uld move the melancholy to laughter, increase the joy of the cheerful, not irritate the simple, fill the clever with admiration for its invention, not give the serious reason to scorn it, and allow the prudent to praise it. In short, keep your eye on the goal of demolishing the ill-founded apparatus of these chivalric books, despised by many and praised by so many more, and if you accomplish this, you will have accomplished no small thing."
In deep silence I listened to what my friend told me, and his words made so great an impression on me that I did not dispute them but acknowledged their merit and wanted to use them to write this prologue in which you will see, gentle reader, the cleverness of my friend, my good fortune in finding the adviser I needed in time, and your own relief at finding so sincere and uncomplicated a history as that of the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, who is thought by all the residents of the district of Montiel15 to have been the most chaste lover and most valiant knight seen in those environs for many years. I do not want to charge you too much for the service I have performed in introducing you to so noble and honorable a knight; but I do want you to thank me for allowing you to make the acquaintance of the famous Sancho Panza, his squire, in whom, in my opinion, I have summarized for you all the squirely wit and charm scattered throughout the great mass of inane books of chivalry. And having said this, may God grant you health and not forget me. Vale. 16
TO THE BOOK OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
URGANDA THE UNRECOGNIZED 16
If to reach goodly read—
oh book, you proceed with cau-,
you cannot, by the fool-,
be called a stumbling nin-.
But if you are too impa
and pull the loaf untime—
from the fire and go careen—
into the hands of the dim
you'll see them lost and puzz—
though they long to appear learn-.
And since experience teach—
that 'neath a tree that's stur
the shade is the most shelt
in Bejar your star so luck—
unto you a royal tree off-,
its fruit most noble prin-;
there a generous duke does flow-,
like a second Alexand-:
seek out his shade, for bold—
is favored by Dame Fort-.17
You will recount the advent—
of a gentleman from La Manch—
whose idle reading of nov—
caused him to lose his reas-:
fair maidens, arms, and chiv
spurred him to imita
of Orlando Furio-,18
exemplar of knightly lov-;
by feats of his arm so might—
he won the lady of Tobo-.
Do not inscribe indiscre
on your shield, or hieroglyph-;
for when your hand lacks face—
with deuces and treys you wag-.
Be humble in your dedica
and you will hear no deri-;
"What? Don Alvaro de la Lu-,19
and great Hannibal of Carth-,
and in Spain, King Francis—
all lamenting his misfor-!"
Since it's not the will of hea
for you to be quite as cle
as Juan Latin the Afri-,20
avoid Latin words and phra-.
Don't pretend to erudi-,
or make claims to philo-;
when you commence the fak
and twist your mouth in decep—
those who are truly the
learn-will call your tricks into ques-.
Don't mind the business of oth-,
and don't engage in gos-;
it's a sign of utmost wis-:
ignore the faults of your broth-.
Those who speak much too glib
often fail in their inten-;
your only goal and ambi—
should be a good reputa-;
the writer who stoops to fol—
gains nothing but constant cen-.
Be careful: it is impru
if your walls are made of crys
to pick up stones and peb
and throw them at your neigh-.
Let the mature man of reas
in the works that he compo—
place his feet with circumspec-;
if his writing's too lightheart-,
meant for young girls' sheer amuse-,
he writes only for the sim-.
AMADIS OF GAUL 21 TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
A Sonnet
You, who mimicked the tearful life of woe that I, in isolation, scorned by love, led on the lofty heights of Pena Pobre,22
when all my joy did shrink to penitence, you, to whom your eyes did give to drink abundant waters, though briny with salt tears, and, removing for your sake its min'ral wealth, earth did give of the earth for you to eat, be certain that for all eternity, as long, at least, as golden-haired Apollo
drives steeds across the fourth celestial sphere, you will enjoy renown as a valiant knight; your kingdom will be first among all realms; and your wise chronicler, unique on earth.
DON BELIANIS OF GREECE 23 TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
A Sonnet
I bruised, and fought, and cut, and said, and did more than any knight errant who e'er lived; I was deft, I was valiant, I was proud; I avenged a thousand wrongs and righted more.
To Lady Fame I gave eternal deeds; I was a lover courtly and discreet;
to me great giants were no more than dwarves, and I answered every challenge with a duel.
I had Dame Fortune prostrate at my feet; my prudence seized on Chance and never failed to turn her to me, pulling with both hands.
And yet, though my good fortunes ever soared as high as the horned moon that sails the sky, I envy, O Quixote, your great feats!
LADY ORIANA 24 TO DULCINEA OF TOBOSO
A Sonnet
Oh, if only, beauteous Dulcinea,
for greater ease and peace I had my castle, Miraflores, in Toboso; could change
its London for the comforts of your town!
Oh, if only your desire and your dress adorned my soul and body, I could see the famous knight you made so fortunate in unequal combat with his enemies!
Oh, if only I chastely might escape Sir Amadis, as you did Don Quixote,
that courteous and noble errant knight!
Then I'd be the envied, not the envying, and melancholy time would turn to joy, and I'd delight in pleasures without end.
GANDALIN, SQUIRE TO AMADIS OF GAUL, TO SANCHO PANZA, SQUIRE TO DON QUIXOTE
A Sonnet
Oh hail, famed man, when our good Lady Fortune brought you to this our squirely vocation, she carried out her plan with so much care, that you ne'er suffered grief or dire disgrace.
Now the hoe and the scythe do not repel knight errantry; now it is common custom to find a simple squire, and so I denounce the pride that sets its sights upon the moon.
I envy you your donkey and your name, I envy you as well the saddlebags
that proved your forethought and sagacity.
Hail once again, O Sancho! So good a man, that only you, when the Ovid of our Spain bows to kiss your hand, smack him on the head.
FROM DONOSO, AN ECLECTIC POET, TO SANCHO PANZA AND ROCINANTE
I am the squire, Sancho Pan-,
of the Manchegan Don Quixo-;
I often turned, oft retreat-,
and lived; the better part's discre-; that wise man called Villadie-25
summarized his long life's mot
in a single word: withdraw-.
That's the view in Celesti-, 26
a book that'd be divine, I reck-,
if it embraced more of the hum-.
To Rocinante
I am famous Rocinan-,
great-grandson of Babie-,27
for the sin of being skin—
I belonged to Don Quixo-.
I ran races like a slack—
but was never late for sup-.
I learned this from Lazari-.28
to empty out the blind man's wine—
you must use a straw: how cle-.
ORLANDO FURIOSO TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
A Sonnet
If you are not a peer, then you've had none: for you would have no peer among a thousand; nor could there be a peer where you are found, unconquerable conqueror, ne'er conquered.
I am Orlando who, Quixote, undone by fair Angelica, saw distant seas,
and offered on the altars of Lady Fame the valor that respected oblivion.
I cannot be your equal; I am humbled by your prowess, your noble deeds, your fame, for you, like me, have gone and lost your mind.
But my equal you will be if you defeat the haughty Moor, the charging beast; today we are called equal in ill-fated love.
THE KNIGHT OF PHOEBUS 29 TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
A Sonnet
This my sword was no equal to your own, O Spanish Phoebus, courtly paragon,
nor to your heights of valor this my hand though it flashed where the day is born and dies.
I turned down empires, refused the monarchy that red-lit Orient offered me in vain so I could look upon the sovereign visage of Claridiana, my most beauteous dawn.
I loved her by a miracle rare and strange, and, absent in misfortune, she came to fear this arm of mine that tamed her raging scorn.
But you, noble Quixote, high and brave, your lady's made you eternal in this world, and through you she is famous, good, and wise.
FROM SOLISDAN 30 TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
A Sonnet
Well may it be, Quixote, that sheer folly hath overturned thy reason and thy wit, but ne'er wilt thou be assailed by any man as one who hath wrought actions vile and base.
These thy great feats will judge this to be truth, for thou, knight errant, hath righted many wrongs
and wreaked thy vengeance on a thousand varlets for dastardly assaults and villainies.
And if thy lady-love, fair Dulcinea, treateth thee with harsh and rigorous scorn, and looketh not with pity on thy grief, in such affliction let thy comfort be that Sancho Panza wast no go-between, a fool he, she of stone, and thou no lover.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN BABIECA AND ROCINANTE
A Sonnet
B. Why is it, Rocinante, that you're so thin?
R. Too little food, and far too much hard labor.
B. But what about your feed, your oats and hay?
R. My master doesn't leave a bite for me.
B. Well, Senor, your lack of breeding shows because your ass's tongue insults your master.
R. He's the ass, from the cradle to the grave.
Do you want proof? See what he does for love.
B. Is it foolish to love? R. It's not too smart.
B. You're a philosopher. R. I just don't eat.
B. And do you complain of the squire? R. Not enough.
How can I complain despite my aches and pains if master and squire, or is it majordomo, are nothing but skin and bone, like Rocinante?
Part One of the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha
CHAPTER I
Which describes the condition and profession of the famous gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha
Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing. An occasional stew, beef more often than lamb, hash most nights, eggs and abstinence on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, sometimes squab as a treat on Sundays--these consumed three-fourths of his income.1 The rest went for a light woolen tunic and velvet breeches and hose of the same material for feast days, while weekdays were honored with dun-colored coarse cloth. He had a housekeeper past forty, a niece not yet twenty, and a man-of-all-work who did everything from saddling the horse to pruning the trees. Our gentleman was approximately fifty years old; his complexion was weathered, his flesh scrawny, his face gaunt, and he was a very early riser and a great lover of the hunt. Some claim that his family name was Quixada, or Quexada, for there is a certain amount of disagreement among the authors who write of this matter, although reliable conjecture seems to indicate that his name was Quexana. But this does not matter very much to our story; in its telling there is absolutely no deviation from the truth.
And so, let it be said that this aforementioned gentleman spent his times of leisure--which meant most of the year--reading books of chivalry with so much devotion and enthusiasm that he forgot almost completely about the hunt and even about the administration of his estate; and in his rash curiosity and folly he went so far as to sell acres of arable land in order to buy books of chivalry to read, and he brought as many of them as he could into his house; and he thought none was as fine as those composed by the worthy Feliciano de Silva,2 because the clarity of his prose and complexity of his language seemed to him more valuable than pearls, in particular when he read the declarations and missives of love, where he would often find written: The reason for the unreason to which my reason turns so weakens my reason that with reason I complain of thy beauty. And also when he read:...the heavens on high divinely heighten thy divinity with the stars and make thee deserving of the deserts thy greatness deserves.
With these words and phrases the poor gentleman lost his mind, and he spent sleepless nights trying to understand them and extract their meaning, which Aristotle himself, if he came back to life for only that purpose, would not have been able to decipher or understand. Our gentleman was not very happy with the wounds that Don Belianis gave and received, because he imagined that no matter how great the physicians and surgeons who cured him, he would still have his face and entire body covered with scars and marks. But, even so, he praised the author for having concluded his book with the promise of unending adventure, and he often felt the desire to take up his pen and give it the conclusion promised there; and no doubt he would have done so, and even published it, if other greater and more persistent thoughts had not prevented him from doing so. He often had discussions with the village priest--who was a learned man, a graduate of Siguenza3--regarding who had been the greater knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul; but Master Nicolas, the village barber, said that none was the equal of the Knight of Phoebus, and if any could be compared to him, it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he was moderate in everything: a knight who was not affected, not as weepy as his brother, and incomparable in questions of courage.
In short, our gentleman became so caught up in reading that he spent his nights reading from dusk till dawn and his days reading from sunrise to sunset, and so with too little sleep and too much reading his brains dried up, causing him to lose his mind. His fantasy filled with everything he had read in his books, enchantments as well as combats, battles, challenges, wounds, courtings, loves, torments, and other impossible foolishness, and he became so convinced in his imagination of the truth of all the countless grandiloquent and false inventions he read that for him no history in the world was truer. He would say that El Cid Ruy Diaz4 had been a very good knight but could not compare to Amadis, the Knight of the Blazing Sword, who with a single backstroke cut two ferocious and colossal giants in half. He was fonder of Bernardo del Carpio5 because at Roncesvalles6 he had killed the enchanted Roland by availing himself of the tactic of Hercules when he crushed Antaeus, the son of Earth, in his arms. He spoke highly of the giant Morgante because, although he belonged to the race of giants, all of them haughty and lacking in courtesy, he alone was amiable and well-behaved. But, more than any of the others, he admired Reinaldos de Montalban,7 above all when he saw him emerge from his castle and rob anyone he met, and when he crossed the sea and stole the idol of Mohammed made all of gold, as recounted in his history. He would have traded his housekeeper, and even his niece, for the chance to strike a blow at the traitor Guenelon.8
The truth is that when his mind was completely gone, he had the strangest thought any lunatic in the world ever had, which was that it seemed reasonable and necessary to him, both for the sake of his honor and as a service to the nation, to become a knight errant and travel the world with his armor and his horse to seek adventures and engage in everything he had read that knights errant engaged in, righting all manner of wrongs and, by seizing the opportunity and placing himself in danger and ending those wrongs, winning eternal renown and everlasting fame. The poor man imagined himself already wearing the crown, won by the valor of his arm, of the empire of Trebizond at the very least; and so it was that with these exceedingly agreeable thoughts, and carried away by the extraordinary pleasure he took in them, he hastened to put into effect what he so fervently desired. And the first thing he did was to attempt to clean some armor that had belonged to his great-grandfathers and, stained with rust and covered with mildew, had spent many long years stored and forgotten in a corner. He did the best he could to clean and repair it, but he saw that it had a great defect, which was that instead of a full sallet helmet with an attached neckguard, there was only a simple headpiece; but he compensated for this with his industry, and out of pasteboard he fashioned a kind of half-helmet that, when attached to the headpiece, took on the appearance of a full sallet. It is true that in order to test if it was strong and could withstand a blow, he took out his sword and struck it twice, and with the first blow he undid in a moment what it had taken him a week to create; he could not help being disappointed at the ease with which he had hacked it to pieces, and to protect against that danger, he made another one, placing strips of iron on the inside so that he was satisfied with its strength; and not wanting to put it to the test again, he designated and accepted it as an extremely fine sallet.
Then he went to look at his nag, and though its hooves had more cracks than his master's pate and it showed more flaws than Gonnella's horse, that tantum pellis et ossa fuit, 9 it seemed to him that Alexander's Bucephalus and El Cid's Babieca were not its equal. He spent four days thinking about the name he would give it; for--as he told himself--it was not seemly that the horse of so famous a knight, and a steed so intrinsically excellent, should not have a worthy name; he was looking for the precise name that would declare what the horse had been before its master became a knight errant and what it was now; for he was determined that if the master was changing his condition, the horse too would change its name to one that would win the fame and recognition its new position and profession deserved; and so, aft