreed,
And this is Merlin's errand from the shades.
"What!" quoth Sancho, "three thousand lashes!
Odd's-flesh! I will as soon give myself three stabs as
three single lashes, much less three thousand! The
devil take this way of disenchanting! I cannot see what
my buttocks have to do with enchantments. Before
Heaven! if Signor Merlin can find out no other way to
disenchant the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, enchanted
she may go to her grave for me!"
"Not lash thyself! thou garlic-eating wretch!"
quoth Don Quixote; "I shall take thee to a tree, and
190
tie thee naked as thou wert born, and there, not three
thousand and three hundred, but six thousand six
hundred lashes will I give thee, and those so well laid
on that three thousand three hundred hard tugs shall not
tug them off. So answer me not a word, scoundrel!
for I will tear thy very soul out!"
"It must not be so," said Merlin; "the lashes that
honest Sancho is to receive must not be applied by
force, but with his good-will, and at whatever time he
pleases, for no term is fixed; and furthermore, he is
allowed, if he please, to save himself half the trouble
of applying so many lashes, by having half the number
laid on by another hand, provided that hand be somewhat
heavier than his own."
"Neither another hand nor my own," quoth Sancho,
"no hand, either heavy or light, shall touch my flesh.
Was the lady Dulcinea brought forth by me that my
posteriors must pay for the transgressions of her eyes?
My master, indeed, who is part of her, since at every
step he is calling her his life, his soul, his support and
stay,—he it is who ought to lash himself for her and
do all that is needful for her delivery; but for me to
whip myself,—no, I pronounce it!"
No sooner had Sancho thus declared himself than
the spangled nymph who sat by the side of Merlin
arose, and throwing aside her veil, discovered a face
of extraordinary beauty; and with a masculine air
and no very amiable voice, addressed herself to Sancho:
"O wretched squire, with no more soul than a
pitcher! thou heart of cork and bowels of flint! hadst
thou been required, nose-slitting thief! to throw thyself
191
from some high tower; hadst thou been desired, enemy
of human kind! to eat a dozen of toads, two dozen of
lizards, and three dozen of snakes; hadst thou been
requested to kill thy wife and children with some
bloody and sharp scimitar,—no wonder if thou hadst
betrayed some squeamishness; but to hesitate about
three thousand three hundred lashes, which there is
not a wretched school-boy but receives every month, it
amazes, stupefies, and affrights the tender bowels of all
who hear it, and even of all who shall hereafter be told
it. Cast, thou marble-hearted wretch!—cast, I say,
those huge goggle eyes upon these lovely balls of mine,
that shine like glittering stars, and thou wilt see them
weep, drop by drop, and stream after stream, making
furrows, tracks, and paths down these beautiful cheeks!
Relent, malicious and evil-minded monster! Be moved
by my blooming youth, which, though yet in its teens,
is pining and withering beneath the vile bark of a
peasant wench; and if at this moment I appear otherwise,
it is by the special favor of Signor Merlin, here
present, hoping that these charms may soften that iron
heart, for the tears of afflicted beauty turn rocks into
cotton and tigers into lambs. Lash, untamed beast!
lash away on that brawny flesh of thine, and rouse from
that base sloth which only inclines thee to eat and eat
again, and restore to me the delicacy of my skin, the
sweetness of my temper, and all the charms of beauty.
And if for my sake thou wilt not be mollified into reasonable
compliance, let the anguish of that miserable
knight stir thee to compassion,—thy master, I mean,
whose soul I see sticking crosswise in his throat, not
192
ten inches from his lips, waiting only thy cruel or kind
answer either to fly out of his mouth or to return joyfully
into his bosom."
Don Quixote, here putting his finger to his throat,
"Before Heaven!" said he, "Dulcinea is right, for
I here feel my soul sticking in my throat like the stopper
of a crossbow!"
"What say you to that, Sancho?" quoth the duchess.
"I say, madam," answered Sancho, "what I have
already said, that as to the lashes, I pronounce them."
"Renounce, you should say, Sancho," quoth the duke,
"and not pronounce."
"Please your grandeur to let me alone," replied
Sancho, "for I cannot stand now to a letter more or
less. These lashes so torment me that I know not
what I say or do. But I would fain know one thing
from the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and that is, where
she learnt her manner of asking a favor? She comes
to desire me to tear my flesh with stripes, and at the
same time lays upon me such a bead-roll of ill names
that the devil may bear them for me. What! does she
think my flesh is made of brass? or that I care a rush
whether she is enchanted or not? Where are the presents
she has brought to soften me? Instead of a basket
of fine linen shirts, night-caps, and socks (though I wear
none), here is nothing but abuse. Every one knows that
'the golden load is a burden light;' that 'gifts will
make their way through stone walls;' 'pray devoutly
and hammer on stoutly;' and 'one take is worth two
I'll give thee's.' There's his worship my master, too,
instead of wheedling and coaxing me to make myself
193
wool and carded cotton, threatens to tie me naked to a
tree and double the dose of stripes. These tender-hearted
gentlefolks ought to remember, too, that they
not only desire to have a squire whipped, but a governor,
making no more of it than saying, 'Drink with
your cherries.' Let them learn,—plague take them!—let
them learn how to ask and entreat, and mind
their breeding. All times are not alike, nor are men
always in a humor for all things. At this moment my
heart is ready to burst with grief to see this rent in
my jacket, and people come to desire that I would also
tear my flesh, and that, too, of my own good will. I
have just as much mind to the thing as to turn
Turk."
"In truth, friend Sancho," said the duke, "if you
do not relent and become softer than a ripe fig, you
finger no government. It were good indeed, that I
should send my islanders a cruel flinty-hearted governor;
one who relents not at the tears of afflicted damsels,
nor at the entreaties of wise, awful, and ancient
enchanters, and sages. In fine, Sancho, either you
must whip yourself, or let others whip you, or be no
governor."
"My lord," answered Sancho, "may I not be allowed
two days to consider what is best for me to do?"
"No, in no wise," quoth Merlin; "here, at this instant
and upon this spot, the business must be settled: or
Dulcinea must return to Montesinos' cave, and to her
former condition of a country wench; or else in her
present form be carried to the Elysian fields, where
she must wait till the number of lashes be fulfilled."
194
"Come, honest Sancho," quoth the duchess, "be of
good cheer, and show gratitude for the bread you have
eaten of your master Don Quixote, whom we are all
bound to serve for his good qualities and his high
chivalries. Say, yes, son, to this whipping bout, and
the devil take the devil, and let the wretched fear;
for a good heart breaks bad fortune, as you well
know."
"Hark you, Signor Merlin," quoth Sancho, addressing
himself to the sage; "pray will you tell me one
thing—how comes it about that the devil-courier just
now brought a message to my master from Signor
Montesinos, saying that he would be here anon, to give
directions about this disenchantment; and yet we
have seen nothing of them all this while?"
"Pshaw!" replied Merlin, "the devil is an ass and
a lying rascal; he was sent from me and not from
Montesinos, who is still in his cave contriving, or
rather awaiting, the end of his enchantment, for the
tail is yet unflayed. If he owes you money, or you
have any other business with him, he shall be forthcoming
in a trice, when and where you think fit; and
therefore come to a decision, and consent to this small
penance, from which both your soul and body will
receive marvellous benefit; your soul by an act of
charity, and your body by a wholesome and timely
bloodletting."
"How the world swarms with doctors," quoth Sancho,
"the very enchanters seem to be of a trade!
Well, since everybody tells me so, though the thing is
out of all reason, I promise to give myself the three thousand
195
three hundred lashes, upon condition that I may
lay them on whenever I please, without being tied to
days or times; and I will endeavor to get out of debt
as soon as I possibly can, that the beauty of my lady
Dulcinea del Toboso may shine forth to all the world;
as it seems she is really beautiful, which I much
doubted. Another condition is, that I will not be
bound to draw blood, and if some lashes happen only
to fly-flap, they shall all go into the account. Moreover
if I should mistake in the reckoning, Signor Merlin
here, who knows everything, shall give me notice
how many I want or have exceeded."
"As for exceedings, there is no need of keeping account
of them," answered Merlin; "for when the
number is completed, that instant will the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso be disenchanted, and come full of gratitude
in search of good Sancho, to thank and even
reward him for the generous deed. So that no scruples
are necessary about surplus and deficiency; and
Heaven forbid that I should allow anybody to be
cheated of a single hair of their head."
"Go to, then, in God's name," quoth Sancho; "I
must submit to my ill fortune: I say I consent to the
penance upon the conditions I have mentioned."
No sooner had Sancho pronounced his consent than
the innumerable instruments poured forth their music,
the volleys of musketry were discharged, while Don
Quixote clung about Sancho's neck, giving him, on his
forehead and brawny cheeks, a thousand kisses; the
duke and duchess, and all who were present, likewise
testified their satisfaction. The car now moved on,
196
and in departing the fair Dulcinea bowed her head to
the duke and duchess, and made a low curtesy to
Sancho.
By this time the cheerful and joyous dawn began to
appear, the flowerets of the fields expanded their fragrant
beauties to the light; and brooks and streams, in
gentle murmurs, ran to pay expecting rivers in their
crystal tribute. The earth rejoiced, the sky was clear,
and the air serene and calm; all, combined and separately,
giving manifest tokens that the day, which followed
fast upon Aurora's heels, would be bright and
fair. The duke and duchess, having happily executed
their ingenious project, returned highly gratified to
their castle, and determined on the continuation of
fictions which afforded more pleasures than realities.
If I have been finely lashed, I have been finely
mounted up: if I have got a good government, it has
cost me many good lashes. This, my dear Teresa, thou
canst not understand at present; another time thou
wilt.
Thou must know, Teresa, that I am determined that
thou shalt ride in thy coach, which is somewhat to the
purpose, for all other ways of going are no better than
creeping upon all fours, like a cat. Thou shalt be a
governor's wife; see then whether anybody will dare
to tread on thy heels. I here send thee a green hunting-suit
which my lady duchess gave me; fit it up so
that it may serve our daughter for a jacket and petticoat.
197
They say in this country that my master Don
Quixote is a sensible madman and a pleasant fool, and
that I am not a whit behind him. We have been in
Montesino's cave, and the sage Merlin, the wizard, has
pitched upon me to disenchant the Lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, who among you is called Aldonza Lorenzo.
When I have given myself three thousand and three
hundred lashes, lacking five, she will be as free from
enchantment as the mother that bore her.
Say nothing of this to anybody; for, bring your
affairs into council, and one will cry it is white, another
it is black. A few days hence I shall go to the
government, whither I go with a huge desire to get
money; and I am told it is the same with all new
governors. I will first see how matters stand, and send
thee word whether or not thou shalt come to me.
Dapple is well, and sends thee his hearty service;
part with him I will not, though I were made the great
Turk. The duchess, my mistress, kisses thy hands a
thousand times over. Return her two thousand; for,
as my master says, nothing is cheaper than civil words.
God has not been pleased to throw in my way another
portmanteau and another hundred crowns, as once before;
but take no heed, my dear Teresa, for he that
has the game in his hand need not mind the loss of a
trick,—the government will make up for all. One
thing only troubles me: I am told if I once try it I
shall eat my very fingers after it; and if so, it will not
be much of a bargain, though, indeed, the crippled and
maimed enjoy a petty canonry in the alms they receive;
so that, one way or another, thou art sure to be rich
198
and happy. God send it may be so, as He easily can,
and keep me for thy sake.
Thy husband, the governor,
Sancho Panza.
From this Castle, the 20th of July, 1614.
After a thousand courtly compliments mutually interchanged,
Don Quixote advanced towards the table,
between the duke and duchess, and, on preparing to
seat themselves, they offered the upper end to Don
Quixote, who would have declined it but for the pressing
importunities of the duke. The ecclesiastic seated
himself opposite to the knight, and the duke and duchess
on each side.
Sancho was present all the while, in amazement to
see the honor paid by those great people to his master;
and, whilst the numerous entreaties and ceremonies
were passing between the duke and Don Quixote, before
he would sit down at the head of the table, he
said: "With your honor's leave I will tell you a story
of what happened in our town about seats."
Don Quixote immediately began to tremble, not
doubting that he was going to say something absurd.
Sancho observed him, and, understanding his looks, he
said: "Be not afraid, sir, of my breaking loose or
saying anything that is not pat to the purpose. I have
not forgotten the advice your worship gave me awhile
ago about talking much or little, well or ill."
"I remember nothing, Sancho," answered Don Quixote;
"say what thou wilt, so as thou sayst it quickly."
199"What I would say," quoth Sancho, "is very true,
for my master, Don Quixote, who is present, will not
suffer me to lie."
"Lie as much as thou wilt for me, Sancho," replied
Don Quixote, "I shall not hinder thee; but take heed
what thou art going to say."
"I have heeded it over and over again, so that it is
as safe as if I had the game in my hand, as you shall
presently see."
"Your graces will do well," said Don Quixote, "to
order this blockhead to retire, that you may get rid of
his troublesome folly."
"By the life of the duke," quoth the duchess,
"Sancho shall not stir a jot from me. I have a great
regard for him, and am assured of his discretion."
"Many happy years may your holiness live," quoth
Sancho, "for the good opinion you have of me, little
as I deserve it. But the tale I would tell is this—
"A certain gentleman of our town, very rich and of
a good family,—for he was descended from the Alamos
of Medina del Campo, and married Donna Mencia de
Quinnones, who was daughter to Don Alonzo de Maranon,
knight of the order of St. James, the same that
was drowned in the Herradura, about whom that quarrel
happened in our town, in which it was said my
master Don Quixote had a hand, and Tommy the mad-cap,
son of Balvastro the blacksmith, was hurt. Pray,
good master of mine, is not all this true? Speak, I
beseech you, that their worships may not take me for
some lying prater."
"As yet," said the ecclesiastic, "I take you rather
200
for a prater than for a liar; but I know not what I
shall next take you for."
"Thou hast produced so many witnesses and so many
proofs," said Don Quixote, "that I cannot but say thou
mayst probably be speaking truth; but, for Heaven's
sake, shorten thy story, or it will last these two
days."
"He shall shorten nothing," quoth the duchess;
"and to please me, he shall tell it his own way, although
he were not to finish these six days; and, should
it last so long, they would be to me days of delight."
"I must tell you, then," proceeded Sancho, "that
this same gentleman—whom I know as well as I do
my right hand from my left, for it is not a bow-shot
from my house to his—invited a husbandman to dine
with him,—a poor man, but mainly honest."
"On, friend," said the chaplain, "for, at the rate
you proceed, your tale will not reach its end till you
reach the other world."
"I shall stop," replied Sancho, "before I get half-way
thither, if it please Heaven! This same farmer
coming to the house of the gentleman his inviter—God
rest his soul, for he is dead and gone; and, moreover,
died like an angel, as it is said,—for I was not
by myself, being at that time gone a reaping to Tembleque."
"Prithee, son," said the ecclesiastic, "come back
quickly from Tembleque, and stay not to bury the
gentleman, unless you are determined upon more burials.
Pray make an end of your tale."
"The business, then," quoth Sancho, "was this,
201
that, they being ready to sit down to table,—methinks
I see them plainer than ever."
The duke and duchess were highly diverted at the
impatience of the good ecclesiastic, and at the length and
pauses of Sancho's tale; but Don Quixote was almost
suffocated with rage and vexation.
"I say, then," quoth Sancho, "that, as they were
both standing before the dinner-table, just ready to sit
down, the farmer insisted that the gentleman should
take the upper end of the table, and the gentleman as
positively pressed the farmer to take it, saying he ought
to be master in his own house. But the countryman,
piquing himself upon his good breeding, still refused
to comply, till the gentleman, losing all patience, laid
both his hands upon the farmer's shoulders, and made
him sit down by main force, saying, 'Sit thee down,
clod-pole! for in whatever place I am seated, that is
the upper end to thee.' That is my tale, and truly I
think it comes in here pretty much to the purpose."
All things are not alike, nor are men always in a
humor for all things.
Leave fear to the cowardly.
A stout heart quails misfortune.
Letters written in blood cannot be disputed.
If you seek advice about your own concerns, one will
say it is white and another will swear it is black.
202
Nothing is so reasonable and cheap as good manners.
He is safe who has good cards to play.
Avarice bursts the bag, and the covetous governor
doeth ungoverned justice.
The law's measure
Is the king's pleasure.
The game is as often lost by a card too many as one
too few; but a word to the wise is sufficient.
Come, death, with gently-stealing pace,
And take me unperceived away,
Nor let me see thy wished-for face,
Lest joy my fleeting life should stay.
The tyrant fair whose beauty sent
The throbbing mischief to my heart,
The more my anguish to augment,
Forbids me to reveal the smart.
When a thing is once begun, it is almost half finished.
When the heifer you receive,
Have a halter in your sleeve.
Delay breeds danger.
Who sits in the saddle must get up first.
203
There is nothing so sweet as to command and be
obeyed.
It is a pleasant thing to govern, even though it be
but a flock of sheep.
instructions which don quixote gave to sancho
panza before he went to his government;
with other well considered matters.
The duke and duchess being so well pleased with
the afflicted duenna, were encouraged to proceed with
other projects, seeing that there was nothing too extravagant
for the credulity of the knight and squire. The
necessary orders were accordingly issued to their servants
and vassals with regard to their behavior towards
Sancho in his government of the promised island.
The day after the flight of Clavileno, the duke bade
Sancho prepare, and get himself in readiness to assume
his office, for his islanders were already wishing for
him as for rain in May. Sancho made a low bow, and
said: "Ever since my journey to heaven, when I
looked down and saw the earth so very small, my desire
to be a governor has partly cooled: for what
mighty matter is it to command on a spot no bigger
than a grain of mustard-seed; where is the majesty
and pomp of governing half a dozen creatures no bigger
than hazel-nuts? If your lordship will be pleased
to offer me some small portion of heaven, though it be
but half a league, I would jump at it sooner than for
the largest island in the world."
"Look you, friend Sancho," answered the duke, "I
204
can give away no part of heaven, not even a nail's
breadth; for God has reserved to Himself the disposal of
such favors: but what it is in my power to give, I give
you with all my heart; and the island I now present
to you is ready made, round and sound, well-proportioned,
and above measure fruitful, and where, by
good management, you may yourself, with the riches
of the earth, purchase an inheritance in heaven."
"Well, then," answered Sancho, "let this island be
forthcoming, and it shall go hard with me but I will
be such a governor that, in spite of rogues, heaven will
take me in. Nor is it out of covetousness that I forsake
my humble cottage and aspire to greater things,
but the desire I have to taste what it is to be a governor."
"If once you taste it, Sancho," quoth the duke,
"you will lick your fingers after it; so sweet it is to
command and be obeyed. And certain I am, when
your master becomes an emperor, of which there is no
doubt, as matters proceed so well, it would be impossible
to wrest his power from him, and his only regret
will be that he had it not sooner."
"Faith, sir, you are in the right," quoth Sancho, "it
is pleasant to govern, though it be but a flock of sheep."
"Let me be buried with you, Sancho," replied the
duke, "if you know not something of every thing,
and I doubt not you will prove a pearl of a governor.
But enough of this for the present: to-morrow you
surely depart for your island, and this evening you
shall be fitted with suitable apparel and with all things
necessary for your appointment."
205
"Clothe me as you will," said Sancho, "I shall
still be Sancho Panza."
"That is true," said the duke; "but the garb
should always be suitable to the office and rank of the
wearer: for a lawyer to be habited like a soldier, or a
soldier like a priest, would be preposterous; and you;
Sancho, must be clad partly like a scholar and partly
like a soldier; as, in the office you will hold, arms and
learning are united."
"As for learning," replied Sancho, "I have not
much of that, for I hardly know my A B C; but to be
a good governor, it will be enough that I am able to
make my Christ-cross; and as to arms, I shall handle
such as are given me till I fall, and so God help me."
"With so good an intention," quoth the duke,
"Sancho cannot do wrong."
Here they were joined by Don Quixote, who understanding
the subject of their conversation, and the short
space allotted to Sancho to prepare for his departure,
took the squire by the hand, with the duke's permission,
and led him to his apartment, in order to instruct
him how to behave in his office. Having entered the
chamber he locked the door, and obliging Sancho to
sit down by him, spoke to this effect, in a grave and
solemn tone:—
"I return infinite thanks to Heaven, friend Sancho,
for having ordained that, before I myself have met
with the least success, good fortune hath gone forth to
bid thee welcome. I, who had balanced the remuneration
of thy service in my own prosperity, find myself
in the very rudiments of promotion; while thou,
206
before thy time, and contrary to all the laws of reasonable
progression, findest thy desire accomplished:
other people bribe, solicit, importune, attend levees,
entreat, and persevere, without obtaining their suit;
and another comes, who, without knowing why or
wherefore, finds himself in possession of that office to
which so many people laid claim: and here the old
saying is aptly introduced, 'A pound of good luck is
worth a ton of merit.' Thou, who, in comparison to
me, art doubtless an ignorant dunce, without rising
early or sitting up late, or, indeed, exerting the least
industry: without any pretension more or less than
that of being breathed upon by knight-errantry, seest
thyself created governor of an island as if it was a
matter of moonshine.
"All this I observe, O Sancho, that thou mayst not
attribute thy success to thy own deserts: but give
thanks to heaven for having disposed matters so beneficially
in thy behalf, and then make thy acknowledgments
to that grandeur which centres in the profession
of knight-errantry. Thy heart being thus predisposed
to believe what I have said, be attentive, O my son, to
me who am thy Cato, thy counsellor, thy north-pole
and guide, to conduct thee into a secure harbor from
the tempestuous sea into which thou art going to be
engulfed; for great posts and offices of state are no
other than a profound gulf of confusion.
"In the first place, O my son, you are to fear God:
the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom; and if
you are wise you cannot err.
"Secondly, you must always remember who you are,
207
and endeavor to know yourself,—a study of all others
the most difficult. This self-knowledge will hinder you
from blowing yourself up like the frog in order to rival
the size of the ox: if, therefore, you succeed in this
learning, the consideration of thy having been a swineherd
will, like the peacock's ugly feet, be a check upon
thy folly and pride."
"I own I once took care of hogs when I was a boy,"
said Sancho; "but, after I grew up, I quitted that employment
and took care of geese; but I apprehend that
matter is not of great consequence, for all governors
are not descended from the kingly race."
"No, sure," answered the knight; "and, for that
reason, those who are not of noble extraction ought
to sweeten the gravity of their function with mildness
and affability: which, being prudently conducted, will
screen them from those malicious murmurs that no
station can escape.
"Conceal not the meanness of thy family, nor think
it disgraceful to be descended from peasants; for, when
it is seen that thou art not thyself ashamed, none will
endeavor to make thee so; and deem it more meritorious
to be a virtuous humble man than a lofty sinner.
Infinite is the number of those who, born of low extraction,
have risen to the highest dignities both in church
and state; and of this truth I could tire thee with
examples.
"If thou takest virtue for the rule of life, and valuest
thyself upon acting in all things conformably thereto,
thou wilt have no cause to envy lords and princes; for
blood is inherited, but virtue is a common property and
208
may be acquired by all. It has, moreover, an intrinsic
worth which blood has not. This being so, if, peradventure,
any one of thy kindred visit thee in thy government,
do not slight nor affront him; but receive,
cherish, and make much of him, for in so doing thou
wilt please God, who allows none of His creatures to
be despised; and thou wilt also manifest therein a
well-disposed nature.
"If thou takest thy wife with thee (and it is not
well for those who are appointed to governments to be
long separated from their families), teach, instruct, and
polish her from her natural rudeness; for it often happens
that all the consideration a wise governor can
acquire is lost by an ill-bred and foolish woman.
"If thou shouldst become a widower (an event which
is possible), and thy station entitles thee to a better
match, seek not one to serve thee for a hook and
angling-rod, or a friar's hood to receive alms in;11 for,
believe me, whatever the judge's wife receives, the
husband must account for at the general judgment,
and shall be made to pay fourfold for all that of which
he has rendered no account during his life.
"Be not under the dominion of thine own will: it
is the vice of the ignorant, who vainly presume on their
own understanding.
"Let the tears of the poor find more compassion,
but not more justice, from thee than the applications
of the wealthy.
209
"Be equally solicitous to sift out the truth amidst
the presents and promises of the rich and the sighs and
entreaties of the poor.
"Whenever equity may justly temper the rigor of
the law, let not the whole force of it bear upon the
delinquent; for it is better that a judge should lean
on the side of compassion than severity.
"If, perchance, the scales of justice be not correctly
balanced, let the error be imputable to pity, not to
gold.
"If, perchance, the cause of thine enemy come before
thee, forget thy injuries, and think only on the
merits of the case.
"Let not private affection blind thee in another
man's cause; for the errors thou shalt thereby commit
are often without remedy, and at the expense both of
thy reputation and fortune.
"When a beautiful woman comes before thee to
demand justice, consider maturely the nature of her
claim, without regarding either her tears or her sighs,
unless thou wouldst expose thy judgment to the danger
of being lost in the one, and thy integrity in the other.
"Revile not with words him whom thou hast to correct
with deeds; the punishment which the unhappy
wretch is doomed to suffer is sufficient, without the
addition of abusive language.
"When the criminal stands before thee, recollect the
frail and depraved nature of man, and as much as thou
canst, without injustice to the suffering party, show
pity and clemency; for, though the attributes of God
are all equally adorable, yet His mercy is more shining
210
and attractive in our eyes, and strikes with greater
lustre, than His justice.
"If you observe, and conduct yourself by these rules
and precepts, Sancho, your days will be long upon the
face of the earth; your fame will be eternal, your reward
complete, and your felicity unutterable; your
children will be married according to your wish; they
and their descendants will enjoy titles; you shall live
in peace and friendship with all mankind; when your
course of life is run, death will overtake you in a happy
and mature old age, and your eyes will be shut by the
tender and delicate hands of your posterity, in the third
or fourth generation.
"The remarks I have hitherto made are documents
touching the decoration of your soul; and now you will
listen to the directions I have to give concerning thy
person and deportment."
quixote gave to sancho panza.
Who that has duly considered Don Quixote's instructions
to his squire would not have taken him for a
person of singular intelligence and discretion? But,
in truth, as it has often been said in the progress of
this great history, he raved only on the subject of
chivalry; on all others he manifested a sound and
discriminating understanding; wherefore his judgment
and his actions appeared continually at variance. But,
in these second instructions given to Sancho, which
showed much ingenuity, his wisdom and frenzy are
both singularly conspicuous.
211
During the whole of this private conference, Sancho
listened to his master with great attention, and endeavored
so to register his counsel in his mind that he might
thereby be enabled to bear the burden of government
and acquit himself honorably. Don Quixote now proceeded:—
"As to the regulation of thine own person and domestic
concerns," said he, "in the first place, Sancho,
I enjoin thee to be cleanly in all things. Keep the
nails of thy fingers constantly and neatly pared, nor
suffer them to grow as some do, who ignorantly imagine
that long nails beautify the hand, and account the
excess of that excrement simply a finger-nail, whereas
it is rather the talon of the lizard-hunting kestrel,—a
foul and unsightly object. A slovenly dress betokens
a careless mind; or, as in the case of Julius Cæsar, it
may be attributed to cunning.
"Examine prudently the income of thy office, and
if it will afford thee to give liveries to thy servants,
give them such as are decent and lasting, rather than
gaudy and modish; and what thou shalt thus save in
thy servants bestow on the poor; so shalt thou have
attendants both in heaven and earth—a provision
which our vain-glorious great never think of.
"Eat neither garlic nor onions, lest the smell betray
thy rusticity. Walk with gravity, and speak deliberately,
but not so as to seem to be listening to thyself;
for affectation is odious.
"Eat little at dinner and less at supper; for the
health of the whole body is tempered in the laboratory
of the stomach.
212
"Drink with moderation; for inebriety never keeps
a secret nor performs a promise.
"In the next place, Sancho, do not intermix in thy
discourse such a multitude of proverbs as thou wert
wont to do; for though proverbs are concise and pithy
sentences, thou dost so often drag them in by the head
and shoulders that they look more like the ravings of
distraction than well-chosen apothegms."
"That defect God himself must remedy," said Sancho;
"for I have more proverbs by heart than would
be sufficient to fill a large book; and, when I speak,
they crowd together in such a manner as to quarrel for
utterance; so that my tongue discharges them just as
they happen to be in the way, whether they are or are
not to the purpose: but I will take care henceforward
to throw out those that may be suitable to the gravity of
my office: for, 'Where there's plenty of meat, the supper
will soon be complete;' 'He that shuffles does not
cut;' 'A good hand makes a short game;' and, 'It
requires a good brain to know when to give and
retain.'"
"Courage, Sancho," cried Don Quixote; "squeeze,
tack, and string your proverbs together; here are none
to oppose you. My mother whips me, and I whip the
top. Here am I exhorting thee to suppress thy proverbs,
and in an instant thou hast spewed forth a whole
litany of them, which are as foreign from the subject
as an old ballad. Remember, Sancho, I do not say
that a proverb properly applied is amiss; but, to throw
in, and string together old saws helter-skelter, renders
conversation altogether mean and despicable.
213
"When you appear on horseback do not lean backward
over the saddle, nor stretch out your legs stiffly
from the horse's belly, nor let them hang dangling in
a slovenly manner, as if you were upon the back of
Dapple; for some ride like jockeys, and some like gentlemen.
"Be very moderate in sleeping; for he who does not
rise with the sun cannot enjoy the day; and observe,
O Sancho, industry is the mother of prosperity; and
laziness, her opposite, never saw the accomplishment
of a good wish.
"This is all the advice, friend Sancho, that occurs
to me at present; hereafter, as occasions offer, my instructions
will be ready, provided thou art mindful to
inform me of the state of thy affairs."
"Sir," answered Sancho, "I see very well that all
your worship has told me is wholesome and profitable;
but what shall I be the better for it if I cannot keep it
in my head? It is true, I shall not easily forget what
you have said about paring my nails, and marrying
again if the opportunity offers; but for your other
quirks and quillets, I protest they have already gone out
of my head as clean as last year's clouds; and therefore,
let me have them in writing; for though I cannot
read them myself, I will give them to my confessor, that
he may repeat and drive them into me in time of need."
"Heaven defend me!" said Don Quixote, "how
scurvy doth it look in a governor to be unable to read
or write! Indeed, Sancho, I must needs tell thee that
when a man has not been taught to read, or is left-handed,
it argues that his parentage was very low, or
214
that, in early life, he was so indocile and perverse that
his teachers could beat nothing good into him. Truly
this is a great defect in thee, and therefore I would
have thee learn to write, even if it were only thy
name."
"That I can do already," quoth Sancho; "for
when I was steward of the brotherhood in our village,
I learned to make certain marks like those upon wool-packs,
which they told me, stood for my name. But,
at the worst, I can feign a lameness in my right hand,
and get another to sign for me: there is a remedy for
every thing but death; and, having the staff in my
hand, I can do what I please. Besides, as your worship
knows, he whose father is mayor 12
—and I, being governor, am, I trow, something more than mayor.
"Ay, ay, let them come that list, and play at bo-peep—ay,
fleer and backbite me; but they may come
for wool and go back shorn: 'His home is savory
whom God loves;'—besides, 'The rich man's blunders
pass current for wise maxims;' so that I, being a
governor, and therefore wealthy, and bountiful to boot—as
I intend to be—nobody will see any blemish in
me. No, no, let the clown daub himself with honey,
and he will never want flies. 'As much as you have,
just so much you are worth,' said my grandam; revenge
yourself upon the rich who can."
"Heaven confound thee!" exclaimed Don Quixote;
"sixty thousand devils take thee and thy proverbs!
This hour, or more, thou hast been stringing thy
215
musty wares, poisoning and torturing me without
mercy. Take my word for it, these proverbs will one
day bring thee to the gallows;—they will surely provoke
thy people to rebellion! Where dost thou find
them? How shouldst thou apply them, idiot? for I
toil and sweat as if I were delving the ground to utter
but one, and apply it properly."
"Before Heaven, master of mine," replied Sancho,
"your worship complains of very trifles. Why, in the
devil's name, are you angry that I make use of my own
goods? for other stock I have none, nor any stock but
proverbs upon proverbs; and just now I have four
ready to pop out, all pat and fitting as pears in a pannier—but
I am dumb: Silence is my name."13
"Then art thou vilely miscalled," quoth Don Quixote,
"being an eternal babbler. Nevertheless, I
would fain know these four proverbs that come so pat
to the purpose; for I have been rummaging my own
memory, which is no bad one, but for the soul of me, I
can find none."
"Can there be better," quoth Sancho, "than—'Never
venture your fingers between two eye-teeth;'
and with 'Get out of my house—what would you
have with my wife?' there is no arguing; and,
'Whether the pitcher hits the stone, or the stone hits
the pitcher, it goes ill with the pitcher.' All these,
your worship must see, fit to a hair. Let no one
meddle with the governor or his deputy, or he will
come off the worst, like him who claps his finger between
216
two eye-teeth, and though they were not eye-teeth,
'tis enough if they be but teeth. To what a governor
says there is no replying, any more than to 'Get
out of my house—what business have you with my
wife?' Then as to the stone and the pitcher—a blind
man may see that. So he who points to the mote in
another man's eye, should first look to the beam in his
own, that it may not be said of him, the dead woman
was afraid of her that was flayed. Besides, your worship
knows well that the fool knows more in his own
house than the wise in that of another."
"Not so, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "the
fool knows nothing, either in his own or any other
house; for knowledge is not to be erected upon so bad
a foundation as folly. But here let it rest, Sancho, for,
if thou governest ill, though the fault will be thine, the
shame will be mine. However, I am comforted in
having given thee the best counsel in my power; and
therein having done my duty, I am acquitted both of
my obligation and promise; so God speed thee, Sancho,
and govern thee in thy government, and deliver
me from the fears I entertain that thou wilt turn the
whole island topsy-turvy!—which, indeed, I might
prevent by letting the duke know what thou art, and
telling him that all that paunch-gut and little carcass
of thine is nothing but a sack full of proverbs and
impertinence."
"Signor," replied Sancho, "if your worship really
thinks I am not qualified for that government, I renounce
it from henceforward forever, amen. I have
a greater regard for a nail's breadth of my soul than
217
my whole body; and I can subsist, as bare Sancho,
upon a crust of bread and an onion, as well as governor
on capons and partridges; for, while we sleep, great
and small, rich and poor, are equal all. If your worship
will consider, your worship will find that you
yourself put this scheme of government into my head.
As for my own part, I know no more of the matter
than a bustard; and, if you think the governorship will
be the means of my going to the devil, I would much
rather go as simple Sancho to Heaven than as a governor
to hell-fire."
"Before God!" cried the knight, "from these last
reflections thou hast uttered, I pronounce thee worthy
to govern a thousand islands. Thou hast an excellent
natural disposition, without which all science is naught.
Recommend thyself to God, and endeavor to avoid
errors in the first intention. I mean, let thy intention
and unshaken purpose be to deal righteously in all thy
transactions, for Heaven always favors the upright design.
And now let us go in to dinner, for I believe
their graces wait for us."
Without discretion there can be no wit.
O poverty, poverty! I know not what should induce
the great Cordovan poet to call thee a holy, unrequited
gift. I, though a Moor, am very sensible, from my
correspondence with Christians, that holiness consists
in charity, humility, faith, poverty, and obedience;
yet, nevertheless, I will affirm that he must be holy
indeed, who can sit down content with poverty, unless
218
we mean that kind of poverty to which one of the
greatest saints alludes, when he says, "Possess of all
things as not possessing them;" and this is called
spiritual poverty. But thou second poverty, which is
the cause I spoke of, why wouldst thou assault gentlemen
of birth rather than any other class of people?
Why dost thou compel them to cobble their shoes, and
wear upon their coats one button of silk, another of
hair, and a third of glass? Why must their ruffs be
generally yellow and ill-starched? (By the by, from
this circumstance we learn the antiquity of ruffs and
starch. But thus he proceeds:) O wretched man of
noble pedigree! who is obliged to administer cordials
to his honor, in the midst of hunger and solitude, by
playing the hypocrite with a toothpick, which he affects
to use in the street, though he has eat nothing to require
that act of cleanliness. Wretched he, I say, whose honor
is ever apt to be startled, and thinks that everybody at
a league's distance observes the patch upon his shoe,
his greasy hat, and his threadbare cloak, and even the
hunger that consumes him.
Better a blush on the face than a stain in the heart.
Look not in last year's nests for this year's birds.
And he forthwith imagined that some damsel belonging
to the duchess had become enamored of him.
Though somewhat fearful of the beautiful foe, he resolved
to fortify his heart, and on no account to yield;
219
so, commending himself with fervent devotion to his
mistress, Dulcinea del Toboso, he determined to listen to
the music; and to let the damsel know he was there he
gave a feigned sneeze, at which they were not a little
pleased, as they desired above all things that he should
hear them. The harp being now tuned, Altisidora
began the following song14:—
Wake, sir knight, now love's invading,
Sleep in Holland sheets no more;
When a nymph is serenading,
'Tis an arrant shame to snore.
Hear a damsel tall and tender,
Moaning in most rueful guise,
With heart almost burned to cinder
By the sunbeams of thine eyes.
To free damsels from disaster
Is, they say, your daily care:
Can you then deny a plaster
To a wounded virgin here?
Tell me, doughty youth, who cursed thee
With such humors and ill-luck?
Was't some sullen bear dry-nursed thee,
Or she-dragon gave thee suck?
Dulcinea, that virago,
Well may brag of such a Cid,
220
Now her fame is up, and may go
From Toledo to Madrid.
Would she but her prize surrender,
(Judge how on thy face I dote!)
In exchange I'd gladly send her
My best gown and petticoat.
Happy I, would fortune doom me
But to have me near thy bed,
Stroke thee, pat thee, currycomb thee,
And hunt o'er thy knightly head.
But I ask too much, sincerely,
And I doubt I ne'er must do't,
I'd but kiss your toe, and fairly
Get the length thus of your foot.
How I'd rig thee, and what riches
Should be heaped upon thy bones!
Caps and socks, and cloaks and breeches,
Matchless pearls and precious stones.
Do not from above, like Nero,
See me burn and slight my woe,
But to quench my fires, my hero,
Cast a pitying eye below.
I'm a virgin-pullet, truly;
One more tender ne'er was seen.
A mere chicken fledged but newly;—
Hang me if I'm yet fifteen.
221
Wind and limb, all's tight about me,
My hair dangles to my feet;
I am straight, too:—if you doubt me,
Trust your eyes, come down and see't.
I've a bob nose has no fellow,
And a sparrow's mouth as rare;
Teeth, like bright topazes, yellow;
Yet I'm deemed a beauty here.
You know what a rare musician
(If you hearken) courts your choice;
I dare say my disposition
Is as taking as my voice.
Here ended the song of the amorous Altisidora, and
began the alarm of the courted Don Quixote, who,
fetching a deep sigh, said within himself: "Why am
I so unhappy a knight-errant that no damsel can see
but she must presently fall in love with me? Why is
the peerless Dulcinea so unlucky that she must not be
suffered singly to enjoy this my incomparable constancy?
Queens, what would ye have with her?
Empresses, why do ye persecute her? Damsels from
fourteen to fifteen, why do ye plague her? Leave,
leave the poor creature; let her triumph and glory in
the lot which love bestowed upon her in the conquest
of my heart and the surrender of my soul. Take notice,
enamored multitude, that to Dulcinea alone I am
paste and sugar, and to all others flint. To her I am
honey, and to the rest of ye aloes. To me, Dulcinea
222
alone is beautiful, discreet, lively, modest, and well-born;
all the rest of her sex foul, foolish, fickle, and
base-born. To be hers, and hers alone, nature sent me
into the world. Let Altisidora weep or sing, let the
lady despair on whose account I was buffeted in the
castle of the enchanted Moor; boiled or roasted, Dulcinea's
I must be, clean, well-bred, and chaste, in spite
of all the necromantic powers on earth."
how the great sancho panza took possession of
his island, and of the manner of his beginning
to govern it.—the governor's wisdom.
O thou ceaseless discoverer of the antipodes, torch of
the world, eye of Heaven, and sweet cause of earthen
wine coolers; here Thymbrius, there Phœbus; here
archer, there physician, father of poesy, inventor of
music; thou who always risest, and, though thou seemest
to do so, never settest,—to thee I speak, O sun!
thee I invoke to favor and enlighten the obscurity of
the great Sancho Panza; without thee I find myself
indolent, dispirited, and confused!
Sancho, then, with all his attendants, arrived at a
town containing about a thousand inhabitants, which
was one of the largest and best the duke had. They
gave him to understand that it was called the island of
Barataria, either because Barataria was really the name
of the place, or because he obtained the government of
it at so cheap a rate. On his arrival near the gates
of the town, which was walled about, the municipal
officers came out to receive him. The bells rung, and,
223
with all the demonstrations of a general joy and a great
deal of pomp, the people conducted him to the great
church to give thanks to God. Presently after, with
certain ridiculous ceremonies, they presented him the
keys of the town and constituted him perpetual governor
of the island of Barataria. The garb, the beard,
the thickness and shortness of the new governor, surprised
all who were not in the secret, and, indeed, those
who were, who were not a few. In fine, as soon as they
had brought him out of the church, they carried him to
the tribunal of justice and placed him in the chair.
The duke's steward then said to him, "It is an ancient
custom here, my lord governor, that he who comes to
take possession of this famous island is obliged to answer
a question put to him, which is to be somewhat
intricate and difficult. By his answer the people are
enabled to feel the pulse of their new governor's understanding,
and, accordingly, are either glad or sorry for
his coming."
While the steward was saying this, Sancho was
staring at some capital letters written on the wall
opposite to his chair, and, being unable to read, he
asked what that writing was on the wall. He was answered,
"Sir, it is there written on what day your
honor took possession of this island. The inscription
runs thus: 'This day, such a day of the month and
year, Signor Don Sancho Panza took possession of this
island. Long may he enjoy it.'"
"Pray who is it they call Don Sancho Panza?"
demanded Sancho.
"Your lordship," answered the steward! "for no
224
other Panza, besides him now in the chair, ever came
into this island."
"Take notice, then, brother," returned Sancho, "that
the Don does not belong to me, nor ever did to any of
my family. I am called plain Sancho Panza: my
father was a Sancho, and my grandfather was a Sancho,
and they were all Panzas, without any addition
of Dons, or any other title whatever. I fancy there are
more Dons than stones in this island. But enough: God
knows my meaning: and perhaps, if my government
lasts four days, I may weed out these Dons that over-run
the country, and, by their numbers, are as troublesome
as mosquitoes and cousins. On with your
question, Master Steward, and I will answer the best I
can, let the people be sorry or rejoice."
About this time two men came into the court, the one
clad like a country fellow, and the other like a tailor,
with a pair of shears in his hand; and the tailor said:
"My lord governor, I and this countryman come before
your worship by reason this honest man came
yesterday to my shop (saving your presence, I am a
tailor, and have passed my examination, God be
thanked), and putting a piece of cloth into my hands,
asked me, 'Sir, is there enough of this to make me a
cap?' I, measuring the piece, answered Yes. Now
he bade me view it again, and see if there was not
enough for two. I guessed his drift, and told him
there was. Persisting in his knavish intentions, my
customer went on increasing the number of caps, and
I still saying yes, till we came to five caps. A little
time ago he came to claim them. I offered them to
225
him, but he refuses to pay me for the making, and insists
I shall either return him his cloth, or pay him for
it."
"Is all this so, brother?" demanded Sancho.
"Yes," answered the man; "but pray, my lord,
make him produce the five caps he has made me."
"With all my heart," answered the tailor; and
pulling his hand from under his cloak, he showed the
five caps on the ends of his fingers and thumb, saying:
"Here are the five caps this honest man would have
me make, and on my soul and conscience, not a shred
of the cloth is left, and I submit the work to be viewed
by any inspectors of the trade."
All present laughed at the number of the caps and the
novelty of the suit. Sancho reflected a moment, and
then said: "I am of opinion there needs no great
delay in this suit, and it may be decided very equitably
off-hand. Therefore I pronounce, that the tailor
lose the making, and the countryman the stuff, and
that the caps be confiscated to the use of the poor: and
there is an end of that."
If the sentence Sancho afterwards passed on the
purse of the herdsman caused the admiration of all the
bystanders, this excited their laughter. However,
what the governor commanded was executed, and two
old men next presented themselves before him. One
of them carried a cane in his hand for a staff; the
other, who had no staff, said to Sancho: "My lord,
some time ago I lent this man ten crowns of gold to
oblige and serve him, upon condition that he should
return them on demand. I let some time pass without
226
asking for them, being loth to put him to a greater
strait to pay me than he was in when I lent them.
But at length, thinking it full time to be repaid, I
asked him for my money more than once, but to no
purpose: he not only refuses payment, but denies the
debt, and says I never lent him any such sum, or, if I
did that he had already paid me. I have no witnesses
to the loan, nor has he of the payment which he pretends
to have made, but which I deny; yet if he will
swear before your worship that he has returned the
money, I from this minute acquit him before God and
the world."
"What say you to this, old gentleman?" quoth
Sancho.
"I confess, my lord," replied the old fellow, "that
he did lend me the money, and if your worship pleases
to hold down your wand of justice, since he leaves it to
my oath, I will swear I have really and truly returned
it to him."
The governor accordingly held down his wand, and
the old fellow, seeming encumbered with his staff, gave
it to his creditor to hold while he was swearing; and
then taking hold of the cross of the wand, he said it was
true indeed the other had lent him ten crowns, but
that he had restored them to him into his own hand;
but having, he supposed, forgotten it, he was continually
dunning him for them. Upon which his lordship
the governor demanded of the creditor what he had to
say in reply to the solemn declaration he had heard.
He said that he submitted, and could not doubt but
that his debtor had sworn the truth; for he believed
227
him to be an honest man and a good Christian; and
that, as the fault must have been in his own memory, he
would thenceforward ask him no more for his money.
The debtor now took his staff again, and bowing to
the governor, went out of court.
Sancho having observed the defendant take his staff
and walk away, and noticing also the resignation of
the plaintiff, he began to meditate, and laying the
fore-finger of his right hand upon his forehead, he continued
a short time apparently full of thought; and
then raising his head, he ordered the old man with the
staff to be called back; and when he had returned,
"Honest friend," said the governor, "give me that
staff, for I have occasion for it."
"With all my heart," answered the old fellow; and
delivered it into his hand. Sancho took it, and giving
it to the other old man, said: "Go about your
business, in God's name, for you are paid." "I, my
lord," answered the old man; "what! is this cane
worth ten golden crowns?"
"Yes," quoth the governor, "or I am the greatest
dunce in the world! and now it shall appear whether
I have a head to govern a whole kingdom." Straight
he commanded the cane to be broken before them all.
Which being done there were found in the hollow of it
ten crowns in gold.
All were struck with admiration, and took their new
governor for a second Solomon. They asked him,
whence he had collected that the ten crowns were in
the cane. He answered, that upon seeing the old man
give it his adversary, while he was taking the oath,
228
and swearing that he had really and truly restored
them into his own hands, and, when he had done, ask
for it again, it came into his imagination, the money
in dispute must be in the hollow of the cane. Whence
it may be gathered, that, God Almighty often directs
the judgment of those who govern, though otherwise
mere blockheads: besides, he had heard the priest of
his parish tell a like case; and, were it not that he was
so unlucky as to forget all he had a mind to remember,
his memory was so good, there would not have been
a better in the whole island.
At length, both the old men marched off, the one
ashamed, and the other satisfied; the bystanders were
surprised, and the secretary, who minuted down the
words, actions, and behavior of Sancho Panza, could not
determine with himself, whether he should set him down
for a wise man or a fool. All the court were in admiration
at the acuteness and wisdom of their new governor;
all of whose sentences and decrees, being noted down by
the appointed historiographer, were immediately transmitted
to the duke, who waited for these accounts with
the utmost impatience.
We see that governors, though otherwise fools, are
sometimes directed in their decisions by the hand of
God.
Time is ever moving; nothing ever can impede his
course.
An understanding in the beginning is often an effectual
cure for those who are indiscreetly in love.
229
At eleven o'clock Don Quixote retired to his apartment,
and finding a lute there, he tuned it, opened the
window, and, perceiving there was somebody walking
in the garden, he ran over the strings of the instrument;
and, having tuned it again as nicely as he
could, he coughed and cleared his throat; and then,
with a voice somewhat hoarse, yet not unmusical, he
sang the following song, which he had composed himself
that very day:—
THE ADVICE.
matteaux's translation.
Love, a strong, designing foe.
Careless hearts with ease deceives;
Can thy breast resist his blow,
Which your sloth unguarded leaves?
If you're idle you're destroyed,
All his art on you he tries;
But be watchful and employed,
Straight the baffled tempter flies.
Maids for modest grace admired,
If they would their fortunes raise,
Must in silence live retired:
'Tis their virtue speaks their praise.
The divine Tobosan fair,
Dulcinea, claims me whole;
Nothing can her image tear!
'Tis one substance with my soul.
230
Then let fortune smile or frown,
Nothing shall my faith remove;
Constant truth, the lover's crown,
Can work miracles in love.
the same as translated by smollett.
Love, with idleness combined,
Will unhinge the tender mind:
But to few, to work and move,
Will exclude the force of love.
Blooming maids that would be married,
Must in virtue be unwearied;
Modesty a dower will raise,
And be a trumpet of their praise.
A cavalier will sport and play
With a damsel frank and gay;
But, when wedlock is his aim,
Choose a maid of sober fame.
Passion kindled in the breast,
By a stranger or a guest,
Enters with the rising sun,
And fleets before his race be run:
Love that comes so suddenly,
Ever on the wing to fly,
Neither can nor will impart
Strong impressions to the heart.
Pictures drawn on pictures, show
Strange confusion to the view:
Second beauty finds no base,
Where a first has taken place:
Then Dulcinea still shall reign
231
Without a rival or a stain;
Nor shall fate itself control
Her sway, or blot her from my soul:
Constancy, the lover's boast,
I'll maintain whate'er it cost:
This, my virtue will refine;
This will stamp my joys divine.
the same as translated by jarvis.
Love, with idleness is friend,
O'er a maiden gains its end:
But let business and employment
Fill up every careful moment;
These an antidote will prove
'Gainst the pois'nous arts of love.
Maidens that aspire to marry,
In their looks reserve should carry:
Modesty their price should raise,
And be the herald of their praise.
Knights, whom toils of arms employ,
With the free may laugh and toy;
But the modest only, choose
When they tie the nuptial noose.
Love that rises with the sun,
With his setting beams is gone:
Love that guest-like visits hearts,
When the banquet's o'er, departs:
And the love that comes to-day,
And to-morrow wings its way,
Leaves no traces on the soul,
Its affections to control.
232
Where a sovereign beauty reigns,
Fruitless are a rival's pains,—
O'er a finished picture who
E'er a second picture drew?
Fair Dulcinea, queen of beauty,
Rules my heart, and claims its duty,
Nothing there can take her place,
Naught her image can erase.
Whether fortune smile or frown,
Constancy 's the lover's crown;
And, its force divine to prove,
Miracles performs in love.
The history relates that Sancho Panza was conducted
from the court of justice to a sumptuous palace, where
in a great hall he found a magnificent entertainment
prepared. He had no sooner entered than his ears were
saluted by the sound of many instruments, and four
pages served him with water to wash his hands, which
the governor received with becoming gravity. The
music having ceased, Sancho now sat down to dinner
in a chair of state placed at the upper end of the table,
for there was but one seat and only one plate and napkin.
A personage, who, as it afterwards appeared, was
a physician, took his stand at one side of his chair with
a whalebone rod in his hand. They then removed the
beautiful white cloth, which covered a variety of fruits
and other eatables. Grace was said by one in a student's
dress, and a laced bib was placed by a page
233
under Sancho's chin. Another, who performed the
office of sewer, now set a plate of fruit before him;
but he had scarcely tasted it, when, on being touched
by the wand-bearer, it was snatched away, and another
containing meat instantly supplied its place. Yet before
Sancho could make a beginning it vanished, like the
former, on a signal of the wand.
The governor was surprised at this proceeding, and
looking around him, asked if this dinner was only to
show off their sleight of hand.
"My lord," said the wand-bearer, "your lordship's
food must here be watched with the same care as is
customary with the governors of other islands. I am
a doctor of physic, sir, and my duty, for which I receive
a salary, is to watch over the governor's health, whereof
I am more careful than of my own. I study his constitution
night and day, that I may know how to restore
him when sick; and therefore think it incumbent on
me to pay especial regard to his meals, at which I constantly
preside, to see that he eats what is good and
salutary, and prevent his touching whatever I imagine
may be prejudicial to his health or offensive to his
stomach. It was for that reason, my lord," continued
he, "I ordered the dish of fruit to be taken away, as
being too watery, and that other dish, as being too hot
and over-seasoned with spices, which are apt to provoke
thirst; and he that drinks much destroys and consumes
the radical moisture, which is the fuel of life."
"Well, then," quoth Sancho, "that plate of roasted
partridges, which seem to me to be very well seasoned,
I suppose will do me no manner of harm?"
234
"Hold," said the doctor, "my lord governor shall
not eat them while I live to prevent it."
"Pray, why not?" quoth Sancho.
"Because," answered the doctor, "our great master
Hippocrates, the north star and luminary of medicine,
says in one of his aphorisms, Omnis saturatio mala, perdicis
autem pessima; which means, 'All repletion is
bad, but that from partridges the worst.'"
"If it be so," quoth Sancho, "pray cast your eye,
signor doctor, over all these dishes here on the table,
and see which will do me the most good or the least
harm, and let me eat of it without whisking it away
with your conjuring-stick; for, by my soul, and as
Heaven shall give me life to enjoy this government,
I am dying with hunger; and to deny me food—let
signor doctor say what he will—is not the way to
lengthen my life, but to cut it short."
"Your worship is in the right, my lord governor,"
answered the physician, "and therefore I am of opinion
you should not eat of these stewed rabbits, as being
a food that is tough and acute; of that veal, indeed, you
might have taken a little, had it been neither roasted
nor stewed; but as it is, not a morsel."
"What think you, then," said Sancho, "of that
huge dish there, smoking hot, which I take to be an
olla-podrida?—for, among the many things contained
in it, I surely may light upon something both wholesome
and toothsome."
"Absit!" quoth the doctor, "far be such a thought
from us. Olla-podrida! there is no worse dish in the
world. Leave them to prebends and rectors of colleges
235
or lusty feeders at country weddings; but let them not
be seen on the tables of governors, where nothing contrary
to health and delicacy should be tolerated. Simple
medicines are always more estimable and safe, for in
them there can be no mistake, whereas in such as are
compounded all is hazard and uncertainty. Therefore,
what I would at present advise my lord governor to eat,
in order to corroborate and preserve his health, is about
a hundred small rolled-up wafers, with some thin slices
of marmalade, that may sit upon the stomach and help
digestion."
Sancho, hearing this, threw himself backward in his
chair, and looking at the doctor from head to foot very
seriously, asked him his name and where he had studied.
To which he answered, "My lord governor, my
name is Doctor Pedro Rezio de Aguero; I am a native
of a place called Tirteafuera, lying between Caraquel
and Almoddobar del Campo, on the right hand, and I
have taken my doctor's degrees in the university of
Ossuna."
"Then, hark you," said Sancho in a rage, "Signor
Doctor Pedro Rezzio de Aguero, native of Tirteafuera,
lying on the right hand as we go from Caraquel to
Almoddobar del Campo, graduate in Ossuna, get out
of my sight this instant, or, by the light of Heaven, I
will take a cudgel, and, beginning with your carcass,
will so belabor all the physic-mongers in the island,
that not one of the tribe shall be left!—I mean of
those like yourself, who are ignorant quacks. For
those who are learned and wise I shall make much of
and honor as so many angels. I say again, Signor
236
Pedro Rezio, begone, or I shall take the chair I sit on
and comb your head to some tune; and if I am called
to an account for it when I give up my office, I shall
prove that I have done a good service in ridding the
world of a bad physician, who is a public executioner.
Body of me! give me something to eat, or let them take
back their government,—for an office that will not find
a man in victuals is not worth two beans."
On seeing the governor in such a fury the doctor
would have fled out in the hall had not the sound of a
courier's horn at that instant been heard in the street.
"A courier from my lord duke," said the sewer (who
had looked out of the window), "and he must certainly
have brought despatches of importance."
The courier entered hastily, foaming with sweat and
in great agitation, and pulling a packet out of his
bosom, he delivered it into the governor's hands, and
by him it was given to the steward, telling him to read
the superscription, which was this: "To Don Sancho
Panza, Governor of the Island of Barataria. To be
delivered only to himself or to his secretary."
"Who is my secretary?" said Sancho.
"It is I, my lord," answered one who was present,
"for I can read and write, and am, besides, a Biscayan."
"With that addition," quoth Sancho, "you may
very well be secretary to the emperor himself. Open
the packet and see what it holds."
The new secretary did so, and having run his eye
over the contents, he said it was a business which required
privacy. Accordingly, Sancho commanded all
237
to retire excepting the steward and sewer; and when
the hall was cleared, the secretary read the following
letter:—
"It has just come to my knowledge, Signor Don
Panza, that certain enemies of mine intend very soon
to make a desperate attack, by night, upon the island
under your command; it is necessary, therefore, to be
vigilant and alert, that you may not be taken by surprise.
I have also received intelligence from trusty
spies, that four persons in disguise are now in your
town, sent thither by the enemy, who, fearful of your
great talents, have a design upon your life. Keep a
strict watch, be careful who are admitted to you, and
eat nothing sent you as a present. I will not fail to
send you assistance if you are in want of it. Whatever
may be attempted, I have full reliance on your activity
and judgment.
"The Duke.
"From this place, the 16th of August,
at four in the morning."
Sancho was astonished at this information, and the
others appeared to be no less so. At length, turning to
the steward, "I will tell you," said he, "the first thing
to be done, which is to clap Doctor Rezio into a dungeon;
for if anybody has a design to kill me, it is he,
and that by the most lingering and the worst of all
deaths,—starvation."
"Be that as it may," said the steward, "it is my
opinion your honor would do well to eat none of the
meat here upon the table, for it was presented by some
238
nuns, and it is a saying, 'The devil lurks behind the
cross.'"
"You are in the right," quoth Sancho, "and for the
present give me only a piece of bread and some four
pounds of grapes,—there can be no poison in them,—for,
in truth, I cannot live without food, and if we must
keep in readiness for these battles that threaten us, it
is fit that we should be well fed, for the stomach upholds
the heart and the heart the man. Do you, Mr. Secretary,
answer the letter of my lord duke, and tell him
his commands shall be obeyed throughout most faithfully;
and present my dutiful respects to my lady
duchess, and beg her not to forget to send a special
messenger with my letter and bundle to my wife Teresa
Panza, which I shall take as a particular favor, and will
be her humble servant to the utmost of my power.
And, by the way, you may put in my hearty service to
my master, Don Quixote de la Mancha, that he may
see that I am neither forgetful nor ungrateful; and as
to the rest, I leave it to you, as a good secretary and
a true Biscayan, to add whatever you please, or that
may turn to the best account. Now away with this
cloth, and bring me something that may be eaten, and
then let these spies, murderers, and enchanters see how
they meddle with me or my island."
A page now entered, saying, "Here is a countryman
who would speak with your lordship on business, as he
says, of great importance."
"It is very strange," quoth Saneho, "that these
men of business should be so silly as not to see that
this is not a time for such matters. What! we who
239
govern and belike are not made of flesh and bone like
other men! We are made of marble-stone, forsooth,
and have no need of rest or refreshment! Before Heaven
and upon my conscience, if my government lasts, as I
have a glimmering it will not, I shall hamper more than
one of these men of business! Well, for this once, tell
the fellow to come in; but first see that he is no spy,
nor one of my murderers."
"He looks, my lord," answered the page, "like a
simple fellow, and I am much mistaken if he be not as
harmless as a crust of bread."
"Your worship need not fear," quoth the steward,
"since we are with you."
"But now that Doctor Pedro Rezio is gone," quoth
Sancho, "may I not have something to eat of substance
and weight, though it were but a luncheon of bread and
an onion?"
"At night your honor shall have no cause to complain,"
quoth the sewer; "supper shall make up for
the want of dinner."
"Heaven grant it may," replied Sancho.
The countryman, who was of goodly presence, then
came in, and it might be seen a thousand leagues off
that he was an honest, good soul.
"Which among you here is the lord governor?"
said he.
"Who should it be," answered the secretary, "but
he who is seated in the chair?"
240
"I humble myself in his presence," quoth the countryman;
and kneeling down, he begged for his hand
to kiss.
Sancho refused it, and commanded him to rise and
tell his business. The countryman did so, and said:
"My lord, I am a husbandman, a native of Miguel
Terra, two leagues from Ciudad Real."
"What! another Tirteafuera?" quoth Sancho.
"Say on, brother; for let me tell you, I know Miguel
Terra very well; it is not very far from my own
village."
"The business is this, sir," continued the peasant:
"by the mercy of Heaven I was married in peace and
in the face of the holy Roman Catholic Church. I
have two sons, bred scholars; the younger studies for
bachelor, and the elder for licentiate. I am a widower,
for my wife died, or rather a wicked physician killed
her by improper medicines when she was pregnant;
and if it had been God's will that the child had been
born, and had proved a son, I would have put him to
study for doctor, that he might not envy his two brothers,
the bachelor and the licentiate."
"So that, if your wife," quoth Sancho, "had not
died, or had not been killed, you would not now be a
widower."
"No, certainly, my lord," answered the peasant.
"We are much the nearer," replied Sancho; "go
on, friend, for this is an hour rather for bed than
business."
"I say, then," quoth the countryman, "that my son
who is to be the bachelor fell in love with a damsel in
241
the same village, called Clara Perlerino, daughter of
Andres Perlerino, a very rich farmer; which name of
Perlerino came to them not by lineal or any other descent,
but because all of that race are paralytic; and
to mend the name, they call them Perlerinos. Indeed,
to say the truth, the damsel is like any oriental pearl,
and looked at on the right side seems a very flower of
the field; but on the left not quite so fair, for on that
side she wants an eye, which she lost by the small-pox;
and though the pits in her face are many and deep, her
admirers say they are not pits but graves wherein the
hearts of her lovers are buried. So clean and delicate,
too, is she, that to prevent defiling her face, she carries
her nose so hooked up that it seems to fly from her
mouth; yet for all that she looks charmingly, for she
has a large mouth, and did she not lack half a score or
a dozen front teeth she might pass and make a figure
among the fairest. I say nothing of her lips, for they
are so thin that, were it the fashion to reel lips, one
might make a skein of them; but, being of a different
color from what is usual in lips, they have a marvellous
appearance, for they are streaked with blue, green, and
orange-tawny. Pardon me, good my lord governor, if
I paint so minutely the parts of her who is about to
become my daughter; for in truth I love and admire
her more than I can tell."
"Paint what you will," quoth Sancho, "for I am
mightily taken with the picture; and had I but dined,
I would not desire a better dessert than your portrait."
"It shall be always at your service," answered the
peasant; "and the time may come when we may be
242
acquainted, though we are not so now; and I assure
you, my lord, if I could but paint her genteelness and
the tallness of her person, you would admire: but that
cannot be, because she is crooked, and crumpled up
together, and her knees touch her mouth; though, for
all that, you may see plainly that could she but stand
upright she would touch the ceiling with her head.
And she would ere now have given her hand to my
bachelor to be his wife, but that she cannot stretch it
out, it is so shrunk; nevertheless, her long guttered
nails show the goodness of its make."
"So far so good," quoth Sancho; "and now, brother,
make account that you have painted her from head to
foot. What is it you would be at? Come to the point
without so many windings and turnings, so many fetches
and digressions."
"What I desire, my lord," answered the countryman,
"is, that your lordship would do me the favor to give
me a letter of recommendation to her father, begging
his consent to the match, since we are pretty equal in
our fortunes and natural endowments; for, to say the
truth, my lord governor, my son is possessed, and
scarcely a day passes in which the evil spirits do not
torment him three or four times; and having thereby
once fallen into the fire, his face is as shrivelled as a
piece of scorched parchment, and his eyes are somewhat
bleared and running; but, bless him! he has the temper
of an angel, and did he not buffet and belabor himself,
he would be a very saint for gentleness."
"Would you have anything else, honest friend?"
said Sancho.
243
"One thing more I would ask," quoth the peasant,
"but I dare not,—yet out it shall; come what may,
it shall not rot in my breast. I say then, my lord, I
could wish your worship to give me three or six hundred
ducats towards mending the fortunes of my bachelor,—I
mean, to assist in furnishing his house; for it
is agreed that they shall live by themselves, without
being subject to the impertinences of their fathers-in-law."
"Well," quoth Sancho, "see if there is anything
else you would have, and be not squeamish in asking."
"No, nothing more," answered the peasant.
The governor then rising, and seizing the chair on
which he had been seated, exclaimed, "I vow to Heaven,
Don Lubberly, saucy bumpkin, if you do not instantly
get out of my sight, I will break your head with this
chair! Son of a rascal, and the devil's own painter!
At this time of day to come and ask me for six hundred
ducats! Where should I have them, villain? And
if I had them, idiot! why should I give them to thee?
What care I for Miguel Terra, or for the whole race of
the Perlerinos? Begone, I say! or, by the life of my
lord duke, I will be as good as my word. Thou art no
native of Miguel Terra, but some scoffer sent from the
devil to tempt me. Impudent scoundrel! I have not
yet had the government a day and a half, and you
expect I should have six hundred ducats!"
The sewer made signs to the countryman to go out
of the hall, which he did, hanging down his head, and
seemingly much afraid lest the governor should put his
244
threat into execution,—for the knave knew very well
how to play his part.
But let us leave Sancho in his passion; peace be with
him!
The devil will never give you a high nose if a flat
nose will serve your turn.
All is not gold that glitters.
I am fully convinced that judges and governors are,
or ought to be, made of brass, so as that they may not
feel the importunity of people of business, who expect
to be heard and despatched at all hours and at all
seasons, come what will, attending only to their own
affairs; and if the poor devil of a judge does not hear
and despatch them, either because it is not in his power,
or it happens to be an unseasonable time for giving
audience, then they grumble and backbite, gnaw him
to the very bones, and even bespatter his whole generation.
Ignorant man of business! foolish man of business!
be not in such a violent hurry; wait for the
proper season and conjuncture, and come not at meals
and sleeping-time; for judges are made of flesh and
blood, and must give to nature that which nature
requires.
Good physicians deserve palms and laurels.
Either we are, or we are not.
Walls have ears.
245
Let us all live and eat together in harmony and good
friendship.
When God sends the morning, the light shines upon
all.
Make yourselves honey, and the flies will devour
you.
Your idle and lazy people in a commonwealth are
like drones in a beehive, which only devour the honey
the laboring bees gather.
Every day produces something new in the world:
jests turn into earnest, and the biters are bit.
They who expect snacks should be modest, and take
cheerfully whatever is given them, and not haggle with
the winners; unless they know them to be sharpers,
and their gains unfairly gotten.
After traversing a few streets, they heard the clashing
of swords, and, hastening to the place, they found
two men fighting. On seeing the officers coming they
desisted, and one of them said, "Help, in the name of
Heaven and the king! Are people to be attacked here,
and robbed in the open streets?"
"Hold, honest man," quoth Sancho, "and tell me
what is the occasion of this fray; for I am the governor."
His antagonist, interposing, said, "My lord governor,
246ernor,
I will briefly relate the matter:—Your honor
must know that this gentleman is just come from the
gaming-house over the way, where he has been winning
above a thousand reals, and heaven knows how,
except that I, happening to be present, was induced,
even against my conscience, to give judgment in his
favor in many a doubtful point; and when I expected
he would have given me something, though it were but
the small matter of a crown, by way of present, as it is
usual with gentlemen of character like myself, who
stand by, ready to back unreasonable demands, and to
prevent quarrels, up he got, with his pockets filled, and
marched out of the house.
"Surprised and vexed at such conduct, I followed
him, civilly reminded him that he could not refuse me
the small sum of eight reals, as he knew me to be a
man of honor, without either office or pension; my
parents having brought me up to nothing: yet this
knave, who is as great a thief as Cacus, and as arrant a
sharper as Andradilla, would give me but four reals!
Think, my lord governor, what a shameless and unconscionable
fellow he is! But as I live had it not
been for your worship coming, I would have made him
disgorge his winnings, and taught him how to balance
accounts."
"What shall be done," replied Sancho, "is this:
you, master winner, whether by fair play or foul, instantly
give your hackster here a hundred reals, and
pay down thirty more for the poor prisoners; and you,
sir, who have neither office nor pension, nor honest
employment, take the hundred reals, and, some time
247
to-morrow, be sure you get out of this island, nor set
foot in it again these ten years, unless you would
finish your banishment in the next life: for if I find
you here, I will make you swing on a gibbet—at least
the hangman shall do it for me: so let no man reply,
or he shall repent it."
The decree was immediately executed: the one disbursed,
the other received; the one quitted the island,
the other went home.
Cheats are always at the mercy of their accomplices.
The maid that would keep her good name, stays at
home as if she were lame. A hen and a housewife,
whatever they cost, if once they go gadding will
surely be lost. And she that longs to see, I ween, is
as desirous to be seen.
Good fortune wants only a beginning.
When they offer thee a government, lay hold of it.
When an earldom is put before thee, lay thy clutches
on it.
When they throw thee some beneficial bone, snap at
the favor; if not, sleep on and never answer to good
fortune and preferment when they knock at thy door.
Truth will always rise uppermost, as oil rises above
water.
Seeing is believing.
248
According to reason, each thing has its season.
When justice is doubtful, I should lean to the side
of mercy.
Being desirous to please his lord and lady, he set off
with much glee to Sancho's village. Having arrived
near it, he inquired of some women whom he saw
washing in a brook if there lived not in that town one
Teresa Panza, wife of one Sancho Panza, squire to a
knight called Don Quixote de la Mancha.
"That Teresa Panza is my mother," said a young
lass who was washing among the rest, "and that Sancho
my own father, and that knight our master."
"Are they so?" quoth the page: "come then, my
good girl, and lead me to your mother, for I have a
letter and a token for her from that same father of
yours."
"That I will, with all my heart, sir," answered the
girl (who seemed to be about fourteen years of age);
and leaving the linen she was washing to one of her
companions, without stopping to cover either her head
or feet, away she ran skipping along before the page's
horse, bare-legged, and her hair dishevelled.
"Come along, sir, an 't please you," quoth she, "for
our house stands hard by, and you will find my
mother in trouble enough for being so long without
tidings of my father."
"Well," said the page, "I now bring her news that
will cheer her heart, I warrant her."
249
So on he went, with his guide running, skipping,
and capering before him, till they reached the village,
and, before she got up to the house, she called out
aloud, "Mother, mother, come out! here's a gentleman
who brings letters and other things from my good
father."
At these words out came her mother Teresa Panza
with a distaff in her hand—for she was spinning flax.
She was clad in a russet petticoat, so short that it
looked as if it had been docked at the placket, with a
jacket of the same, and the sleeves of her under-garment
hanging about it. She appeared to be about
forty years of age and was strong, hale, sinewy, and
hard as a hazel-nut.
"What is the matter, girl?" quoth she, seeing her
daughter with the page; "what gentleman is that?"
"It is an humble servant of my Lady Donna Teresa
Panza," answered the page; and throwing himself
from his horse, with great respect he went and kneeled
before the Lady Teresa, saying, "Be pleased, Signora
Donna Teresa, to give me your ladyship's hand to kiss,
as the lawful wife of Signor Don Sancho Panza, sole
governor of the island of Barataria."
"Alack-a-day, good sir, how you talk!" she replied:
"I am no court-dame, but a poor country woman,
daughter of a ploughman, and wife indeed of a squire-errant,
but no governor."
"Your ladyship," answered the page, "is the most
worthy wife of a thrice-worthy governor, and to confirm
the truth of what I say, be pleased, madam, to
receive what I here bring you."
250
He then drew the letter from his pocket, and a
string of corals, each bead set in gold, and, putting it
about her neck, he said, "This letter is from my lord
governor, and another that I have here, and those
corals are from my lady duchess, who sends me to your
ladyship."
Teresa and her daughter were all astonishment.
"May I die," said the girl, "if our master Don
Quixote be not at the bottom of this—as sure as day
he has given my father the government or earldom he
has so often promised him."
"It is even so," answered the page; "and for Signor
Don Quixote's sake, my Lord Sancho is now governor
of the island of Barataria, as the letter will
inform you."
"Pray, young gentleman," quoth Teresa, "be
pleased to read it; for though I can spin I cannot read
a jot."
"Nor I neither, i' faith," cried Sanchica; "but
stay a little, and I will fetch one who can, either the
bachelor Sampson Carrasco or the priest himself, who
will come with all their hearts to hear news of my
father."
"You need not take that trouble," said the page;
"for I can read though I cannot spin, and will read it
to you." Which he accordingly did: but as its contents
have already been given, it is not here repeated.
He then produced the letter from the duchess, and
read as follows:—
251
"Friend Teresa,—
"Finding your husband Sancho worthy of my
esteem for his honesty and good understanding, I prevailed
upon the duke, my spouse, to make him governor
of one of the many islands in his possession. I
am informed he governs like any hawk; at which I
and my lord duke are mightily pleased, and give many
thanks to Heaven that I have not been deceived in my
choice, for madam Teresa may be assured that it is no
easy matter to find a good governor—and God make
me as good as Sancho governs well. I have sent you,
my dear friend, a string of corals set in gold—I wish
they were oriental pearls; but whoever gives thee a
bone has no mind to see thee dead: the time will come
when we shall be better acquainted, and converse with
each other, and then heaven knows what may happen.
Commend me to your daughter Sanchica, and tell her
from me to get herself ready; for I mean to have her
highly married when she least expects it. I am told
the acorns near your town are very large—pray send
me some two dozen of them; for I shall value them
the more as coming from your hand. Write to me
immediately, to inform me of your health and welfare;
and if you want anything, you need but open your
mouth, and it shall be measured. So God keep you.
"The Duchess.
"From this place."
"Ah!" quoth Teresa, at hearing the letter, "how
good, how plain, how humble a lady! let me be buried
252
with such ladies as this, say I and not with such proud
madams as this town affords, who think because they
are gentlefolks, the wind must not blow upon them;
and go flaunting to church as if they were queens!
they seem to think it a disgrace to look upon a peasant
woman: and yet you see how this good lady,
though she be a duchess, calls me friend, and treats me
as if I were her equal!—and equal may I see her to
the highest steeple in La Mancha! As to the acorns,
sir, I will send her ladyship a peck of them, and such
as, for their size, people shall come from far and near
to see and admire. But for the present, Sanchica, let
us make much of this gentleman. Do thou take care
of his horse, child, and bring some new-laid eggs out
of the stable, and slice some rashers of bacon, and let
us entertain him like any prince; for his good news
and his own good looks deserve no less."
Sanchica now came in with her lap full of eggs.
"Pray, sir," said she to the page, "does my father,
now he is a governor, wear trunk-hose?"15
"I never observed," answered the page, "but doubtless
he does."
"God's my life!" replied Sanchica, "what a sight
to see my father in long breeches? Is it not strange
that ever since I was born I have longed to see my
father with breeches of that fashion laced to his
girdle?"
"I warrant you will have that pleasure if you live,"
253
answered the page; "before Heaven, if his government
lasts but two months, he is likely to travel with
a cape to his cap." 16
The first business that occurred on that day was
an appeal to his judgment in a case which was thus
stated by a stranger—the appellant: "My lord," said
he, "there is a river which passes through the domains
of a certain lord, dividing it into two parts—I beseech
your honor to give me your attention, for it is a case
of great importance and some difficulty. I say, then,
that upon this river there was a bridge, and at one end
of it a gallows and a kind of court-house, where four
judges sit to try, and pass sentence upon those who are
found to transgress a certain law enacted by the proprietor,
which runs thus: 'Whoever would pass over
this bridge must first declare upon oath whence he
comes, and upon what business he is going; and if he
swears the truth, he shall pass over; but if he swears to
a falsehood, he shall certainly die upon a gibbet there
provided.'
"After this law was made known, many persons ventured
over it, and the truth of what they swore being
admitted, they were allowed freely to pass. But a
man now comes demanding a passage over the bridge;
and, on taking the required oath, he swears that he is
254
going to be executed upon the gibbet before him, and
that he has no other business. The judges deliberated,
but would not decide. 'If we let this man pass freely,'
said they, 'he will have sworn falsely, and by the law, he
ought to die: and, if we hang him, he will verify his
oath, and he, having sworn the truth, ought to have
passed unmolested as the law ordains.' The case, my
lord, is yet suspended, for the judges know not how to
act; and, therefore having heard of your lordship's
great wisdom and acuteness, they have sent me humbly
to beseech your lordship on their behalf, to give
your opinion in so intricate and perplexing a case."
"To deal plainly with you," said Sancho, "these
gentlemen judges who sent you to me might have
saved themselves and you the labor; for I have more
of the blunt than the acute in me. However, let me
hear your question once more, that I may understand
it the better, and mayhap I may chance to hit the right
nail on the head."
The man accordingly told his tale once or twice more,
and when he had done, the governor thus delivered his
opinion: "To my thinking," said he, "this matter
may soon be settled; and I will tell you how. The
man, you say, swears he is going to die upon the gallows;
and if he is hanged, it would be against the law,
because he swore the truth; and if they do not hang
him, why then he swore a lie, and ought to have suffered."
"It is just as you say, my lord governor," said the
messenger, "and nothing more is wanting to a right
understanding of the case."
255
"I say, then," continued Sancho, "that they must
let that part of the man pass that swore the truth and
hang that part that swore the lie, and thereby the law
will be obeyed."
"If so, my lord," replied the stranger, "the man
must be divided into two parts; and thereby he will
certainly die, and thus the law, which we are bound
to observe, is in no respect complied with."
"Harkee, honest man," said Sancho, "either I have
no brains, or there is as much reason to put this passenger
to death as to let him live and pass the bridge;
for, if the truth saves him, the lie also condemns him,
and this being so, you may tell those gentlemen who
sent you to me, that since the reasons for condemning
and acquitting him are equal, they should let the man
pass freely, for it is always more commendable to do
good than to do harm."
Sancho having plentifully dined that day, in spite of
all the aphorisms of Dr. Tirteafuera, when the cloth was
removed in came an express with a letter from Don
Quixote to the governor. Sancho ordered the secretary
to read it to himself, and if there was nothing in it for
secret perusal, then to read it aloud. The secretary
having first run it over, accordingly, "My lord," said
he, "the letter may not only be publicly read, but
deserves to be engraved in characters of gold; and
thus it is:—"
governor of the island of barataria.
"When I expected to have had an account of thy
carelessness and blunders, friend Sancho, I was agreeably
256
disappointed with news of thy wise behavior,—for
which I return thanks to Heaven, that can raise the
lowest from their poverty and turn the fool into a man
of sense. I hear thou governest with all discretion;
and that, nevertheless, thou retainest the humility of
the meanest creature. But I would observe to thee,
Sancho, that it is often expedient and necessary, for
the due support of authority, to act in contradiction
to the humility of the heart. The personal adornments
of one that is raised to a high situation must correspond
with his present greatness, and not with his former
lowliness. Let thy apparel, therefore, be good and becoming;
for the hedgestake, when decorated no longer,
appears what it really is. I do not mean that thou
shouldst wear jewels or finery; nor, being a judge,
would I have thee dress like a soldier; but adorn thyself
in a manner suitable to thy employment. To gain
the good-will of thy people, two things, among others,
thou must not fail to observe: one is, to be courteous
to all,—that, indeed, I have already told thee; the
other is, to take especial care that the people be exposed
to no scarcity of food, for, with the poor, hunger is, of
all afflictions, the most insupportable. Publish few
edicts, but let those be good; and, above all, see that
they are well observed, for edicts that are not kept are
the same as not made, and serve only to show that the
prince, though he had wisdom and authority to make
them had not the courage to insist upon their execution.
Laws that threaten and are not enforced become like
King Log, whose croaking subjects first feared, then
despised him. Be a father to virtue and a step-father
257
to vice. Be not always severe, nor always mild; but
choose the happy mean between them, which is the
true point of discretion. Visit the prisons, the shambles,
and the markets; for there the presence of the
governor is highly necessary. Such attention is a comfort
to the prisoner hoping for release; it is a terror to
the butchers, who then dare not make use of false
weights; and the same effect is produced on all other
dealers. Shouldst thou unhappily be secretly inclined
to avarice, to gluttony, or women,—which I hope thou
art not,—avoid showing thyself guilty of these vices;
for, when those who are concerned with thee discover
thy ruling passion, they will assault thee on that quarter,
nor leave thee till they have effected thy destruction.
View and review, consider and reconsider, the
counsels and documents I gave thee in writing before
thy departure hence to thy government, and in them
thou wilt find a choice supply to sustain thee through
the toils and difficulties which governors must continually
encounter. Write to thy patrons, the duke and
duchess, and show thyself grateful, for ingratitude is
the daughter of pride, and one of the greatest sins;
whereas, he who is grateful to those that have done
him service, thereby testifies that he will be grateful
also to God, his constant benefactor.
"My lady duchess has despatched a messenger to
thy wife Teresa with thy hunting-suit, and also a present
from herself. We expect an answer every moment.
I have been a little out of order with a certain cat-clawing
which befell me, not much to the advantage
of my nose; but it was nothing, for if there are enchanters
258
who persecute me, there are others who defend
me. Let me know if the steward who is with thee had
any hand in the actions of the Trifaldi, as thou hast
suspected; and give me advice, from time to time, of
all that happens to thee, since the distance between us
is so short. I think of quitting this idle life very soon,
for I was not born for luxury and ease. A circumstance
has occurred which may, I believe, tend to deprive me
of the favor of the duke and duchess; but, though it
afflicts me much, it affects not my determination, for
I must comply with the duties of my profession in preference
to any other claim; as it is often said, Amicus
Plato, sed magis amica veritas. I write this in Latin,
being persuaded that thou hast learned that language
since thy promotion. Farewell, and God have thee in
His keeping; so mayst thou escape the pity of the
world.
"Thy friend,
"Don Quixote de la Mancha."
Sancho gave great attention to the letter; and it was
highly applauded, both for sense and integrity, by
everybody that heard it. After that, he rose from the
table, and calling the secretary, went without any further
delay and locked himself up with him in his
chamber, to write an answer to his master, Don Quixote,
which was as follows:—
"I am so taken up with business that I have not yet
had time to let you know whether it goes well or ill
259
with me in this same government, where I am more
hunger-starved than when you and I wandered through
woods and wildernesses.
"My lord duke wrote to me the other day to inform
me of some spies that were got into this island to kill
me; but as yet I have discovered none but a certain
doctor, hired by the islanders to kill all the governors
that come near it. They call him Dr. Pedro Rezio de
Anguero, and he was born at Tirteafuera. His name
is enough to make me fear he will be the death of me.
This same doctor says of himself, that he does cure
diseases when you have them; but when you have them
not, he only pretends to keep them from coming. The
physic he uses is fasting upon fasting, till he turns a
body to a mere skeleton; as if to be wasted to skin
and bones were not as bad as a fever. In short, he
starves me to death; so that, when I thought, as being
a governor, to have plenty of good hot victuals and
cool liquor, and to repose on a soft feather-bed, I am
come to do penance like a hermit.
"I have not yet so much as fingered the least penny
of money, either for fees or anything else; and how it
comes to be no better with me I cannot imagine, for I
have heard that the governors who come to this island
are wont to have a very good gift, or at least a very
round sum given them by the town before they enter.
And they say, too, that this is the usual custom, not
only here but in other places.
"Last night, in going my rounds, I met with a
mighty handsome damsel in boy's clothes, and a brother
of hers in woman's apparel. My gentleman-waiter fell
260
in love with the girl, and intends to make her his wife,
as he says. As for the youth, I have pitched on him
to be my son-in-law. To-day we both design to talk to
the father, one Diego de la Llana, who is a gentleman,
and an old Christian every inch of him.
"I visit the markets as you advised me, and yesterday
found one of the hucksters selling hazel-nuts. She
pretended they were all new; but I found she had
mixed a whole bushel of old, empty, rotten nuts among
the same quantity of new. With that I adjudged them
to be given to the hospital boys, who know how to pick
the good from the bad, and gave sentence against her
that she should not come into the market for fifteen
days; and people said I did well.
"I am mighty well pleased that my lady duchess
has written to my wife, Teresa Pauza, and sent her the
token you mention. It shall go hard but I will requite
her kindness one time or other. Pray give my service
to her, and tell her from me she has not cast her gift in
a broken sack, as something more than words shall
show.
"If I might advise you, and had my wish, there
should be no falling out between your worship and my
lord and lady; for, if you quarrel with them, it is I
must come by the worst for it. And, since you mind
me of being grateful, it will not look well in you not to
be so to those who have made so much of you at their
castle.
"If my wife, Teresa Panza, writes to me, pray pay
the postage and send me the letter; for I have a mighty
desire to know how fares it with her, and my house and
261
children. So Heaven protect your worship from evil-minded
enchanters, and bring me safe and sound out
of this government; which I very much doubt, seeing
how I am treated by Doctor Pedro Rezio.
"Your worship's servant,
"Sancho Panza, the Governor."
panza.
"I received thy letter, dear Sancho of my soul, and
I promise and swear to thee, on the faith of a Catholic
Christian, I was within two finger-breadths of running
mad with joy; and take notice, brother, when I heard
thou wast a governor, I had liked to have dropped down
dead with pure pleasure; for thou knowest they say
sudden joy kills as well as deadly sorrow.
"Thy hunting-suit lay before me, the string of corals
sent by lady duchess was tied round my neck, the
letters were in my hand, and the messenger in my
presence; and yet I imagined and believed that all I
saw and handled was a dream, for who could conceive
that a goatherd should come to be governor of islands?
Thou knowest, my friend, that my mother said, 'One
must live long to see a great deal.' This I mention
because I hope to see more if I live longer, for I do not
intend to stop until I see thee a farmer or collector of
the revenue,—offices which, though they carry those
who abuse them to the devil, are, in short, always bringing
in the penny.
"My lady duchess will tell thee how desirous I am
262
of going to court. Consider of it, and let me know thy
pleasure, for I will endeavor to do thee honor there by
riding in my coach.
"The curate, barber, bachelor, and even the sexton,
cannot believe thou art a governor, and say the whole
is a deception or matter of enchantment, like all the
affairs of thy master, Don Quixote. Sampson vows he
will go in quest of thee, and drive this government out
of thy head, as well as the madness out of Don Quixote's
skull. I say nothing, but laugh in my own sleeve, look
at my beads, and contrive how to make thy hunting-suit
into a gown and petticoat for our daughter. I have
sent some acorns to my lady duchess, and I wish they
were of gold. Send me some strings of pearls, if they
are in fashion in thy island.
"The news of our town are these: the widow of the
hill has matched her daughter with a bungling painter,
who came here and undertook all sort of work. The
corporation employed him to paint the king's arms over
the gate of the town-house. He asked them two ducats
for the job, which they paid beforehand; so he fell to
it and worked eight days, at the end of which he had
made nothing of it, and said he could not bring his
hand to paint such trumpery, and returned the money;
yet, for all that, he married in the name of a good workman.
The truth is, he has left his brushes and taken up
the spade, and goes to the field like a gentleman. Pedro
de Lobo's son has taken orders and shaved his crown,
meaning to be a priest. Minguilla, Mingo Silvato's niece,
hearing of it, is suing him upon a promise of marriage.
We have had no olives this year, nor is there a drop of
263
vinegar to be had in all the town. A company of foot-soldiers
passed through here, and carried off with them
three girls. I will not say who they are; mayhap they
will return, and somebody or other marry them, with
all their faults. Sanchica makes bone-lace, and gets
eight maravedis a day, which she drops into a saving-box,
to help her toward household stuff; but now that
she is a governor's daughter, she has no need to work,
for thou wilt give her a portion without it. The fountain
in our market-place is dried up. A thunderbolt
fell upon the pillory, and there may they all alight!
I expect an answer to this, and about my going to
court. And so God grant thee more years than myself,
or as many, for I would not willingly leave thee
behind me.
"Thy wife,
"Teresa Panza."
To think that the affairs of this life are always to
remain in the same state is an erroneous fancy. The
face of things rather seems continually to change and
roll with circular motion; summer succeeds the spring,
autumn the summer, winter the autumn, and then
spring again. So time proceeds in this perpetual round;
only the life of man is ever hastening to its end, swifter
than time itself, without hopes to be renewed, unless in
the next, that is unlimited and infinite. For even by
the light of nature and without that of faith, many have
discovered the swiftness and instability of this present
being, and the duration of the eternal life which is
expected.
264
"I know St. Peter is well at Rome," meaning every
one does well to follow the employment to which he was
bred.
Let no one stretch his feet beyond the length of his
sheet.
When thou art in Rome follow the fashions of Rome.
Sweet is our love of native land.
The prudent man who is expecting to be deprived of
his habitation looks out for another before he is turned
out of doors.
Well-got wealth may meet disaster,
But ill-got wealth destroys its master.
Bread is relief for all kind of grief.
We can bear with patience the ill-luck that comes
alone.
Man projects in vain,
For God doth still ordain.
As is the reason,
Such is the season.
Let no man presume to think
Of this cup I will not drink.
Where the flitch we hope to find,
Not even a hook is left behind.
265
Keep a safe conscience, and let people say what they
will.
It is as impracticable to tie up the tongue of malice
as to erect barricades in the open fields.
"If a governor resigns his office in good circumstances,
people say he must have been an oppressor
and a knave; and if poverty attends him in his retreat,
they set him down as an idiot and fool."
"For this time," answered Sancho, "I am certain
they will think me more fool than knave."
The great Sancho Panza, the flower and mirror of all
island governors.
A law neglected is the same as if it had never been
enacted.
Give always to the cat
What was kept for the rat,
And let it be thy view
All mischief to eschew.
It is fitting that all who receive a benefit should show
themselves grateful, though it be only a trifle.
song of altisidora.
Stay, cruel knight,
Take not thy flight,
266
Nor spur thy battered jade;
Thy haste restrain,
Draw in the rein,
And hear a love-sick maid.
Why dost thou fly?
No snake am I,
That poison those I love.
Gentle I am
As any lamb,
And harmless as a dove.
Thy cruel scorn
Has left forlorn
A nymph whose charms may vie
With theirs who sport
In Cynthia's court,
Though Venus' self were by.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee!
Like ravenous kite
That takes its flight
Soon as't has stol'n a chicken,
Thou bear'st away
My heart, thy prey,
And leav'st me here to sicken.
Three night-caps, too,
And garters blue,
That did to legs belong
Smooth to the sight
As marble white,
And faith, almost as strong.
267
Two thousand groans,
As many moans,
And sighs enough to fire
Old Priam's town,
And burn it down,
Did it again aspire.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee!
May Sancho ne'er
His buttocks bare
Fly-flap, as is his duty;
And thou still want
To disenchant
Dulcinea's injured beauty.
May still transformed,
And still deformed,
Toboso's nymph remain,
In recompense
Of thy offence,
Thy scorn and cold disdain.
When thou dost wield
Thy sword in field,
In combat, or in quarrel,
Ill-luck and harms
Attend thy arms,
Instead of fame and laurel.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee!
May thy disgrace
Fill every place,
268
Thy falsehood ne'er be hid,
But round the world
Be tossed and hurled,
From Seville to Madrid.
If, brisk and gay,
Thou sitt'st to play
At ombre or at chess,
May ne'er spadille
Attend thy will,
Nor luck thy movements bless.
Though thou with care
Thy corns dost pare,
May blood the penknife follow;
May thy gums rage,
And naught assuage
The pain of tooth that's hollow.
Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee,
Barabbas's fate still pursue and undo thee!
Liberty is one of the most precious gifts which
Heaven hath bestowed on man, exceeding all the treasures
which earth encloses, or which ocean hides; and
for this blessing, as well as for honor, we may and
ought to venture life itself. On the other hand, captivity
and restraint are the greatest evils that human
nature can endure. I make this observation, Sancho,
because thou hast seen the delicacies and the plenty
with which we were entertained in that castle; yet, in
the midst of those savory banquets and ice-cooled potations,
I thought myself confined within the very straits
of famine, because I did not enjoy the treat with
269
that liberty which I should have felt had it been my
own.
Obligations incurred by benefits and favors received
are fetters which hamper the free-born soul.
Happy is he to whom Heaven hath sent a morsel of
bread, for which he is obliged to none but Heaven
itself.
The man in wisdom must be old
Who knows in giving where to hold.
All times are not the same, nor equally fortunate;
and those incidents which the vulgar call omens, though
not founded on any natural reason, have, even by persons
of sagacity, been held and deemed as fair and
fortunate. One of these superstitious omen-mongers
rises in the morning, goes abroad, chances to meet a
friar belonging to the beatified St. Francis; and as if
he had encountered a dragon in his way, runs back
to his own house with fear and consternation. Another
Foresight by accident scatters the salt upon the
table, by which fear and melancholy are scattered
through his heart; as if Nature was obliged to foretell
future misfortunes by such trivial signs and tokens;
whereas a prudent man and a good Christian will not
so minutely scrutinize the purposes of Heaven. Scipio,
chancing to fall in landing upon the coast of Afric, and
perceiving that his soldiers looked upon this accident as
a bad omen, he embraced the soil with seeming eagerness,
270
saying, "Thou shalt not 'scape me, Afric, for I
have thee safe in my arms."
Love has no respect of persons, and laughs at the
admonitions of reason; like Death, he pursues his
game both in the stately palaces of kings and the
humble huts of shepherds. When he has got a soul
fairly in his clutches, his first business is to deprive it
of all shame and fear.
Beauty, they say, is the chief thing in love-matters.
"Hearken to me, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "there
are two kinds of beauty,—the one of the mind, the
other of the body. That of the mind shines forth in
good sense and good conduct, in modesty, liberality,
and courtesy; and all these qualities may be found in
one who has no personal attractions; and when that
species of beauty captivates, it produces a vehement
and superior passion. I well know, Sancho, that I am
not handsome, but I know also that I am not deformed;
and a man of worth, if he be not hideous, may inspire
love, provided he has those qualities of the mind which
I have mentioned."
Of all the sins that men commit, though some say
pride, in my opinion ingratitude is the worst. It is
truly said that hell is full of the ungrateful. From
that foul crime I have endeavored to abstain ever since
I enjoyed the use of reason; and if I cannot return the
good offices done me by equal benefits, I substitute my
271
desire to repay them; and if this be not enough, I publish
them: for he who proclaims the favors he has
received would return them if he could. And generally
the power of the receiver is unequal to that of the
giver, like the bounty of Heaven, to which no man can
make an equal return. But, though utterly unable to
repay the unspeakable beneficence of God, gratitude
affords an humble compensation suited to our limited
powers.
Lay a bridge of silver for a flying enemy.
Let Martha die, so that she be well fed.
He that has skill should handle the quill.
There is no greater folly than to give way to despair.
Patience often falls to the ground when it is over-loaded
with injuries.
Alexander the Great ventured to cut the Gordian
knot, on the supposition that cutting would be as effectual
as untying it, and, notwithstanding this violence,
became sole master of all Asia.
"Be not concerned," said Roque, addressing himself
to Don Quixote, "nor tax Fortune with unkindness.
By thus stumbling, you may chance to stand more
firmly than ever; for Heaven, by strange and circuitous
272
ways, incomprehensible to men, is wont to raise
the fallen and enrich the needy."
Oh, maddening sting of jealousy, how deadly thy
effects!
Justice must needs be a good thing, for it is necessary
even among thieves.
"Signor Roque," said he, "the beginning of a cure
consists in the knowledge of the distemper and in the
patient's willingness to take the medicines prescribed
to him by his physician. You are sick; you know
your malady, and God, our physician, is ready with
medicines that, in time, will certainly effect a cure.
Besides, sinners of good understanding are nearer to
amendment than those who are devoid of it; and, as
your superior sense is manifest be of good cheer and
hope for your entire recovery. If in this desirable work
you would take the shortest way and at once enter that
of your salvation, come with me and I will teach you
to be a knight-errant,—a profession, it is true, full of
labors and disasters, but which, being placed to the
account of penance, will not fail to lead you to honor
and felicity."
The abbot must eat that sings for his meat.
Courtesy begets courtesy.
The jest that gives pain is no jest.
273
That pastime should not be indulged which tends to
the detriment of a fellow-creature.
The fire is discovered by its own light; so is virtue
by its own excellence.
No renown equals in splendor that which is acquired
by the profession of arms.
Virtue demands our homage wherever it is found.
Women are commonly impatient and inquisitive.
By a man's actions may be seen the true disposition
of his mind.
"Body of me," said Don Quixote, "what a progress
you have made, signor, in the Tuscan language! I
would venture a good wager that where the Tuscan
says piace, you say, in Castilian, plaze; and where he
says piu, you say mas; and su you translate by the word
arriba; and giu by abaxo."
"I do so, most certainly," quoth the author, "for
such are the corresponding words."
"And yet, I dare say, sir," quoth Don Quixote,
"that you are scarcely known in the world,—but it
is the fate of all ingenious men. What abilities are
lost, what genius obscured, and what talents despised!
Nevertheless, I cannot but think that translation from
one language into another, unless it be from the noblest
of all languages, Greek and Latin, is like presenting
274
the back of a piece of tapestry, where, though the figures
are seen, they are obscured by innumerable knots
and ends of thread, very different from the smooth and
agreeable texture of the proper face of the work; and
to translate easy languages of a similar construction
requires no more talent than transcribing one paper
from another. But I would not hence infer that translating
is not a laudable exercise; for a man may be
worse and more unprofitably employed. Nor can my
observation apply to the two celebrated translators,
Doctor Christopher de Figueroa, in his 'Pastor Fido,'
and Don John de Xaurigui, in his 'Aminta,' who, with
singular felicity, have made it difficult to decide which
is the translation and which is the original. But tell
me, signor, is this book printed at your charge, or have
you sold the copyright to some bookseller?"
"I print it, sir, on my own account," answered the
author, "and expect a thousand ducats by this first
impression of two thousand copies. At six reals each
copy they will go off in a trice."
"'Tis mighty well," quoth Don Quixote, "though
I fear you know but little of the tricks of booksellers,
and the juggling there is amongst them. Take my
word for it, you will find a burden of two thousand
volumes upon your back no trifling matter, especially
if the book be deficient in sprightliness."
"What, sir!" cried the author, "would you have me
give my labor to a bookseller, who, if he paid me three
maravedis for it, would think it abundant, and say I
was favored? No, sir, fame is not my object: of that
I am already secure. Profit is what I now seek, without
which fame is nothing."
275
"Well, Heaven prosper you, sir!" said the knight,
who, passing on, observed a man correcting a sheet of
a book entitled "The Light of the Soul." On seeing
the title, he said, "Books of this kind, numerous as
they already are, ought still to be encouraged; for
numerous are the benighted sinners that require to be
enlightened." He went forward, and saw another book
under the corrector's hand, and, on inquiring the title,
they told him it was the second part of the ingenious
gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha, written by such
a one, of Tordesillas.
"I know something of that book," quoth Don Quixote,
"and, on my conscience, I thought it had been
burnt long before now for its stupidity; but its Martinmas
will come, as it does to every hog. Works of
invention are only so far good as they come near to
truth and probability; as general history is valuable in
proportion as it is authentic."
Rashness is not valor; doubtful hopes ought to make
men resolute, not rash.
There is a remedy for all things except death.
Between said and done
A long race may be run.
He whom Heaven favors may St. Peter bless.
They that give must take.
276
Where there are hooks, we do not always find bacon.
Good expectation is better than bad possession.
To-day for you, and to-morrow for me.
He that falls to-day may rise to-morrow.
Great hearts should be patient under misfortunes, as
well as joyful when all goes well.
I have heard say, she they call Fortune is a drunken,
freakish dame, and withal so blind that she does not
see what she is about; neither whom she raises, nor
whom she pulls down.
One thing I must tell thee, there is no such thing in
the world as fortune; nor do the events which fall out,
whether good or evil, proceed from chance, but from
the particular appointment of Heaven,—and hence
comes the usual saying, that every man is the maker
of his own fortune.
The faults of the ass should not be laid on the pack-saddle.
When it rains let the shower fall upon my cloak.
"Observe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there is
a great deal of difference between love and gratitude.
277
It is very possible for a gentleman not to be in love;
but, strictly speaking, it is impossible he should be
ungrateful."
The sin will cease when the temptation is removed.
The heart will not grieve for what the eye doth not
perceive.
What prayers can ne'er gain, a leap from a hedge
may obtain.
Proverbs are short maxims of human wisdom, the
result of experience and observation, and are the gifts
of ancient sages; yet the proverb which is not aptly
applied, instead of being wisdom, is stark nonsense.
It is the part of a good servant to sympathize with
his master's pains.
"Methinks," quoth Sancho, "that a man cannot be
suffering much when he can turn his brain to verse-making."
"No entiendo eso," replied Sancho; "solo entiendo
que en tanto que duermo, ni tengo temor, ni esperanza,
ni trabajo, ni gloria; y bien haya el que inventó el
sueño, capa que cubre todos los humanos pensamientos,
manjar que quita la hambre, agua que ahuyenta la sed,
fuego que calienta el frio, frio que templa el ardor, y
finalmente moneda general con que todas las cosas se
278
compran, balanza y peso que iguala al pastor con el rey,
y al simple con el discreto. Sola una cosa tiene mala
el sueño, segun he oido decir, y es que se parece á la
muerte, pues de un dormido á un muerto hay muy poca
diferencia."
"I know not what that means," replied Sancho; "I
only know that while I am asleep I have neither fear,
nor hope, nor trouble, nor glory. Blessings light on
him who first invented sleep! Sleep is the mantle that
shrouds all human thoughts; the food that dispels hunger;
the drink that quenches thirst; the fire that warms
the cold; the cool breeze that moderates heat; in a
word, the general coin that purchases every commodity;
the weight and balance that makes the shepherd
even with his sovereign, and the simple with the sage.
There is only one bad circumstance, as I have heard,
in sleep: it resembles death, inasmuch as between a
dead corse and a sleeping man there is no apparent
difference."
"Enjoy thy repose," said Don Quixote; "thou wast
born to sleep and I to watch; and, during the little of
night that remains, I will give my thoughts the rein,
and cool the furnace of my reflections with a short
madrigal, which I have this evening, unknown to thee,
composed in my own mind."
Amor, cuando yo pienso
En el mal que me das terrible y fuerte,
Voy corriendo á la muerte,
Pensando así acabar mi mal inmenso:
279
Mas en llegando al paso,
Que es puerto en este mar de mi tormento,
Tanta alegría siento,
Que la vida se esfuerza, y no le paso.
Así el vivir me mata,
Que la muerte me torna á dar la vida.
O condicion no oida,
La que conmigo muerte y vida trata!
O love! when, sick of heart-felt grief,
I sigh, and drag thy cruel chain,
To death I fly, the sure relief
Of those who groan in lingering pain.
But coming to the fatal gates,
The port in this my sea of woe,
The joy I feel new life creates,
And bids my spirits brisker flow.
Thus dying every hour I live,
And living I resign my breath.
Strange power of love, that thus can give
A dying life and living death!
Till Heaven, in pity to the weeping world,
Shall give Altisidora back to day,
By Quixote's scorn to realms of Pluto hurled,
Her every charm to cruel death a prey;
While matrons throw their gorgeous robes away,
280
To mourn a nymph by cold disdain betrayed:
To the complaining lyre's enchanting lay
I'll sing the praises of this hapless maid,
In sweeter notes than Thracian Orpheus ever played.
Nor shall my numbers with my life expire,
Or this world's light confine the boundless song:
To thee, bright maid, in death I'll touch the lyre,
And to my soul the theme shall still belong.
When, freed from clay, the flitting ghosts among,
My spirit glides the Stygian shores around,
Though the cold hand of death has sealed my tongue,
Thy praise the infernal caverns shall rebound,
And Lethe's sluggish waves move slower to the sound.
Better kill me outright than break my back with
other men's burdens.
Sleep is the best cure for waking troubles.
Devils, play or not play, win or not win, can never
be content.
History that is good, faithful, and true, will survive
for ages; but should it have none of these qualities, its
passage will be short between the cradle and the grave.
As for dying for love, it is all a jest; your lovers,
indeed, may easily say they are dying, but that they
will actually give up the ghost, believe it—Judas.
281
"Madam," said he, "your ladyship should know
that the chief cause of this good damsel's suffering
is idleness, the remedy whereof is honest and constant
employment. Lace, she tells me, is much worn in
purgatory, and since she cannot but know how to make
it, let her stick to that; for, while her fingers are assiduously
employed with her bobbins, the images that
now haunt her imagination will keep aloof, and leave
her mind tranquil and happy. This, madam, is my
opinion and advice."
"And mine, too," added Sancho, "for I never in
my life heard of a lacemaker that died for love; for
your damsels that bestir themselves at some honest
labor think more of their work than of their sweethearts.
I know it by myself; when I am digging, I
never think of my Teresa, though, God bless her! I
love her more than my very eyelids."
Railing among lovers is the next neighbor to forgiveness.
The ass will carry the load, but not a double load.
When money's paid before it's due,
A broken limb will straight ensue.
Delay breeds danger.
Pray to God devoutly,
And hammer away stoutly.
282
A sparrow in the hand is worth an eagle on the wing.
"No more proverbs, for God's sake," quoth Don
Quixote, "for, methinks, Sancho, thou art losing
ground, and returning to sicut erat. Speak plainly,
as I have often told thee, and thou wilt find it worth
a loaf per cent to thee."
"I know not how I came by this unlucky trick,"
replied Sancho: "I cannot bring you in three words
to the purpose without a proverb, nor give you a proverb
which, to my thinking, is not to the purpose;—but
I will try to mend."
The straw is too hard to make pipes of.
The knight and squire ascended a little eminence,
whence they discovered their village; which Sancho
no sooner beheld than, kneeling down, he said: "Open
thine eyes, O my beloved country! and behold thy son,
Sancho Panza, returning to thee again, if not rich, yet
well whipped! Open thine arms, and receive thy son
Don Quixote, too! who, though worsted by another,
has conquered himself, which, as I have heard say, is
the best kind of victory! Money I have gotten, and
though I have been soundly banged, I have come off
like a gentleman."
"Leave these fooleries, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote,
"and let us go directly to our homes, where we will
give full scope to our imagination, and settle our intended
scheme of a pastoral life."
283
It must here be mentioned that Sancho Panza, by
way of sumpter-cloth, had thrown the buckram robe
painted with flames, which he had worn on the night
of Altisidora's revival, upon his ass. He likewise clapped
the mitre on Dapple's head,—in short, never was an
ass so honored and bedizened. The priest and bachelor,
immediately recognizing their friends, ran toward them
with open arms. Don Quixote alighted, and embraced
them cordially. In the mean time, the boys, whose keen
eyes nothing can escape, came flocking from all parts.
"Ho!" cries one, "here comes Sancho Panza's ass,
as gay as a parrot, and Don Quixote's old horse, leaner
than ever!"
Thus, surrounded by the children and accompanied by
the priest and the bachelor, they proceeded through the
village till they arrived at Don Quixote's house, where,
at the door, they found the housekeeper and the niece,
who had already heard of his arrival. It had likewise
reached the ears of Sancho's wife, Teresa, who, half-naked,
with her hair about her ears, and dragging Sanchica
after her, ran to meet her husband; and seeing
him not so well equipped as she thought a governor
ought to be, she said: "What makes you come thus,
dear husband? methinks you come afoot and foundered!
This, I trow, is not as a governor should
look."
"Peace, wife," quoth Sancho; "the bacon is not so
easily found as the pin to hang it on. Let us go home,
and there you shall hear wonders. I have got money,
and honestly, too, without wronging anybody."
"Hast thou got money, good husband? Nay, then,
284
't is well, however it be gotten; for, well or ill, it will
have brought up no new custom in the world."
All things human, especially the lives of men, are
transitory, ever advancing from their beginning to their
decline and final determination.
"The greatest folly," said Sancho, "that a man can
commit in this world, is to give himself up to death
without any good cause for it, but only from melancholy."
"I feel, good sirs," said Don Quixote, "that death
advances fast upon me. Let us then be serious, and
bring me a confessor, and a notary to draw up my will,
for a man in my state must not trifle with his soul.
Let the notary be sent for, I beseech you, while my
friend here, the priest, is taking my confession."
The priest, having listened to his dying friend's confession,
came out of the room and told them that the good
Alonzo Quixano was near his end, and certainly in his
right senses; he therefore advised them to go in, as it
was full time that his will should be made. These
tidings gave a terrible stab to the overcharged hearts
of the two ladies and his faithful squire, whose eyes
overflowed with weeping, and whose bosoms had well-nigh
burst with a thousand sighs and groans; for, indeed,
it must be owned, as we have somewhere observed,
that whether in the character of Alonzo Quixano the
Good, or in the capacity of Don Quixote de la Mancha,
285
the poor gentleman had always exhibited marks of a
peaceable temper and agreeable demeanor, for which
he was beloved, not only by his own family, but also
by all those who had the pleasure of his acquaintance.
The notary entering the apartment with the rest of
the company, wrote the preamble of the will, in which
Don Quixote disposed of his soul in all the necessary
Christian forms; then proceeding to the legacies, he
said:—
"Item: whereas, Sancho Panza, whom, in my madness,
I made my squire, has in his hands a certain sum
of money for my use; and, as divers accounts, disbursements,
and pecuniary transactions have passed between
us, it is my will that he shall not be charged or brought
to account for the said money; but, if there be any
overplus after he has deducted the payment of what I
owe him, the said overplus, which must be a mere trifle,
shall be his own, and much good may it do him; and
as, during my disorder, I contributed to his being made
governor of an island, I would now, while I enjoy my
perfect senses, confer upon him, were it in my power,
a whole kingdom, which he richly deserves for the
innocency of his heart and the fidelity of his service."
Then turning to the disconsolate squire, "Forgive
me, friend," said he, "for having been the cause of
thy appearing in the eye of the world a madman like
myself, by drawing thee into my erroneous notions
concerning the existence and adventures of knights-errant."
"Gentlemen," said Don Quixote, "let us proceed
fair and softly. I was mad, I am now sane; I was
286
Don Quixote de la Mancha; I am now, as formerly
styled, Alonzo Quixano the Good. And may my repentance
and sincerity restore me to the esteem you
once had for me. Now let the notary proceed.
"Item: I bequeath to Antonia Quixano, my niece,
here present, all my estate, real and personal, after the
payment of all my debts and legacies; and the first to
be discharged shall be the wages due to my housekeeper
for the time she has been in my service, and twenty
ducats besides for a suit of mourning.
"I appoint for my executors signor the priest and
signor bachelor Sampson Carrasco, here present.
"Item: It is also my will that, if Antonia Quixano,
my niece, should be inclined to marry, it shall be only
with a man who, upon the strictest inquiry, shall be
found to know nothing of books of chivalry; and, in
case it appear that he is acquainted with such books,
and that my niece, notwithstanding, will and doth marry
him, then shall she forfeit all I have bequeathed her,
which my executors may dispose of in pious uses as
they think proper.
"And, finally, I beseech the said gentlemen, my
executors, that if haply they should come to the knowledge
of the author of a certain history dispersed abroad,
entitled, 'The Second Part of the Achievements of Don
Quixote de la Mancha,' that they will, in my name,
most earnestly entreat him to forgive me for having
been the innocent cause of his writing such a number
of absurdities as that performance contains; for I quit
this life with some scruples of conscience arising from
that consideration."
287
The will being thus concluded, he was seized with a
fainting-fit, and stretched himself at full length in the
bed, so that all the company were alarmed and ran to
his assistance. During three days which he lived after
the will was signed and sealed, he frequently fainted,
and the whole family was in confusion. Nevertheless,
the niece ate her victuals, the housekeeper drank to the
repose of his soul, and even Sancho cherished his little
carcass; for the prospect of succession either dispels or
moderates that affliction which an heir ought to feel at
the death of the testator.
At last Don Quixote expired, after having received
all the sacraments, and in the strongest terms, pathetically
enforced, expressed his abomination against all
books of chivalry; and the notary observed, that in
all the books of that kind which he had perused, he
had never read of any knight-errant who died quietly
in his bed as a good Christian, like Don Quixote; who,
amidst the tears and lamentations of all present, gave
up the ghost, or, in other words, departed this life.
The curate was no sooner certified of his decease, than
he desired the notary to make out a testimonial, declaring
that Alonzo Quixano the Good, commonly called
Don Quixote de la Mancha, had taken his departure
from this life, and died of a natural death; that no
other author, different from Cid Hamet Benengeli,
should falsely pretend to raise him from the dead, and
write endless histories of his achievements.
This was the end of that extraordinary gentleman of
La Mancha, whose birthplace Cid Hamet was careful
288
to conceal, that all the towns and villages of that province
might contend for the honor of having produced
him, as did the seven cities of Greece for the glory of
giving birth to Homer. The lamentations of Sancho,
the niece and the housekeeper, are not here given, nor
the new epitaphs on the tomb of the deceased knight,
except the following one, composed by Sampson Carrasco:—
Here lies the valiant cavalier,
Who never had a sense of fear:
So high his matchless courage rose,
He reckoned death among his vanquished foes.
Wrongs to redress, his sword he drew,
And many a caitiff giant slew;
His days of life though madness stained,
In death his sober senses he regained.
1 Rodrigo de Bivar, or the Cid, the national champion of
Spain.
2 Some biographers have it that the house was in the Calle de
Leon, afterwards the royal asylum, and that his wife and sister
had belonged to the third order of St. Francis for seven years
before his death.
3 Showing that Cervantes was familiar with the Bible as well
as Latin classics.
4 Showing also his familiarity with Æsop.
5 The king's morsel is better than the lord's bounty.
6 Certain churches, with indulgences, appointed to be visited,
either for pardon of sins, or for procuring blessings. Madmen,
probably, in their lucid intervals, were obliged to this exercise.
7 "From a friend to a friend, a bug in the eye," is a proverb
applied to the false professions of friendship.
8 Cervantes makes frequent use of Bible quotations.
9 A Sicilian, native of Catania, who lived in the latter part of
the sixteenth century. He was commonly called Pesce-cola, or
Fish-Nicholas, and is said to have lived so much in the water
from his infancy, that he could cleave the waters in the midst of
a storm like a marine animal.
10 Zapateadores: dancers that strike the soles of their shoes
with the palms of their hands, in time and measure.
11 The phrase, No quiero de tu capilla, alludes to the practice of
friars, who, when charity is offered, hold out their hoods to receive
it, while they pronounce a refusal with their tongues.
12 The entire proverb is: "He whose father is mayor goes safe
to his trial."
13 The proverb is: "To keep silence well is called Santo."
14 Jarvis's translation.
15 Trunk-hose were prohibited by royal decree shortly after the
publication of Don Quixote.
16 It was customary for men of quality to wear a veil or
mask depending from the covering worn on the head, in order to
shield the face from the sun.
University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.
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