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Don Quixote by Miqeul de Cervantes [Saavedra]

Part 21 out of 21

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are more set on finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves.
I speak from my own experience; for when I'm digging I never think
of my old woman; I mean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my
own eyelids." "You say well, Sancho," said the duchess, "and I will
take care that my Altisidora employs herself henceforward in
needlework of some sort; for she is extremely expert at it." "There is
no occasion to have recourse to that remedy, senora," said Altisidora;
"for the mere thought of the cruelty with which this vagabond
villain has treated me will suffice to blot him out of my memory
without any other device; with your highness's leave I will retire,
not to have before my eyes, I won't say his rueful countenance, but
his abominable, ugly looks." "That reminds me of the common saying,
that 'he that rails is ready to forgive,'" said the duke.

Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a
handkerchief, made an obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted
the room.

"Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel," said Sancho, "ill luck betide
thee! Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heart
as hard as oak; had it been me, i'faith 'another cock would have
crowed to thee.'"

So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed
himself and dined with the duke and duchess, and set out the same



The vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast in
one respect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from his
defeat, and his satisfaction from the thought of the virtue that lay
in Sancho, as had been proved by the resurrection of Altisidora;
though it was with difficulty he could persuade himself that the
love-smitten damsel had been really dead. Sancho went along anything
but cheerful, for it grieved him that Altisidora had not kept her
promise of giving him the smocks; and turning this over in his mind he
said to his master, "Surely, senor, I'm the most unlucky doctor in the
world; there's many a physician that, after killing the sick man he
had to cure, requires to be paid for his work, though it is only
signing a bit of a list of medicines, that the apothecary and not he
makes up, and, there, his labour is over; but with me though to cure
somebody else costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches,
pinproddings, and whippings, nobody gives me a farthing. Well, I swear
by all that's good if they put another patient into my hands,
they'll have to grease them for me before I cure him; for, as they
say, 'it's by his singing the abbot gets his dinner,' and I'm not
going to believe that heaven has bestowed upon me the virtue I have,
that I should be dealing it out to others all for nothing."

"Thou art right, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "and
Altisidora has behaved very badly in not giving thee the smocks she
promised; and although that virtue of thine is gratis data- as it
has cost thee no study whatever, any more than such study as thy
personal sufferings may be- I can say for myself that if thou
wouldst have payment for the lashes on account of the disenchant of
Dulcinea, I would have given it to thee freely ere this. I am not
sure, however, whether payment will comport with the cure, and I would
not have the reward interfere with the medicine. I think there will be
nothing lost by trying it; consider how much thou wouldst have,
Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay thyself down with thine
own hand, as thou hast money of mine."

At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a palm's
breadth wide, and in his heart very readily acquiesced in whipping
himself, and said he to his master, "Very well then, senor, I'll
hold myself in readiness to gratify your worship's wishes if I'm to
profit by it; for the love of my wife and children forces me to seem
grasping. Let your worship say how much you will pay me for each
lash I give myself."

"If Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I were to requite thee as the
importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice,
the mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee. See what
thou hast of mine, and put a price on each lash."

"Of them," said Sancho, "there are three thousand three hundred
and odd; of these I have given myself five, the rest remain; let the
five go for the odd ones, and let us take the three thousand three
hundred, which at a quarter real apiece (for I will not take less
though the whole world should bid me) make three thousand three
hundred quarter reals; the three thousand are one thousand five
hundred half reals, which make seven hundred and fifty reals; and
the three hundred make a hundred and fifty half reals, which come to
seventy-five reals, which added to the seven hundred and fifty make
eight hundred and twenty-five reals in all. These I will stop out of
what I have belonging to your worship, and I'll return home rich and
content, though well whipped, for 'there's no taking trout'- but I say
no more."

"O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "how we shall
be bound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the days of our lives that
heaven may grant us! If she returns to her lost shape (and it cannot
be but that she will) her misfortune will have been good fortune,
and my defeat a most happy triumph. But look here, Sancho; when wilt
thou begin the scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of it, I
will give thee a hundred reals over and above."

"When?" said Sancho; "this night without fail. Let your worship
order it so that we pass it out of doors and in the open air, and I'll
scarify myself."

Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the
world, came at last, though it seemed to him that the wheels of
Apollo's car had broken down, and that the day was drawing itself
out longer than usual, just as is the case with lovers, who never make
the reckoning of their desires agree with time. They made their way at
length in among some pleasant trees that stood a little distance
from the road, and there vacating Rocinante's saddle and Dapple's
pack-saddle, they stretched themselves on the green grass and made
their supper off Sancho's stores, and he making a powerful and
flexible whip out of Dapple's halter and headstall retreated about
twenty paces from his master among some beech trees. Don Quixote
seeing him march off with such resolution and spirit, said to him,
"Take care, my friend, not to cut thyself to pieces; allow the
lashes to wait for one another, and do not be in so great a hurry as
to run thyself out of breath midway; I mean, do not lay on so
strenuously as to make thy life fail thee before thou hast reached the
desired number; and that thou mayest not lose by a card too much or
too little, I will station myself apart and count on my rosary here
the lashes thou givest thyself. May heaven help thee as thy good
intention deserves."

"'Pledges don't distress a good payer,'" said Sancho; "I mean to lay
on in such a way as without killing myself to hurt myself, for in
that, no doubt, lies the essence of this miracle."

He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and snatching up
the rope he began to lay on and Don Quixote to count the lashes. He
might have given himself six or eight when he began to think the
joke no trifle, and its price very low; and holding his hand for a
moment, he told his master that he cried off on the score of a blind
bargain, for each of those lashes ought to be paid for at the rate
of half a real instead of a quarter.

"Go on, Sancho my friend, and be not disheartened," said Don
Quixote; "for I double the stakes as to price."

"In that case," said Sancho, "in God's hand be it, and let it rain
lashes." But the rogue no longer laid them on his shoulders, but
laid on to the trees, with such groans every now and then, that one
would have thought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by
the roots. Don Quixote, touched to the heart, and fearing he might
make an end of himself, and that through Sancho's imprudence he
might miss his own object, said to him, "As thou livest, my friend,
let the matter rest where it is, for the remedy seems to me a very
rough one, and it will he well to have patience; 'Zamora was not won
in an hour.' If I have not reckoned wrong thou hast given thyself over
a thousand lashes; that is enough for the present; 'for the ass,' to
put it in homely phrase, 'bears the load, but not the overload.'"

"No, no, senor," replied Sancho; "it shall never be said of me, 'The
money paid, the arms broken;' go back a little further, your
worship, and let me give myself at any rate a thousand lashes more;
for in a couple of bouts like this we shall have finished off the lot,
and there will be even cloth to spare."

"As thou art in such a willing mood," said Don Quixote, "may
heaven aid thee; lay on and I'll retire."

Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that he soon had
the bark stripped off several trees, such was the severity with
which he whipped himself; and one time, raising his voice, and
giving a beech a tremendous lash, he cried out, "Here dies Samson, and
all with him!"

At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel lash,
Don Quixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted halter that
served him for a courbash, said to him, "Heaven forbid, Sancho my
friend, that to please me thou shouldst lose thy life, which is needed
for the support of thy wife and children; let Dulcinea wait for a
better opportunity, and I will content myself with a hope soon to be
realised, and have patience until thou hast gained fresh strength so
as to finish off this business to the satisfaction of everybody."

"As your worship will have it so, senor," said Sancho, "so be it;
but throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I'm sweating and I don't
want to take cold; it's a risk that novice disciplinants run."

Don Quixote obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, who
slept until the sun woke him; they then resumed their journey, which
for the time being they brought to an end at a village that lay
three leagues farther on. They dismounted at a hostelry which Don
Quixote recognised as such and did not take to be a castle with
moat, turrets, portcullis, and drawbridge; for ever since he had
been vanquished he talked more rationally about everything, as will be
shown presently. They quartered him in a room on the ground floor,
where in place of leather hangings there were pieces of painted
serge such as they commonly use in villages. On one of them was
painted by some very poor hand the Rape of Helen, when the bold
guest carried her off from Menelaus, and on the other was the story of
Dido and AEneas, she on a high tower, as though she were making
signals with a half sheet to her fugitive guest who was out at sea
flying in a frigate or brigantine. He noticed in the two stories
that Helen did not go very reluctantly, for she was laughing slyly and
roguishly; but the fair Dido was shown dropping tears the size of
walnuts from her eyes. Don Quixote as he looked at them observed,
"Those two ladies were very unfortunate not to have been born in
this age, and I unfortunate above all men not to have been born in
theirs. Had I fallen in with those gentlemen, Troy would not have been
burned or Carthage destroyed, for it would have been only for me to
slay Paris, and all these misfortunes would have been avoided."

"I'll lay a bet," said Sancho, "that before long there won't be a
tavern, roadside inn, hostelry, or barber's shop where the story of
our doings won't be painted up; but I'd like it painted by the hand of
a better painter than painted these."

"Thou art right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for this painter is
like Orbaneja, a painter there was at Ubeda, who when they asked him
what he was painting, used to say, 'Whatever it may turn out; and if
he chanced to paint a cock he would write under it, 'This is a
cock,' for fear they might think it was a fox. The painter or
writer, for it's all the same, who published the history of this new
Don Quixote that has come out, must have been one of this sort I
think, Sancho, for he painted or wrote 'whatever it might turn out;'
or perhaps he is like a poet called Mauleon that was about the Court
some years ago, who used to answer at haphazard whatever he was asked,
and on one asking him what Deum de Deo meant, he replied De donde
diere. But, putting this aside, tell me, Sancho, hast thou a mind to
have another turn at thyself to-night, and wouldst thou rather have it
indoors or in the open air?"

"Egad, senor," said Sancho, "for what I'm going to give myself, it
comes all the same to me whether it is in a house or in the fields;
still I'd like it to be among trees; for I think they are company
for me and help me to bear my pain wonderfully."

"And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote;
"but, to enable thee to recover strength, we must keep it for our
own village; for at the latest we shall get there the day after

Sancho said he might do as he pleased; but that for his own part
he would like to finish off the business quickly before his blood
cooled and while he had an appetite, because "in delay there is apt to
be danger" very often, and "praying to God and plying the hammer," and
"one take was better than two I'll give thee's," and "a sparrow in the
hand than a vulture on the wing."

"For God's sake, Sancho, no more proverbs!" exclaimed Don Quixote;
"it seems to me thou art becoming sicut erat again; speak in a
plain, simple, straight-forward way, as I have often told thee, and
thou wilt find the good of it."

"I don't know what bad luck it is of mine," argument to my mind;
however, I mean to mend said Sancho, "but I can't utter a word without
a proverb that is not as good as an argument to my mind; however, I
mean to mend if I can;" and so for the present the conversation ended.



All that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and
inn waiting for night, the one to finish off his task of scourging
in the open country, the other to see it accomplished, for therein lay
the accomplishment of his wishes. Meanwhile there arrived at the
hostelry a traveller on horseback with three or four servants, one
of whom said to him who appeared to be the master, "Here, Senor Don
Alvaro Tarfe, your worship may take your siesta to-day; the quarters
seem clean and cool."

When he heard this Don Quixote said to Sancho, "Look here, Sancho;
on turning over the leaves of that book of the Second Part of my
history I think I came casually upon this name of Don Alvaro Tarfe."

"Very likely," said Sancho; "we had better let him dismount, and
by-and-by we can ask about it."

The gentleman dismounted, and the landlady gave him a room on the
ground floor opposite Don Quixote's and adorned with painted serge
hangings of the same sort. The newly arrived gentleman put on a summer
coat, and coming out to the gateway of the hostelry, which was wide
and cool, addressing Don Quixote, who was pacing up and down there, he
asked, "In what direction your worship bound, gentle sir?"

"To a village near this which is my own village," replied Don
Quixote; "and your worship, where are you bound for?"

"I am going to Granada, senor," said the gentleman, "to my own

"And a goodly country," said Don Quixote; "but will your worship
do me the favour of telling me your name, for it strikes me it is of
more importance to me to know it than I can tell you."

"My name is Don Alvaro Tarfe," replied the traveller.

To which Don Quixote returned, "I have no doubt whatever that your
worship is that Don Alvaro Tarfe who appears in print in the Second
Part of the history of Don Quixote of La Mancha, lately printed and
published by a new author."

"I am the same," replied the gentleman; "and that same Don
Quixote, the principal personage in the said history, was a very great
friend of mine, and it was I who took him away from home, or at
least induced him to come to some jousts that were to be held at
Saragossa, whither I was going myself; indeed, I showed him many
kindnesses, and saved him from having his shoulders touched up by
the executioner because of his extreme rashness."

Tell me, Senor Don Alvaro," said Don Quixote, "am I at all like that
Don Quixote you talk of?"

"No indeed," replied the traveller, "not a bit."

"And that Don Quixote-" said our one, "had he with him a squire
called Sancho Panza?"

"He had," said Don Alvaro; "but though he had the name of being very
droll, I never heard him say anything that had any drollery in it."

"That I can well believe," said Sancho at this, "for to come out
with drolleries is not in everybody's line; and that Sancho your
worship speaks of, gentle sir, must be some great scoundrel,
dunderhead, and thief, all in one; for I am the real Sancho Panza, and
I have more drolleries than if it rained them; let your worship only
try; come along with me for a year or so, and you will find they
fall from me at every turn, and so rich and so plentiful that though
mostly I don't know what I am saying I make everybody that hears me
laugh. And the real Don Quixote of La Mancha, the famous, the valiant,
the wise, the lover, the righter of wrongs, the guardian of minors and
orphans, the protector of widows, the killer of damsels, he who has
for his sole mistress the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, is this
gentleman before you, my master; all other Don Quixotes and all
other Sancho Panzas are dreams and mockeries."

"By God I believe it," said Don Alvaro; "for you have uttered more
drolleries, my friend, in the few words you have spoken than the other
Sancho Panza in all I ever heard from him, and they were not a few. He
was more greedy than well-spoken, and more dull than droll; and I am
convinced that the enchanters who persecute Don Quixote the Good
have been trying to persecute me with Don Quixote the Bad. But I don't
know what to say, for I am ready to swear I left him shut up in the
Casa del Nuncio at Toledo, and here another Don Quixote turns up,
though a very different one from mine."

"I don't know whether I am good," said Don Quixote, "but I can
safely say I am not 'the Bad;' and to prove it, let me tell you, Senor
Don Alvaro Tarfe, I have never in my life been in Saragossa; so far
from that, when it was told me that this imaginary Don Quixote had
been present at the jousts in that city, I declined to enter it, in
order to drag his falsehood before the face of the world; and so I
went on straight to Barcelona, the treasure-house of courtesy, haven
of strangers, asylum of the poor, home of the valiant, champion of the
wronged, pleasant exchange of firm friendships, and city unrivalled in
site and beauty. And though the adventures that befell me there are
not by any means matters of enjoyment, but rather of regret, I do
not regret them, simply because I have seen it. In a word, Senor Don
Alvaro Tarfe, I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, the one that fame
speaks of, and not the unlucky one that has attempted to usurp my name
and deck himself out in my ideas. I entreat your worship by your
devoir as a gentleman to be so good as to make a declaration before
the alcalde of this village that you never in all your life saw me
until now, and that neither am I the Don Quixote in print in the
Second Part, nor this Sancho Panza, my squire, the one your worship

"That I will do most willingly," replied Don Alvaro; "though it
amazes me to find two Don Quixotes and two Sancho Panzas at once, as
much alike in name as they differ in demeanour; and again I say and
declare that what I saw I cannot have seen, and that what happened
me cannot have happened."

"No doubt your worship is enchanted, like my lady Dulcinea del
Toboso," said Sancho; "and would to heaven your disenchantment
rested on my giving myself another three thousand and odd lashes
like what I'm giving myself for her, for I'd lay them on without
looking for anything."

"I don't understand that about the lashes," said Don Alvaro.
Sancho replied that it was a long story to tell, but he would tell him
if they happened to he going the same road.

By this dinner-time arrived, and Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined
together. The alcalde of the village came by chance into the inn
together with a notary, and Don Quixote laid a petition before him,
showing that it was requisite for his rights that Don Alvaro Tarfe,
the gentleman there present, should make a declaration before him that
he did not know Don Quixote of La Mancha, also there present, and that
he was not the one that was in print in a history entitled "Second
Part of Don Quixote of La Mancha, by one Avellaneda of Tordesillas."
The alcalde finally put it in legal form, and the declaration was made
with all the formalities required in such cases, at which Don
Quixote and Sancho were in high delight, as if a declaration of the
sort was of any great importance to them, and as if their words and
deeds did not plainly show the difference between the two Don Quixotes
and the two Sanchos. Many civilities and offers of service were
exchanged by Don Alvaro and Don Quixote, in the course of which the
great Manchegan displayed such good taste that he disabused Don Alvaro
of the error he was under; and he, on his part, felt convinced he must
have been enchanted, now that he had been brought in contact with
two such opposite Don Quixotes.

Evening came, they set out from the village, and after about half
a league two roads branched off, one leading to Don Quixote's village,
the other the road Don Alvaro was to follow. In this short interval
Don Quixote told him of his unfortunate defeat, and of Dulcinea's
enchantment and the remedy, all which threw Don Alvaro into fresh
amazement, and embracing Don Quixote and Sancho he went his way, and
Don Quixote went his. That night he passed among trees again in
order to give Sancho an opportunity of working out his penance,
which he did in the same fashion as the night before, at the expense
of the bark of the beech trees much more than of his back, of which he
took such good care that the lashes would not have knocked off a fly
had there been one there. The duped Don Quixote did not miss a
single stroke of the count, and he found that together with those of
the night before they made up three thousand and twenty-nine. The
sun apparently had got up early to witness the sacrifice, and with his
light they resumed their journey, discussing the deception practised
on Don Alvaro, and saying how well done it was to have taken his
declaration before a magistrate in such an unimpeachable form. That
day and night they travelled on, nor did anything worth mention happen
them, unless it was that in the course of the night Sancho finished
off his task, whereat Don Quixote was beyond measure joyful. He
watched for daylight, to see if along the road he should fall in
with his already disenchanted lady Dulcinea; and as he pursued his
journey there was no woman he met that he did not go up to, to see
if she was Dulcinea del Toboso, as he held it absolutely certain
that Merlin's promises could not lie. Full of these thoughts and
anxieties, they ascended a rising ground wherefrom they descried their
own village, at the sight of which Sancho fell on his knees
exclaiming, "Open thine eyes, longed-for home, and see how thy son
Sancho Panza comes back to thee, if not very rich, very well
whipped! Open thine arms and receive, too, thy son Don Quixote, who,
if he comes vanquishe by the arm of another, comes victor over
himself, which, as he himself has told me, is the greatest victory
anyone can desire. I'm bringing back money, for if I was well whipped,
I went mounted like a gentleman."

"Have done with these fooleries," said Don Quixote; "let us push
on straight and get to our own place, where we will give free range to
our fancies, and settle our plans for our future pastoral life."

With this they descended the slope and directed their steps to their



At the entrance of the village, so says Cide Hamete, Don Quixote saw
two boys quarrelling on the village threshing-floor one of whom said
to the other, "Take it easy, Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again
as long as thou livest."

Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, "Dost thou not
mark, friend, what that boy said, 'Thou shalt never see it again as
long as thou livest'?"

"Well," said Sancho, "what does it matter if the boy said so?"

"What!" said Don Quixote, "dost thou not see that, applied to the
object of my desires, the words mean that I am never to see Dulcinea

Sancho was about to answer, when his attention was diverted by
seeing a hare come flying across the plain pursued by several
greyhounds and sportsmen. In its terror it ran to take shelter and
hide itself under Dapple. Sancho caught it alive and presented it to
Don Quixote, who was saying, "Malum signum, malum signum! a hare
flies, greyhounds chase it, Dulcinea appears not."

"Your worship's a strange man," said Sancho; "let's take it for
granted that this hare is Dulcinea, and these greyhounds chasing it
the malignant enchanters who turned her into a country wench; she
flies, and I catch her and put her into your worship's hands, and
you hold her in your arms and cherish her; what bad sign is that, or
what ill omen is there to be found here?"

The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look at the hare,
and Sancho asked one of them what their quarrel was about. He was
answered by the one who had said, "Thou shalt never see it again as
long as thou livest," that he had taken a cage full of crickets from
the other boy, and did not mean to give it back to him as long as he
lived. Sancho took out four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to
the boy for the cage, which he placed in Don Quixote's hands,
saying, "There, senor! there are the omens broken and destroyed, and
they have no more to do with our affairs, to my thinking, fool as I
am, than with last year's clouds; and if I remember rightly I have
heard the curate of our village say that it does not become Christians
or sensible people to give any heed to these silly things; and even
you yourself said the same to me some time ago, telling me that all
Christians who minded omens were fools; but there's no need of
making words about it; let us push on and go into our village."

The sportsmen came up and asked for their hare, which Don Quixote
gave them. They then went on, and upon the green at the entrance of
the town they came upon the curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco
busy with their breviaries. It should be mentioned that Sancho had
thrown, by way of a sumpter-cloth, over Dapple and over the bundle
of armour, the buckram robe painted with flames which they had put
upon him at the duke's castle the night Altisidora came back to
life. He had also fixed the mitre on Dapple's head, the oddest
transformation and decoration that ever ass in the world underwent.
They were at once recognised by both the curate and the bachelor,
who came towards them with open arms. Don Quixote dismounted and
received them with a close embrace; and the boys, who are lynxes
that nothing escapes, spied out the ass's mitre and came running to
see it, calling out to one another, "Come here, boys, and see Sancho
Panza's ass figged out finer than Mingo, and Don Quixote's beast
leaner than ever."

So at length, with the boys capering round them, and accompanied
by the curate and the bachelor, they made their entrance into the
town, and proceeded to Don Quixote's house, at the door of which
they found his housekeeper and niece, whom the news of his arrival had
already reached. It had been brought to Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife,
as well, and she with her hair all loose and half naked, dragging
Sanchica her daughter by the hand, ran out to meet her husband; but
seeing him coming in by no means as good case as she thought a
governor ought to be, she said to him, "How is it you come this way,
husband? It seems to me you come tramping and footsore, and looking
more like a disorderly vagabond than a governor."

"Hold your tongue, Teresa," said Sancho; "often 'where there are
pegs there are no flitches;' let's go into the house and there
you'll hear strange things. I bring money, and that's the main
thing, got by my own industry without wronging anybody."

"You bring the money, my good husband," said Teresa, "and no
matter whether it was got this way or that; for, however you may
have got it, you'll not have brought any new practice into the world."

Sanchica embraced her father and asked him if he brought her
anything, for she had been looking out for him as for the showers of
May; and she taking hold of him by the girdle on one side, and his
wife by the hand, while the daughter led Dapple, they made for their
house, leaving Don Quixote in his, in the hands of his niece and
housekeeper, and in the company of the curate and the bachelor.

Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season,
withdrew in private with the bachelor and the curate, and in a few
words told them of his defeat, and of the engagement he was under
not to quit his village for a year, which he meant to keep to the
letter without departing a hair's breadth from it, as became a
knight-errant bound by scrupulous good faith and the laws of
knight-errantry; and of how he thought of turning shepherd for that
year, and taking his diversion in the solitude of the fields, where he
could with perfect freedom give range to his thoughts of love while he
followed the virtuous pastoral calling; and he besought them, if
they had not a great deal to do and were not prevented by more
important business, to consent to be his companions, for he would
buy sheep enough to qualify them for shepherds; and the most important
point of the whole affair, he could tell them, was settled, for he had
given them names that would fit them to a T. The curate asked what
they were. Don Quixote replied that he himself was to be called the
shepherd Quixotize and the bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the
curate the shepherd Curambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.

Both were astounded at Don Quixote's new craze; however, lest he
should once more make off out of the village from them in pursuit of
his chivalry, they trusting that in the course of the year he might be
cured, fell in with his new project, applauded his crazy idea as a
bright one, and offered to share the life with him. "And what's more,"
said Samson Carrasco, "I am, as all the world knows, a very famous
poet, and I'll be always making verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it
may come into my head, to pass away our time in those secluded regions
where we shall be roaming. But what is most needful, sirs, is that
each of us should choose the name of the shepherdess he means to
glorify in his verses, and that we should not leave a tree, be it ever
so hard, without writing up and carving her name on it, as is the
habit and custom of love-smitten shepherds."

"That's the very thing," said Don Quixote; "though I am relieved
from looking for the name of an imaginary shepherdess, for there's the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these brooksides, the
ornament of these meadows, the mainstay of beauty, the cream of all
the graces, and, in a word, the being to whom all praise is
appropriate, be it ever so hyperbolical."

"Very true," said the curate; "but we the others must look about for
accommodating shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way or

"And," added Samson Carrasco, "if they fail us, we can call them
by the names of the ones in print that the world is filled with,
Filidas, Amarilises, Dianas, Fleridas, Galateas, Belisardas; for as
they sell them in the market-places we may fairly buy them and make
them our own. If my lady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens to
be called Ana, I'll sing her praises under the name of Anarda, and
if Francisca, I'll call her Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it
all comes to the same thing; and Sancho Panza, if he joins this
fraternity, may glorify his wife Teresa Panza as Teresaina."

Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the name, and the curate
bestowed vast praise upon the worthy and honourable resolution he
had made, and again offered to bear him company all the time that he
could spare from his imperative duties. And so they took their leave
of him, recommending and beseeching him to take care of his health and
treat himself to a suitable diet.

It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard all the three
of them said; and as soon as they were gone they both of them came
in to Don Quixote, and said the niece, "What's this, uncle? Now that
we were thinking you had come back to stay at home and lead a quiet
respectable life there, are you going to get into fresh entanglements,
and turn 'young shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd
going there?' Nay! indeed 'the straw is too hard now to make pipes

"And," added the housekeeper, "will your worship be able to bear,
out in the fields, the heats of summer, and the chills of winter,
and the howling of the wolves? Not you; for that's a life and a
business for hardy men, bred and seasoned to such work almost from the
time they were in swaddling-clothes. Why, to make choice of evils,
it's better to be a knight-errant than a shepherd! Look here, senor;
take my advice- and I'm not giving it to you full of bread and wine,
but fasting, and with fifty years upon my head- stay at home, look
after your affairs, go often to confession, be good to the poor, and
upon my soul be it if any evil comes to you."

"Hold your peace, my daughters," said Don Quixote; "I know very well
what my duty is; help me to bed, for I don't feel very well; and
rest assured that, knight-errant now or wandering shepherd to be, I
shall never fail to have a care for your interests, as you will see in
the end." And the good wenches (for that they undoubtedly were), the
housekeeper and niece, helped him to bed, where they gave him
something to eat and made him as comfortable as possible.



As nothing that is man's can last for ever, but all tends ever
downwards from its beginning to its end, and above all man's life, and
as Don Quixote's enjoyed no special dispensation from heaven to stay
its course, its end and close came when he least looked for it. For-
whether it was of the dejection the thought of his defeat produced, or
of heaven's will that so ordered it- a fever settled upon him and kept
him in his bed for six days, during which he was often visited by
his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, while his good
squire Sancho Panza never quitted his bedside. They, persuaded that it
was grief at finding himself vanquished, and the object of his
heart, the liberation and disenchantment of Dulcinea, unattained, that
kept him in this state, strove by all the means in their power to
cheer him up; the bachelor bidding him take heart and get up to
begin his pastoral life, for which he himself, he said, had already
composed an eclogue that would take the shine out of all Sannazaro had
ever written, and had bought with his own money two famous dogs to
guard the flock, one called Barcino and the other Butron, which a
herdsman of Quintanar had sold him.

But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His
friends called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well
satisfied with it, and said that in any case it would be well for
him to attend to the health of his soul, as that of his body was in
a bad way. Don Quixote heard this calmly; but not so his
housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, who fell weeping bitterly,
as if they had him lying dead before them. The doctor's opinion was
that melancholy and depression were bringing him to his end. Don
Quixote begged them to leave him to himself, as he had a wish to sleep
a little. They obeyed, and he slept at one stretch, as the saying
is, more than six hours, so that the housekeeper and niece thought
he was going to sleep for ever. But at the end of that time he woke
up, and in a loud voice exclaimed, "Blessed be Almighty God, who has
shown me such goodness. In truth his mercies are boundless, and the
sins of men can neither limit them nor keep them back!"

The niece listened with attention to her uncle's words, and they
struck her as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at
least during his illness, so she asked, "What are you saying, senor?
Has anything strange occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are
you talking of?"

"The mercies, niece," said Don Quixote, "are those that God has this
moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to
them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of
ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books
of chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities and
deceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my
illusions has come so late that it leaves me no time to make some
amends by reading other books that might be a light to my soul. Niece,
I feel myself at the point of death, and I would fain meet it in
such a way as to show that my life has not been so ill that I should
leave behind me the name of a madman; for though I have been one, I
would not that the fact should be made plainer at my death. Call in to
me, my dear, my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco,
and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my
will." But his niece was saved the trouble by the entrance of the
three. The instant Don Quixote saw them he exclaimed, "Good news for
you, good sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote of La Mancha, but
Alonso Quixano, whose way of life won for him the name of Good. Now am
I the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless troop of
his descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories of
knight-errantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into which
reading them brought me; now, by God's mercy schooled into my right
senses, I loathe them."

When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt
whatever that some new craze had taken possession of him; and said
Samson, "What? Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the
lady Dulcinea being disenchanted, are you taking this line; now,
just as we are on the point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives
singing, like princes, are you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for
heaven's sake, be rational and let's have no more nonsense."

"All that nonsense," said Don Quixote, "that until now has been a
reality to my hurt, my death will, with heaven's help, turn to my
good. I feel, sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to
jesting; let me have a confessor to confess me, and a notary to make
my will; for in extremities like this, man must not trifle with his
soul; and while the curate is confessing me let some one, I beg, go
for the notary."

They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote's words; but,
though uncertain, they were inclined to believe him, and one of the
signs by which they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so
sudden and complete return to his senses after having been mad; for to
the words already quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so
devout, and so rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that
he was sound of mind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone
with him confessed him. The bachelor went for the notary and
returned shortly afterwards with him and with Sancho, who, having
already learned from the bachelor the condition his master was in, and
finding the housekeeper and niece weeping, began to blubber and shed

The confession over, the curate came out saying, "Alonso Quixano the
Good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go
in to him while he makes his will."

This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the
housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears
burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of
a truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso
Quixano the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was
always of a gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence
he was beloved, not only by those of his own house, but by all who
knew him.

The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the
had been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God with
all the devout formalities that are usual, coming to the bequests,
he said, "Item, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the
hands of Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire),
inasmuch as between him and me there have been certain accounts and
debits and credits, no claim be made against him, nor any account
demanded of him in respect of them; but that if anything remain over
and above, after he has paid himself what I owe him, the balance,
which will be but little, shall be his, and much good may it do him;
and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving him the government
of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could give him that of
a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his character and
the fidelity of his conduct deserve it." And then, turning to
Sancho, he said, "Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to seem as
mad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself fell
into, that there were and still are knights-errant in the world."

"Ah!" said Sancho weeping, "don't die, master, but take my advice
and live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this
life is to let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody
killing him, or any hands but melancholy's making an end of him. Come,
don't be lazy, but get up from your bed and let us take to the
fields in shepherd's trim as we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we
shall find the lady Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine as fine can be.
If it be that you are dying of vexation at having been vanquished, lay
the blame on me, and say you were overthrown because I had girthed
Rocinante badly; besides you must have seen in your books of
chivalry that it is a common thing for knights to upset one another,
and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror tomorrow."

"Very true," said Samson, "and good Sancho Panza's view of these
cases is quite right."

"Sirs, not so fast," said Don Quixote, "'in last year's nests
there are no birds this year.' I was mad, now I am in my senses; I was
Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the
Good; and may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you
used to have for me; and now let Master Notary proceed.

"Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my
niece, here present, after all has been deducted from the most
available portion of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I
have made. And the first disbursement I desire to be made is the
payment of the wages I owe for the time my housekeeper has served
me, with twenty ducats, over and above, for a gown. The curate and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, now present, I appoint my executors.

"Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to
marry, she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all
ascertained by information taken that he does not know what books of
chivalry are; and if it should be proved that he does, and if, in
spite of this, my niece insists upon marrying him, and does marry him,
then that she shall forfeit the whole of what I have left her, which
my executors shall devote to works of charity as they please.

"Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that, if
any happy chance should lead them to discover the author who is said
to have written a history now going about under the title of 'Second
Part of the Achievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha,' they beg of him
on my behalf as earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been,
without intending it, the cause of his writing so many and such
monstrous absurdities as he has written in it; for I am leaving the
world with a feeling of compunction at having provoked him to write

With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over him he
stretched himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutter
and made haste to relieve him, and during the three days he lived
after that on which he made his will he fainted away very often. The
house was all in confusion; but still the niece ate and the
housekeeper drank and Sancho Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting
property wipes out or softens down in the heir the feeling of grief
the dead man might be expected to leave behind him.

At last Don Quixote's end came, after he had received all the
sacraments, and had in full and forcible terms expressed his
detestation of books of chivalry. The notary was there at the time,
and he said that in no book of chivalry had he ever read of any
knight-errant dying in his bed so calmly and so like a Christian as
Don Quixote, who amid the tears and lamentations of all present
yielded up his spirit, that is to say died. On perceiving it the
curate begged the notary to bear witness that Alonso Quixano the Good,
commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed away from this
present life, and died naturally; and said he desired this testimony
in order to remove the possibility of any other author save Cide
Hamete Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and making
interminable stories out of his achievements.

Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose
village Cide Hamete would not indicate precisely, in order to leave
all the towns and villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves
for the right to adopt him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities
of Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the
niece and housekeeper are omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs
upon his tomb; Samson Carrasco, however, put the following lines:

A doughty gentleman lies here;
A stranger all his life to fear;
Nor in his death could Death prevail,
In that last hour, to make him quail.
He for the world but little cared;
And at his feats the world was scared;
A crazy man his life he passed,
But in his senses died at last.

And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, "Rest here, hung up by
this brass wire, upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful make or
clumsy cut I know not; here shalt thou remain long ages hence,
unless presumptuous or malignant story-tellers take thee down to
profane thee. But ere they touch thee warn them, and, as best thou
canst, say to them:

Hold off! ye weaklings; hold your hands!
Adventure it let none,
For this emprise, my lord the king,
Was meant for me alone.

For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act,
mine to write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in
spite of that pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or
would venture with his great, coarse, ill-trimmed ostrich quill to
write the achievements of my valiant knight;- no burden for his
shoulders, nor subject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou
shouldst come to know him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they
lie the weary mouldering bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to
carry him off, in opposition to all the privileges of death, to Old
Castile, making him rise from the grave where in reality and truth
he lies stretched at full length, powerless to make any third
expedition or new sally; for the two that he has already made, so much
to the enjoyment and approval of everybody to whom they have become
known, in this as well as in foreign countries, are quite sufficient
for the purpose of turning into ridicule the whole of those made by
the whole set of the knights-errant; and so doing shalt thou discharge
thy Christian calling, giving good counsel to one that bears
ill-will to thee. And I shall remain satisfied, and proud to have been
the first who has ever enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully as
he could desire; for my desire has been no other than to deliver
over to the detestation of mankind the false and foolish tales of
the books of chivalry, which, thanks to that of my true Don Quixote,
are even now tottering, and doubtless doomed to fall for ever.

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