Chapter III: Part 3

What are called the pleasures of life—erroneously supposed to be monopolised by the great and the wealthy of this best of worlds—are, in fact, the chief property of us mendicants, who feel no drawback, but taste their flavour with a double relish, without a tithe of their anxiety and trouble to obtain them. Had the happy fellows no other privilege than that of asking freely, and receiving without the least touch of shame or pain, it is such a one as the rest of mankind cannot boast; if we only except monarchs and their royal families, who, without a blush, can demand what they please from their good people, while the sole difference between them and other beggars is, that they always wring out silver and gold even from the poorest people, while we require nothing but a mere trifle from the most proud and wealthy. There is no condition, therefore, more happy and respectable than that of the mendicant, but all do not know their own happiness—“beati si sua bona norint.”

The most part of us—wholly sunk in the enjoyment of mere animal life; insensible of the true pleasure of living independently, free from strife, from all speculative losses, all intrigues of State, eternal business; in short, from the infernal embarrassment in which the great are involved—to the day of their death have the folly to envy what they ought to avoid. The first man who embraced our kind of life must, from his very nature, have been much better than the great—I mean a great philosopher.

I had been led to think that this noble fraternity was safe from the usual shocks of fortune, but the malicious goddess made them occasionally feel the effects of her ire—throwing little stumbling-blocks in their way, much like the one I broke my shins over, when on a visit at Gaeta, whither I had gone out of curiosity, and in the idea that a man already able in the profession would only need to enter the town to feel a revivifying shower of alms poured upon him from all sides. No sooner was I there than, having assumed a new complexion, I placed myself at the entrance into a church. As luck would have it, the governor of the place was then passing, and, after looking at me very earnestly for a few moments, he gave me alms. A number of the natives immediately followed his example, and it acted as a continued benediction for me during more than a week; but there is a medium in all things, and I did not observe the golden rule. On the next festival, my complexion appearing no longer ingenious enough, I changed it for a huge ulcer on my leg, and for this purpose I put in practice one of the choicest secrets of my craft.

After having put my leg into an elegant case, I took an advantageous station at the entrance to a well-frequented church. There, setting up a sorrowful howl, caused by the new pain I felt from the ulcer, I caught the eye of almost every one that passed. I thought I excited the compassion of all who looked on me, but unluckily my rubicund complexion, which I had neglected to sicken over with white, seemed to give the lie to my lamentations, and might well excite suspicion; but good people are not over suspicious, and I heard the golden shower dropping sweetly and plentifully as they went into the house of prayer. In short, I got more than all the rest of my brethren put together, and they wished me at the devil, with my ulcer, that brought the capital into one bank.

As the stars at last would have it, there came the governor to hear mass at this very church—surely for my sins—and he recognised my voice in a moment, surveying me intently from head to foot. Yes, it was my voice, for elsewhere I was impenetrable; my whole person being disguised in the most effectual manner, with a huge napkin round my head, reaching down to my nose. Alas! he was a man of strong natural penetration, and suspicious as the devil; for, as he fixed me with his eyes, he seemed to be saying within himself, “For these several days past I have heard, I have seen, this odd-looking fish; is it possible he has got so dreadful an ulcer—all at once? Let us examine a little farther.” “Friend,” he observed, “you seem in a sad plight; your case truly deserves compassion; come, follow me, I will at least give you a shirt to your back.”

I had the indiscretion to obey, for I suspected nothing. Had I so done, spite of all the people at his heels, I vow I would have given him the slip, and saved my unfortunate carcase. He had no sooner got me safely housed than he assumed a cold and severe aspect, from which I augured nothing pleasant. He then asked me sharply if I were not the person he had seen at the door of a church, with a complexion as pale as death. I grew pale enough indeed at this, and lost all presence of mind; I could not deny it: and when he asked me how I had got so speedily cured of my scalded head and other infirmities I was still more puzzled than before. “Besides,” he continued, “I cannot comprehend how, with that ruddy complexion of thine, thou hast got such a terrible ulcer in the leg.” “My lord,” replied I, quite disconcerted, and trembling in every limb, “I know not how it is, except that it is the will of God.”

But what was my anxiety when I heard the governor direct one of his messengers to go and call in a surgeon. I saw what was coming, and would have made an attempt to save myself had not the doors been already closed upon me. Not a chance was left me; the dreaded surgeon came, he examined my leg; but with all his ability and experience, he would perhaps have been deceived had not the cruel governor privately communicated the reasons he had to believe me an impostor. Of course, he had little merit after that of probing the thing to the bottom; he unbundled it all anew, and putting on a knowing face: “I verily believe,” he said, “the rogue has nothing amiss with his leg, any more than I have with my eyes; I see through it; bring me some warm water;” which being done, he proceeded to restore it to its natural form and colour. I had not a word to say in my defence, and held my tongue.

The governor then ordered me to be presented with a shirt, as he had promised, and this was nothing but a most severe flagellation, administered by a stout fellow, who laid on, at the governor’s special order, with right good will on my bare carcase. After thirty lashes he stopped; I was dressed by the same surgeon, and told to take myself off, spite of my smarting, at double quick time, under a more terrible penalty were I again found in the same territories. This advice was quite superfluous. I hastened from the accursed spot, shrugging up my shoulders, and marched as quickly as possible to reach the milder government of the Pope. I uttered a thousand benedictions at the sight of my well-loved Rome once more; I wept for joy as I entered it, and wished that I had arms long enough to embrace it with the devoted love of some returning prodigal son or happy pilgrim.

I rejoined my comrades, and took care not to say a word of the new marks of honour I had brought back with me; there would have been no end to their raillery, and I should never have heard the last of it. I merely said I had been making a little excursion to the adjacent villages, but, with the exception of Rome, there was no place on which our profession could fairly rely, either for profit or safety. I had indeed been a great ass to leave such a city at all.

_Mateo Aleman._ _Trans. Roscoe._

_OF THE WICKED OLD HOUSEKEEPER, AND THE FIRST KNAVISH PRANKS PAUL
PLAYED AT ALCALA._

When you are at Rome, do as they do at Rome, says the old proverb; and it is well said. I took it so seriously into consideration, that I fully resolved to play the knave among knaves, and to excel them all if possible. I know not whether I succeeded to my wish, but I am sure I used all my endeavours. In the first place, I made a law that it should be no less than death for any pigs to cross the threshold of our house, or for any of the old housekeeper’s chickens to run out of the yard into our room. It happened that one day two of the cleverest porkers that ever my eyes beheld slipped into our dominions; I was then at play with the other servants, and hearing them grunt, said to one of my companions, “Go see who it is that grunts in our house;” he went, and brought word they were actually two swine.

No sooner did I hear, then off I set in a passion, exclaiming—“It was a great deal of impudence in them to grunt in other people’s houses.” Then slamming to the door, in a sudden heat of blood, I ran my sword into the throats of them both, and we afterwards cut off their heads. To prevent their cries for rescue, we all set up our voices to the highest pitch during the operation, and between us they soon gave up the ghost. We next paunched them, saved the blood, and by the help of our straw bed half roasted them in the yard, so that all was over before our masters came home, except the mere making of the black puddings. Don Diego and our steward were informed of this exploit, and flew into such a passion, that the other lodgers, highly amused, were fain to take my part.

The don asked me what I should say for myself when the affair should be found out. I replied that I would plead hunger, the common sanctuary of all scholars; and if that was not enough, I would urge that, seeing them come into the house without knocking, just as if they had been at home, I really thought that they were ours. They all laughed, and Don Diego said, “By my faith, Paul, you begin to understand the trade.” It was well worth observing the difference between my master and me; he so sober and religious, I so arch and roguish, so that the one was a foil to the other, and served to set off either his virtue or his vice. Our old housekeeper was pleased to the very heart, for we both played our parts, and conspired against the larder. I was caterer, and a mere Judas in my employment, ever since retaining an inclination for cribbing and stealing. The meat always wasted in the old woman’s keeping, and she never dressed wedder mutton when she could get ewe or goat. Besides, she picked the flesh off the bones before she boiled them, so that the dishes she served up looked as if the cattle had all died of a consumption. The broth was so clear, that had it been as hard as the bones, it might have passed for crystal; but when she wanted to make it seem a little fat, she clapped in a few candles’ ends. When I was by, she would say to my master, “In truth, sir, Paul is the best servant in Spain, bating his unluckiness, but that may well enough be borne with, because he is so honest.” I gave her the same character, and so we put upon the whole house between us.

When I bought anything at market for the real value, the old body would pretend to fall out and quarrel; and she, seeming to be in a passion, would say, “Do not tell me, Paul, that this is a pennyworth of salad.” At this I pretended to cry and make a great noise, beseeching my master that he would please to send the steward, that he might prove the base calumny of the scolding old woman. By such simple means did we both retain our character for honesty; she appearing to look sharp after me, and I always being found out to be trustworthy. Don Diego, highly pleased, would often say, “Would to God, Paul were as virtuous in other ways as he is honest; I see, my good woman, he is even better than you represent him.” It was thus we had leisure and opportunity to feast on them like horse-leeches.

If you ask how much we might cheat them of in the year’s round, I can only say it amounted to a considerable sum; yet the old woman never missed going to church daily, nor did I perceive any scruple of conscience she made of it, though she was so great a saint. She always wore a pair of beads about her neck, so big, that the wood of them might have served to roast a sirloin of beef. It was all hung with medals, crosses, pictures, and other trinkets, on all which, she said, she prayed every night for her benefactors. She would pray longer than any fanatical preacher, always in dog Latin, the sound of which almost made us split our sides with laughter.

The old woman kept fowls, and had about a dozen fine grown chickens, which made my mouth water, for they were fit for any gentleman’s table. It happened one day, going to feed them, she called, as is the custom in Spain, very loud: “Pio, Pio, Pio.” She repeated it so often, that I cried out in a pretended rage—

“’Fore God! nurse, I wish I had seen you kill a man, or clip and coin, for then I might have kept your counsel; but now I must be forced to discover you. The Lord have mercy upon us both, I say.”

She, seeing me in such disorder, was somewhat alarmed: “Why, Paul,” she said, “what have I done? pray do not jest with me.”

“Jest with you, forsooth, a curse on your iniquity! I cannot avoid giving information to the Inquisition, or I shall be excommunicated.”

“Oh Lord! the Inquisition; have I committed any crime, then?”

“Have you _not_?” I answered; “don’t think to trifle with the Inquisitors; own you are in the wrong; eat your own words as fast as you can, and deny not the blasphemy and irreverence.”

She replied in great consternation: “But, Paul, will they punish me if I recant?”

“No,” I replied, “they will then only absolve you.”

“Then I recant,” said she; “only tell me what it is I have to recant; for I know nothing of it, as I hope for mercy.”

“Bless me,” replied I; “is it possible you should be so dull? the irreverence was so great I hardly know how to express it. Wretch as you are, did you not call the chickens, Pio, Pio; and Pius is the name of several Popes, who are Christ’s vicars upon earth, and heads of the church. Now do you consider whether that be any trifling sin?”

She stood as if she had been thunderstruck, and after a while cried: “’Tis true, I said so, Paul; but may I be burnt if I did it with any ill design. I recant—I do, indeed; and try to find some way not to inform of me; for I shall die if they get me into the Inquisition.”

“Provided you take your oath on the holy altar that you meant it not for blasphemy; but then you must give me the two chickens you called in that unsanctified way, by the names of the Popes, that they may be burnt by the officers of the Inquisition. This you must do now, or I shall otherwise be compelled to lay an information against you as quick as possible.”

She was glad to escape so easily, and instantly consented, giving me three instead of two, which I took to a neighbouring cook, had them dressed, and ate with my companions. Don Diego came to hear of the trick, and made excellent sport of it in the family. The old woman had nearly fretted herself to death for mere vexation, and was a thousand times in the mind of taking revenge, and discovering all my schemes. She was, however, too deeply implicated; and having once quarrelled with me, there was no end to the tricks I played her. In short, I became a great authority in all that the scholars called snatching and shop-lifting, at which I had many pleasant adventures.

One evening, about nine o’clock, as I was passing through the great street, I spied a confectioner’s shop open, and in it a frail of raisins upon the counter. I whipped in, took hold of it, and set a-running; the confectioner scoured after me, and so did several neighbours and servants. Being loaded, I perceived that, though I had the start, they would overtake me, and so, turning the corner of a street, I clapped the frail upon the ground and sat down upon it, and wrapping my cloak about my leg, began to cry out, “God forgive him, he has trod upon me and crippled me.” When they came up I began to cry, “For God’s sake, pity the lame; I pray God you may never be lame!”

“Friend!” they exclaimed, “did you see a man run this way?”

“He is before you,” was my answer, “for he trod upon me.”

I boasted of this exploit, and with some reason: I even invited them to come and see me steal a box of sweetmeats another night. They came, and observing that all the boxes were so far within the shop, that there was no reaching them, they concluded the thing was impracticable. Drawing my sword, however, about a dozen paces from the shop, I ran on, and crying out at the door, “You are a dead man!” I made a strong pass just before the confectioner’s breast, who dropped down calling for help; and my sword running clean through a box of sweetmeats, I drew it, box and all, and took to my heels. They were all amazed at the contrivance, and ready to burst with laughing on hearing him bid the people search him, for that he was badly wounded; even when he found out the cheat he continued to bless himself, while I was employed in eating the fruits of my exploit. My comrades used to say that I could easily maintain my family upon nothing; as much as to say, by my wits and sleight-of-hand. This had the effect of encouraging me to commit more. I used to bring home my girdle, hung all round with little pitchers, which I stole from nuns, begging some water to drink of them; and when they turned it out in their wheel, I went off with the mugs, they being shut up and not able to help themselves.

“_Paul, the Spanish Sharper._” _Quevedo_ (1580-1645).
_Trans. Roscoe._

_ESTEBANILLO ACTS ON THE CARDINAL’S BIRTHDAY!_

When I had been there five weeks, to reward my good service, I was prefe to be under-sweeper below stairs. Thus men rise who behave themselves well in their employment, and are careful to please their superiors. I was barefoot, half-naked, and as black as a collier, when I entered upon my new charge, where I fared not so well as in the kitchen; for places of honour are not often so profitable as those of less reputation, and nothing could stick to me but the dust of the house, whereas before I never wanted a sop in the pan, or other perquisites.

But Fortune so ordered it that the Cardinal’s servants undertook to act a play on his Eminency’s birthday; and in distributing the parts, they pitched upon me to represent a young King of Leon, either because I was young, or for being descended from the renowned Fernan Gonzales, who, as I said before, was my progenitor, and Earl of Castile, before there were kings of that country. I took care to learn my part, and persuaded him that took the management of it to give me half a pound of raisins and a couple of oranges every day, that I might eat a little collation at night, and rub my temples with the orange-peels in the morning fasting, telling him that would help my memory, which was very weak, else I should never get it by heart, tho’ the whole was not above twenty lines; and assuring him I had seen this done by the most celebrated comedians in Spain, when they acted the greatest parts. When the day of the solemnity came, a stately theatre was erected in the largest room in the palace, making a wood of green boughs at the end next the attiring room, where I was to lye asleep, and Moors to come and carry me away captive. My lord, the Cardinal, invited all the men of quality and ladies of the court to this diversion. Our Merry-Andrew actors dressed themselves like so many Jack-Puddings, and all the palace was richly hung and adorned. They put me on a very fine cloth suit, half cover’d with rich silver loops, and laced down the seams, which was as good as giving me wings to take my flight and be gone. Seeing myself in such equipage as I had never known before, I thought not fit to return to my rags again, but resolv’d to shift for myself. The play began at three in the afternoon, the audience consisting of all the flower of the city. The manager of the representation was so active and watchful, because he had hir’d my clothes, and was bound to see them forthcoming, that he never suffered me to go out of his sight. But when they came to that part where I was to appear as if I had been hunting, and then to lye down in the wood, pretending weariness and sleep; I repeated a few verses, and those who came out with me upon the stage having left me, I turn’d into that green copse, where it cannot be said I was taken napping, for going in at one end I follow’d a narrow path that was left among the boughs, to the other end of the theatre, whence I slipped down, and going along under it to the door of that great hall, bid those who stood about it, make way, for I was going to shift my clothes. Upon this they all let me pass, I made but two steps down the stairs, and flew along the streets like an arrow out of a bow, till I came to the sea-shore, whither I had steer’d my course, in hopes of some conveniency to carry me off. I was told afterwards when I returned to Palermo, that at the time when I quitted the stage, there came out half-a-dozen Christian Moors, well stuff’d with gammon of bacon, and encouraged with rich wine; who coming to the wood to seize their prize, thinking I had been there, cry’d out with loud voice: “Young Christian King, appear!” To which I supposing them to be my servants, was to answer, “Is it time to move?” I being then too far on my way, not for fear of being made a slave among infidels, but rather of being stripped of my fine clothes, could not play my part, or answer to the Moors, because I was a mile off, driving a bargain with Christians. The prompter perceiving I did not answer, was very diligent, repeating what I was to say, as believing I had forgot myself, tho’ he was much mistaken, for I had all my business fresh in my head. The Moors being tired with expectation, and concluding I had really fallen asleep, when I ought only to counterfeit, went into the imaginary wood, and found no footsteps of a King. They were all amazed, there was no proceeding on the play; some ran about calling upon me, and others went to enquire after my Majesty, whilst he, who had engag’d for my clothes, tore his hair for vexation, and offer’d vows to Heaven in case I were found, and he escaped that shipwreck. They told the Cardinal I was fled, who answered, I was much in the right to make my escape from the enemies of the Christian religion, and not suffer myself to be made prisoner by them. That, without doubt, I was gone back to the city of Leon, where I kept my court, whence it was likely I would take care to return the clothes; but in the meanwhile, he would pay the value, so that they need not take the trouble of sending after me, for he would not disoblige so great a prince, especially on his birthday. He ordered my part should be read, and the rest of the play acted; which was done accordingly, to the great satisfaction of the audience, and no less of the manager, having such good security for his clothes.

“_The Life of Estebanillo Gonzalez_” (_written by himself
in 1646_). _Trans. Captain John Stevens._

_THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN, DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA._

_Which treats of the condition and way of life of the famous gentleman,
Don Quixote of La Mancha._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What giants?” asked Sancho Panza.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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