The Humour of Spain

The Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote of La Mancha

Which Treats of the Condition and Way of Life of the Famous Gentleman, Don Quixote of La Mancha

In a certain village of La Mancha, whose name I will not recall, there lived not long ago a gentleman—one of those who keep a lance in the rack, an ancient target, a lean hackney, and a greyhound for coursing. A mess of somewhat more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, a hotch-potch on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, with the addition of a pigeon on Sundays, consumed three parts of his substance. The rest of it was spent in a doublet of fine broadcloth, a pair of velvet breeches for holidays, with slippers of the same, and his home-spun of the finest, with which he decked himself on week-days. He kept at home a housekeeper, who was past forty, and a niece who had not yet reached twenty, besides a lad for the field and market, who saddled the nag and handled the pruning-hook.

The age of our gentleman bordered upon fifty years. He was of a vigorous constitution, spare of flesh, dry of visage, a great early riser, and a lover of the chase. They affirm that his surname was Quejada, or Quesada (and in this there is some variance among the authors who treat of the matter), although by very probable conjectures we are led to conclude that he was called Quijana. But this is of small import to our story; enough that in the telling of it we swerve not a jot from the truth.

Be it known, then, that this gentleman above mentioned, during the interval that he was idle, which was the greater part of the year, gave himself up to the reading of books of chivalries, with so much fervour and relish, that he almost entirely neglected the exercise of the chase and even the management of his estate. And to such a pitch did his curiosity and infatuation reach, that he sold many acres of arable land in order to buy romances of chivalry to read; and so he brought home as many of them as he could procure. And of all none seemed to him so good as those composed by the famous Feliciano de Silva, for their brilliancy of style and those entangled sentences seemed to him to be very pearls; and especially when he came to read of the passages of love, and cartels of defiance, wherein he often found written things like these: “The reason of the unreason which is done to my reason in such wise my reason debilitates, that with reason I complain of your beauteousness.” And also when he read: “The lofty heavens which of your divinity do divinely fortify you with the constellations, and make you deserver of the deserts which your mightiness deserves.”

Over these reasons our poor gentleman lost his senses, and he used to keep awake at night in trying to comprehend them, and in plucking out their meaning, which not Aristotle himself could extract or understand, were he to come to life for that special purpose. He did not much fancy the wounds which Don Belianis gave and received; for he thought that, however potent were the masters who had healed him, the Knight could not but have his face and all his body full of scars and marks. Nevertheless, he praised in the author the ending of his book with the promise of that interminable adventure, and ofttimes he was seized with a desire to take up the pen, and put a finish to it in good earnest, as is there purposed. And doubtless he would have done so—aye, and gone through with it—had not other greater and more lasting thoughts diverted his mind.

Many times he held dispute with the Priest of his village (who was a learned man, a graduate of Siguenza) as to who should have been the better knight, Palmerin of England, or Amadis of Gaul; though Master Nicholas, the Barber of the same village, was used to say that none came up to the Knight of the Sun, and that if any one could compare with him it was Don Galaor, brother of Amadis of Gaul, for he had a very accommodating temper for everything; he was no prudish cavalier, nor such a sniveller as his brother, nor in the article of valour any behind him.

In fine, our gentleman was so absorbed in these studies, that he passed his nights reading from eve to dawn, and his days from dark to dusk; and so with little sleep and much study his brain dried up, to the end that he lost his wits. He filled himself with the imagination of all that he read in the books: with enchantments, with quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, amorous plaints, loves, torments, and follies impossible. And so assured was he of the truth of all that mass of fantastic inventions of which he read, that for him there was no other history in the world so certain. He would say that the Cid Ruy Diaz must have been a good knight, but not to be named with the Knight of the Flaming Sword, who only with one back-stroke had severed two fierce and monstrous giants through the middle. He better liked Bernardo del Carpio, because at Roncesvalles he had slain Orlando the Enchanted, availing himself of Hercules’ trick when he throttled Anteus, son of Terra, in his arms. He spoke very well of the giant Morgante; for, though of that gigantesque brood who are all arrogant and uncivil, he alone was affable and well-mannered. But, above all, he esteemed Rinaldo of Montalvan, especially when he saw him sally from his castle and rob all he met, and when in Heathenrie he stole that idol of Mahound, which was all of gold, as his history tells. As for the traitor Galalon, for a volley of kicks at him he would have given his housekeeper—aye, and his niece to boot. In short, his wits utterly wrecked, he fell into the strangest delusion ever madman conceived in the world, and this was, that it was fitting and necessary for him, as he thought, both for the augmenting of his honour and the service of the State, to make himself a Knight Errant, and travel through the world with his armour and his horse seeking for adventures, and to exercise himself in all that he had read that the Knight Errant practised, redressing all kinds of wrong, and placing himself in perils and passes by the surmounting of which he might achieve an everlasting name and fame. Already the poor man imagined himself, by the valour of his arm, crowned with, at the least, the Empire of Trebizond. And so, with these imaginations so delightful, rapt in the strange zest with which they inspired him, he made haste to give effect to what he desired. The first thing he did was to furbish up some armour which had belonged to his great-grandfathers, which, eaten with rust and covered with mould, had lain for ages, where it had been put away and forgotten, in a corner. He scoured and dressed it as well as he was able, but he saw that it had one great defect, which was that there was no covered helmet, but only a simple morion or, headpiece. This his ingenuity supplied, for, with pieces of pasteboard, he fashioned a sort of half-beaver, which, fitted to the morion, gave it the appearance of a complete helmet. The fact is that, to prove it to be strong and able to stand the chance of a sword-cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of strokes, demolishing with the very first in a moment what had cost him a week to make. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces not seeming to him good, in order to secure himself against this danger he set to making it anew, fitting some bars of iron within in such a manner as to leave him satisfied with his defence; and without caring to make a fresh trial of it, he constituted and accepted it for a very perfect good helmet. He went then to inspect his nag, a beast which, though it had more quarters than there are in a real, and more blemishes than the horse of Gonela, who, tantum pellis et ossa fuit, appeared to him to surpass Alexander’s Bucephalus and the Ci Bavieca. Four days were spent by our gentlemen in meditating on what name to give him; for, as he said to himself, it was not right that the steed of Knight so famous, and in himself so good, should be without a recognised appellation; and therefore he endeavoured to fit him with one which should signify what he had been prior to his belonging to a Knight Errant, and what he was then; since he thought it but right that, the master having changed his condition, the horse should also change his name, and get him one sublime and high-sounding, as befitted the new order and the new office which he professed. And so, after many names which he devised, effaced, and rejected, amended, re-made and un-made in his mind and fancy, finally he decided to call him Rozinante—a name, in his opinion, lofty, sonorous, and significative of what his animal had been when he was a common hackney, before he became what he now was, before, and in front of, all the hackneys in the world.

Having given to his horse a name so much to his liking, he then desired to give one to himself, and the thinking of this cost him eight other days. At last he decided to call himself Don Quixote; whereupon the authors of this truthful history, as has been said, have found occasion to affirm that his name was Quijada, and not Quesada, as others would have it. Then recollecting that the valorous Amadis was not contented with calling himself simply Amadis, but added the name of his kingdom and native country, to make it famous, taking the name of Amadis of Gaul, so he desired, like a good knight, to add to his own the name of his native land, and call himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, to his seeming, he made lively proclamation of his lineage and his country, and honoured it by taking his surname therefrom.

His armour then being cleaned, his morion manufactured into a helmet, a name given to his horse, and himself confirmed with a new one, it struck him that he lacked nothing else than to look for a lady of whom to be enamoured; for the Knight Errant without amours was a tree without leaves and without fruit, and a body without soul. He would say to himself: “Were I, for my sins, or through good luck, to encounter hereabouts some giant, as usually happens to Knights Errant, and to overthrow him at the onset, or cleave him through the middle of his body, or, in fine, vanquish him and make him surrender, would it not be well to have some one to whom to send him as a present, that he might enter and bend the knee before my sweet mistress, and say with humble and subdued voice: ‘I, lady, am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindramia, whom the never-to-be-praised-as-he-deserves Knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha, vanquished in single combat—he who hath commanded me to present myself before your grace that your highness may dispose of me at your pleasure.’”

Oh, how our good knight was pleased with himself when he had delivered this speech!—and the more when he found one to whom to give the name of his lady. It happened, as the belief is, that in a village near his own there was a well-looking peasant girl, with whom he had once fallen in love, though it is understood that she never knew it or had proof thereof. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he judged it fit to bestow the title of mistress of his fancy; and, seeking for her a name which should not much belie her own, and yet incline and approach to that of a princess or great lady, he decided to call her Dulcinea del Toboso, for she was a native of El Toboso—a name, in his opinion, musical, romantic, and significant, as were all which he had given to himself and his belongings.

Wherein is related the pleasant method by which Don Quixote got himself dubbed Knight.

... Don Quixote promised to perform all that was recommended to him with all exactness; whereupon he was enjoined forthwith to keep watch over his armour in a large yard by the inn-side. Collecting the pieces all together, he placed them on top of a stone trough which stood near a well, and, buckling on his shield, he grasped his lance, and began with a jaunty air to pace in front of the trough, it being now dark when he commenced his exercise.

The landlord told all who were staying in the inn of his guest’s craze, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing of Knighthood which he awaited. Wondering at this strange kind of madness, they went to look at him from afar, and saw him sometimes pacing with a tranquil mien, sometimes resting on his lance, with his eyes fixed on his armour, from which he would not take them off for some time. The night had now closed in, with a moon of such brightness that she might have vied with him who lent it to her,6 so that whatever our novice did could be plainly seen by all. Just then one of the muleteers who were staying in the inn, wanting to give water to his team, found it necessary to remove Don Quixote’s armour from where it lay on the trough. The Knight, seeing the man approach, exclaimed with a loud voice: “O thou, whosoever thou art, rash cavalier! who comest to touch the armour of the most valiant Errant that ever girt sword on himself, take heed what thou doest, and touch it not, if thou wouldst not lose thy life in forfeit of thy temerity.”

The muleteer paid no regard to these words (and better for him it had been had he regarded them, for he would have re-guarded his safety), but, taking hold of the armour by the straps, flung it some way from him. When Don Quixote saw this, he lifted his eyes to heaven, and addressing himself, as it seemed, to his Lady Dulcinea, cried, “Succour me, mistress mine, in this the first affront which is offered to this enthralled bosom: let not your favour and help fail me in this first trial!”

And uttering these and other such words, and loosing his shield, he raised his lance in both hands, and with it dealt such a mighty blow on the muleteer’s head that it felled him to the earth in such ill plight that, if it had been followed up with a second, there would have been no need of a leech to cure him. Soon after, another muleteer, without knowing what had passed (for the first still lay stunned), came up with the same purpose of giving water to his mules, and was going to remove the armour so as to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without speaking a word or asking any one’s favour, again loosed his shield and again raised his lance, and without breaking it made more than three of the second muleteer’s head, for he broke it into four pieces. At the noise all the people of the inn ran out, and the landlord among them. Seeing this, Don Quixote buckled on his shield, and, setting his hand to his sword, cried, “O lady of beauty! strength and vigour of this debile heart! now is the hour when you should turn the eyes of your grandeur on this your captive Knight, who is awaiting this mighty adventure!”

Thereupon he seemed to himself to acquire so much courage, that if all the muleteers in the world had assailed him he would not have budged a foot backwards. The companions of the wounded, seeing them in that plight, began to shower stones upon Don Quixote from a distance, who sheltered himself as well as he could with his shield, not venturing to leave the horse-trough lest he should seem to abandon his armour. The innkeeper called out to them to leave him alone, for he had told them already that it was a madman, and being mad he would be scot-free even if he killed them all. Don Quixote also cried out yet louder, calling them cowards and traitors, and declaring the Lord of the castle to be a craven and a base-born Knight for consenting to Knights Errant being so treated, and that if he himself had received the order of Knighthood he would have made him sensible of his perfidy: “But of you, base and wild rabble, I make no account. Shoot! come on! advance! assail me as much as ye are able; you shall see the penalty you have to pay for your folly and insolence!”

This he said with so much spirit and intrepidity that he struck all who heard him with a terrible fear; and therefore, and partly by the host’s persuasions, they left off pelting him, and he on his part permitted them to carry off their wounded, returning to the vigil of his arms with the same calmness and composure as before.

These pranks of his guest were not to the innkeeper’s liking, so he determined to despatch and give him that plaguy order of Knighthood forthwith, before other mischief should happen. Going up to him, therefore, he apologised for the insolence with which those base fellows had behaved without his knowledge, but, he added, they had been well chastised for their hardihood. And seeing there was no chapel in that castle, as he had said before, there was no need, he declared, for the rest of the performance—that the whole point of Knight-making consisted in the slap of the hand and the stroke on the shoulder, according to his knowledge of the ceremonial of the order, and this could be done in the middle of a field; and that Don Quixote had already accomplished all that pertained to the watching of arms, more by token that he had been more than four hours at what might have been finished off with a two hours’ watch.

To all this Don Quixote gave credence, and he said to the host that he was there ready to obey him, praying him to conclude the business as soon as possible, for, were he assaulted again when full Knight, he purposed not to leave any one alive in the castle, except those he might spare at the Castellan’s bidding, and out of regard for him.

The Castellan, thus forewarned, and apprehensive of what might happen, brought out a book in which he used to enter the straw and barley which he supplied to the muleteers, and, with a candle-end borne by a lad, the two damsels aforesaid with him, went up to where Don Quixote was standing, whom he ordered to go down on his knees. Reading in his manual as though he were reciting some devout prayer, he broke off in the middle, and, lifting up his hand, dealt Don Quixote a sound blow on the head, and after this a brisk thwack on the shoulder with his own sword, still muttering between his teeth as though he were praying. This done, he commanded one of those ladies to gird on Don Quixote’s sword, which she did with much sprightliness and discretion, and it needed no little of that last article to avoid bursting with laughter at each point of the ceremonies, though the prowesses they had witnessed of the new Knight kept their mirth within bounds. At the girding on of the sword the good lady said, “God make your worship a fortunate Knight, and give you good luck in battles!” Don Quixote besought her to tell him her name, that thenceforward he might know to whom he was indebted for the favour received, for he designed to bestow on her some portion of the honour which he was to reap by the valour of his arm. She replied, with much humility, that her name was La Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler, native of Toledo, who lived among the stalls of Sancho Bienaya, and that wheresoever she might be, she was at his service and took him for her master. Don Quixote begged her in reply, for love of him, henceforth to assume the Don, and call herself Donna Tolosa, which she promised to do. The other damsel buckled on him his spurs, with whom there passed almost the same colloquy as with her of the sword. He asked her her name, and she answered that she was called La Molinera, and was the daughter of a miller of Antequera. Her also Don Quixote besought to take upon her the Don, and call herself Donna Molinera, renewing his offers of service and favour.

These never-before-seen ceremonies having been despatched at a gallop and post-haste, Don Quixote could not rest till he saw himself on horseback, sallying forth in quest of adventures. So saddling Rozinante at once he mounted, and embracing the innkeeper, thanked him for the favour done in the knighting in terms so extravagant that it is impossible to give an exact relation of them. The innkeeper, seeing him well outside his inn, responded to his speeches with others no less flowery although more brief, and, without asking him for the cost of his lodging, let him go with a hearty good will.

Of the good success which Don Quixote had in the terrible and never-before imagined adventure of the windmills, with other events worthy of happy remembrance.

While thus conversing, they caught sight of some thirty or forty windmills which are in that plain, and as soon as Don Quixote perceived them, he exclaimed—

“Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we could have desired, for look yonder, friend Sancho, where thirty or more huge giants are revealed, with whom I intend to do battle, and take all their lives. With their spoils we will begin to enrich ourselves, for this is fair war, and it is doing God great service to clear this evil spawn from off the face of the earth.

“What giants?” asked Sancho Panza.

“Those thou seest there,” replied his master, “with the long arms, which some of them are wont to have of two leagues’ length.”

“Take care, sir,” cried Sancho, “for those we see yonder are not giants, but windmills, and what in them look like arms are the sails which, being whirled about by the wind, make the mill-stone to go.”

“It is manifest,” answered Don Quixote, “that thou art not experienced in this matter of adventures. They are giants, and if thou art afraid get thee away home and dispose thyself to prayer, while I go to engage with them in fierce and unequal combat.”

So saying, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, his steed, without heeding the cries which Sancho Panza, his squire, uttered, warning him that those he was going to encounter were beyond all doubt windmills and not giants. But he went on so fully persuaded that they were giants, that he neither listened to the cries of his squire Sancho, nor stopped to mark what they were, but shouted to them in a loud voice—

“Fly not, cowards, vile creatures, for it is a single cavalier who assails you!”

A slight breeze having sprung up at this moment, the great sail-arms began to move, on perceiving which Don Quixote cried—

“Although ye should wield more arms than had the giant Briareus, ye shall pay for it!”

Saying this, and commending himself with his whole soul to his lady Dulcinea, beseeching her to succour him in this peril, well covered with his buckler, with his lance in rest, he charged at Rozinante’s best gallop, and attacked the first mill before him and thrusting his lance into the sail the wind turned it with so much violence that the lance was shivered to pieces, carrying with it the horse and his rider, who was sent rolling over the plain sorely damaged.

Sancho Panza hastened to his master’s help as fast as his ass could go, and when he came up he found the Knight unable to stir, such a shock had Rozinante given him in the fall.

“God bless me,” cried Sancho, “did I not tell your worship to look to what you were doing, for they were nought but windmills? And nobody could mistake them but one who had other such in his head.”

“Peace, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for the things of war are more than other subject to continual mutation. And, moreover, I believe, and that is the truth, that the same sage Friston, who robbed me of my room and my books, hath turned these giants into windmills, in order to deprive me of the glory of their overthrow, so great is the enmity he bears to me; but in the upshot his evil arts shall little avail against the goodness of my sword.”

“God send it as He will,” answered Sancho; and helping him to rise, the Knight remounted Rozinante, whose shoulders were half dislocated.

Which treats of the lofty adventure and the rich winning of Mambrino’s helmet.

... Now, the truth of the matter as to the helmet, the horse, and the Knight that Don Quixote saw was this. There were in that neighbourhood two villages, one so small that it possessed neither apothecary’s shop nor barber, which the other, close to it, had; and so the barber of the larger village did duty for the smaller, in which was a sick man who required to be blooded, and another who wanted shaving; on which account the barber was coming, bringing with him a brass basin; and it chanced that, at the time he was travelling, it commenced to rain, and, not to spoil his hat, which was a new one, he clapt upon his head the basin, which, being a clean one, shone half a league off. He rode upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was how to Don Quixote there appeared the dapple-grey steed and the Knight and the helmet of gold, for all things that he saw he made to fall in very easily with his wild chivalries and his vagabond fancies. And, when he perceived that luckless horseman draw near, without stopping to parley with him, he ran at him with his lance couched at Rozinante’s full gallop, with intent to pierce him through and through; and as he came up to him, without abating the fury of his career, he cried out—

“Defend thyself, vile caitiff creature, or render me up of thine own will that which by all right is my due.”

The barber, who saw that apparition bearing down upon him, without thought or apprehension of any such thing, had no other way to save himself from the thrust of the lance than to let himself fall off his ass, and no sooner had he touched the ground when he rose more nimbly than a deer, and began to race across the plain faster than the wind. The basin he left upon the ground, with which Don Quixote was well content, remarking that the Paynim had done wisely, and that he had imitated the beaver, who, when he finds himself hard pressed by the hunters, tears and cuts off with his teeth that for which he knows by natural instinct he is chased. He bade Sancho pick up the helmet, who, taking it in his hands, said—

“In sooth the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight, if it is worth a maravedi.”

He gave it to his master, who placed it upon his head, turning it about from side to side in search of the vizor, and, not finding it, he said—

“Doubtless the Paynim to whose measure this famous headpiece was first forged, must have had a very large head, and the worst of it is that half of it is wanting.”

When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece, he could not contain his laughter, but bethinking him of his master’s wrath, he checked himself in the midst of it.

“What dost thou laugh at?” asked Don Quixote.

“I am laughing,” replied he, “for thinking of the big head the Paynim owner of this helmet must have had, for it looks for all the world like nothing but a perfect barber’s basin.”

“Knowest thou what I suspect, Sancho? That this famous piece of the enchanted helmet must by some strange accident have come into the hands of one who did not know or esteem its worth, and who, ignorant of what he did, seeing it to be of pure gold, must have melted down the other half of it to profit by its worth, and of this half he has made what looks to thee like a barber’s basin, as thou sayest. But, be that as it may, to me who recognise it, its transmutation makes no matter, for I will have it rectified in the first village where there is a smith, and in such wise that it shall not be surpassed or even approached by that which was made and forged by the god of smithies for the god of battles. And, in the meantime, I will wear it as I can, for something is better than nothing; all the more as it will well suffice to protect me against any blow from a stone.”

Wherein is set forth the highest point and extreme to which the never-before-heard-of courage of Don Quixote reached or could reach; with the happily achieved Adventure of the Lions.

The history tells that Sancho, when Don Quixote called for his helmet, was buying some curds of the shepherds, and in his perturbation at his master’s hurried call, knew not what to do with them or how to carry them; so in order not to lose what he had now paid for, he bethought him of clapping them into his master’s helmet, and having thus made shift, he turned back to see what Don Quixote wanted, who, on his coming up, cried, “Give me that helmet, friend, for I know little of adventure or that which I descry yonder is one which should require, and does require, me to take to arms.”

He of the Green Coat, hearing this, turned his eyes every way, but saw nothing but a cart which came towards them with two or three little flags, which made him think that it must be carrying the King’s treasure, and so he told Don Quixote. But the Knight would not credit it, always supposing and imagining that all which happened was adventures, and still adventures; and so he replied—

“Forewarned is forearmed; nothing is lost by taking precaution, for I know by experience that I have enemies visible and invisible, nor know I when, nor where, nor in what moment, nor in what shape I have to encounter them.”

And turning to Sancho he asked for his helmet, which the squire, not having an opportunity of relieving it of the curds, was compelled to hand to him as it was. Don Quixote took it, and without giving a look to what it contained, clapped it on his head in all haste; and as the curds were squeezed and pressed, the whey began to pour over all Don Quixote’s face and beard, from which he got such a fright that he said to Sancho—

“What is this, Sancho? For methinks my skull is softening, or my brains are melting, or I sweat from feet to head. And if it is that I am sweating, truly it is not from fear. Without doubt I believe this is terrible, the adventure that now means to befall me. Give me something, if you can, with which to wipe myself, for this copious sweat doth blind my eyes.”

Sancho held his tongue and gave him a cloth, and with it thanks to God that his master had not found out the truth. Don Quixote wiped himself, and took off the helmet to see what it was which seemed to chill his head, and finding the white clots within his headpiece, held them to his nose, and smelling them, cried—

“By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but these are curds thou hast put here, thou traitor! villain, brazen-faced squire!”

To which, with much deliberation and command of countenance, Sancho replied, “If they are curds give them to me, your worship, and I will eat them; but let the devil eat them, for it must be he who put them there. I to dare soil your worship’s helmet! You must know who it is that’s so bold. In faith, sir, as God reads my mind, I, too, must have enchanters who persecute me as a creature and limb of your worship; and they will have put that nastiness there to move your patience to anger, and make you baste my ribs as you are wont to do; but, in truth, this time they have jumped wide of the mark, for I rely on my master’s good judgment, who will consider that I have neither curds nor milk about me, nor anything like; and if I had I would rather put it into my stomach than in the helmet.”

“It may be all so,” quoth Don Quixote. And the gentleman in the Green Coat, who noted all, was utterly amazed, especially when, after Don Quixote had wiped dry his head, face, beard, and helmet, he put it on again, and settling himself firmly in his stirrups, reaching for his sword and grasping his lance, exclaimed—

“Now come what may, for here I stand to do battle with Satan himself in person.”

The cart with the flags now approached, in which was nobody but the carter upon one of the mules and a man seated in front. Planting himself before it, Don Quixote exclaimed—

“Whither go ye, my brethren; what cart is this? What do you carry therein? And what flags are these?”

To which the carter replied, “The cart is mine; what go in it are two bold lions in a cage, which the General is sending from Oran to the capital as a present to his Majesty; the flags are the King’s, our master, in token that something of his goes here.”

“And are they large, the lions?” asked Don Quixote.

“So large,” answered the man at the door of the van, “that none larger or so large have ever passed from Africa to Spain; and I am the lion-keeper, and have carried many, but none like these. They are male and female; the male goes in the first cage, and the female in the one behind, and they are now very hungry, for they have not eaten to-day; and so let your worship stand aside, for we must needs reach quickly the place where we are to give them their dinner.”

On which said Don Quixote, with a little smile, “Lion-whelps to me? To me, lion-whelps? And at this time of day? Then by Heaven, those gentleman who send them here shall see whether I am a man who is frightened of lions. Alight, good fellow, and since you are the lion-keeper, open these cages, and turn me out these beasts, for in the middle of this open field I will teach them to know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in defiance and despite of the enchanters who send them to me.”

“So, so,” said he of the Green Coat to himself at this, “our good knight gives us a proof of what he is; the curds i’ faith have softened his skull and mellowed his brain.”

Here Sancho came up to him, and exclaimed, “For God’s sake, sir, mind that my master, Don Quixote, does not fight with these lions, for if he fights them all we here will be torn to pieces.”

“But is your master so mad,” the gentleman answered, “that you fear and believe that he will fight with animals so fierce?”

“Not mad is he,” replied Sancho, “but headstrong.”

“I will make him desist,” said the gentleman. And coming up to Don Quixote, who was pressing the keeper to open the cage, he said, “Sir Knight, Knights Errant have to engage in adventures which hold out some prospect of a good issue from them, and not in those that are wholly devoid of it, for the valour which enters within the bounds of temerity has more of madness than of fortitude; moreover, these lions come not against you, nor do they dream of doing so, but are going as a present to his Majesty, and it will not be right to detain them or hinder their journey.”

“Get you gone, Sir Country-squire,” replied Don Quixote, “and look after your quiet pointer and your saucy ferret, and leave every one to do his duty; this is mine, and I know whether they come against me or not, these gentlemen the lions.” And, turning to the keeper, he said, “I swear, Don Rascal, that if you do not open the cage at once, instantly, I will pin you to the cart with this lance.”

The carter, seeing that armed phantom’s determination, said to him—

“Be pleased, dear sir, for charity, to let me unyoke the mules and place myself and them in safety before the lions are let loose, for if they are killed I shall be utterly ruined, for I have no other property but this cart and these mules.”

“O man of little faith!” replied Don Quixote, “get down and unyoke, and do what thou wilt, for soon thou shalt see that thou toilest in vain, and might spare thyself these pains.”

The carter alighted and in great haste unyoked, and the keeper cried in a loud voice, “Be witnesses as many as are here, how against my will and on compulsion I open the cages and let loose the lions, and that I protest to this gentleman, that all the evil and damage these beasts shall do will run and go to his account, with my wages and dues besides. Let you, sirs, make yourselves safe before I open; for myself, I am sure they will do me no harm.”

Once more Don Diego entreated him not to commit such an act of madness, for to engage in such a freak were a tempting of Providence, to which Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was doing. The gentleman pressed him again to look well to it, for that he was surely mistaken.

“Nay, sir,” quoth Don Quixote, “if your worship would not bear witness to this, which in your opinion is about to be a tragedy, spur your grey and put yourself in safety.”

Sancho, on hearing this, prayed his master with tears in his eyes to desist from such an enterprise, compared to which that of the windmills, and the fearful one of the fulling-mills, and, in short, all the deeds his master had attempted in the course of his life, were but pleasuring and junketing.

“Look, sir,” quoth Sancho, “here there is no enchantment, nor anything like it, for I have seen through the chinks and bars of the cage a claw of a real lion, and I gather from it that such a lion, to have such a claw, is bigger than a mountain.”

“Fear, at least,” said Don Quixote, “will make it seem bigger to thee than half the earth. Retire, Sancho, and leave me, and if I die here, thou knowest our old compact: thou wilt betake thee to Dulcinea. I say no more.”

Other words he added to these which took away all hope of his giving up proceeding with his insane purpose. He of the Green Coat would have resisted him in it, but he saw himself unequal in arms, and judged it not wise to fight with a madman, for such he now appeared to him to be at all points. Don Quixote once more pressing the keeper and repeating his threats, caused the gentleman to urge his mare, and Sancho Dapple, and the carter his mules, all trying to get away from the cart as far as possible before the lions broke loose. Sancho wept over the death of his master, for this time he verily believed it had come from the lion’s claws; he cursed his fortune and called it a fatal hour when it came into his mind once more to serve Don Quixote; but none the less, in weeping and lamenting, did he stop cudgelling Dapple to get him farther from the cart. The lion-keeper, seeing now that those who had fled were well away, again entreated and warned Don Quixote as he had entreated and warned him before, but the Knight replied that he heard him, and that he cared for no more warnings and entreaties, which would be fruitless, and bade him despatch. Whilst the keeper was engaged in opening the first cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would be better to have the battle on foot or on horseback, and finally he decided to have it on foot, fearing lest Rozinante should be startled at the sight of the lions. Therefore, he leapt from his horse, threw away his lance, and buckling his shield and unsheathing his sword, leisurely, with a marvellous intrepidity and valiant heart advanced to post himself in front of the cart, commending his soul to God and then to his lady Dulcinea.

And it is to be known that, coming to this passage, the author of this truthful history breaks out into this exclamation, saying—

“O brave and beyond all commendation courageous Don Quixote of La Mancha! mirror wherein all the valiant may behold themselves, a second and new Don Manuel de Leon, who was the honour and glory of Spanish Knights! In what words shall I recount this dread exploit, or by what argument make it creditable to future ages? What praises can there be unfitting and unmeet for thee, be they ever such hyperboles upon hyperboles? Thou on foot, thou alone, thou fearless, thou great-hearted, with thy simple sword, and that not one of your trenchant dog blades; with a shield of no very bright and shining steel, standest watching and waiting for two of the fiercest lions that ever the African forests engendered! Let thy deeds themselves, valorous Manchegan, extol thee, for here I leave them at their height, failing words to glorify them.”

Here the author breaks off from his apostrophe, and proceeds to take up the thread of his history, saying—

The keeper, seeing Don Quixote fixed in his position, and that it was impossible to avoid letting loose the male lion without falling under the resentment of the rageful and dauntless Knight, opened wide the door of the first cage where, as has been said, was the male lion, who looked to be of extraordinary size and of a hideous and terrible aspect. The first thing he did was to turn himself round in his cage, and to extend his claws and stretch himself to his full length. Then he opened his mouth and yawned very leisurely, and with about two hands’-breadth of tongue which he put out, he licked the dust from his eyes and bathed his face. This done, he put his head out of the cage and gazed all about with his eyes blazing like live coals, a spectacle and attitude to instil dread into daring itself. Don Quixote alone looked at him intently, longing for him to leap out of the cart and come within reach of his hands, between which he thought to rend him to pieces.

To this height did his unheard-of madness carry him; but the generous lion, more courteous than arrogant, taking no notice of these childish tricks and swaggerings, after having looked round about him, as has been said, turned his back and, showing to Don Quixote his hinder parts, with great calmness and nonchalance flung himself down again in the cage. Seeing this Don Quixote commanded him to give him some blows and tease him so that he might come out.

“That I will not do,” answered the keeper, “for if I excite him the first he will tear in pieces will be myself. Let your worship, Sir Knight, be content with what has been done, which is all that one can tell of in point of valour, and seek not to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has his door open; it rests with him to come out or not; but since he has not come out up to now he will not come out all day. Your worship’s greatness of heart is now made fully manifest. No champion fighter, as I take it, is bound to do more than defy his enemy and wait for him in the field; if the opponent does not appear the infamy rests upon him, and he who waits wins the crown of victory.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, friend, and give in the best form thou canst a voucher of what thou hast seen me do: to wit, how that thou didst open to the lion; I awaited him; he did not come out; I waited for him again; again he did not come out, but turned to lie down. I am bound to do no more. Enchantments avaunt! and God prosper justice and truth and true chivalry! Shut the door, friend, whilst I signal to the fugitive and absent to return that they may learn of this exploit from thy mouth.”

The keeper did so, and Don Quixote, placing on the point of his lance the cloth with which he had wiped the shower of curds off his face, began to hail those who had never ceased retreating all in a troop, looking round at every step, driven before him by the gentlemen in Green. Sancho happened to perceive the signal of the white cloth, and exclaimed, “May I die if my master has not conquered the wild beasts, for he is calling us!”

They all stopped, and seeing that it was Don Quixote who was making the signals, losing some of their fear, little by little they came nearer, until they clearly heard the voice of Don Quixote calling to them.

At length they returned to the cart, and on their approach Don Quixote said to the carter—

“Yoke your mules again, friend, and proceed on your journey, and thou, Sancho, give him two gold crowns for himself and for the keeper, towards amends for my having detained them.”

“I will give them with all my heart,” answered Sancho; “but what has been done with the lions? Are they dead or alive?”

Then the keeper recounted minutely and at his leisure the issue of the encounter, extolling, to the best of his power and skill, the valour of Don Quixote, at sight of whom the cowed lion cared not, or durst not, to come out of his cage, though he had held the door open a good while, and that it was through his having told the Knight that it was a tempting of Providence to provoke the lion so as to force him to come out, as he wanted him to do, that he had most unwillingly and against the grain permitted him to close the door.”

“What is your judgment on this, Sancho?” quoth Don Quixote; “are there enchantments which avail against true valour? The enchanters may be able to rob me indeed of fortune, but of my resolution and courage, it is impossible.”

Sancho gave the gold crowns; the carter yoked up; the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s hands for the largess received, and promised to relate that valorous deed to the King himself when he should see him at Court.

“And if by chance his Majesty should ask who performed it,” said Don Quixote, “you shall tell him, The Knight of the Lions; for henceforth I would that into this may be changed, altered, varied, and transferred, the name which till now I have borne, of the Knight of the Rueful Feature; and in this I follow the ancient usage of Knights Errant, who changed their names at their pleasure and according to the occasion.”

The cart proceeded on its journey, and Don Quixote. Sancho, and he of the Green Coat, continued theirs.

Of the strange adventures which happened to Don Quixote in the Castle.

... With this she began to touch a harp very softly.

On hearing this Don Quixote was startled, for in that moment there came into his memory the infinite adventures similar to that, of windows, lattices, and gardens; of serenades, love-plaints, and languishments, which he had read of in his giddy books of chivalries. He at once conceived that some one of the Duchess’s maidens was enamoured of him, and that modesty compelled her to keep her love in secret. He trembled lest he should yield, but resolved in his mind not to let himself be overcome; so, commending himself with all good heart and soul to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he determined to listen to the music; and to let them know he was there, he feigned to sneeze, at which the damsels were not a little rejoiced, for they desired nothing better than that Don Quixote should hear them. Then, the harp being set up and tuned, Altisidora struck up this ballad—

BALLAD.

Thou that all the night till morning
  Sleepest on thy downy bed;
Gaily with thy legs out-stretched,
  ’twixt two sheets of linen laid:

Valiant Knight! thou whom La Mancha
  Knows none greater or more bold;
Purer, blesseder, and chaster
  Than Arabia’s sifted gold:

Hear a woful maid’s complaining,
  Nurtured well but thriven ill,
Whose fond heart the burning sun-rays
  From thine eyes do scorch and kill.

Seekest thou thine own adventures;
  Others’ ventures thou suppliest;
Dealest wounds, yet for their healing
  Salve of plaster thou deniest.

Tell me, lusty youth and valiant,
  May thy wishes all be sped!
Was’t in Jaca’s gloomy mountains,
  Or in Lybia thou wert bred?

Say, didst suck thy milk from serpents;
  Was thine infant babyhood
Nurséd by the horrid mountain,
  Dandled by the rugged wood?

Well may Dulcinea, thy charmer,
  Damsel plump and round, be proud,
Conquering that heart of tiger,
  Softening that bosom rude!

This shall make thy name e’er famous
  From Jarama to Henares;
From Pisuerga to Arlanza;
  From Tagus e’en to Manzanares.

Might I change with Dulcinea,
   give her my best petticoat;
Rarest silk, of pretty colours,
  Golden fringe and all to boot!

O to live within thine arms, and
  O to sit beside thy bed!
O that poll so sweet to scratch, and
  Brush the scurf from that dear head!

Much I ask, though undeserving
  Of so notable a grace,
Would that I thy feet were stroking,
  That’s enough for maid so base.

What fine night-caps I would work thee;
  What fine shiny silvern socks;
Breeches of the rarest damask;
  Lovely yellow Holland cloaks!

Precious milk-white pearls I’d give thee,
  Each as big as any gall,
Such as, having no companions,
  Orphans they are wont to call.

Gaze not from thy rock Tarpeian
  On the fire which scorches me,
Nero of the world Manchegan!
  Nor revive it cruelly.

Child I am—a tender pullet—
  Fifteen years I’ve never seen;
I vow, by God and on my conscience,
   I’m only three months past fourteen.

Lame I am not, neither crooked,
  Nothing in my body’s wrong;
Locks like lilies, when I stand up,
  Sweep the ground, they are so long.

Though my mouth is like an eagle’s,
  And a little flat my nose,
With my topaz teeth,—of beauty
  I’ve enough for Heaven, with those.

And my voice is, if you listen,
  Equal to the best, I trow;
And I am of form and figure
  Something less than middling too.

Spoils of thy spear, thy bow and quiver,
  These my charms and more, are;
Maid am I of this here castle,
  And my name Altisidora!

Here ended the lay of the sore-wounded Altisidora, and here began the terror of the courted Don Quixote, who, heaving a deep sigh, said to himself—

“How unhappy an Errant am I, that there is no maiden but looks upon me, who is not enamoured of me! How sad is the fate of the peerless Dulcinea, whom they will not leave free to enjoy my incomparable fidelity! Queens, what do ye want of her? Empresses, why do ye persecute her? Maidens of fourteen and fifteen, wherefore do ye molest her? Leave, O leave the unhappy one to triumph, to rejoice, to glory in the lot which love would assign her in the rendering her my heart, and delivering to her my soul! Know, ye amorous crew, that for Dulcinea alone am I dough and sugar-paste, and for all the rest of you flint. For her I am honey, and for you aloes. For me Dulcinea alone is the beautiful, the sensible, the chaste, the gay, and the well-bred; and the rest ugly, silly, wanton and base-born. To be her’s and none other’s Nature sent me into the world. Let Altisidora weep or sing; let the lady despair for whose sake they belaboured me in the castle of the enchanted Moor; for Dulcinea’s I must be—roasted or boiled, clean, well-born, and chaste—in spite of all the powers of witchcraft in the world.”

And with that he clapt the window to, and laid down on his bed; where for the present we will leave him, for the great Sancho calls, who is desirous of making a beginning with his famous Governorship.

Of the mode in which the great Sancho Panza began to govern, when he had taken possession of his Isle.

... At this moment there entered the justice-hall two men, one dressed as a labourer and the other as a tailor, for he bore a pair of scissors in his hand, and the tailor said—

“Sir Governor, I and this labouring man have come before your worship for the cause that this good fellow came to my shop yesterday, who, saving your presences, am a licensed tailor, blessed be God! and putting a piece of cloth in my hands, asked me: ‘Sir, would there be enough in this cloth to make me a cap?’I, measuring the stuff, answered him ‘Yes.’He must have suspected, as I suspect, and suspected rightly, that without doubt I wished to rob him of some part of his cloth, founding his belief on his own roguery and the ill-opinion there is of tailors, and he replied that I should look and see if there were enough for two. I guessed his drift, and said, ‘Yes’ and he, riding away on his first damned intent, went on adding caps, and I adding yeses, till we reached five caps; and now at this moment he has come for them, and I am giving them to him; and he will not pay me for the making, but rather demands that I shall pay him, or give him back his cloth.”

“Is all this so, brother?” inquired Sancho.

“Yes, sir,” answered the man; “but let your worship make him show the five caps he has made me.”

“With all my heart,” said the tailor, and thrusting his hand suddenly under his cloak he showed five caps on it, placed on the five tops of his fingers, and said: “Here are the five caps which this good man wants of me, and on God and my conscience I have none of the cloth left for myself, and I will give the work to be examined by the inspectors of the trade.”

All those present laughed at the number of caps, and at the novelty of the suit. Sancho set himself to consider a little while, and then said—

“Methinks there need be no long delays in this case, but that it may be decided, according to a wise mans’ judgment, off-hand; and so I decree that the tailor shall lose the making, and the countryman the stuff, the caps to be given to the prisoners in the gaol; and let no more be said.”

This judgment provoked the laughter of the audience, but what the Governor commanded was done.

Of how Don Quixote fell sick, and of the will he made, and of his death.

... The Notary entered with the rest, and after having written the preamble to the will, and Don Quixote had disposed of his soul with all those Christian circumstances which are requisite, coming to the bequests he said—

“Item, it is my will that of certain moneys which Sancho Panza, whom in my madness I made my squire, retains, that because there have been between him and me certain accounts, receipts, and disbursements, I wish that he be not charged with them, nor that any reckoning be asked from him, but that, if there should be any surplus after he has paid himself what I owe him, the residue should be his, which will be very little, and may it do him much good. And if I, being mad, was a party to giving him the governorship of the Isle, now, being sane, I would give him that of a Kingdom, were I able, for the simplicity of his nature and the fidelity of his behaviour deserve it.”

And turning to Sancho, he said to him—

“Pardon me, friend, that I have given thee occasion to appear mad like myself, making thee fall into the error into which I fell, that there were and are Knights Errant in the world.”

“Alack!” responded Sancho, weeping, “don’t you die, your worship, dear master, but take my advice and live many years, for the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die without more ado, without anybody killing him, nor other hands to finish him off than those of melancholy. Look you, do not be lazy, but get out of that bed, and we will go into the country, dressed like shepherds, as we have arranged. Mayhap behind some hedge we shall find the lady Donna Dulcinea disenchanted, and as fine as may be seen. If so be that you are dying of fretting at being conquered, put the fault on me, and say they overthrew you because I girthed Rozinante badly; more by token, as your worship must have seen in your books of chivalries, that it was a common thing for some Knights to overthrow others, and he who is conquered to-day may be conqueror to-morrow.”

“It is so,” said Samson, “and honest Sancho is very true about these matters.”

“Gently, sirs,” said Don Quixote, “for in last year’s nests you look not for birds of this year. I was mad, and now I am sane. I was Don Quixote of La Mancha, and to-day I am, as I have said, Alonso Quixano the Good. May my repentance and my sincerity restore me to the esteem you once had for me, and so let Master Notary go on.”

“Item, I bequeath all my estate, without reserve, to Antonia Quixana, my Niece, who is present, there being first deducted from it, as may be most convenient, what is needed for the satisfaction of the bequests which I have made; and the first payment to be made I desire to be of the salary due to my Housekeeper from the time she has been in my service, with twenty ducats more for a dress. I leave as my executors Master Priest, and Master Bachelor Samson Carrasco, who are present. Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my Niece, is inclined to marry, she should wed a man of whom she shall first have evidence that he knows not what books of chivalries are; and in case it shall be discovered that he does know, and yet my Niece wishes to marry with him and does so marry, that she shall forfeit all that I have bequeathed her, which my executors are empowered to distribute in pious works at their pleasure. Item, I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, that if good fortune should bring them to know the author who, they say, wrote a history which is current hereabout under the title of Second Part of the Exploits of Don Quixote of La Mancha, that they will on my behalf beg him, as earnestly as they can, to pardon the occasion which I unwittingly gave him for writing so many and such enormous follies as therein be written, for I quit this life with some tenderness of conscience for having given him a motive for writing them.”

With this he concluded his testament, and, being taken with a fainting fit, he lay extended at full length upon the bed. They were all alarmed, and ran to his assistance, and during the three days that he lived after the day on which he made his will he fainted very frequently. The house was all in confusion; however, the Niece ate, the Housekeeper drank, and Sancho Panza was cheerful; for this inheriting of something dulls or tempers in the inheritor the memory of the pain which the dead man naturally leaves behind.

At last came Don Quixote’s end, after he had received all the sacraments, and after he had expressed with many and moving terms his horror at the books of chivalries. The Notary was present, and said that never had he read in any book of chivalries that any Knight Errant had died in his bed so tranquilly and so Christianlike as Don Quixote, who, amidst the tears and lamentations of all who stood by, gave up his spirit,—that is to say, died.

On seeing this, the Priest asked the Notary to give him a certificate that Alonso Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed out of this present life, and had died a natural death; declaring that he sought such certificate in order to take away from any other author than Cid Hamet Benengeli the excuse falsely to resuscitate him, and write interminable histories of his deeds.

This was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village Cid Hamet desired not to indicate precisely, in order to let all the cities and towns of La Mancha contend among themselves for the honour of giving him birth and adopting him for their own, as the seven cities of Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho, of the Niece, and the Housekeeper of Don Quixote are here omitted, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb; but this was what Samson Carrasco put there:—

“A valiant gentleman here lies,
  Whose courage reached to such a height,
Of death itself he made a prize,
  When against Death he lost the fight.
He reck’d not of the world a jot,
  The world’s great bugbear and the dread;
Strong was his arm, and strange his lot;
  Stark mad in life,—when sober, dead.“

“Don Quixote de La Mancha.” Miguel Cervantes (1547-1616). Trans. H. E. Watts.