 Section 40 of Don Quixote, Volume 2. Chapter 71 of what passed between Don Quixote and his squire Sancho on the way to their village. 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 unlikely 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 labor is over. But with me, though to cure somebody else, costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches, pinprottings, 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 grieve them for me before I cure them. 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. Very 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 disenchantment of Delcinea, 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 palms 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, a peace, for I will not take less, though the whole world would bid me, make three thousand three hundred quarter reals, and three thousand are one thousand five hundred half reals, which makes seven hundred and fifty reals, and 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-wipped, 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, Alcinae 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 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 scorching, for if thou wilt make short work of it, I will give thee a hundred braille ales 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 their vacating Rocinante saddle and Dappel's pack saddle, they stretched themselves on the green grass and made their supper off Sancho's doors, and he making a powerful and flexible whip out of Dappel'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 mayst not lose by a card too much or too little. I will station myself apart, and count on my rosary here, the lashes thou gifs thyself. May heaven help thee as thy good intention deserves. Lashes 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 two price. In that case, said Sancho, in God's hand be it, and let it rain lashes. But the rope 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 be well to have patience. Zamora was not one 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 beach a tremendous lash, he cried out, Here dies Samson, and all with him. At the sound of his piteous cry, in the stroke of the cruel lash, Don Quixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted halter that served him for a corvache, said to him, One 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 Delcineo wait for a better opportunity, and I will content myself with a hope soon to be realized, 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, 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 disciplines 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 hostory which Don Quixote recognized as such, and did not take to be a castle with moat, turrets, portcullis, and drawbridge. For ever since he had been banquished 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 surge, 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 the 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 brigade team. 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 in, hostelry, or barbershop, 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. Dawart writes Sancho, said Don Quixote, for this painter is like Orbanécha, 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 story 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 was like a poet called Maulion, that was about the court some years ago, who used to answer at Hephazard whatever he was asked, and on one asking him what Dayum de Deo meant, he replied, de don de dire, but putting this aside, tell me, Sancho, has thou a mind to have another turn at thyself tonight, and which thou rather have it indoors or in the open air? E gad, 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 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 tomorrow. 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 these, and a sparrow in the hand, then a vulture on the wing. For God's sake, Sancho, no more proverbs, exclaimed Don Quixote, it seems to me thou art becoming secute errant again. Speak in a plain, simple, straightforward 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. Chapter 72 of how Don Quixote and Sancho reached their village. All that day, Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and in waiting for night. The one to finish off his task of scorching 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 today. The quarters seemed 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 surge 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 country. 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 story, was a very good 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 Arwan, 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 reigned them. Let your worship only try. Come along with me for a year or so, and you will find they fall for me at every turn, and so rich and so plentiful, that 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 writer of wrongs, the guardian of miners and orphans, the protector of widows, the killer of damsels, he who has for his soul 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 Álvero, 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 that I am not the bad. And to prove it, let me tell you, Senor Don Álvero Tarfe, I have never in my life been in Zaragoza. 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 unrivaled in sight 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 Álvero 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 knew. That I will do most willingly, replied Don Álvero, though it amazes me to find two Don Quixotes and two Sancho Panzas at once, as much alike in name as they differ in demeanor. And again, I say, and declare that what I saw I cannot have seen, and that what happened to me cannot have happened. No doubt your worship is enchanted, like my lady, Dulcinea del Tobosu, 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 Álvero. Sancho replied that it was a long story to tell, but he would tell him if they happened to be going, the same road. By this dinner time arrived, and Don Quixote and Don Álvero 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 Álvero 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 of a yeneda of Tor de Sillas. 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 Álvero and Don Quixote, in the course of which the great Manchaigan displayed such good taste that he disabused Don Álvero 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 road Don Álvero was to follow. In this short interval Don Quixote told him of his unfortunate defeat, and of Delcenea's enchantment and the remedy, all which threw Don Álvero 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 beach-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 practiced on Don Álvero, 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 traveled on, nor did anything worth mention happen them, unless it was that in the course of the night Sancho finished off his task, where at 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 described their own village, at the side of which Sancho fell on his knees, exclaiming, Open thine eyes long for home, and see how thy son Sancho Panza comes back to thee, if not very rich, very well whipped. Bring thine arms and receive, too, thy son Don Quixote, who, if he comes vanquished by the arm of another, comes victor over himself, which as he himself has told me is the greatest victory any one can desire. I'm bringing back money, for if I was well whipped I went mounted like a gentleman. Have done with these fulleries, 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 village. End of Section 40, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox Fall 2007. Chapter 73 and 74 of Don Quixote, Volume 2. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Don Quixote, Volume 2, by Miguel Cervantes Savedra. Translated by John Ormsby. Chapter 73 and 74 of the omens Don Quixote had as he entered his own village and other incidents that embellish and give a color to this great history. At the entrance of the village, so says Seed Hamid, Don Quixote saw two boys quarreling 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 see that applied to the object of my desires, the words mean that I am never to see Dulcinea more. Sancho was about to answer, but the boy 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 more. 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. You are 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 to be found here? The two boys who had been quarreling 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 quartels 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 omen's 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 omen's were fools. But there is 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 sumptuous cloth, over dapple and over the bundle of armor. The buckrim robe painted with flames which they had put upon him at the Duke's Castle. The knight Altissidora came back to life. He had also fixed the mitre on dapple's head, the oddest transformation and decoration that ever asks in the world underwent. They were at once recognized 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 Ponce's ass figged out finer than mingo, and Don Quixote's beast leaner than ever. So at length, with the boys capering around 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 Ponce, 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 foot sore, and looking more like a disorderly vagabond than a governor. Hold your tongue, Teresa, said Sancho. Even 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 make have got it, you'll not have brought any new practice into the world. Sanchica embraced her father, and asked him if he had 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 night errant bound by scrupulous good faith and the laws of night errantry, and of how he thought of turning shepherd for that year, and making 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 tea. The curate asked what they were. Don Quixote replied that he himself was to be called the shepherd Quixote, and the bachelor, the shepherd Carascón, and the curate, the shepherd Corambro, and Sancho Panza, the shepherd Pansino. 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 Sampson Coresco, 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 serves 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 Tobosso, 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 out for accommodating shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way or another. And, and in Samson Carrasco, if they fail us, we can call them by the names of the ones in print that the world is filled with. Filides, Amarileses, 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 Anna, I'll sing her praises under the name of Angarda, and if Franziska, 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 honorable resolution he had made, and again offering 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 into 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 and 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 of. 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 hollying of the wolves? Not you, for that's a life and a business for hardy men, bread and season to such work almost from the time they were in swaddling clothes. Why, to make choice of evils it's better to be a night 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 off into confession, be good to the poor, and upon my soul be it 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 night 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. Chapter seventy-four of how Don Quixote fell sick, and of the will he made, and how he died, as nothing that his man's can last forever, 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 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 Pansa, 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 Delcenae, 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 eclog that would take the shine out of all Sanasaro had ever written, and had bought with his own money two famous dogs to guard the flock, one called Barcino and the other Boutron, 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 forever. 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. Nece, I feel myself at the point of death, and I would feign 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 him to me, my dear, my good friends, the curate, the bachelor, Sampson, 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 Quijano, 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 night air-entry. 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 Sampson, What, senor Don Quixote, now that we have intelligence of the lady D'Alsenea 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, digesting, 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 tears. The confession over the curate came out, saying, Alonso Quijarro the good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind. We may now go into 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 Quijarro the good, or as Don Quijote of la Mancha, Don Quijote 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 had been set out, and Don Quijote 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 monies in the hands of Sancho Panza, whom in my madness I made my squire, in as much 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 melancholies 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 a 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 to-morrow. Be true, said Samson, and good Sancho Pansa'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 Quijano, 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 Quijana, 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 duckets over and above for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco, now present, I appoint my executor's item. It is my wish that, if Antonia Quijana 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 gentleman, my executor's, 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 them. 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 and the housekeeper drank, and Sancho Panza enjoyed himself, for inheriting property wipes out, or softens down in the air, 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 night 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 Quijano 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 author save Ced Hamid Benangeli, 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 Ced Hamid 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 the housekeeper are omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb. Samson Carrasco, however, put the following lines. A dowdy 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 Ced Hamid to his pen, rest here, hung up by this brass wire, upon the shelf, O my pen, whether of skillful make or clumsy cut, I know not. Here shalt thou remain long ages hence, unless presumptuous or malignant storytellers take thee down to profane thee. But ere they touch thee warn them, and as best thou canst, say to them, Hold off, you weaklings, hold your hands. Adventure it let none. For this empress, 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 Tordesievsky 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. 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 knight's 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 thee 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, doom to fall forever. Farewell. End of chapters 73 and 74. And end of Don Quixote, Volume 2, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox, June 2008.