As they ride along Don Quixote urges the “Princess Micomicona” to tell him of her misfortunes, and she obliges, making up a fantastic tale on the spur of the moment. When she falters or becomes confused, she is prompted by the curate, and they all admire her cleverness and ready wit. Don Quixote and Sancho believe her story, and the latter is greatly put out when his master declares that, after he has rescued the princess, he cannot marry her, for he is loyal to his lady Dulcinea. They have a quarrel over this and the squire is severely chastised, with Dorotea intervening to allay the knight’s wrath. Then something happens that brings joy to Sancho’s heart. (The passage that follows does not occur in the first edition but is found in the second one of 1605.)

FROM CHAPTER XXX: Which treats of ... matters very pleasant and amusing.

AS THEY were proceeding in this manner, they saw coming down the road toward them a man mounted upon an ass, who, as he drew near, appeared to them to be a gypsy. But Sancho Panza, whose heart and soul were stirred every time he caught sight of a donkey, had no sooner laid eyes on the fellow than he recognized him as Ginés de Pasamonte, and in this case the gypsy served as the thread that led him to the yarn-ball of his stolen gray, for it was indeed the gray upon which Pasamonte was riding. That worthy, in order to dispose of the ass and avoid being identified, had got himself up in gypsy costume, for he knew how to speak their language and many others as if they had been his native tongue.

As soon as Sancho had seen and recognized him, he called out at the top of his voice, “Hey, Ginesillo, you thief! Release my jewel, my treasure, my life, the beast on which I take my rest. Flee, you whoring knave; begone, you robber, and leave me that which is not yours!”

All these words and insults were quite unnecessary, for at the first sound of Sancho’s voice Ginés had leaped down and, trotting, or, better, running, away, had soon left them all behind. Sancho then went up to the gray and threw his arms around it.

“How have you been, old friend,” he said, “joy of my life, apple of my eye?” With this, he kissed and caressed it as if it had been a person, the ass standing quietly all the while, submitting without a word to this show of affection. The others now came up and congratulated him on the recovery of the beast, especially Don Quixote, who assured him that he would not for this reason annul the order for the three ass-colts, for which Sancho thanked him very much.

A little later, as the others are engaged in conversation, Don Quixote asks Sancho to give him an account of Dulcinea.

While this conversation was in progress, Don Quixote was saying to Sancho, “Friend Sancho, let us make up our quarrel. And now, laying aside all rancor and irritation, tell me how and when it was you found Dulcinea. What was she doing? What did you say to her and what did she reply? What was the expression on her face when she read my letter? Who copied it out for you? Tell me all this and everything else that seems to you worth knowing or asking about or concerning which I might be curious, neither adding anything nor telling me anything that is not true merely to please me; and be sure that you do not shorten the story and thereby deprive me of any of it.”

“Sir,” replied Sancho, “if I am to tell the truth, the letter was not copied for me by anyone, for I did not have it with me.”

“That is true enough,” said Don Quixote, “for a couple of days after you had left I found the memorandum book in which I had written it out and was very much grieved about it, not knowing what you would do when you found you did not have it, though I felt sure you would return for it.”

“That is what I’d have done,” said Sancho, “if I hadn’t learned it by heart while your Grace was reading it to me, so that I was able to recite it to a sacristan who copied it all down for me, point by point. And he said that in the course of his life he had read many a letter of excommunication but never a pretty one like that.”

“And do you still remember it, Sancho?” Don Quixote asked.

“No, sir, I do not; for as soon as I had said it over to him, seeing that I had no further need of remembering it, I proceeded to forget it. If there is anything I do recall, it is that business about the sufferable—I mean, sovereign—lady, and the ending, ‘Yours until death, the Knight of the Mournful Countenance.’ And between those two I put in ‘my soul,’ ‘my life,’ and ‘light of my eyes,’ more than three hundred times.”

CHAPTER XXXI. Of the delectable conversation that took place between Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, his squire, together with other events.

“ALL this does not displease me,” said Don Quixote. “You may continue. What was my beauteous queen engaged in doing when you arrived? Surely you must have found her stringing pearls or embroidering some device in gold thread for this her captive knight.”

“No,” replied Sancho, “I did not. I found her winnowing two fanegas ¹ of wheat in the stable yard of her house.”

“If that is so,” said Don Quixote, “then you may be sure that those grains of wheat were so many pearls when her fingers touched them. And did you observe, my friend, if the wheat was fine and white or of the ordinary spring-sown variety?”

“It was neither,” Sancho informed him; “it was the reddish kind.”

“Then I assure you,” the knight insisted, “that without a doubt, when winnowed by her hands, it made the finest of white bread. But go on. When you gave her my letter, did she kiss it? Did she place it on her head ² or accord it any ceremony such as it deserved? If not, what was it that she did?”

“When I went to give it to her,” said Sancho, “she was busy swinging the sieve, with a good part of the wheat in it, from side to side. ‘Lay it on that sack,’ she said to me. ‘I’ll not have time to read it until I have finished sifting all that there is here.’ ”

“Discreet lady!” said Don Quixote. “That was in order that she might take her time in reading it and revel in it. Continue, Sancho. While she was thus occupied, what words passed between you? Did she ask after me? And what did you say in reply? Come, tell me all and do not leave the smallest part of it in the inkwell.”

“She asked me nothing,” said Sancho, “but I told her how your Grace, in her service, was doing penance naked from the waist up, living in these mountains like a wild animal, sleeping on the ground, without eating bread off a tablecloth or combing your beard, and weeping and cursing over your unhappy fate.”

“That was wrong to say that I was cursing my unhappy fate; the truth is, I bless it and shall do so all the days of my life, for having rendered me worthy of loving so highborn a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso.”

“She is so high,” said Sancho, “that she tops me by more than a hand’s breadth.”

“How do you come to know that, Sancho? Did you measure with her?”

“I measured in this way. When I went to help her lift a sack of wheat onto a mule’s back, we stood so close alongside each other that I could see she was the taller by more than a good-sized palm.”

“That may be true,” said Don Quixote, “though her height is accompanied and set off by a thousand million spiritual graces! You will not deny one thing, Sancho: that when you come near her you are conscious of a Sabaean odor, an aromatic fragrance, an indescribable and pleasing something for which I can find no name? What I mean is, an exhalation or emanation, as if one were in the shop of some exquisite glove-maker.”

“All I can tell you,” said Sancho, “is that I did notice a sort of mannish smell about her—it must have been because she was working so hard and all in a sweat.”

“No,” said Don Quixote, “it could not have been that. You must have been suffering from a cold in the head, or else it was yourself that you were smelling; for I well know what the fragrance of that rose among thorns is like—that lily of the field, that bit of diluted amber.”

“You may be right,” said Sancho, “for very often that same smell comes from me that I then thought was coming from her Grace, the lady Dulcinea. There’s nothing surprising in that, for one devil’s like another, you know.”

“Very well, then,” continued Don Quixote, “she has finished sifting her wheat and sent it to the mill. What did she do when she read the letter?”

“She did not read it; for, as I have told you, she does not know how to read or write. Instead, she tore it up into small pieces, saying she did not want anyone else to see it and have her private affairs known in the village. It was enough what I had told her about the love your Grace has for her and the extraordinary penance you are doing for her sake. Finally, she said to tell your Grace that she kissed your hands and that she would rather see you than write to you. And she further begged and commanded you, upon receipt of this message, to leave off your foolishness, come out of these woods, and set out at once for El Toboso before something worse happened to you, for she was very anxious for a sight of your Grace. She had a good laugh when I told her that your Grace was known as the Knight of the Mournful Countenance. I asked her if the Biscayan that we met a long while ago had been there, and she told me that he had been and that he was a very fine man. I also asked after the galley slaves, but she said she had seen nothing of any of them as yet.”

“All goes very well up to now,” said Don Quixote. “But tell me, what jewel was it that she gave you when you took your leave, in return for the news of me that you had brought her? For it is the usage and ancient custom among knights- and ladies-errant to present to the squires, damsels, or dwarfs who bring them word of their mistresses or their champions some costly gem as a guerdon and token of appreciation of the message they have received.”

“That may all be true,” said Sancho, “and I think it is a very good custom myself; but that must have been in times past, for nowadays all that they commonly give you is a little bread and cheese, which is what I had from my lady Dulcinea. She handed it to me over the wall of the stable yard as I was leaving, and that it might be still more of a token, it was cheese made from sheep’s milk.”

“She is extremely generous,” observed Don Quixote, “and if she did not give you a golden jewel, it was undoubtedly because she did not have one at hand, for sleeves are good after Easter.³ I shall see her and everything will be taken care of. But do you know what astonishes me, Sancho? I think you must have gone and returned through the air, for it has taken you less than three days to make the journey from here to El Toboso and back, a distance of more than thirty, leagues. Which leads me to think that the wise necromancer who watches over my affairs and is a friend of mine—for there must be someone of that sort or else I should not be a real knight-errant—I think he must have aided you without your knowing it. For there are cases in which one of those magicians will snatch up a knight-errant as he lies sleeping in his bed and, without his knowing how or in what manner it was done, the next morning that knight will find himself thousands of leagues away from where he was the evening before.

“If it were not for this, knights-errant would not be able to succor one another when in peril as they are in the habit of doing all the time. For it may happen that one of them is fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some dragon or other fierce monster or with another knight, and he is having the worst of the battle and is at the point of death when suddenly, just as he least expects it, there appears over his head upon a cloud or a chariot of fire another knight, a friend of his, who a short while before was in England and who has now come to aid him and save him from death; and that same evening he is back at his lodgings having a pleasant dinner, although from one place to the other is a distance of two or three thousand leagues. All this is done through the wisdom and ingenuity of those skilled enchanters who watch over valiant knights. And so, friend Sancho, it is not hard for me to believe that you have gone from here to El Toboso and back in so short a space of time, for, as I have said, some wise magician must have carried you through the air without your knowing it.”

“That may be,” said Sancho, “for ’pon my word, if Rocinante didn’t go as if he had been a gypsy’s donkey with quicksilver in his ears!”⁴

“Quicksilver indeed!” exclaimed Don Quixote; “and a legion of devils besides, for they are folk who can travel and cause others to travel without growing weary, whenever the fancy takes them. But, putting all this aside, what do you think I should do now about going to see my lady as she has commanded? On the one hand, I am obligated to obey her command, and on the other, this is rendered impossible by the promise I have given to the princess who accompanies us, and the law of knighthood requires that I should keep my word before satisfying my own inclinations. I am wearied and harassed with longing to see my lady, yet my pledged word and the glory to be won in this undertaking calls to me and spurs me on.

“What I plan to do, accordingly, is to go with all haste to where this giant is, and then, after I have cut off his head and restored the princess to the peaceful possession of her throne, I shall return at once to see the light that illuminates my senses, giving her such excuses for my delay that she will come to be glad of it, inasmuch as it all redounds to her greater fame and glory. All that I have ever achieved or shall achieve by force of arms in this life is due to the favor she bestows upon me and the fact that I am hers.”

“Ah,” cried Sancho, “what a sad muddle your Grace’s brains are in! For tell me, sir, do you mean to go all that way for nothing and let slip the chance of making so rich and important a match as this, where the bride’s dowry is a kingdom? A kingdom which in all truth, I have heard them say, is more than twenty thousand leagues around, which abounds in all the things that are necessary to support human life, and which, in short, is greater than Portugal and Castile combined. For the love of God, do not talk like that, but be ashamed of what you have just said. Pardon me and take my advice, which is that you get married in the first village where you find a curate; or, for that matter, here is our own licentiate, who would do a first-rate job. Believe me, I am old enough to be giving advice, and this that I now give you is very pat; for a small bird in the hand is worth more than a vulture on the wing,⁵ and he who has the good and chooses the bad, let the good that he longs for not come to him.” ⁶

“See here, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “if the reason for your advising me to marry is that you wish me, when I have slain the giant, to become a king at once so that I shall be in a position to grant you the favors I have promised, I may inform you that without marrying I can very easily gratify your desires; for before going into battle I shall lay down the condition that, in case I come out victorious, whether I marry or not, they are to give me a part of the kingdom which I may bestow upon whomsoever I see fit, and to whom should I give it if not to you?”

“That is fair enough,” said Sancho, “but let your Grace see to it that my part is on the seacoast, so that, if I don’t like the life there, I can take ship with my Negro vassals and do with them what I have said. Meanwhile, your Grace should not be seeing my lady Dulcinea just now, but should rather go and kill the giant and have done with this business; for, by God, it strikes me there’s great honor and profit in it.”

“You are quite right about that, Sancho, and I shall take your advice so far as going with the princess before I see Dulcinea is concerned. And I would impress upon you that you are to say nothing to anyone, including those who come with us, regarding the subject that we have just been discussing; for Dulcinea is of so retiring a disposition that she would not have her thoughts known, and it is not for me or any other to reveal them.”

“Well, then,” said Sancho, “how comes it that your Grace sends all those whom you conquer by the might of your arm to present themselves before my lady Dulcinea, this being as good as a signature to the effect that you are lovers? And since those that go there have to kneel before her and say that they come from your Grace to yield obedience to her, how can the thoughts of the two of you be kept hidden?”

“Oh, what a simple-minded fool you are!” exclaimed Don Quixote. “Can you not see that all this redounds to her greater praise? For you must know that in accordance with our rules of chivalry it is a great honor for a lady to have many knights-errant who serve her and whose thoughts never go beyond rendering her homage for her own sake, with no expectation of any reward for their many and praiseworthy endeavors other than that of being accepted as her champions.”

“That,” observed Sancho, “is the kind of love I have heard the preacher say we ought to give to Our Lord, for Himself alone, without being moved by any hope of eternal glory or fear of Hell; but, for my part, I prefer to love and serve Him for what He can do for me.

“May the devil take the bumpkin!” cried Don Quixote. “What a wit you show at times; one would think you had been a student.”

“But, on my word,” said Sancho, “I cannot even read.”

At this point Master Nicholas called out to them to wait a while as the others wished to pause at a little roadside spring for a drink. Don Quixote accordingly came to a halt, and Sancho was by no means displeased with this, for he was tired by now of telling so many lies and was afraid that his master would catch him up, the truth being that, while he knew that Dulcinea was a peasant girl of El Toboso, he had never in his life laid eyes upon her.

Cardenio in the meantime had put on the clothes that Dorotea had worn when they found her. Though they were none too good, they were much better than the ones he took off. They then dismounted beside the spring, and with the food that the curate had procured at the inn, while it was not much, they all contrived to satisfy their hunger. As they were engaged in their repast, a lad came along the highway and, after studying them all attentively, ran over to Don Quixote and clasped him around the legs, weeping copiously.

“Ah sir! Do you not know me, your Grace? Look at me well, for I am the lad Andrés that your Grace freed from the oak tree to which he was bound.”

The knight then recognized him and, taking him by the hand, he turned to the others and said, “In order that your Worships may see how important it is to have knights-errant in the world to right the wrongs and injuries done by the insolent and evil beings who inhabit it, you may know that some while ago, as I was passing through a wood, I heard certain pitiful cries and moans as from one who was afflicted and in distress. I then, as was my duty, went to the place from which the cries appeared to come, and there I found, bound to an oak tree, this lad who now stands before you. I am heartily glad that he is with us now, for he will be my witness that I do not lie in anything I say. He was, as I said, bound to that tree while a peasant, who, I later learned, was his master, lashed him unmercifully with the reins of his mare. The moment I saw this, I asked the man what was the reason for the flogging, and the lout replied that he was whipping the boy because he was his servant and had been guilty of certain acts of carelessness that indicated he was a thief rather than a dunce. At this, however, the lad spoke up and said, ‘Sir, he is whipping me because I asked for my wages and for no other reason.’ The master then made some excuses or other which, if I heard them, I did not accept as valid.

“The short of it was, I compelled the peasant to release the boy and made him promise to take him home and pay him every real of what he owed him, and perfumed into the bargain.⁷ Is not that all true, Andrés, my son? Did you not note how imperiously I commanded him to do that and with what humility he promised to carry out all my orders and instructions? Speak up and tell these ladies and gentlemen, clearly and in a straightforward manner, just what happened; for I would have them see and be convinced that I was right when I said that it is very useful to have knights-errant going up and down the highroads.”

“All that your Grace has said is very true,” the lad replied, “but the end of the matter was quite different from what you think.”

“What do you mean by saying that it was quite different?” Don Quixote demanded. “Did not the peasant pay you?”

“He not only did not pay me,” said the boy, “but the moment your Grace had left the wood and we were alone, he tied me to that same tree again and gave me so many fresh lashes that I was like St. Bartholomew when they had done flaying him. And at each stroke he made some jest or gibe about how he had fooled you, so funny that I would have laughed myself if the pain had not been so great. In short, he mishandled me to such an extent that I have been in a hospital up to now with the cuts that wicked lout gave me. For all of which your Grace is to blame. If you had gone your way and had not come where you were not called nor meddled in the affairs of others, my master would have been satisfied with giving me one or two dozen lashes and then would have untied me and paid me what he owed me. But your Grace roused his anger by insulting him so unreasonably and calling him all those names, and since he could not avenge himself on you, the moment we were alone the storm burst on me, and, as a result, I do not think I shall ever be a man again as long as I live.”

“My mistake,” said Don Quixote, “was in going off and leaving you like that. I should not have left until I had seen you paid; for I ought to have known from long experience that there is no peasant who keeps his word if he finds that it is not in his interest to do so. But you remember, Andrés, I swore that if he did not pay you I would come looking for him, and would find him even though he were hidden in the belly of the whale.”

“That you did,” said Andrés, “but it was of no use.”

“Well, we will see now whether it is of use or not,” said Don Quixote. And, saying this, he hastily arose and ordered Sancho to put the bridle on Rocinante, for the hack had been grazing while they were eating. Dorotea then asked him what he proposed to do, and he replied that he meant to go look for the peasant and chastise him for his behavior, and he also intended to make him pay Andrés to the last maravedi, notwithstanding and in spite of all the clodhoppers in the world. She thereupon reminded him that in accordance with his promise he could not embark upon any enterprise until he had finished the undertaking with which she had charged him. After all, she added, he knew this better than anyone else and should restrain the fury in his bosom until he had returned from her realm.

“That is true,” Don Quixote agreed. “As you say, lady, Andrés will have to be patient until I come back; but I hereby swear and promise him anew that I will not desist until I have avenged him and seen him paid.”

“I do not believe in those oaths,” said Andrés. “What I need now is enough to take me to Seville; I would rather have that than all the vengeance in the world. So, if you have here anything to eat that I can take with me, let me have it; and God be with your Grace and all knights-errant, and may they be as errant with themselves as they have been with me.”

Sancho then produced a bit of bread and cheese and gave it to the lad.

“Take it, brother Andrés,” he said, “for we all have a share in your troubles.”

“Why, what share is yours?” Andrés asked.

“This portion of bread and cheese. God knows whether I am going to need it or not, for I may tell you, my friend, that the squires of knights-errant are greatly subject to hunger and misfortune and other things that are better felt than put into words.”

Andrés accepted the food and, seeing that no one offered him anything else, lowered his head and, as the saying goes, took the road in hand. But, before leaving, he turned to Don Quixote.

“For the love of God, Sir Knight-errant,” he said, “if ever again you meet me, even though they are hacking me to bits, do not aid or succor me but let me bear it, for no misfortune could be so great as that which comes of being helped by you. May God curse you and all the knights-errant that were ever born into this world!”

Don Quixote was about to arise and follow him, but the lad started running so swiftly that no one thought of trying to overtake him. The knight was exceedingly crestfallen over the story Andrés had told, and the others had to do their best to keep from laughing so as not to discomfit him entirely.

The next day the party arrives at the inn where Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had so unpleasant an experience upon a former occasion. Sancho is very much afraid of the place, but there is nothing for him to do but go along with the others. His master, on the other hand, maintains a dignified, condescending attitude and expresses the hope that he will have a better bed than the one given him the last time. The landlady assures him that he will have the best, if he pays better than he did before. He promises to do so, and they give him a comfortable pallet in the same “starry” garret. Being exceedingly weary and shaken, in mind and body, he goes to bed at once.

No sooner has the knight left the room than the landlady seizes the barber’s oxtail beard with the demand that he return it. They engage in a tug-of-war over it, and the curate advises his friend to give it up. They agree upon what they will tell Don Quixote when he recognizes the barber. They will say that, after being robbed by the galley slaves, he had fled to this inn for protection; and they will explain the disappearance of the princess’s squire by adding that he has been sent ahead to let her subjects know that she is on her way with one who will liberate them.

The curate directs the landlord and his wife to lay out a meal; and as they all sit at table—theentire company with the exception of Don Quixote, and the landlord and his household as well—thetalk turns first on Don Quixote’s strange madness and then on the subject of romances of chivalry. They all express their opinions, and the landlord goes to his room and comes back with an old valise containing a number of books and manuscripts. The books are of the kind found in the knight’s library. When the curate voices his disapproval of them, the innkeeper stoutly defends them.

Catching sight of a bundle of papers in the valise, the curate asks permission to. look at them. He finds this is a manuscript entitled “Story of the One Who Was Too Curious for His Own Good” (“El Curioso Impertinente”), and the landlord explains that the valise had been left behind by an absent-minded guest. When the priest offers to read the story aloud, they all gladly consent (Chapter XXXII).

The “One Who Was Too Curious” takes up two long chapters and part of a third (XXXIII-XXXV) but the substance of it may be given rather briefly.

Anselmo and Lotario were two young men of Florence whose friendship was proverbial. When Anselmo came to marry, he used Lotario as his intermediary in obtaining the hand of the beauteous Camila, and after the wedding Lotario remained an intimate of the household. He himself did not deem this wise, but Anselmo had insisted. All went well for a while, and the wedded pair were very happy, until one day a terrible doubt entered the husband’s soul.

He knew that his wife was virtuous, but then, he reflected, her virtue had never been put to the test; and what, after all, was it worth until it had been “proved ... in the same manner that fire brings out the purity of gold”? He accordingly made the shocking suggestion —it was deeply shocking to Lotario—thathis friend play the part of tempter. Lotario at first refused, and there was a prolonged argument between them, but he finally yielded, greatly against his will, when Anselmo threatened to appeal to someone else to enact the role.

In the beginning Lotario thought to deceive his friend by maintaining a perfectly correct manner toward Camila while reporting to her husband that he had made advances to her and had been repulsed. Anselmo, however, spied upon them and discovered the deception. He was angry and reproached Lotario, whereupon the latter promised that from that time forth he would play the part in earnest. In order to give Lotario ample opportunity, Anselmo left the city for a couple of weeks, and then it was Lotario really fell in love with Camila.

Before long he was making open love to her, and she, nonplused by his changed behavior and not knowing what to do, sat down and wrote her husband a letter urging him to return at once. But Anselmo, pleased that Lotario had begun the undertaking, continued to stay away, with the result that his wife finally lost the virtue he so highly prized and had insisted on putting to the test.

When he eventually did return, Anselmo failed to perceive that anything was amiss. Lotario advised him to let matters rest, but Anselmo wished the experiment to be carried a little further. Camila, meanwhile, had become the victim of her maid Leonela, who, aware of what was happening, now held the upper hand over her mistress. Leonela herself was carrying on an amour with a young man of the town, whom she was in the habit of introducing into the house at night; and when one evening Lotario glimpsed the youth, muffled in his cloak and stealing away, he at once leaped to the conclusion that Camila was as unfaithful to him as she had been to Anselmo.

This led him to plot a mad revenge. Seeking out his friend, he told him that Camila was on the point of yielding at last and that he had arranged a meeting with her in a certain room of the house; if Anselmo desired to see for himself, he should hide there and the proof would be his. But almost immediately Lotario’s conscience began to hurt him. He might, he reflected, have taken a revenge that was less cruel and dishonor-able. He went to Camila, to make a clean breast of it all, but before he had a chance to do this he was informed by her of Leonela’s conduct, how the maid was in the habit of keeping her gallant in the house until daybreak. He realized at once what a terrible mistake he had made and was more conscience-stricken than ever.

Camila was very angry when she learned of her lover’s rashness and upbraided him bitterly for his lack of trust in her. She was gravely alarmed by the situation but at once began laying her own feminine plans. Lotario was to see that Anselmo was hidden in the room the next day, and he was to come when she sent for him and reply to anything she said to him exactly as he would have done if he had not known her husband was listening.

This plan was carried out. Anselmo, in hiding, heard a dialogue between mistress and maid the purpose of which was to give the impression that Camila, feeling that her virtue had been hopelessly compromised, was bent upon killing herself, and Leonela was seeking to dissuade her. Finally, with the promise that she would not lay hands upon herself until she first had slain the one who by his mere proposal had so dishonored her, she directed the girl to bring Lotario to her.

A bit of melodrama was then acted out, with Lotario playing the role of seducer and Camila that of his unwilling victim. As a climax she fell upon him in a realistic attempt to stab him and, failing in this, inflicted a slight wound upon herself and dropped in a faint. Lotario was loud in his laments and informed Leonela that he was going away “where no one would ever see him again.” As Camila regained consciousness there followed another conversation between the two women, the subfect being how they might conceal the wound and what they should tell Anselmo.

Convinced that the wound was a slight one, the husband was elated by all this and warm in his praise of Lotario’s efforts. It was he himself who brought his betrayer back to the house for a reconciliation, and for a number of months the situation continued as it had been before.

At this point in the story the curate is interrupted.

CHAPTER XXXV. In which the “Story of the One Who Was Too Curious for His Own Good” is brought to a close, and in which is related the fierce and monstrous battle that Don Quixote waged with certain skins of red wine.

THE reading of the story was nearly completed when from the garret where Don Quixote was taking his repose Sancho Panza burst forth in great excitement, shouting, “Come quick, sirs, and help my master, for he is in the thick of the most stubborn and fiercest battle that ever my eyes beheld! By the living God but he gave that giant who is the enemy of my lady, the Princess Micomicona, such a slash that he cut his head off all the way around as if it had been a turnip!”

“What are you talking about, brother?” asked the curate as he paused in his reading. “Have you gone out of your head, Sancho? How in the devil could what you say be true when the giant is two thousand leagues from here?”

At this point there came a loud noise from the upper room and Don Quixote could be heard crying, “Hold, robber, scoundrel, knave! I have you now, and your scimitar will not avail you!” And then it sounded as if he were giving great slashes at the wall.

“Don’t stop to listen,” said Sancho, “but go on in and stop the fight or else help my master; although, come to think of it, that will not be necessary, for there is no doubt whatever that the giant is already dead by this time and is now giving an account to God of his past life and evil ways. I myself saw the blood running all over the floor and his head cut off and lying to one side, and it was big as a wineskin.”

“May they slay me!” cried the innkeeper at this point. “I’ll bet Don Quixote or Don Devil has been slashing at one of those skins full of red wine that are at the head of his bed, and it must have been the wine spilling over the floor that looked like blood to this good man.”

He then made his way to the garret, followed by all the rest of them, and there they found Don Quixote in the strangest costume imaginable. He was clad in his shirt, which was not long enough in front to cover his thighs completely and was about six fingers shorter behind. His legs were very long, lean, and hairy and anything but clean. On his head he had a little greasy red cap that belonged to the innkeeper, and around his left arm he had rolled a red blanket—an object against which Sancho, for reasons of his own, had a special grudge—while in his right hand he held an unsheathed sword with which he was laying about him in every direction, and all the time he kept talking to himself as if he were really fighting with some giant. The best part of it was that he had his eyes shut, for he was still asleep and dreaming that he was doing battle with the giant, the adventure which he was about to undertake having so worked upon his imagination that he fancied in his dream that he had already reached the kingdom of Micomicon and was engaged in a struggle with his enemy.

Under this illusion he had given the skins so many thrusts, believing them to be the giant, that the entire room was filled with wine.¹ Seeing what his guest had done, the landlord was so angry that he fell upon Don Quixote with clenched fists and began pommeling him so hard that if Cardenio and the curate had not pulled him off, he would soon have concluded the war with the giant. But in spite of it all they did not succeed in awakening the poor gentleman until the barber had brought a large pot of cold water from the well and they had dashed its contents over the knight, who then regained consciousness but not sufficiently to be able to realize what had happened.

Seeing how scantily and thinly he was clad, Dorotea would not come in to witness the encounter between her champion and his adversary; and Sancho, meanwhile, was looking all over the floor for the giant’s head, which he was unable to find.

“I knew all along,” he said, “that everything about this house was under a spell. The other time, in this very room where I am now, they gave me any number of cuffs and blows without my knowing from where they came, for I was never able to see anyone doing it; and now I can’t find that head though I saw it chopped off with my own eyes, with the blood spurting from his body as from a fountain.”

“What blood and what fountain, enemy of God and his saints?” cried the innkeeper. “Can’t you see, you brigand, that the blood and fountain you are talking about are nothing other than these skins that have been punctured and the red wine from them that is flowing all over the room—and I only wish I saw the soul of him who pierced them swimming in Hell!”

“I know nothing about that,” said Sancho. “All I know is that, if I don’t find that head, it will be my bad luck to see my earldom melting away like salt in water.”

For Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep, such had been the effect of the promises Don Quixote had made him. The innkeeper was in despair at seeing this lack of concern on the part of the squire and the deviltry wrought by the knight, and he swore that it was not going to be like the last time, when they had left without paying. This time the privileges of knighthood would not let either one or the other of them off, but they would have to reimburse him even for the cost of the plugs to patch up the punctured skins. The curate all this while was holding Don Quixote’s hands, and the knight, thinking that the exploit had been accomplished and that he was now in the presence of the Princess Micomicona, dropped to his knees in front of the priest.

“0 exalted and famous lady,” he said, “your Highness from this day forth may live assured against any harm this lowborn creature could have done you; and I too am now free of the promise I gave you, since with the help of Almighty God and the favor of her in whom I live and breathe, I have so thoroughly fulfilled it.”

“There!” exclaimed Sancho upon hearing this, “what did I tell you? You see I was not drunk after all. Just look how my master has salted down that giant! You can depend on the bulls,² and my earldom is certain.”

Who would not have laughed at hearing the nonsense the two of them talked, master and man? And laugh they all did with the exception of mine host, who was roundly cursing himself. At last, however, with no little effort, the barber, Cardenio, and the curate managed to get Don Quixote back into bed, and he at once fell asleep with every appearance of being utterly exhausted. Leaving him there, they then went down to the gateway of the inn to console Sancho Panza for not having found the giant’s head; but they had a good deal more on their hands when it came to placating the landlord, who was in a rage over the sudden death of his wineskins. The landlady, for her part, was screaming and carrying on at a great rate.

“It was an evil moment and an unlucky hour,” she shouted, “when that knight-errant entered my house. I had never laid eyes on him before, but he cost me dearly. The last time it was the price of a lodging, a dinner, a bed, and straw and barley, for himself, his squire, a hack, and an ass. He said he was a knightly adventurer—may God give him and all the adventurers in this world nothing but misadventures!—and for that reason was obliged to pay nothing, since that was the way it was written down in the tariff code of knight-errantry. And now, on account of him, this other gentleman comes along and carries off my tail and gives it back to me with more than two cuartillos’ ³ worth of damage done to it, all stripped of its hair and of no further use for my husband’s purpose. And as the finishing touch to everything, he punctures my wineskins and spills my wine—if I could only see his blood spilled instead! But let him not think he’ll be able to do the same thing this time! By my father’s bones and my mother’s ghost, he’s going to pay me every cuarto⁴ that he owes me or my name is not what it is and I am not my parents’ daughter!”

The innkeeper’s wife had all this and many other things to say, for she was very angry indeed, and her slavey, the worthy Maritornes, joined in the scolding. The daughter, however, was silent and merely smiled quietly to herself from time to time. The curate finally settled matters by promising to make good the loss to the best of his ability. He agreed to pay them for the wineskins and the wine and especially for the damage done to that tail of which they were forever talking. Dorotea, meanwhile, was comforting Sancho Panza by telling him that, the moment it was definitely established that his master had cut off the giant’s head and she had come into peaceful possession of her kingdom, she would bestow upon him the finest earldom that it contained. Sancho felt better upon hearing this and assured the princess that he had seen the giant’s head, adding by way of further identification that the monster had a beard that came all the way down to his waist, and if he was not to be seen at the moment, it was for the reason that everything that happened in that house was directed by an enchanter, as he himself had found to be the case the other time that he had stopped there. Dorotea said that she believed this to be true, but that he should not let it worry him. as things would come out all right in the end and he would have whatever he wished.

When they had all quieted down, the curate suggested that they finish reading the story, for there was still a little of it left. Cardenio, Dorotea, and the others thereupon begged him to continue, and by reason of the pleasure that he as well as they derived from it, he went on with the tale, as follows:

The curate then goes on to read the rest of the story:

Following the mock-drama, Camila pretended to be cool toward Lotario, and the latter begged his friend’s permission not to come to the house any more since his visits obviously were an annoyance to her. Anselmo, however, would not hear of this, being assured now of his wife’s fidelity.

Things went along like this for some time, until Anselmo, in turn, discovered Leonela’s lover in the act of leaving. His suspicions aroused by this, he threatened to kill the girl unless she told him the truth. She insisted that the man was her husband, but, being very much frightened, promised Anselmo that if he spared her, she would tell him “things that are more important than you can imagine.” She begged him to give her until the next morning, as she was too excited to think at the moment. He agreed and locked her in her room.

He then went to his wife and informed her of what had occurred and Leonela’s promised revelations. Camila, needless to say, was terrified. Getting together her jewels and money, she stole out that night and hastened to Lotario to implore his protection. Himself uncertain what to do, he took her to a convent of which his sister was the prioress, and that same night he too left the city, saying nothing to anyone.

When dawn came, Anselmo found that his wife, Leonela, and Lotario were all missing. At his wits’ end, he resolved to go to the home of a friend in the country. On the way he learned from a passing traveler that the entire town was talking of the affair. Arriving at his friend’s house, he asked permission to retire at once and further requested them to provide him with writing materials and bar the door. As the hours went by and he failed to call out, his host investigated and found him lying sprawled across the writing-table. He was dead. An unfinished note declared: “. . . a foolish and ill-advised curiosity has robbed me of my life.” The note also expressed forgiveness of Camila, inasmuch as she “was under no obligation to perform miracles and I had no right to ask them of her.... I was the creator of my own dishonor....”

As for Lotario, he went to the wars and was slain in battle, and Camila upon the news of his death took the veil and died a short while afterward. (Conclusion of Chapter XXXV.)

Just as the reading ends the landlord announcesthat a party of travelers is approaching the inn; it consists of four armed men wearing black masks, a white-clad woman, and two foot servants. Dorotea promptly covers her face and Cardenio retires into the room where Don Quixote is. The travelers enter without removing their masks, and the lady gives evidence of being faint and ill. Curious to know what the explanation is, the curate goes out to question the grooms. They tell him they are certain that the lady is being taken somewhere against her will, probably to a convent.

Dorotea, meanwhile, has gons up to speak to her. The sound of the woman’s voice as she answers reaches Cardenio and he gives a startled cry. The lady, not seeing who had cried out, is about to go into the other room but is prevented from doing so by the gentleman who seems to be in charge. As he holds her firmly with both hands his mask falls off, and it is Dorotea’s turn to cry out; she falls back, fainting in the arms of the barber, for she has recognized Don Fernando.

The curate goes over to remove Dorotea’s veil and throw water in her face by way of reviving her, and Fernando turns pale as he sees before him the woman he has betrayed. Upon hearing Dorotea’s scream Cardenio comes running out, for he and Luscinda (the masked lady) have recognized each other by their voices. He beholds Fernando with Luscinda in his arms, and they all stand gazing at one another in amazement. Luscinda is the first to speak, declaring that Cardenio is her true husband. She implores Fernando to kill her so that Cardenio may see she has kept faith with him to the end.

Dorotea has recovered from her swoon by now, and, throwing herself at Fernando’s feet, she beseeches him to have pity on her, since “I am your wife, whether you like it or not.” She sobs so passionately that they all burst into sympathetic tears, and in the end Fernando relents. “You have conquered, Obeauteous Dorotea,” he says, and releases Luscinda.

Forgetting all about decorum, Luscinda flings her arms around Cardenio’s neck and presses her cheek to his. At this, Fernando changes color and lays a hand on his sword as if to intervene, but Dorotea restrains him, and the curate, the barber, and his own traveling companions also take a hand and reason with him. Once again he yields, lifts Dorotea to her feet, and embraces her. There is another display of tears and a general reconciliation.

Fernando then relates how he had found out where Luscinda was and had gone to the convent and taken her away by force. All she has done ever since, he states, is to weep and sigh without uttering a single word.

If the others weep out of sympathy with the lovers, Sancho’s tears are due to a different cause. He is in despair at seeing the Princess Micomicona transformed into plain Dorotea, but when Don Quixote hears of it, he attributes it all to the work of enchanters.

In the meantime the curate tells the newcomers of the knight’s madness and the stratagem employed to get him off Poor Rock. He remarks that they will have to evolve another plan now, but Dorotea assures him this urill not be necessary, as she is quite willing to continue in her former role. Don Quixote comes out and there is an amusing dialogue between him and the “princess,” in which she succeeds in removing all doubts from his mind. He is furious with Sancho and calls him “the greatest little rascal in all Spain.”

At this moment a traveler enters the courtyard of the inn. His garb and accouterments indicate that he is a Christian who has been in the land of the Moors. He is accompanied by a woman dressed in the Moorish fashion and mounted upon a donkey. He asks for a lodging but is told there is none to be had. He appears greatly put out at this. Dorotea and Luscinda suggest that the woman lodge with them, and their offer is accepted by the man, who informs them that his companion understands little Spanish, being a Moor who has been converted to Christianity but not yet baptized.

Night is coming on, and Don Fernando’s companions order the landlord to prepare a supper. At the table Don Quixote monopolizes the conversation with a long harangue on the theme of the knight’s calling as compared with that of the man of letters. Then, at Fernando’s request, the man, who turns out to be an escaped captive of the Moors, tells them the story of his life. It is a long one, extending over three chapters of Part I (Chapters XXXIX-XLI.)

The captive first gives an account of his early upbringing, tells how he chose the profession of arms, took ship for Italy, and there joined the Duke of Alva for the war in Flanders. After serving in three campaigns he returned to Italy to take part in the war against the Turks under John of Austria. In a naval engagement he was captured by the enemy commanded by El Uchali, King of Algiers, and taken to Constantinople, where he became a galley slave. Later he was taken to Algiers and imprisoned there.

Overlooking the prison yard was the home of a wealthy Moor, whose daughter began communicating with the captives below by means of a reed which she let down from her window. Having taken a fancy to the captain (the one who is telling the tale), she lowered to him a large quantity of gold crowns and a note written in Arabic. In order to have the message translated the captain was compelled to take into his confidence a certain renegade Christian in the service of the Moors.

From the note he learned that the writer had been converted to Christianity by a captive slave girl, now dead, who had advised her to make her way to the land of the Christians. She had selected the captain for the reason, that he was the only one among the prisoners who appeared to be a gentleman, and she expressed a willingness to marry him if he could arrange for their escape. They were all delighted at this and, foined by the renegade, immediately started laying plans for flight.

The renegade made some inquiries and reported that the house adjoining the prison yard belonged to an enormously wealthy Moor, one Hedji Morato by name, whose daughter and only heir, Zoraida, was said to be the most beautiful woman in all Barbary, her hand in marriage having been sought by many of the viceroys. She had refused all suitors up to that time and was known to have had a female slave, now dead, who was a Christian. This bore out the statements made in the note, so they decided to wait for Zoraida to devise a way of escape for them.

Shortly afterward they received another note, saying that she would be at her father’s summer place near the sea. They were to procure a boat with the money she gave them and take her away from there by night. They accordingly gave the renegade fifteen hundred crowns with which to buy the boat, while the captain and his three companions set about making arrangements to effect their ransom with a portion of the funds Zoraida had given them.

Within a fortnight, under pretense of plying a coast-wise trade, the renegade had obtained a boat capable of carrying some thirty persons and employed some Moorish oarsmen, and he formed the habit of casting anchor near Hadji Morato’s summer place in order to familiarize himself with the lay of the land. To the captain fell the task of providing a sufficient number of Christian oarsmen, who were directed to station themselves in the vicinity of the Moor’s garden on the following Friday.

The plan thus formed was carried out, both Zoraida and her father being carried off in the middle of the night. It was necessary to take Hadji Morato with them because he had been awakened and had started to give the alarm. The father was carried on board bound and gagged. The daughter was grieved by this but they assured her there was no choice in the matter.

Later, at sea, when he learned the details of the escape and his daughter’s part in it, and was informed that she had become a Christian, the old man leaped overboard and was hauled out nearly drowned and unconscious. Compelled by a change of wind to put in to shore at a deserted point, the fugitives then unbound Hadji Morato and the other Moors and gave them their liberty, the father at once pleading with the girl and heaping curses upon her as he saw her borne away.

They had not gone far when a French pirate craft stood across their course and halted them with a couple of cannon shots, which brought down their mast and riddled their hull. Inasmuch as they were sinking, there was nothing to do but surrender. The pirates were content with stripping them of their valuables, not molesting Zoraida; then, being by that time in sight of the Spanish coast, put them in a small boat and set them adrift.

In a short while they were safely ashore and, after a minor adventure or two, were picked up by the coast guard and conducted to the nearest city. There the captain had purchased the ass for Zoraida to ride and had started for his father’s home. It was his intention to have her baptized as soon as possible and then take her for his wife. (Conclusion of Chapter XLI.)

All the listeners are warm in their approval of it and offer to aid the captain in any way they can.

At this point a coach accompanied by a number of horsemen draws up at the inn, and one of these attendants announces that “room must be found at once for his Lordship the Judge.” The landlady replies that accommodations will be arranged, and his Lordship then descends from his coach, leading by the hand his daughter, a beautiful young girl about sixteen years of age. The other guests come out to greet the new arrivals, and the moment the captain lays eyes on the judge he realizes that this is his own brother.

Uncertain of the reception that may be accorded him in his present straitened circumstances, the captain confides his doubts to the curate, and the latter, at the supper table, by way of testing the affection of the brother who has achieved stich worldly success, repeats with certain variations the story that has just been narrated, dwelling on the extreme want in which the captive and the lovely Moor now find themselves; he does not indicate that they are present in the room.

The judge listens most attentively and is deeply moved. He expresses the ardent wish that, before going to assume the post in the Indies to which he has been appointed, he might have word of his brother; he also voices his gratitude for Zoraida’s part in the escape and adds that he would like to witness the wedding. Hearing this, the curate brings forward the captain and his bride-to-be and there is another affecting scene. It is decided that the pair are to accompany the judge to Seville. From there they will send word to the captain’s father so that he may attend the baptism and the wedding.

After this, they all retire for the night, with the exception of Don Quixote, who goes outside to stand sentinel. Shortly before daybreak the women, who are lodged together, are awakened by the sound of an excellent male voice raised in a song. It is at first taken to be that of a mule driver, since it comes from the direction of the stables, but as soon as Doña Clara, the judge’s daughter, hears it she knows that the supposed muleteer is a youth of gentle birth who is very much in love with her, as she is with him; he has been following her about in that disguise, and now is serenading her with a love ballad of his own composition.

The girl feels that the young man is too far above her in station for thought of marriage, and she is very unhappy about it. Dorotea, of whom she makes a confidante, tries to comfort her and urges her to wait until morning, when “everything will be all right or I shall be greatly disappointed” (Chapter XLIII).

FROM CHAPTER XLIII: In which is related.. other strange events that took place at the Inn.

WITH this they settled down for what remained of the night, and all the inn was wrapped in silence, the only ones not asleep being the innkeeper’s daughter and Maritornes the slavey, who, familiar with Don Quixote’s whimsies and knowing that he was outside clad in his armor and on horseback, standing guard; decided to play some kind of practical joke on him, or at least to have a little amusement by listening to his nonsense. Now, as it happened, there was not a window in the house that looked out over the fields, but only an opening in a straw-loft through which they used to throw out the straw. At this opening the two demi-damsels now stationed themselves. They could see Don Quixote in the saddle and leaning on his pike as he every now and then heaved such deep and mournful sighs that it seemed each one would tear his heart out; and they could also hear him talking to himself in a gentle, soft, and loving tone of voice.

“0 my lady Dulcinea del Toboso,” he was saying, “supreme model and ultimate goal of all beauty and discretion, treasury of grace, depository of virtue; in short, the ideal of all that is worth while, honorable, and delectable in this world! And what would thy Grace be doing now? Art thou perchance thinking of thy captive knight who, merely to serve thee and carry out thy wishes, hath seen fit to expose himself to all these perils? Give me some word of her, 0 luminary of the three faces!¹ It may be that out of envy of her face thou lookest upon her even now as she paces some gallery of her sumptuous palace, or as, leaning from a balcony, she considers how, without detriment to her modesty and exalted rank, she may assuage the torment that this grieving heart of mine endures for her sake. Does she think of the glory that should compensate me for my sufferings, the repose that should be mine after all my exertions, or, in brief, what life should be bestowed upon this my death, what reward I should have for my services?

“And thou, 0 Sun, who must even now be harnessing thy steeds that dawn may soon come and thou mayest emerge to behold my mistress, I beg thee when thou dost see her to greet her for me. But have a care that, when thou dost see and greet her, thou dost not kiss her face; for I shall be more jealous of thee than wast thou of that swift-footed and ungrateful one² that caused thee so to run and sweat over the plains of Thessaly and the banks of the Peneus—I do not rightly recall just where it was that thou didst run in thine amorous and jealous rage on that occasion.”

Don Quixote had gone as far as this with his lugubrious monologue when the innkeeper’s daughter began signaling to him.³ “Good Sir,” she called to him softly, “come over here, if your Grace is pleased to do so.”

At this signal and the sound of her voice, Don Quixote raised his head, and by the light of the moon, which was then shining in all its brightness, he perceived that someone was summoning him from the opening in the loft, which to him appeared to be a window—a window with a gilded grating of the kind that a magnificent castle ought to have, for such he took the inn to be. And then, instantly, it occurred to his insane imagination that, as on a previous occasion, the daughter of the lord of this castle, overcome with love of him, was seeking to make a conquest. With this thought in mind and desiring not to be discourteous or unfeeling, he turned Rocinante and rode up to the opening where the two lasses were.

“It is a pity, lovely lady,” he said as soon as he caught sight of them, “that thou shouldst have let thy affections roam where they can never be requited in a manner that befits thy great worth and high estate; but for this thou shouldst not blame this wretched knight-errant, for love hath rendered it impossible for him to yield his will to any other than her whom, the moment he beheld her, he made the absolute mistress of his heart. Forgive me, then, good lady, and withdraw into thy chamber, and do not display thy feeling for me any further, that I may not once more have to show myself ungrateful. If there is any other way, outside of love itself, in which I may gratify that love thou hast for me, thou hast but to ask it and I swear to thee by that sweet and absent enemy of mine that I will incontinently do thy bidding, even though the boon thou seekest be a lock of Medusa’s serpent hair or the rays of the sun itself stoppered in a vial.”

“My mistress has need of nothing of that sort,” said Maritornes at this point.

“Then, discreet matron,” replied Don Quixote, “what is it that she needs?”

“Merely one of your shapely hands,” said Maritornes, “that she may vent upon it the consuming passion that has brought her to this loophole, at so great a risk to her honor that, if her father were to hear of it, the least slice of her that he would take would be her ear.”

“I should like to see him do that!” said the knight. “Let him beware if he does not want to meet the most disastrous end of any father in this world for having laid hands upon the delicate members of his lovesick daughter.”

Having no doubt that Don Quixote would offer his hand as she had asked of him, Maritornes at once began thinking what she would do now; and, climbing down from the opening, she went out to the stable and took the halter of Sancho Panza’s ass, returning with it quickly just as the knight was getting to his feet on Rocinante’s saddle in order to be able to reach the gilded window-rail where, so he imagined, the broken-hearted damsel was.

“Lady,” he was saying, “take this hand, or better, this avenger of the world’s evildoers. The hand of no other woman has ever touched it, not even that of her who holds entire possession of my body. I extend it to thee, not that thou shouldst kiss it, but that thou mayest study the contexture of the sinews, the network of the muscles, the breadth and spaciousness of the veins, from which thou canst deduce how great must be the might of the arm that supports such a hand.”

“That we shall soon see,” said Maritornes. And, making a slip-knot in the halter, she put it over his wrist; then, getting down from the opening, she tied the other end to the bolt on the door of the loft.

“But it seems to me,” said Don Quixote, as he felt the rope grating on his wrist, “that thy Grace is scraping rather than caressing my hand. Do not treat it so harshly, for it is not to blame for my unresponsive will. It is not right that thou shouldst wreak all thy vengeance upon so small a part, for remember that one who loves well should not avenge herself in a manner so ill.”

But there was no one to hear these words; for as soon as Maritornes had attached the halter, she and the other girl left, fit to burst with laughing, and they left Don Quixote tied in such a way that it was impossible for him to free himself. As has been said, he was standing on Rocinante’s back and his entire arm was through the opening while his wrist was fastened to the bolt on the door; and he was very much afraid that if Rocinante should swerve to one side or the other, he would remain hanging there. For this reason, he dared not make the slightest movement, although Rocinante stood so quietly and patiently that he might have been expected not to stir for a century to come.

Finally, seeing that he was caught in this manner and the ladies had departed, the knight began imagining that all this was a kind of enchantment, like the last time when, in this very castle, that enchanted Moor of a carter had given him such a mauling. He now cursed himself for his lack of judgment and sound sense in having ventured to set foot there a second time after having fared so badly before; for it was generally accepted by knights-errant that, when they had essayed an adventure and had not succeeded in it, this meant that it was not for them but for others, and there was no necessity of trying again. Meanwhile, he kept pulling on his arm to see if he could loosen it, but it was well tied and all his efforts were in vain. It is true, he pulled very gently, lest Rocinante should move; but, in any event, he was unable to seat himself in the saddle, and there was nothing for it but to remain standing or wrench his hand off.

Then it was that he longed for the sword of Amadis, against which no enchantment whatever could prevail. Then it was that he cursed his ill fortune, exaggerating the loss which the world would suffer while he was held there under a spell, for he had no doubt that this was the case. Then he remembered once again his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, and then too it was that he called for his good squire, Sancho Panza, who, lying stretched out on the packsaddle of his ass and dead to the world, was unmindful even of the mother who bore him. Then it was that he called upon the wise Lirgandeo and Alquife⁴ to aid him, beseeching also his good friend Urganda⁵ to succor him. And then, at last, morning found him so despairing and bewildered that he brayed like a bull; for he had no hope that with the coming of day his sufferings would be ended; rather, he believed that, as a result of the magician’s spell, they would be eternal. This belief was strengthened in him when he observed that Rocinante never so much as stirred. And so he was convinced that he and his steed would have to remain there in that condition, without eating, drinking, or sleeping, until the evil influence of the stars had waned or until another, more skillful enchanter came to disenchant him.

In this, however, he was greatly deceived; for it was no sooner daylight than four fully accoutered horsemen, their firelocks across their saddlebows, drew up at the inn. Finding the gateway closed, they pounded lustily upon it; and when he saw and heard this, even in his present position, Don Quixote did not fail to play the sentinel.

“Knights,” he said to them, “or squires, or whoever you may be, you have no right to knock at the gates of this castle; for you should know that at such an hour those inside are asleep, or are not in the habit of throwing open the fortress until the sun is fully up. Withdraw, then, and wait for day, and we shall then see whether or not it is fitting that they open for you.”

“What the devil kind of fortress or castle is this,” asked one of them, “that we are obliged to stand on such ceremony? If you are the innkeeper, have them open the gate for us. We are travelers who desire no more than to give some barley to our horses and go on, for we are in a hurry.”

“Do I impress you, gentlemen, as having the appearance of an innkeeper?” was Don Quixote’s answer.

“I do not know what appearance you have,” replied the man. “But I know that you are talking nonsense when you refer to this inn as a castle.”

“A castle it is,” Don Quixote insisted, “and one of the best in all this province. And there are those within who have held a scepter in their hands and have worn a crown upon their heads.”

“It would have been better the other way around,” said the traveler: “the scepter on the head and the crown in the hand; but it may be there is some company of actors inside, for they very often have those crowns and scepters that you are talking about, and I cannot believe that in a small tavern like this, where you cannot hear a sound, any persons would be lodged who are entitled to them in real life.”

“You know little of the ways of the world,” replied Don Quixote, “seeing that you are ignorant of the things that happen in connection with knight-errantry.”

The companions of the one who asked the questions were by this time tired of the conversation between him and the knight, and they again began pounding so furiously that the innkeeper and all the others awoke and the landlord arose to inquire who was knocking. At that moment one of the horsemen’s mounts came up to smell Rocinante as the hack, sad and melancholy, with his ears drooping, stood there motionless, supporting his well-stretched master’s weight; and being, when all is said, only flesh and blood though he appeared to be of wood, Rocinante could not but weaken and in turn smell the one that had come to court him. In doing this, he moved ever so little, and at once Don Quixote’s feet slipped from the saddle and he would have fallen to the ground if his arm had not been held fast, a circumstance which caused him so much pain that he thought his wrist would be cut off or his arm torn from his body. For he was left hanging so near the ground that he could touch the earth with the tips of his toes, which was all the worse for him since, being conscious of how little he lacked of being able to plant his feet firmly, he wore himself out by stretching himself as far as he could in an attempt to accomplish this. He was like those who, suffering the strappado and placed in the position of touch-without-touching, merely add to their pain by the effort they make to stretch their bodies, in the vain hope that with a little more straining they will be able to find solid footing.

CHAPTER XLIV. In which are continued the unheard-of adventures at the inn.

DON QUIXOTE by now was bawling so loudly that the landlord, very much alarmed, ran out and threw open the gate to see what the matter was, while those outside were equally curious. Maritornes also had been awakened by the shouts, and, suspecting what the cause of it all was, she hastened to the straw-loft without anyone’s seeing her and unfastened the halter by which Don Quixote was supported, whereupon he at once dropped to the ground as the innkeeper and the travelers looked on. Coming up to him, they asked why he was shouting in that manner; but he without saying a word removed the rope from his wrist, rose to his feet, mounted Rocinante, braced his buckler on his arm, fixed his lance, and, retiring down the field for some little distance, came back at a half-gallop.

“If there be anyone,” he cried, “who says that I deserved to have this spell put upon me, providing the Princess Micomicona grant me permission to do so, I hereby give him the lie; I defy him and challenge him to single combat.”

The new arrivals were amazed by Don Quixote’s words, but the landlord explained matters to them by telling them who the knight was, adding that they were to pay no attention to him as he was out of his mind.

The horsemen then make inquiries of the landlord concerning a youth of about fifteen dressed like a muleteer, and he replies that he has not noticed among his guests anyone answering that description. They, however, have observed the judge’s coach and are not satis- . fied with this answer but insist on making a thorough search of the premises.

When he perceived that none of the four travelers was paying the slightest attention to him nor would answer his challenge, Don Quixote was ready to die with rage and spite; and had he found by the ordinances of chivalry that a knight-errant could lawfully assume and undertake any other enterprise than the one for which he had given his word of honor, until his pledge had been fulfilled, he would have attacked them all and compelled them to answer him whether they wished to or not. As it was, he felt that he could not do this until he should have restored Micomicona’s kingdom to her. In the meanwhile, he must keep silent, remain quietly where he was, and wait to see what the result of the horsemen’s search would be.

Meanwhile the horsemen have found the youth, Don Luis, and inform him that he must come with them; for they are his father’s servants who have been sent to look for him. He refuses and an argument ensues, with the men threatening to take him by force while he defies them to do so. The other guests come out and take a lively interest in the affair. Cardenio attempts to intervene. His Lordship, recognizing his neighbor’s son, takes Don Luis aside for a talk, requesting the four servants to be calm as all will be settled properly. He begins questioning the lad.

While these and other questions were being asked and answered, a loud shouting was heard at the gateway of the inn. What had happened was this: two guests who had been lodged there that night, observing that everyone was occupied with questioning the four travelers, had attempted to leave without paying what they owed; but the innkeeper, who was more attentive to his own business than to that of others, had waylaid them as they went out the gate and was demanding that they pay the score. His language to them was such that they were led to reply to him with their fists, and they were laying it on so heavily that the poor landlord had to cry out for help. His wife and daughter looked about for someone to aid him, but the only person whose attention was not taken up was Don Quixote; so the innkeeper’s daughter addressed herself to him.

“Sir Knight,” she said, “by the power that God has reposed in you, I beg you to succor my poor father. There are two wicked men out there who are beating him to a pulp.”

“Lovely damsel,” was the knight’s measured and phlegmatic response, “your request is at this moment out of place, for I am prevented from entering upon any other adventure until I shall have fulfilled my word and brought to a conclusion the one upon which I am at present embarked. What I may do, however, in order to serve you is this: run and tell your father to sustain this combat as best he may and in no wise to allow himself to be vanquished while I go beg permission of the Princess Micomicona to succor him in his distress. If she but grant me that permission, you may rest assured that I will rescue him.”

“Sinner that I am!” exclaimed Maritornes when she heard this, “before your Grace obtains the permission you speak of, my master will be in the other world.”

“I beg you, lady,” replied Don Quixote, “to give me leave to obtain it. Once I have the princess’s consent, it will make little difference if your father is in the other world, for I will have him out of it in spite of all that the world in question can do; or, at the least, I will take such vengeance on those who have sent him there that you will be more than moderately satisfied.”

Saying no more, he went over and dropped to his knees in front of Dorotea, imploring her in the language of knight-errantry that her Highness be pleased to grant him permission to aid and succor the castellan of that castle, who was in grave peril. The princess gave her consent readily enough, and he then, bracing his buckler and grasping his sword, ran out to the gate of the inn, where the two guests were still mistreating the landlord. But as he came up, he stopped short as if perplexed, although Maritornes and the landlady kept urging him to help their master and husband, asking him why he hesitated.

“If I hesitate,” said Don Quixote, “it is for the reason that it is not permitted me to lay hand to sword against those of the rank of squire; but go call my own squire, Sancho, for me, for it appertains to him to undertake this defense and vengeance.”

All this took place at the gateway of the inn, where many most effective blows and punches were being exchanged to the great detriment of the landlord as the wrath of Maritornes and of the landlady and her daughter increased; for they were now in despair over Don Quixote’s cowardice and the beating that was being administered to their master, husband, and father.

But let us leave him there; for there will surely be someone to succor him; or, if not, let him bear it and hold his peace who is rash enough to attempt more than his strength will warrant.

In response to the fudge’s questioning the lad confesses that he is in love with Doña Clara and would make her his wife. His Lordship, agreeably surprised by all this, advises him to arrange with the servants not to take him back that day, in order that there may be time to consider u;hat is best for all concerned. He urges him, meanwhile, to be of good cheer. Don Luis bursts into tears and kisses the judge’s hands.

By this time the two guests out at the gate had made their peace with the innkeeper and, owing to Don Quixote’s mild and persuasive reasoning rather than to any threats on his part, they had paid all that was asked of them. As for Don Luis’ servants, they were waiting for him to finish his conversation with the judge and make up his mind what he was going to do, when at that moment—so the devil, who never sleeps, would have it—the very same barber from whom Don Quixote had taken Mambrino’s helmet and Sancho the trappings for his ass, came up to the inn. The said barber, as he was leading his beast out to the stable, chanced to catch sight of Sancho Panza, who was engaged in tinkering with his packsaddle, and the instant that he saw him he recognized him.

“Hah! Sir Thief,” he cried, “I have you now! Give me back my basin and my packsaddle and all the other things you stole from me.”

Sancho, being unexpectedly assailed in this manner and hearing himself called such names, with one hand laid hold of the packsaddle and with the other dealt the barber such a blow that he drenched his teeth in blood. The barber, however, did not for this reason let go his prize in the form of the packsaddle, but began shouting so loud that everybody in the place came running out to see what was the cause of all the uproar and the fighting.

“Here, in the name of the king’s justice!” he screamed. “Not satisfied with taking my property, he wants to kill me, this robber, this highway bandit!”

“You lie,” said Sancho. “I am not a bandit. My master Don Quixote won those spoils in honorable warfare.”

The knight was standing by while this was going on and was greatly pleased to see how well his squire could both defend himself and take the offensive. From that time forth, he was to look upon him as a man of mettle, and he resolved in his heart that upon the first occasion that offered he would have him dubbed a knight, for he felt sure that the order of knighthood might worthily be bestowed upon him. The barber, meanwhile, was running on.

“Gentlemen,” he was saying, “this packsaddle is mine, as surely as I owe it to God to die someday. I know it as well as if I had given birth to it. And there is my donkey in the stable; he will not let me lie. If you don’t believe me, try it on him, and if it doesn’t fit him perfectly, then I’m a rogue. What is more, the same day that he took the packsaddle he also robbed me of a brass basin which I had not yet broken in and which was worth all of a crown.”

At this point Don Quixote, unable to contain himself any longer, stepped between the two and parted them, and then, picking up the packsaddle, he placed it upon the ground where all could see it that it might lie there until the truth was established.

“In order,” he said, “that your Worships may behold plainly and clearly the error into which this worthy squire has fallen, you have but to observe that he calls a basin that which was, is, and shall be Mambrino’s helmet, a trophy won by me in honorable warfare and of which I took lawful and rightful possession! As for the packsaddle, I have nothing to do with that. All I can say is that my squire, Sancho, begged permission of me to strip the mount belonging to this conquered coward of its trappings. To this I consented, and he did so. As to how those trappings came to be converted into a packsaddle, I can give no explanation other than the usual one: namely, that such transformations frequently occur in connection with the practice of chivalry. And by way of confirming all this, run, Sancho my lad, and bring me that helmet which this good man says is a basin.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Sancho, “if that is all the proof we have that what your Grace says is true, then that basin is just as much Malino’s ¹ helmet as this good man’s trappings are a packsaddle.”

“Do what I command you,” said Don Quixote; “for surely everything in this castle cannot be controlled by enchantments.”

Sancho went for the basin and returned with it, and as soon as Don Quixote saw it he took it up in his hands.

“Your Worships,” he said, “can see what cheek this squire has to say that this is a basin and not the helmet of which I have told you. I swear by the calling of knighthood which I follow that this is the same one I took from him and that I have neither added anything to nor subtracted anything from it.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” remarked Sancho at this point; “for from the time my master won it until the present he has fought but one battle in it, and that was when he freed those poor unfortunate ones that were going along in chains; and if it had not been for this basin-helmet, it would have gone hard with him that time, for there were certainly enough stones thrown.”

CHAPTER XLV. In which the dispute over Mambrino’s helmet and the packsaddle is finally settled, with other events that in all truth occurred.

“WELL, gentlemen,” said the barber, “and what do your Worships think of that which these fine fellows have to say, who still insist that this is not a basin but a helmet?”

“And if anyone states the contrary,” maintained Don Quixote, “I will have him know that he lies, if he be a knight, and if he be a squire, that he lies a thousand times.”

Our own barber, who had witnessed all this and who was well acquainted with Don Quixote’s fancies, now decided to fall in with them and carry the joke a little further so that they might all have a good laugh.

“Master barber,” he said, addressing the other one, “or whoever you may be, I may inform you that I also am of your profession and have held a license for more than twenty years, being quite familiar with each and every tool that a barber uses. And in my youth I was a soldier for some little while, and I likewise know what a helmet is, and a morion, and a closed helmet, along with other things having to do with a soldier’s life. And I can tell you—standing always to be corrected by those of better judgment—that the piece we have before us here, which that worthy gentleman holds in his hands, is as far from being a barber’s basin as white is from black or truth from falsehood; and I further assert that it is a helmet, though not a whole one.”

“No, certainly not,” agreed Don Quixote, “for half of it is missing, that is to say, the beaver.”

“That is right,” said the curate, who had already divined the intentions of his friend the barber.

Cardenio and Don Fernando and his companions confirmed this; and even the judge, had he not been so preoccupied with Don Luis’ affair, would have helped carry on the jest, but, as it was, the weighty matters that he had on his mind prevented him from giving his attention to such trifles.

“God help me!” cried the barber of whom they were making sport. “Is it possible that so many worthy folk can say that this is not a basin but a helmet? It is enough to astonish an entire university, however learned it may be. But enough; if this basin is a helmet, then this saddlebag must be a horse’s trappings, as this gentleman has just stated.”

“It looks to me like a saddlebag,” Don Quixote admitted, “but as I have said, it is something that does not concern me.”

“As to whether it be a saddlebag or a horse’s trappings,” said the curate, “Don Quixote has but to give us his opinion, for in matters pertaining to chivalry, I and all these gentlemen bow to him.”

“In God’s name, my good folk,” said Don Quixote, “so many strange things have happened in this castle on the two occasions that I have tarried here that I should not venture to give a positive reply to a question regarding anything that is in it, for it is my belief that all that takes place within its confines is the result of magic. The first time that I was here, there was an enchanted Moor who gave me a great deal of trouble, while Sancho did not make out any too well with some of his followers. And then, last night, I was strung up by this arm for nearly two hours without knowing how or why I came to be in such straits. And so, in a matter as far from clear as the present one, if I were to undertake to give an opinion, I should run the risk of rendering a rash decision. As to the charge that this is a basin and not a helmet, I have already answered that, but when it comes to declaring whether that is a saddlebag or a horse’s trappings, I shall not venture to make any definite statement but shall leave it to your Worships’ own good judgment. It may be that, inasmuch as you have not been dubbed knights as I have been, your Worships will not be subject to the enchantments of this place and, accordingly, your judgment being unimpaired, will be able to form an impression of things in this castle as they really and truly are and not as they appear to me to be.”

“There is no doubt,” said Don Fernando in reply to this, “that Don Quixote has put the case very well and that the decision rests with us; and in order that we may proceed upon firm ground, I will take the secret votes of these gentlemen and will announce the result plainly and fully.”

To those acquainted with Don Quixote’s mad whims, all this was very amusing indeed, but to the rest it seemed utter nonsense. This was especially true of Don Luis’ four servants, and of their master as well, so far as that was concerned; besides whom there were three other travelers who had just arrived at the inn and who had the appearance of being patrolmen of the Holy Brotherhood, as in fact they were. The one, however, who was the most desperately bewildered of all was the barber, whose basin, there in front of his eyes, had turned into Mambrino’s helmet, and whose packsaddle, also, he had not the slightest doubt, was due to turn into the rich caparison of a steed. The others, meanwhile, were laughing heartily as Don Fernando went around collecting the votes, whispering in the ear of each and asking him to give his private opinion as to whether the treasure over which there was so much dispute was a packsaddle or equine trappings.

Having obtained the votes of all those who knew Don Quixote, he turned to the barber and said, “The truth of the matter is, my good man, I am tired of gathering all these opinions; for there is not a one to whom I have put the question who has not assured me that it is nonsense to say that this is the packsaddle of an ass, when it is plain to be seen that it is the caparison of a horse and of a thoroughbred horse at that. And so there is nothing for you to do but yield, since in spite of you and your ass it is in fact a horse’s trappings, and you have presented and proved your case very badly.”

“May I forfeit my interest in Heaven!” ¹ cried the poor barber, “if your Worships are not all mistaken. As my soul must appear before God, so does this appear to me to be a saddlebag; but ‘laws go—’ ²I say no more; and I am not drunk, for I am fasting this morning—unless it be from sin.”

These stupid remarks on the part of the barber aroused no less laughter than did Don Quixote’s foolish talk; and it was now the knight’s turn.

“There is nothing more to be done here,” he announced, “except for each to take that which is his, and may St. Peter bless him to whom God has given it.”

One of Don Luis’ servants was the next to speak. “Unless this is a deliberate joke,” he said, “I cannot believe that men of such good sense as all of those present are, or appear to be, would be so bold as to state and maintain that this is not a basin nor that a packsaddle; but inasmuch as I perceive that they do state and maintain it, I cannot but believe that there is some mystery behind their insistence upon something that is so contrary to what truth and experience teaches. For I swear”—and swear he did, a good round oath—“that all the people now living in the world will never convince me that this is not a barber’s basin, and that, the packsaddle of an ass.”

“It might be a she-ass,” remarked the curate.

“It’s all the same,” said the servant. “That’s not the point. The point is whether this is or, as your Graces say, is not a packsaddle.”

Hearing this, one of the troopers who had come in and had been listening to the argument cried out angrily, “That is as much a packsaddle as my father is my father, and he who says anything else must be drunk.”

“You lie like a peasant knave!” replied Don Quixote. And, raising his pike, which he never let out of his hands, he aimed such a blow at the trooper’s head that if the officer had not dodged, it would have left him stretched out on the ground. The pike as it struck the ground was shattered to bits; whereupon the other officers, seeing their companion asaulted in this manner, cried out for help in the name of the Holy Brotherhood. The innkeeper, who was one of the band, at once ran to get his staff of office and his sword and, returning, took his place alongside his comrades. Don Luis’ servants surrounded their master that he might not escape amid the excitement; and the barber, perceiving that the household was turned upside down, once more seized his packsaddle as Sancho did the same.

Drawing his sword, Don Quixote attacked the officers, while Don Luis cried to his servants to release him and go to the aid of the knight and of Cardenio and Don Fernando, both of whom were lending their support. The curate shouted, the landlady screamed, her daughter wailed, Maritornes wept, Dorotea was dumfounded, Luscinda terrified, and Dona Clara ready to faint. The barber cudgeled Sancho, and Sancho mauled the barber. Don Luis, when one of his servants seized his arm to keep him from running away, gave the fellow a punch that bloodied his mouth, and the judge came to the lad’s defense. Don Fernando had a trooper down and was kicking him vigorously, and the innkeeper was again raising his voice to call for help for the Holy Brotherhood. In short, the entire hostelry was filled with shouts, cries, screams, with tumult, terror, and confusion, with sword slashes, fisticuffs, cudgelings, kickings, bloodshed, and mishaps of every sort. And in the midst of all this hubbub and labyrinthine chaos, Don Quixote came to imagine that he had been plunged headlong into the discord of Agramante’s camp.³

“Hold, all of you!” he suddenly cried in a voice that rocked the inn like thunder. “Sheathe your swords, be calm, and hear me as you value your lives!”

At this mighty sound they all stopped short.

“Did I not tell you, gentlemen,” he went on, “that this castle was enchanted and that it must be inhabited by some legion of devils? In confirmation of which, I would have you note how the strife that marked the camp of Agramante has been transferred and repeated here in front of your very eyes. Look you how here they fight for the sword, there for the horse, over there for the eagle, and there for the helmet. We are all engaged in fighting one another without knowing why. Come, then, your Lordship the judge and your Reverence the curate; let one of you take the part of King Agramante and the other that of King Sobrino, and make peace between us. For it is a very great shame for so many persons of high rank as are gathered here to be killing one another over causes so trifling.”

The officers of the Brotherhood, who did not understand what Don Quixote was talking about, but who did know that they were being mishandled by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and their companions, were of no mind to calm themselves. The barber, however, was; for in the course of the fray both his beard and his packsaddle had suffered considerably. As for Sancho, he obeyed, as a good servant does, his master’s slightest command, while Don Luis’ four men likewise were quiet, seeing how little they had gained by not being so. The innkeeper alone was insisting that he had to punish the insolence of that madman who was all the time throwing his place into an uproar. But at last the tumult died down, the packsaddle remained a caparison and the basin a helmet until the Day of Judgment, and the inn was still a castle in Don Quixote’s imagination.

As order is finally restored and all become friends once more, Don Luis’ servants take him aside for a talk. The judge does the same with Fernando, Cardenio, and the curate, repeating to them what the lad has told him and asking their advice as to what should be done. It is decided that Don Fernando is to reveal his identity and rank to the servants and offer to take the young man with him to the home of Fernando’s brother, a marquis, until an understanding can be reached with the youth’s father.

Accordingly, when the four of them learned who Don Fernando was and saw how their master felt about it, they decided that three of their number should go back to inform the lad’s father of how matters stood, while the fourth should remain to wait upon Don Luis, with the understanding that he was not to leave him until they returned or until it was known what the father’s orders were.

In this manner, then, through the prestige of Agramante and the wisdom of King Sobrino, all the fighting at cross-purposes was finally quelled; but with this, the enemy of peace and concord, seeing himself thus despised and made sport of, and perceiving how little he had gained by setting them all against one another, resolved to try his hand once again by stirring up more strife and tumult.

As it happened, the officers of the Brotherhood had quieted down upon learning the rank of those with whom they were fighting and had been glad enough to retire from the fray, since it seemed to them that, whatever the outcome, they were bound to get the worst of it. One of them, however, the one who had been beaten and trampled by Don Fernando, chanced to remember that among the warrants he carried for the arrest of certain offenders was a writ for Don Quixote, whom the Holy Brotherhood had been instructed to apprehend on the charge of having freed the galley slaves, just as Sancho had rightly feared. An idea having come to him now, he wished to satisfy himself as to whether the knight answered the description that he had of him; and, taking a parchment out of his bosom, he found the document he was looking for and then began reading it slowly (for he was not a good reader), glancing up at every word to see if Don Quixote’s features corresponded with those set down in the writ. Deciding that this was undoubtedly his man, he then took the parchment in his left hand and with his right seized Don Quixote by the collar so forcefully that he nearly choked him.

“Help for the Holy Brotherhood!” he cried in a loud voice. “And in order that you may see that I ask it in earnest, you have but to read this warrant where it is set forth that this highwayman is to be arrested.”

The curate took the warrant and saw that what the officer said was true and that the description did indeed fit Don Quixote. But the knight, finding himself thus manhandled by this knavish boor, grew exceedingly angry and, with every bone in his body creaking, he seized the officer’s throat with all the strength he could muster and would have choked the life out of him if the other troopers had not come to their comrade’s rescue. The landlord, who was bound to render help to other members of the fraternity, now came running up, while his wife, believing her husband was again about to become involved in a fight, raised her voice and began screaming, in which she was at once joined by Maritornes and her daughter as all three of them called on Heaven and the others present to lend their aid.

“Good Lord!” cried Sancho, when he saw what was happening, “it is true what my master says about this castle being enchanted, for it is impossible to live an hour in peace here.”

Don Fernando then separated the patrolman and Don Quixote, each of them being glad enough to have the other’s firm grip released, on his jacket collar in the one case and on his throat in the other instance. The officers did not, however, for this reason give up their demand for the knight’s arrest but insisted that the others help bind and deliver him into the hands of the law and thereby render a service to their king and to the Holy Brotherhood, in whose name they once more sought aid and assistance in effecting the capture of this highway bandit.

Don Quixote smiled as he heard these words. When he spoke, it was very calmly. “Come, now,” he said, “you vile and lowborn wretches, do you call him a highwayman who gives freedom to those in chains, succors those who are in distress, lifts up the fallen, and brings aid to the needy? Ah, infamous rabble, by reason of your low and filthy minds you do not deserve that Heaven should reveal to you the true worth of knight-errantry and your own sin and ignorance when you fail to reverence the shadow, not to speak of the presence, of any knight-errant whatsoever! Come, come, you are a band of robbers, not of officers, footpads of the highway with the license of the Holy Brotherhood. Tell me, who was the ignorant one who signed that warrant for the arrest of such a knight as I am? Who is so ignorant as not to know that knights-errant are beyond all jurisdiction, their only law their swords, while their charter is their mettle and their will is their decrees?

“Who, I ask it again, is the stupid one who does not know that there are no letters-patent of nobility that confer such privileges and exemptions as those that a knight-errant acquires the day he is dubbed a knight and devotes himself to the rigorous duties of his calling? When did such a knight ever pay poll-tax, excise, queen’s pattens, king’s levies, toll, or ferry? What tailor ever took payment for the clothes he made for him? What castellan who received him in his castle ever made him pay his score? What king would not seat him at his board? What damsel but did love him, being ready to yield herself wholly to his will and pleasure? And, finally, what knight-errant was there ever, or ever will be in this world, without the mettle to deal singlehanded four hundred sturdy blows to any four hundred officers of the Holy Brotherhood that come his way?”

CHAPTER XLVI. Wherein is concluded the notable adventure of the troopers, together with an account of the great ferocity of our good knight, Don Quixote.

EVEN as Don Quixote spoke, the curate was endeavoring to convince the officers that the knight was not in his right mind, as they should be able to see from what he said and did, and that, accordingly, they ought to let the matter drop, since even though they did arrest him and take him away, they would only have to turn him loose again as being a madman. To which the one who held the warrant replied that it was not for him to judge Don Quixote’s sanity but rather to carry out the orders of his superior, adding that once he had made the arrest, they might let him go three hundred times over if they chose.

“Nevertheless,” said the curate, “for this once you are not going to take him, nor will he permit himself to be taken unless I miss my guess.”

The short of it is, the curate was so very persuasive, and Don Quixote so very mad in his actions, that the troopers would have been even madder than he was had they not recognized his want of wit. And so they thought it best to allow themselves to be pacified and even to act as peacemakers between the barber and Sancho Panza, who were still engaged in a heated quarrel. As the representatives of the law they proceeded to arbitrate the dispute and did it in such a manner that both parties were, if not wholly, at least somewhat satisfied; for they exchanged the packsaddles but not the girths nor the headstalls. As for Mambrino’s helmet, the curate quietly, and without Don Quixote’s knowledge, gave the barber eight reales for it, obtaining from him a receipt with the understanding that he was to make no more mistaken demands, for the present or for all time to come, Amen.

The landlord, noticing the gift that the curate made to the barber, now demands that Don Quixote pay for a night’s lodging and also for the wineskins and the wine that was spilled. The curate soothes him and Don Fernando generously settles for everything.

Don Quixote then decides that the time has come to start on the expedition to Micomicon and indulges in a flowery exchange of speeches with Dorotea to this effect. But just as he is ordering Sancho to saddle Rocinante and the “queen’s” palfrey and harness the ass, the squire blurts out a story about having seen Dorotea “rubbing noses with a certain one who is here, every time you turn your head, and behind every door”; for he has come upon her and Fernando in the act of kissing, and he is afraid the latter will “gather the fruit of our labor.”

This provokes an outburst of rage on Don Quixote’s part, directed at Sancho, whom he accuses of being a “villainous, ignorant, foul-mouthed, loose-tongued backbiter and slanderer.” Dorotea, however, appeases the knight by explaining that, as he well knows, “everything in this castle happens by way of enchantment ... and Sancho must have been led by diabolic means to see that which he says he beheld and which is so great an offense to my honor.” As for Sancho, he is willing to accept the enchantment theory except where his blanketing is concerned; that, he insists, was very, very real.

Two days had now gone by since all this illustrious company was gathered in the inn, and it seemed to them all that it was high time to be on their way. It was accordingly agreed that, without putting Dorotea and Don Fernando to the trouble of accompanying Don Quixote to his native village, under pretext of liberating the Queen Micomicona, the curate and the barber instead should take the knight with them as they had suggested, and once they had got him safely home, they would see what could be done about curing his madness. With this object in view, they proceeded to arrange with an ox-cart driver who chanced to be passing that way to bear their friend off in the following manner: first, they constructed a kind of cage with wooden bars, capable of holding him comfortably; after which, Don Fernando and his companions, along with Don Luis’ servants, the troopers, and the landlord, all of them acting under the curate’s direction, covered their faces and disguised themselves in one fashion or another so that Don Quixote would not recognize them as his acquaintances of the inn.

Having done this, they very quietly entered the room where he lay sleeping and resting from his recent frays, wholly unsuspecting of anything of this sort. Going up to him, they seized him firmly and bound him hand and foot, so that when he awoke with a start, he was unable to move or do anything except marvel at finding himself surrounded by so many strange faces. As a result, his disordered mind at once began to fancy that all these figures were phantoms of that enchanted castle and that he himself, without a doubt, was under a magic spell, seeing that he could not move nor defend himself. All of which was just as the curate, the originator of this scheme, had planned it.

Sancho alone of all those present was at once in his right mind and proper character, and while he was near to being as mad as his master, he did not fail to recognize these disguised figures; but he did not dare open his mouth until he saw what the outcome of this assault and capture would be. As for Don Quixote, he said not a word, for he too was waiting to see what was going to happen to him further. What happened was: they took him to the cage and shut him in it, nailing the bars so firmly that they could not easily be broken down.

As they lifted him on their shoulders and bore him from the room, there was heard an awe-inspiring voice —as much so as the barber (not he of the packsaddle but the other one) could make it.

“0 Knight of the Mournful Countenance, be not grieved by the prison in which thou goest, for it is a fitting thing in order that thou mayest the sooner bring to a conclusion the adventure to which thy great courage hath impelled thee. That shall be when the raging Manchegan lion ¹ and the white Tobosan dove shall have been made one, after they shall have bowed their proud necks to the gentle yoke of matrimony. And from this mating, of a kind that never was before, shall come forth into the light of this world brave whelps which shall emulate the ravening claws of their valiant sire. And this shall be ere the pursuer of the fleeing nymph in his swift and natural course shall twice have visited the luminous signs.

“And thou, 0 noblest and most obedient squire that ever girded on a sword, wore a beard on his face, or had a nose to smell with! be thou not dismayed nor unhappy at thus beholding the flower of knight-errantry borne away in front of your very eyes; for soon, if it be pleasing to Him who fashioned this world, thou shalt see thyself raised to so sublime a height that thou shalt not know thyself, nor shalt thou be defrauded of all the promises which thy good master hath made thee. And be assured on the part of the wise Mentironiana² that thou shalt be paid thy wages, as thou shalt see in due course. Do thou, then, continue to follow in the footsteps of this valiant and enchanted knight; for it be-hooves thee to go whither both of you are bound. It is not permitted me to say more; and so, may God be with thee, for I now return to the place that I well know.”

As he concluded this prophecy, the barber raised and lowered his voice with so intense an emotional effect that even those who knew it to be a jest almost believed that it was the truth they heard. Don Quixote was greatly consoled by these predictions, for he at once grasped their purport, to the effect that he was to be united in holy and lawful bonds of matrimony with his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose fortunate loins should come forth whelps that were his sons, to the perpetual glory of La Mancha. Thoroughly imbued with this belief, he heaved a deep sigh and, lifting up his voice, he spoke as follows:

“0 thou, whoever thou art, who hast prophesied all these blessings for me! I implore thee on my behalf to ask the wise enchanter who hath these things in his charge not to allow me to perish in this captivity in which they now bear me away before I shall have seen fulfilled all the joyful and incomparable promises that have just been made me. Let this be granted me and I shall glory in the sufferings of my prison house, my chains will be light indeed, and this bed upon which they lay me will be, not a hard-fought battlefield, but a soft and happy nuptial couch. As for the consolation that has been offered to Sancho Panza, my squire, I can only say that I rely upon his goodness and integrity, trusting him never to leave me in good fortune or in bad. And if by his or my own ill luck I should not be able to give him the island or some equivalent fief as I have promised, at least his wages shall not be forfeited; for in my will, which is already drawn up, I have declared that which is to be his, not in proportion to his many and faithful services, but in accordance with my means.”

At this Sancho bowed most respectfully and kissed both his master’s hands, it being impossible for him to kiss but one of them as they were tied together. Then those phantom figures put the cage upon their shoulders and carried it out and placed it on the ox-cart.

CHAPTER XLVII. Of the strange manner in which a spell was laid on Don Quixote de la Mancha, together with other remarkable occurrences.

WHEN Don Quixote found himself caged in this manner and placed upon the cart, he spoke as follows:

“Many very grave histories have I read of knights-errant, but never have I read, seen, or heard of enchanted knights being borne away in this fashion and at the slow pace that these lazy animals seem likely to provide; for it is the custom to spirit them through the air, with marvelous speed, wrapped in some dark, dense cloud or upon a chariot of fire or some hippogriff or other similar beast. But that they should now be taking me upon an ox-cart, Heaven help me, that is something I cannot understand! ¹ However, it may be that chivalry and the art of magic in this our time must follow another path than the one it did in days gone by. And it may also be that, inasmuch as I am a new knight in this world, the first to revive the forgotten calling of knightly adventurers, they may likewise have invented other means of enchantment and other ways of carrying off the enchanted. What do you think of it, Sancho, my son?”

“I don’t know what I think,” replied Sancho, “not being as well read as is your Grace in the writings of errantry. But for all of that, I’d venture to swear and affirm that those apparitions are not altogether Catholic.”

“Catholic? My father!” said Don Quixote. “How can they be Catholic if they are all demons who have assumed fantastic shapes in order to do this thing and put me in this condition? If you would ascertain the truth, you have but to touch and feel them and you will perceive that they have none but an airy body and consist only of appearances.”

“By God, sir,” Sancho answered him, “I’ve already touched them, and that devil you see bustling along there is as plump as can be and it’s real flesh that’s on him; and there is something eke about him that is very different from what I have heard tell of demons, for they say that they all stink of sulphur and other evil smells, but you can scent the amber on this one half a league away.”

He was speaking of Don Fernando, who as a gentleman must of necessity give off the odor that Sancho had mentioned.

“You need not marvel at that, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for I would have you know that the devils are very wise, and while they bear odors with them, they themselves smell of nothing, since, being spirits, they can emit no scent whatsoever, or if they do smell, it is not of anything pleasant but rather something evil and fetid. The reason for this is that, wherever they may be, they bring with them Hell itself and can receive no manner of comfort in their torments; and inasmuch as a pleasing fragrance is something that gives delight and happiness, it is obviously impossible for them to be possessed of such a thing. Accordingly, if this devil appears to you to smell of amber, either you are mistaken or he is trying to deceive you so that you will not take him to be a devil.”

As this conversation occurred between master and man, Don Fernando and Cardenio began to fear that Sancho would discover the entire plot, for he had already gone a long way toward doing so. They therefore decided to hasten their departure and, calling the landlord to one side, they directed him to saddle Rocinante and put the packsaddle on Sancho’s ass, which he did very quickly. The curate, meanwhile, had arranged with the troopers to accompany them as far as the village, promising to pay them so much a day. Cardenio then hung the buckler on one side of the saddletree and the basin on the other and made signs to Sancho to mount his ass and take Rocinante’s rein, while the two troopers² with their muskets were placed one on either side of the cart. Before that vehicle could get under way, however, the landlady, her daughter, and Maritornes came running out to say good-by to Don Quixote, shedding feigned tears of sorrow over his plight.

“Do not weep, my good ladies,” he now said to them, “for all these misfortunes are such as go with the calling that I profess; indeed, if they did not befall me, I should not look upon myself as a famous knight-errant. Such things never happen to knights of little name and reputation for the reason that no one in the world gives them a thought. With the valiant ones it is otherwise, for many princes and many other knights envy them their virtue and their valor and are bent upon destroying the worthy by foul means. But in spite of all this, virtue is omnipotent and, notwithstanding all the necromancy that Zoroaster, first inventor of the art, ever knew, will emerge triumphant from every peril and bestow light on the world as does the sun in the heavens. Forgive me, fair ladies, if, without meaning to do so, I have given you any offense, for I would not willingly and knowingly offend anyone. Pray, then, to God to rescue me from this captivity in which some enchanter of evil intent has placed me; and when I am free, I will by no means forget the favors which you in this castle have shown me, but will acknowledge, requite, and reward them as they deserve.”

As the “ladies of the castle” are conversing with Don Quixote, the others take leave of one another. The innkeeper comes up and hands the curate some papers which he says he found in the lining of the trunk or valise where the “Story of the One Who Was Too Curious for His Own Good” had been discovered. He tells the curate to keep them, as he himself does not know how to read. Among the manuscripts is “The Story of Rinconete and Cortadillo.”

The party then gets under way. First comes the cart, driven by its owner. The two officers of the Holy Brotherhood march along at the side, and Sancho Panza follows on his ass, leading Rocinante, while the curate and the barber, seated on their mules and still wearing their masks, bring up the rear. Don Quixote sits in the cage with his hands bound and his feet stretched out; he leans patiently back against the bars and is as silent as a stone statue.

The procession has not gone far when it is overtaken by a group of riders who prove to be a canon of Toledo and his attendants. His curiosity aroused by the sight before him, the canon inquires of the troopers what the meaning of it all is. Don Quixote answers him in the jargon of chivalry that he customarily speaks, asserting that he is being carried away “as a result of the envy and deceit of wicked magicians,” and the curate bears him out in this, whereupon the churchman is more puzzled than ever.

When the canon heard both the prisoner and the one who walked free beside him speak in this manner, he was ready to cross himself from astonishment and could not believe his own ears, while all his companions were equally amazed. Then it was that Sancho Panza, who had drawn near to listen to their talk, put the finishing touch on it all.

“Well, sirs,” he said, “whether or not you like what I am going to say, the fact is that my master, Don Quixote, is no more enchanted than my mother, for he has all his senses about him and eats and drinks and attends to his necessities like the rest of us, just as he did yesterday before they put him in this cage. This being so, how would you have me believe that he is enchanted? For I have heard many people say that those that are under a magic spell neither eat nor sleep nor speak, whereas my master, if you do not take him in hand, will do more talking than thirty lawyers.”

Turning, then, to look the curate in the face, he went on, “Ah, Señor Curate! Señor Curate! So, your Grace thought I didn’t know you and that I would not guess what the purpose of these new enchantments is? Well, then, I can tell you that I recognize you no matter how much you cover your face and that I know what you are up to no matter how cleverly and deceitfully you attempt to hide it. In short, where envy reigns virtue cannot live, nor generosity where there is miserliness. Devil take it all, if it wasn’t for your Reverence, my master would be getting married to the Princess Micomicona right now and I would be a count at the very least, since I could expect no less from my kind-hearted master, him of the Mournful Countenance, after all that I have done for him. But now I see that it is true what they say hereabouts, that fortune’s wheel turns faster than that of a mill, and those that yesterday were up on top today are down on the ground.

“It grieves me to think about my wife and children, who rightly expect to see their father and husband returning home and coming through the door as governor or viceroy of some island or kingdom, and instead they will see him coming in as a stable boy. All this that I am saying to you, Señor Curate, is by way of urging your Paternity to have a conscience and not treat my master so badly as you are doing; for look well to it that God in the other life does not ask you to account for holding Senor Don Quixote a prisoner like this, and hold you responsible for all the good my master might have done and the aid he might have given others during all this time.”

“Trim those lamps for me!”³ cried the barber at this point. “So you, Sancho, are of the same confraternity as your master, are you? Good lord, but I’m beginning to think you ought to be in the cage there with him, for you’re as much bewitched as he is when it comes to the subject of chivalry! It was an evil day for you when your brains became impregnated with all those promises that he made you and you got that island into your head that you’ve so set your heart on.”

“I’m not pregnant by anybody,” declared Sancho, “nor am I the man to let myself be put in that condition by any king that ever lived. I may be poor, but I’m an old Christian and I don’t owe anyone anything. If I want islands, there are others who want worse things. Each one is the son of his own works, and being a man I may come to be pope, not to speak of being governor of an island; for my master may win so many that there will not be people enough to give them to. Sir Barber, you had better watch what you say, for sharing isn’t everything and there is some difference between Peter and Peter. I say this because we all know one another and it won’t do to throw false dice with me. And as for my master’s being enchanted, God knows the truth, so leave it as it is, for it is better not to stir it.”

The barber did not care to answer Sancho for fear that the latter in his simple-mindedness would reveal what he and the curate were trying so hard to conceal.

The curate and the canon ride ahead together, and their talk turns to the romances of chivalry. The canon, after denouncing them as ridiculous, false, and “harmful to the well-being of the state,” goes on to discuss what works of fiction should be.

“For in works of fiction there should be a mating between the plot and the reader’s intelligence. They should be so written that the impossible is made to appear possible, things hard to believe being smoothed over and the mind held in suspense in such a manner as to create surprise and astonishment while at the same time they divert and entertain so that admiration and pleasure go hand in hand. But these are things which he cannot accomplish who flees verisimilitude and the imitation of nature, qualities that go to constitute perfection in the art of writing.

“Never,” concluded the canon, “have I seen any book of chivalry that held the body of a story completely with all its members so that the middle was consistent with the beginning and the end with the beginning and the middle. Rather, they are made up of so many disparate members that it would seem the author’s intention was to create a chimera or a monster rather than a well-proportioned figure. In addition to all this, they are crude in style, unconvincing in the exploits that they relate, lascivious in the love affairs that they portray, uncouth in their efforts at courtliness, prolix in their description of battles, absurd in their dialogue, nonsensical in their accounts of journeyings, and, finally, destitute of anything that resembles art; for which reason it is they deserve to be banished from the Christian state as not being of public utility.”

This discussion continues to the end of the chapter (Chapter XLVII) and into the next.

CHAPTER XLVIII. In which the canon continues his discourse on the subject of books of chivalry, with other matters worthy of his intelligence.

“IT IS as your Grace has said, Senor Canon,” re marked the curate, “and for that reason they are all the more deserving of reprehension who up to now have composed such books without giving any thought to good taste or the rules of art by which they might have been guided, and thereby have rendered themselves as famous in prose as the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry are in verse.”

“However that may be,” replied the canon, “I myself was once tempted to write a book of chivalry, observing all the points that I have mentioned; and if I am to confess the truth, I have more than a hundred sheets already written. By way of putting them to the test and seeing if they were as good as I thought they were, I have submitted them to certain individuals who are passionately fond of this type of reading. Some of these persons were wise and learned, while others were ignorant, being concerned solely with the pleasure they derive from listening to nonsense, but all of them were warmly appreciative of my effort. I did not go on, however, for it seemed to me, on the one hand, that I was engaged in doing something that was foreign to my profession, and, on the other hand, the foolish impressed me as being more numerous than the wise; and while the praise of the discerning few offsets the scorn of the unknowing many, I still did not care to subject myself to the confused judgment of that vapid public to which the reading of such works is for the most part confined.

“But what did most to stay my hand and even caused me to give up all thought of finishing what I had begun was an argument that I put to myself, drawn from the comedies that are now being performed. It ran as follows: All of these pieces, or the greater part of them at any rate, whether purely fictitious or historical in character, are obviously nonsensical, without head or tail, yet the public takes pleasure in witnessing them and regards them as worthy productions, though they are far from good. And the authors who compose them and the actors who perform them tell us that plays have to be of this sort, since the public wants precisely that kind of thing and nothing else, whereas those pieces that have a plot and develop the story in an artistic fashion will appeal only to a handful of intelligent persons who are able to understand them, while all the others will fail to perceive the art that is in them. This being so, they—the authors and actors—prefer to gain their bread with the many rather than subsist on the good opinion of the few. In which case, my book, after I should have scorched my eyebrows in an attempt to observe the precepts I have mentioned, would meet with the same fate as other works of merit, and I should end up by being the tailor of El Campillo.¹

“Although I have a number of times endeavored to persuade the actors that they are wrong in the view they hold, and that they would attract more people and win more fame for themselves by producing comedies that follow the rules of art than they do by performing in these silly ones, they are so firmly set in their opinion that no amount of reasoning or evidence will convince them that they are wrong. I remember saying to one of the stubborn fellows once upon a time: ‘Do you not recall that, only a few years ago, there were three tragedies put upon the boards here in Spain, written by a famous poet of this realm, which were so pleasing as to arouse the admiration and hold the interest of all who heard them, the simple as well as the wise, the general public as well as the select few, and which brought in more money to the performers—these three alone—than thirty of the best that up to then had been produced?’

“‘You mean, of course,’ the author replied, ‘the Isabella, the Phyllis, and the Alexandra?’ ²

“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘those are the ones of which I am speaking, and see if they do not well observe the rules of art, and if, superior creations that they are, they are not still pleasing to everyone. The fault therefore lies not with the public that asks for silly pieces, but with those who do not know how to put on anything else. The Ingratitude Avenged was not nonsense; neither was the Numantia, nor The Merchant Lover, and certainly not The Fair and Favoring Enemy;³ and the same might be said of others composed by intelligent poets, to their own fame and renown and the profit of those who put on the plays.’

“I had other things to say along the same line, which left him, I thought, a bit embarrassed but by no means sufficiently convinced to give up his erroneous opinion.”

“Senor Canon,” said the curate, “by touching upon this subject you have awakened an old grudge of mine against the comedies of today, one that is equal to that which I hold against books of chivalry. For, according to Tully, a comedy should be a mirror of human life, an example of manners, and an image of the truth;⁴ yet those that we see now are mirrors of nonsense, examples of foolishness, and images of lasciviousness. In connection with the subject of which we are speaking, what could be more absurd than for a character to appear as an infant in Act I, Scene 1, and in the following scene step out as a full-bearded man? What more out of place than to depict for us an old man parading his valor, a youth who plays the cringing coward, an eloquent lackey, a page wise in giving counsel, a king turned porter, or a princess serving as a kitchen wench?

“And what shall I say of the attention that is paid to the element of time in connection with the action that is represented? I may merely tell you that I have witnessed a comedy in which the first act takes place in Europe, the second in Asia, and the third in Africa—and if there had been a fourth act, the scene would have been laid in America and thus they would have encompassed the four quarters of the globe. If fidelity to life be the principal object which a comedy should have in view, how is it possible for the most mediocre intelligence to find any satisfaction in one where the action is supposed to take place in the time of King Pepin or Charlemagne, yet which has for its leading character the Emperor Heraclius entering Jerusalem with the Holy Cross and recovering the Holy Sepulcher like Godefroi de Bouillon, when there is a vast stretch of time between the two monarchs? Or in one which, essentially fictitious, makes a pretense at historical accuracy by mingling odds and ends of various events that happened to different persons at different times, and this with no attempt at verisimilitude but with obvious errors that are utterly inexcusable? And the sad part of it is, there are ignorant ones who say that this is the perfect thing and all the rest is affectation.

“And then, coming to religious dramas, what do we find? How many false miracles do their authors invent, how many apocryphal and erroneous incidents, with the wonders worked by one saint attributed to another! And even in those comedies that deal with human themes they dare to introduce miracles without rhyme or reason, merely because they think that such a scenic effect,⁵ as they term it, will fit in well and serve to attract the ignorant, who will come to see the play and marvel at it. All of which is prejudicial to the truth, tending to corrupt history and cast opprobrium upon the Spanish genius; for those foreigners⁶ that scrupulously observe the rules of comedy are led to look upon us as unschooled barbarians by reason of the absurdity and nonsense to be found in the productions of our theater.

“Nor is it a sufficient excuse for all this to say that the principal object which well-ordered states have in view in permitting the public performance of comedies is to provide the community with a little harmless recreation now and then and thus divert those evil impulses that idleness is wont to breed. It may be said that this end is attained by any comedy, good or bad, and that there is no necessity of laying down laws to govern the composition and performance of such pieces, since, as I have said, the same object is achieved by any kind of play. To this I would reply that it is, beyond any comparison, better achieved by good plays than by the other kind.

“For when he has witnessed a comedy that is well and artfully constructed, the spectator will come out laughing at its humor, enlightened by the truths it contained, marveling at the various incidents, rendered wiser by the arguments, made more wary by the snares he has seen depicted, and more prudent by the examples afforded him; he will leave the theater hating vice and in love with virtue; such are the effects that a good comedy has upon the mind of the listener, however boorish and dull-witted he may be. Nothing, in short, is more impossible than that the play that contains all these qualities should fail to provide more entertainment, satisfaction, and pleasure than the one lacking in them, as is the case with the majority of those that are at present to be viewed.

“It is not the dramatic poets who are to blame for this state of affairs; for many of them are fully conscious of their faults and know very well what ought to be done. But inasmuch as comedies have become salable commodities, the poets in question will tell us, and in this they are right, that their plays will not be bought unless they are after the accepted pattern, and, accordingly, the author seeks to adapt himself to what the actor who is to pay him for his work requires of him. That this is so may be seen from the countless number of comedies composed by one of the most fertile minds⁷ in this realm, plays so full of brilliancy and grace, marked by such polished versification, admirable dialogue, and profound wisdom, and, finally, so full of eloquence and so elevated in style, that his fame has gone out to all the world; and yet, owing to the necessity he has been under of having to adapt them to the taste of the players, not all his productions have attained that degree of perfection that is to be desired.

“Still others compose their pieces without giving a thought to what they are doing; and, as a result, after the performance, the actors have to take to their heels and flee for fear of being punished, as they oftentimes have been, for having put something on the stage that was offensive to a certain monarch or that cast aspersions on some noble house. But all these improprieties would cease, and with them many others that I do not mention, if there were at court some wise and intelligent person to examine all the comedies before they are put on,⁸ not only those that are to be performed in the capital but those that are to be produced in other parts of Spain as well, and without the approval, seal, and signature of that individual no local officer of the crown should permit any comedy to be staged. Under such a system, the performers would be at pains to forward their plays to the capital for inspection and then would be able to act in them with safety, while the authors, knowing that their works would have to pass a rigorous and intelligent censorship and being fearful of offending, would devote more care and attention to them, and as a consequence would produce good comedies, thus achieving in a felicitous manner the objectives for which they strive: the entertainment of the people and, at the same time, the furthering of the reputation of Spanish dramatists and of the interest and security of the performers, the necessity of punishing the latter having been removed.”

At this point, having reached a suitable place, they halt for their noontide rest and begin their preparations for a repast.

While this was going on, Sancho decided to take advantage of the opportunity to speak to his master without the constant presence of the curate and the barber, whom he looked upon with suspicion.

“Master,” he said, going up to the cage, “I want to get a load off my conscience by telling you what goes on in connection with your enchantment. The truth of the matter is that those two with their faces covered are the curate of our village and the barber, and it is my belief that they have plotted to carry you off like this out of pure spite, because your Grace is so far ahead of them in famous deeds. If this is so, then it follows that you are not under a spell at all but have been hoodwinked and made a fool of. Just to prove this, I’d like to ask you one thing, and if you answer me as I think you will have to, then you’ll be able to lay your hand on what’s wrong and will see that you are not enchanted but simply out of your head.”

“Ask me whatever you like, Sancho my son,” replied Don Quixote, “and I will give you an answer that will satisfy you on every point. As to what you say about those who accompany us being the curate and the barber, our fellow townsmen whom we know very well, that is who they may appear to you to be, but you are not by any manner of means to believe that that is what they really and truly are. What you are rather to understand is that if they have, as you say, this appearance in your eyes, it must be for the reason that those who have put this spell upon me have seen fit to assume that form and likeness; for it is easy enough for enchanters to take whatever form they like, and so they must have assumed the appearance of our friends expressly for the purpose of leading you to think what you do, thus involving you in a labyrinth of fancies from which you would not succeed in extricating yourself even though you had the cord of Theseus.

“They also doubtless had another purpose, that of causing me to waver in my mind, so that I should not be able to form a conjecture as to the source of this wrong that is done me. For, if on the one hand you tell me it is the barber and the curate of our village who accompany us, and on the other hand I find myself shut up in a cage, knowing full well that no human but only a superhuman power could have put me behind these bars, what would you have me say to you or what would you have me think except that my enchantment, in view of the manner in which it has been accomplished, is like none that I have ever read about in all the histories that treat of knights-errant who have been laid under a spell? And so you may set your mind at rest as to the suspicions that you have voiced, for those two are no more what you say they are than I am a Turk. But you said that you had something to ask me; speak, then, and I will answer you, though you keep on asking until tomorrow morning.”

“May Our Lady help me!” cried Sancho in a loud voice. “Is it possible your Grace is so thick-headed and so lacking in brains that you cannot see that I am telling you the simple truth when I say that malice has more to do than magic with your being in this plight? But since that is the way matters stand, I’d like to prove to you beyond a doubt that there is no magic about it. And now, tell me, as you would have God rescue you from this torment, and as you hope to find yourself in the arms of my lady Dulcinea when you least expect it—”

“Stop conjuring me,” said Don Quixote, “and ask what you like. I have already told you that I will answer you point by point.”

“What I ask is this,” Sancho went on, “and what I would have you tell me, without adding anything to it or leaving anything out, but in all truthfulness, as you would expect it to be told, and as it is told, by all those who like your Grace follow the calling of arms, under the title of knights-errant—”

“I have said that I will tell you no lies,” replied Don Quixote. “Go ahead and finish your question; for in truth you weary me, Sancho, with all these solemn oaths, adjurations, and precautions.”

“I am sure,” said Sancho, “that my master is kind-hearted and truthful; and so, because it has a bearing on what we are talking about, I would ask your Grace, speaking with all due respect, if by any chance, since you have been in that cage and, as it seems to you, under a spell, you have felt the need of doing a major or a minor,⁹ as the saying goes.”

“I do not understand what you mean by ‘doing a major or a minor,’ Sancho. Speak more plainly if you wish me to give you a direct answer.”

“Is it possible that your Grace doesn’t know what ‘a major or a minor’ is? Why, lads in school are weaned on it. What I mean to say is, have you felt like doing that which can’t be put off?”

“Ah, I understand you, Sancho! Yes, many times; and for that matter, right now. Get me out of this, or all will not be as clean here as it ought to be!”

Don Quixote having confessed that he must attend to the needs of nature, Sancho catches him up and they continue their conversation.