Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.

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the disenchantment of Dulcinea: for in truth it is a great pity the poor
lady should continue under enchantment through thy carelessness and
neglect" " There is a great deal to be said as to that," quoth Sancho ; " but
for the present let us bo&i sleep, and afterwards God Imows what may happen.
Besides, I would have you remember, sir, that this lashing one's self in cold
blood is no easy matter ; especially when the strokes light upon a body so tender
without, and so ill-stored within, as mine is. Let my lady Dulcinea have a^ little
patience, and mayhap, when she least thinks of it, she shall see my body a
perfect sieve by dint of lashing. Until death all is life : I am still alive,
and with a full intention to make good my promise." Don Quixote thanked him,
ate a little, and Sancho much ; and both of tl\em laid themselves down to sleep,
leaving Bozinante and Dapple, those inseparable companions and Mends, at their
own ^scretion, either to repose or feed upon the tender grass, of which they
here had abundance.

They awoke somewhat late in the day, mounted again, and pursued their
journey ; hastening to reach what seemed to be an inn, about a league before
them. An inn it is here called, because Don Quixote himself gave it that name :
not happening, as usual, to mistake it for a castle. ' Having arrived there, they
inquired of the host if he could provide them with lodging, and he promised as
i^ooid accommodation and entertainment 'as could be found in Saragossa. On
alighting, Sancho's first care was to deposit hie travelling larder in a chamber of
which the landlord gave him the key. He then led Bozinante and ]>apple to the
stable, and, after seeing them well provided for, he went to receive the further
commands of his master, whom he found seated on a stone bench : the squire
blessing himself that the knight had not taken the inn for a castle. Supper time
approaching, Don Quixote retired to his apartment, and Sancho inquii^ of the
host what Siey could have to eat The landlord told him that his palate should
be suited — ^for whatever the air, earth, and sea produced, of birds, beasts or
fish, that inn was abundantly provided with. '* There is no need of all that^"
quoth Sancho, ** roast us but a couple of chickens, and we shall be satisfied ; for
my master has a delicate stomach, and I am no glutton." " As for chickens,"
said the inn-keeper, ** truly we have none, for the kites have devoured them."
'* Then let a pullet be roasted," said Sancho, "only see that it be tender." ** A
pullet ? my father !" answered the host, '' faith and troth, I sent above fifty
yesterday to the city to be sold ; but, excepting pullets, ask for whatever you
will." " "Why then," quoth Sancho, " e'en give us a good joint of veal or
kid, for they cannot be wanting." " Veal or kid r" replied the host, " ah, now I
remember we have none in the house at present; for it is all eaten: but
next week there will be enough, and to spare." "We are much the better for
that," answered Sancho ; " but I dare say aU these deficiencies will be made up
with plenty of eggs and bacon." "'For^ God," answered the host, "my
customer is a choice guesser ! I told him I had neither pullets nor hens, and he
expects me to have eggs ; talk of other delicacies, but ask no more for hens."
" Body of me !" quoth Sancho, " let us come to something — tell me, in
short, what you have, master host, and let us have done with your flourishes."
" Then," quoth the inn-keeper, " what I really and truly have is a pair of
cow-heels, that may be taken for calves'-feet ; or a pair of calves' -feet, that are
like cow-heels. They are stewed with peas, onions, and bacon, and at this very
minute are crying out, ' Come eat me, come eat me.' " " From this moment, I
mark them for my own," quoth Sancho, " and let nobody lay finger on them. 1
will pay you well, for there is nothing like them — give me but cow-heel, and I
care not a fig for calves' feet" " They are yours," said the host, '' nobody shall

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toach tbem ; for my other guests, merely for gentility sake, brink their cook,
their sewer, and provisions along with them." ** As to the matter of gentility,"
quoth Sancho, "nobody is more a gentleman than my master: but hib cailing
allows of no cooking nor butlering as we travel. No, faith, we clap us down in
the midst of a green field, and fill our bellies with acorns, or medlars." Such
was the conversation Sancho held with the inn-keeper, and he now chose to break
it off, without answering the inquiries which the host made respecting his
master's calling.

Supper being prepared, and Don Quixote in his chamber, the host earned in
his dish of cow-heel, and, without ceremony, sat himself down to supper. The
adjoining room being separated from that occupied by Don Quixote only by a thin
partition, he could distinctly hear the voices of persons within. " Don Jero-
nimo," said one of them, "I entreat you, till supper is brought in, to let us have
another chapter of Don Quixote de la Mancha." The knight hearing himself
named, got up, and, listening attentively, he heard another person answer, <' Why
signer Don John, would you have us read such absurdities) Whoever has read
the first part of the history of Don Quixote de la Mancha cannot be pleased with
the second." "But for aU that," said Don John, "let us read it: for there is no
book so bad as not to have something good in it. What displeases me the moist in tiiis
second part is that the author describes Don Quixote as no longer enamoured of
Dulcinea del Toboso."* On hearing this Don Quixote, full of wrath and indig-
nation raised his voice, and said, " Whoever shall say that Don Quixote de la
Mancha has forgotten, or ever can forget, Dulcinea del Toboso, I will make him
know, with equal arms, that he asserts what is not true : for neither can the
peerless Dulcinea be forgotten, nor Don Quixote ever cease to remember her. His
motto is Constancy; and to maintain it his pleasure and his duty." " Who is it that
speaks to us?" replied one in the other room. " Who should it be," quoth Sancho,

"but Don Quixote de la Mancha himself? who will make good all he says and
all he shall say: for a good paymaster is in no want of a pawn." At these woms
two gentlemen rushed into the room, and one of them throwing his arms about Do

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Qcdxote's neck, said, ''Tour person belies not your name, nor can your name do
otherwise than give credit to your person. I cannot doubt, signer, of your being the
true Don Quixote de la Mancha, die north and morning-star of knight-errantry,
in despite of him who would usurp your name, and annihilate your exploits, as
the author of this book has vainly attempted." Don Quixote, without m^ing any
reply, took up the book ; and, after tuniing over some of the leaves, he laid it down
again, saying, ** In the little I have seen of this volume, three things I have
noticed for which the author deserves reprehension. The first is some expressions
in the preface ; the next that his language is Arragonian, for he sometimes omits
the articles: and the third is a much more serious objection, inasmuch as he shows
his ignorance and disregard of truth in a material point of the history: for he says
that the wife of my squire Sancho Panza is called Mary Gutierrez, whereas her
name is Teresa Panza ; and he who errs in a circiunstauce of such importance
may well be suspected of inaccuracy in the rest of the history." Here Sancho put
in his word: " Pretty work, indeed, of that same history- maker ! Sure he knows
much of our concerns to call my wife, Teresa Panza, Mary Gutierrez ! Pray,
your worship, look into it again, and see whether I am there, and if my name be
changed too." "By what you say, Mend," quoth Don Jeronimo, **I presume
you are Sancho Panza, squire to signor Don Quixote?" *'That I am," replied
Sancho, " and value myself upon it." '' In faith, then," said the gentleman, " this
last au^or treats you but aomrvily, and not as you seem to deserve. He describes
you as a dull fool, and a glutton, without pleasantry — in short, quite a different
Sancho from him represented in the first part of your master's history.** ** God
forgive him !" 'quoth Sancho : ''he might as well have left me alon«; for 'he
who knows the instrument should play on it,' and 'Saint Peter is well at Home.'"
The two gentlemen entreated Don Quixote to go to their chamber and sup with
them, as they wdl knew the inn had nothing fit for his entertainment. Don
Quixote, who was always courteous, consented to their request, and Sancho re-
mained with the flesh-pot, cum tnero tntxto impwrio : * placing himself at tiie head
of the table, with the inn-keeper for his messmate, whose love for cow-heel was
equal to that of the squire.

While they were at supper, Don John asked Don Quixote when he had heard
from the lady Dulcinea del Toboeo : whether she was married ; whether she waa
yet a mother, or likely to be so ; or whether, if still a virgin, she retained, with
modest reserve and maidenly decorum, a grateful sense of the love and constancy
of signor Don Quixote. ''Dulcinea," said the knight, "is still a maiden, and
my devotion to her more fixed than ever : our correspondence as heretofore : but
alas! her own beautiful person is transformed into that of a coarse country-
wench." He then related every particular concerning the enchantment of the
lady Dulcinea. He also gave them an account of his descent into the cave of
Montesinos, and informed them of the instructions given by the sage Merlin for
the deliverance of his mistress. Great was the satisfaction the two gentlemen
received at hearing Don Quixote relate his strange adventures, and they were
equally surprised at his extravagances, and the elegance of hie uarrativo. One
moment they thought him a man of extraordinary judgment, and the next that
he was totally bereaved of his senses: nor could they decide what degree to
assign him between wisdom and folly.

^cho, having finished his supper, left the inn-keeper fully dosed with liquor,
and joined his master's party in the next chamber. Immediately on entering, he
said, " May I die, gentlemen, if the writer of that book which you have got has
auy mind that he and I should eat a friendly meal together ; he calls me glutton,

* That ia, with a deputed or sabordinate power; Merum imperivm according to the Ciriliaiit,
is that ref iding io the Bovereign : Menm miatum mparimny is that delegated to vassals or magis-
irates in causes ciyil or criminal.

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you say— egad ! I wish he may not set me down a drankard too." " In fiuth,
he does/' quoth Don Jeronimo ; '' though I do not remember his words ; only
this I biowi that they are scandalous, and fsdse into the bargain, as I see plainly
by the countenance of honest Sancho here before me.*' ''Take my word for it,
gentlemen," quoth the squire, '' the Sancho and Don Quixote of that history are

in nowise like the men that are so called in the book made by Cid Hamete
Benengeli, for they are truly we two ; — ^my master, valiant, discreet, and a true
lover ; and I, a plain, merry-conceited, fellow ; but neither a glutton nor a drunk-
ard." "I believe it," quoth Don John; ''and, were such a thing possible, I
would have it ordered that none should dare to record the deeds of ^e great Don
Quixote but Cid Hamete himself, his first historian ; as Alexander commanded
that none but Apelles should presume to draw his portrait : being a subject too lofty
to be treated by one of inferior talent." " Treat me who will," said Don Quixote,
" so that they do not maltreat me : for patience itself will not submit to be over-
laden with injuries." " No injury," quoth Don John, "can be offered to signor
Don Quixote that he is not able to revenge, should he fail to ward it off with the
buckler of his patience, which seems to me both ample and strong."

In sueh conversation they passed the greater part of the night ; and though
Don John would fedn have had Don Quixote read more of the book, he declined
it, saying he deemed it read, and, by the sample he had seen, he pronounced it
foolish throughout. He was unwilling, also, to iadulge the scribbler's vanity bo
fkr as to let him think he had read lus book, should he happen to learn that it
had been put into his hands : " and, besides, it is proper," he added, " that the
eyes, as well as the thoughts, should be turned from everything filthy and
obscene." /

They then asked him which way he was travelling, and he told them that he
should go to Saragossa, to be present at the jousts of tbat city for the annual prize
of a suit of armour. Don John told him that, in the new history, Don QuixotQ
is said to have been there, running at the ring, of which the author gives a

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wretched aoconnt ; duU in the contriTanoe, mean in style, miserably poor in
devices, and rich only in absurdity. " For that yerr reason/' answered Don
Quixote, " I will not set foot in Saragossa, and thus I shall expose the falsity of this
new historian, and all the world will be convinced that I am not the Don Quixote
of whom he speaks." " In that you will do wisely," said Don Jeronimo ; " and
at Barcelona there are other jonsts, where signer Don Quixote may have a full
opportunity to display his valour." *' To Baroelona I will go, gentlemen," replied
the knight ; " and now permit me to take my leave, for it is time to retire to rest,
and be pleased to rank me among the number of your best friends and fidthfdl
servants." ** And me too," quoth Sandho, ''for, mayhap, you may find me good
for something." Don Quixote and Sancho then retired to tiieir chamber, leaving
the two strangers surprised at the medley of sense and madness they had witnessed,
and with a ^U conviction that these were the genuine Don Quixote and Sancho, and
those of the Arragonese author certainly spurious. Don Quixote arose early, and,
tapping at the partition of the other room, he again bid his new Mends adieu.
Sancho paid the inn-keeper most magnificently, and at the same time advised him
either to boast less of the provision of his inn, or to supply it better.

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V the morning, which was oool, and
promised a temperate day, Bon
Quixote left the inn, having first in-
formed himself which was the most
direct ro^ to Barcelona, avoiding
Saragossa: for he was determined
to prove the falsehood of the new
history, which, he understood, had
so grossly misrepresented him. Six
days he pursued his course without
meeting with any adventure worth
recording; at the end of which time,
leaving the high road, night over-
took ti^em among some shady trees,
but whether of cork or oak, it does
not appear: Cid Hamete, in this
instance, not observing his wonted
minuteness of description. Master
and man having alighted, they laid themselves down at the foot of these
..rees. Sancho had dready taken his afternoon's collation, and, therefore, he
rushed at once into the arms of sleep; but Don Quixote, not from hunger,
but his restless imagination, could not close his eyes. Agitated by a thousand
fancies, now he thought himself in the cave of Montesinos : now he saw his
Dulcinea, in her odious disguise, spring upon her ass; the next moment he heard
the words of the sage Merlin, declmng the means of her deliverance ; then
again he was in despair when he recollected the unfeeling negligence of his
^uire, who, he believed, had given himself only five lashes ! a number so small
compared with those yet remaining that, overwhelmed with grief and in-
dignation, he thus argued with himself: "If Alexander the Great cut the
Gordian knot, saying, ' to cut is the same as to untie,* and became thereby
the universal lord of all Asia, exactly the same may happen now in the
disenchantment of Dulcinea, if the lashes be applied by force : for if the virtue
of this remedy consist in Sancho*s receiving three thousand lashes, what is it to
me whether they are applied by himself or another, since the efficacy lies in bis
receiving them, from whatevei hand they may come ?"

Under this conviction Don Quixote approached his sleeping squire, having first
taken Eozinante's reins and adjusted them so that he might use them with
effect He then began to untruss his points : — though it is generally thought
that he had only that one in the front which kept up his breeches. Sajicho was
soon roused, and cried out, ** What is the matter ? Who is untrussing me ?**
" It is I/' answered Don Quixote, " who am come to atone for thy neglect, and

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B AimomjBxs OP dov axrixors. 687

edy my own troubles. I am come to wliip thee, SandiOi and to discharge,
b in pa^ the debt for which thou art bound. Dulcinea is perishing : thou
onooncemed : I am dying with desire, and therefore untruss of thine own
. for it is my intention to give thee, in this oonyenient solitude, at
two thousand lashes." "No, indeed," quoth Sancho: "body o* me!
qS, or the dead shall hear of it ! The strokes 1 am bound to give
' must be with my own will, and when I please. At present I am
the humour. Let your worship be content that I promise to flog and flay
: as soon as ever I am so inclined." "There is no trusting to thy
'sy, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " for thou art hard-hearted, and, though
jant, of very tender flesh." He then struggled with Sancho, and en-
ired, by force, to uncover his posteriors. Upon which Sancho jumped up,
dosing with his master, he threw his arms about him, tripped up his heels,
lid him flat on his back, whereupon, setting his right knee upon his breast^
Id his hands down so faist that hie could not stir, and scarcely could breathe.


iw, traitor !" excUdmed the knight, " dost thou rebel against thy master and
ral lord ? Dost thou raise thy hand against him who feeds thee ?" "I
ler raise up nor pull down," answered S^cho : "I only defend myself, who
ay own lord. If your worship will promise me to let me alone, and not talk
t whipping at present, I will set you at liberty: if not, 'here thou
,, traitor, enemy to Donna Sancha.' "* Don Quixote gave him the promise
esired, and swore, by the life of his best thoughts, he would not touch a hair
is garment, but leave the whipping entirely to his own discretion,
mcho now removed to another place, and, as he was going to lay himself .
3r another tree, he thought ^mething touched his head; and, reaching up his
Is, he felt a couple of dangling feet, with hose and shoes. Tremblmg with
, he moved on a little fiirther, but was incommoded by other legs; upon
ch he called to his master for help. Don Quixote went up to him, and asked

what was the matter : when Sancho told him that all the trees were fiill of
's feet and legs. Don Quixote felt them, and immediately guessing the
«, he said, " Be not afraid, Sancho ; doubtless these are the legs of robbers

banditti, who have been punished for their crimes; for here the officers
ustice hang them by scores at a time, when they can lay hold of them, and
1 this circumstance I conclude we are not far from Barcelona." In truth,
I Quixote was right in his conjecture, for when day began to dawn, they

* Sancho here qaotes the last line of an t>ld ballad.— P.

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plainly saw that the legs they had felt in the dark belonged to tkl i

But if they were alanned at these dead banditti, how m&k k\
they disturbed at being suddenly suirounded by more than fszty of tk;

comrades? who commanded them to stand, and not to more till ^^
came up. Don Quixote was on foot, his horse unbridled, his hs^
against a tree at some distance ; in short, being defenceless, he thoog^^'^
cross his hands, hang down his head, and reserve himself for bettff <*
The robbers, however, were not idle, but immediately fell to work d;«e-
and in a trice emptied both wallet and doak-bag. Fortonatelj ^ '
he had secured the crowns given him by the duke, with his ^^^ '
in a belt which he wore about his waist ; nevertheless thej ^otdd^
escaped the searching eyes of these good people, who spare not even ^'^
between the flesh and tiie skin, had they not been checked bjthearn^
captain. His age seemed to be about four-and- thirty, his body^'^
stature tall, his visage austere, and his complexion swarthy ; he vtf ^
a powerful steed, dad in a coat of steel, and his belt was stuck roco^^
Observing that his squires (for so they call men of their vocation) 'fj
rifle Sancho^e commanded them to forbear, and was instantly obep«^
the girdle escaped. He wondered to see a lance standing against s^^
on the ground, and Don Quixote in armour^ and pensive, with the vsi^^

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J'f^^^/ ^_


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melancliolj oonntenanoe that sadnesB itself could frame. Going up to the knight,
he said, " Be not so dejected, good sir, for you are not fallen into the hands of a
cruel Osiris, but into those of Boque Guinart, who has more of compassion in his
nature than cruelty." '* Hy dejection,*' answered Bon Quixote, ''is not on

account of having fallen into your hands, valorous Boque, whose fame extends
bvcr the whole earth, but for my negligence in having suffered myself to be
surprised by your soldiers, contrary to the bounden duty of a knight-errant,
which requires that I should be continually on the alert, and, at all hours, my
own sentinel : for, let me tell you, illustrious Boque, had they met me on horse-
back, with my lance and my target, they would have found it no very easy task
to make me yield. Enow, sir, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, he with whose
exploits the whole globe resounds." Boque Guinart presently perceived Don
Quixote's infirmity, and that it had in it more of madness than valour ; and,
though he had sometimes heard his name mentioned, he always thought that
what had been said of him was a fiction ; conceivii]g tJiat such a character could
not exist : he was therefore delighted with this meeting, as he might now know,
from his own observations, what degree of credit was really due to the reports in
circulation. '' Be not concerned," said Boque, 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 ways, incompre-
hensible to men, is wont to raise the fallen, and enrich the needy."

Don Quixote was about to return his thanks for this courteous reception, when
suddenly a noise was heard near them, like the trampling of many horses; but it
was caused by one only, upon which came, at full speed, a youth, seemingly about
twenty years of age, clad in green damask edged with gold lace, trousers, and a
loose coat ; his hat cocked in the Walloon fashion, with strait waxed leather
boots, spurs, dagger, and gold-hilted sword; a small carbine in his hand, and a brace
of pistols by his side. Boque, hearing the noise of a horse, turned his head and ob-
served this handsome youth advancing towards him : '' Valiant Boque," said the
cavalier, '' you are the person I have been seeking ; for with you I hope to find
some comfort, though not a remedy, in my afflictions. Not to keep you in sus


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penBOy because I peroeiye that you do not know me, I will tell yon wlio I am. 1
am Claudia Jeronima, daughter of Simon Forte, your intimate friend, and the
particular enemy of Claqud Torellaa, who is also yours, being of the factibn which
is adyerse to you* You know, t<A>, that Torellas fa^s a son, cs&ed Don Yincente de
Torellas, at least so he was called not two hours ago. That son of his — to shorten
the story of my misfortune — ah, what sorrow he has brought upon me ! — ^that
son, I say, saw me, and courted me; I listened' to him, and loved him, unknown
to my father: for there is no woman, howeyer retired or secluded, but finds
opportunity to gratify her unruly desires. In short, he promised to be my spouse,
and I pledged myself to become his, without proceeding any farther. Yesterday
I was informed that, foigetting his engagement to me, he was going to be married
to another, and that this morning the ceremony was to be performed. The news
confounded me, and I lost all patience. My father being>out of town, I took the

Online LibraryMiguel de Cervantes SaavedraAdventures of Don Quixote de la Mancha → online text (page 80 of 89)