CHAPTER 17
WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE UNEXAMPLED
COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE HAP-
PILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS
The history tells that when Don Quixote called out to Sancho to bring
him his helmet, Sancho was buying some curds the shepherds agreed to sell
him, and flurried by the great haste his master was in did not know what to
do with them or what to carry them in; so, not to lose them, for he had al-
ready paid for them, he thought it best to throw them into his master’s hel-
met, and acting on this bright idea he went to see what his master wanted
with him. He, as he approached, exclaimed to him:
“Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of adventures, or
what I observe yonder is one that will, and does, call upon me to arm
myself.”
He of the green gaban, on hearing this, looked in all directions, but could
perceive nothing, except a cart coming towards them with two or three
small flags, which led him to conclude it must be carrying treasure of the
King’s, and he said so to Don Quixote. He, however, would not believe him,
being always persuaded and convinced that all that happened to him must
be adventures and still more adventures; so he replied to the gentleman, “He
who is prepared has his battle half fought; nothing is lost by my preparing
myself, for I know by experience that I have enemies, visible and invisible,
and I know not when, or where, or at what moment, or in what shapes they
will attack me;” and turning to Sancho he called for his helmet; and Sancho,
as he had no time to take out the curds, had to give it just as it was. Don
Quixote took it, and without perceiving what was in it thrust it down in hot
haste upon his head; but as the curds were pressed and squeezed the whey
began to run all over his face and beard, whereat he was so startled that he
cried out to Sancho:
“Sancho, what’s this? I think my head is softening, or my brains are melt-
ing, or I am sweating from head to foot! If I am sweating it is not indeed
from fear. I am convinced beyond a doubt that the adventure which is about
to befall me is a terrible one. Give me something to wipe myself with, if
thou hast it, for this profuse sweat is blinding me.”
Sancho held his tongue, and gave him a cloth, and gave thanks to God at
the same time that his master had not found out what was the matter. Don
Quixote then wiped himself, and took off his helmet to see what it was that
made his head feel so cool, and seeing all that white mash inside his helmet
he put it to his nose, and as soon as he had smelt it he exclaimed:
“By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is curds thou hast put
here, thou treacherous, impudent, ill-mannered squire!”
To which, with great composure and pretended innocence, Sancho
replied, “If they are curds let me have them, your worship, and I’ll eat them;
but let the devil eat them, for it must have been he who put them there. I
dare to dirty your helmet! You have guessed the offender finely! Faith, sir,
by the light God gives me, it seems I must have enchanters too, that perse-
cute me as a creature and limb of your worship, and they must have put that
nastiness there in order to provoke your patience to anger, and make you
baste my ribs as you are wont to do. Well, this time, indeed, they have
missed their aim, for I trust to my master’s good sense to see that I have got
no curds or milk, or anything of the sort; and that if I had it is in my stom-
ach I would put it and not in the helmet.”
“May be so,” said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman was observing,
and with astonishment, more especially when, after having wiped himself
clean, his head, face, beard, and helmet, Don Quixote put it on, and settling
himself firmly in his stirrups, easing his sword in the scabbard, and grasping
his lance, he cried, “Now, come who will, here am I, ready to try conclu-
sions with Satan himself in person!”
By this time the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by anyone
except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting in front. Don Quixote planted
himself before it and said, “Whither are you going, brothers? What cart is
this? What have you got in it? What flags are those?”
To this the carter replied, “The cart is mine; what is in it is a pair of wild
caged lions, which the governor of Oran is sending to court as a present to
his Majesty; and the flags are our lord the King’s, to show that what is here
is his property.”
“And are the lions large?” asked Don Quixote.
“So large,” replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, “that larger, or
as large, have never crossed from Africa to Spain; I am the keeper, and I
have brought over others, but never any like these. They are male and fe-
male; the male is in that first cage and the female in the one behind, and
they are hungry now, for they have eaten nothing to-day, so let your wor-
ship stand aside, for we must make haste to the place where we are to feed
them.”
Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, “Lion-whelps to me!
to me whelps of lions, and at such a time! Then, by God! those gentlemen
who send them here shall see if I am a man to be frightened by lions. Get
down, my good fellow, and as you are the keeper open the cages, and turn
me out those beasts, and in the midst of this plain I will let them know who
Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite and in the teeth of the enchanters
who send them to me.”
“So, so,” said the gentleman to himself at this; “our worthy knight has
shown of what sort he is; the curds, no doubt, have softened his skull and
brought his brains to a head.”
At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, “Senor, for God’s sake do
something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from tackling these lions; for if
he does they’ll tear us all to pieces here.”
“Is your master then so mad,” asked the gentleman, “that you believe and
are afraid he will engage such fierce animals?”
“He is not mad,” said Sancho, “but he is venturesome.”
“I will prevent it,” said the gentleman; and going over to Don Quixote,
who was insisting upon the keeper’s opening the cages, he said to him, “Sir
knight, knights-errant should attempt adventures which encourage the hope
of a successful issue, not those which entirely withhold it; for valour that
trenches upon temerity savours rather of madness than of courage; more-
over, these lions do not come to oppose you, nor do they dream of such a
thing; they are going as presents to his Majesty, and it will not be right to
stop them or delay their journey.”
“Gentle sir,” replied Don Quixote, “you go and mind your tame partridge
and your bold ferret, and leave everyone to manage his own business; this is
mine, and I know whether these gentlemen the lions come to me or not;”
and then turning to the keeper he exclaimed, “By all that’s good, sir
scoundrel, if you don’t open the cages this very instant, I’ll pin you to the
cart with this lance.”
The carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in armour, said to
him, “Please your worship, for charity’s sake, senor, let me unyoke the
mules and place myself in safety along with them before the lions are
turned out; for if they kill them on me I am ruined for life, for all I possess
is this cart and mules.”
“O man of little faith,” replied Don Quixote, “get down and unyoke; you
will soon see that you are exerting yourself for nothing, and that you might
have spared yourself the trouble.”
The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the keep-
er called out at the top of his voice, “I call all here to witness that against
my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the lions loose, and
that I warn this gentleman that he will be accountable for all the harm and
mischief which these beasts may do, and for my salary and dues as well.
You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety before I open, for I know they
will do me no harm.”
Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do such
a mad thing, as it was tempting God to engage in such a piece of folly. To
this, Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was about. The gentleman
in return entreated him to reflect, for he knew he was under a delusion.
“Well, senor,” answered Don Quixote, “if you do not like to be a specta-
tor of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, spur your flea-bitten mare,
and place yourself in safety.”
Hearing this, Sancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to give up an
enterprise compared with which the one of the windmills, and the awful one
of the fulling mills, and, in fact, all the feats he had attempted in the whole
course of his life, were cakes and fancy bread. “Look ye, senor,” said San-
cho, “there’s no enchantment here, nor anything of the sort, for between the
bars and chinks of the cage I have seen the paw of a real lion, and judging
by that I reckon the lion such a paw could belong to must be bigger than a
mountain.”
“Fear at any rate,” replied Don Quixote, “will make him look bigger to
thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and if I die here
thou knowest our old compact; thou wilt repair to Dulcinea—I say no
more.” To these he added some further words that banished all hope of his
giving up his insane project. He of the green gaban would have offered re-
sistance, but he found himself ill-matched as to arms, and did not think it
prudent to come to blows with a madman, for such Don Quixote now
showed himself to be in every respect; and the latter, renewing his com-
mands to the keeper and repeating his threats, gave warning to the gentle-
man to spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the carter his mules, all striv-
ing to get away from the cart as far as they could before the lions broke
loose. Sancho was weeping over his master’s death, for this time he firmly
believed it was in store for him from the claws of the lions; and he cursed
his fate and called it an unlucky hour when he thought of taking service
with him again; but with all his tears and lamentations he did not forget to
thrash Dapple so as to put a good space between himself and the cart. The
keeper, seeing that the fugitives were now some distance off, once more en-
treated and warned him as before; but he replied that he heard him, and that
he need not trouble himself with any further warnings or entreaties, as they
would be fruitless, and bade him make haste.
During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the first
cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do bat-
tle on foot, instead of on horseback, and finally resolved to fight on foot,
fearing that Rocinante might take fright at the sight of the lions; he there-
fore sprang off his horse, flung his lance aside, braced his buckler on his
arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with marvellous intrepidity
and resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the cart, commending him-
self with all his heart to God and to his lady Dulcinea.
It is to be observed, that on coming to this passage, the author of this ve-
racious history breaks out into exclamations. “O doughty Don Quixote!
high-mettled past extolling! Mirror, wherein all the heroes of the world may
see themselves! Second modern Don Manuel de Leon, once the glory and
honour of Spanish knighthood! In what words shall I describe this dread ex-
ploit, by what language shall I make it credible to ages to come, what eulo-
gies are there unmeet for thee, though they be hyperboles piled on hyper-
boles! On foot, alone, undaunted, high-souled, with but a simple sword, and
that no trenchant blade of the Perrillo brand, a shield, but no bright polished
steel one, there stoodst thou, biding and awaiting the two fiercest lions that
Africa’s forests ever bred! Thy own deeds be thy praise, valiant Manchegan,
and here I leave them as they stand, wanting the words wherewith to glorify
them!”
Here the author’s outburst came to an end, and he proceeded to take up
the thread of his story, saying that the keeper, seeing that Don Quixote had
taken up his position, and that it was impossible for him to avoid letting out
the male without incurring the enmity of the fiery and daring knight, flung
open the doors of the first cage, containing, as has been said, the lion, which
was now seen to be of enormous size, and grim and hideous mien. The first
thing he did was to turn round in the cage in which he lay, and protrude his
claws, and stretch himself thoroughly; he next opened his mouth, and
yawned very leisurely, and with near two palms’ length of tongue that he
had thrust forth, he licked the dust out of his eyes and washed his face; hav-
ing done this, he put his head out of the cage and looked all round with eyes
like glowing coals, a spectacle and demeanour to strike terror into temerity
itself. Don Quixote merely observed him steadily, longing for him to leap
from the cart and come to close quarters with him, when he hoped to hew
him in pieces.
So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lion, more courte-
ous than arrogant, not troubling himself about silly bravado, after having
looked all round, as has been said, turned about and presented his hind-
quarters to Don Quixote, and very coolly and tranquilly lay down again in
the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote ordered the keeper to take a stick to him
and provoke him to make him come out.
“That I won’t,” said the keeper; “for if I anger him, the first he’ll tear in
pieces will be myself. Be satisfied, sir knight, with what you have done,
which leaves nothing more to be said on the score of courage, and do not
seek to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the door open; he is free
to come out or not to come out; but as he has not come out so far, he will
not come out to-day. Your worship’s great courage has been fully manifest-
ed already; no brave champion, so it strikes me, is bound to do more than
challenge his enemy and wait for him on the field; if his adversary does not
come, on him lies the disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off the
crown of victory.”
“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, my friend, and let me
have, in the best form thou canst, what thou hast seen me do, by way of cer-
tificate; to wit, that thou didst open for the lion, that I waited for him, that
he did not come out, that I still waited for him, and that still he did not come
out, and lay down again. I am not bound to do more; enchantments avaunt,
and God uphold the right, the truth, and true chivalry! Close the door as I
bade thee, while I make signals to the fugitives that have left us, that they
may learn this exploit from thy lips.”
The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of his lance the
cloth he had wiped his face with after the deluge of curds, proceeded to re-
call the others, who still continued to fly, looking back at every step, all in a
body, the gentleman bringing up the rear. Sancho, however, happening to
observe the signal of the white cloth, exclaimed, “May I die, if my master
has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is calling to us.”
They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote who was mak-
ing signals, and shaking off their fears to some extent, they approached
slowly until they were near enough to hear distinctly Don Quixote’s voice
calling to them. They returned at length to the cart, and as they came up,
Don Quixote said to the carter, “Put your mules to once more, brother, and
continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho, give him two gold crowns for
himself and the keeper, to compensate for the delay they have incurred
through me.”
“That will I give with all my heart,” said Sancho; “but what has become
of the lions? Are they dead or alive?”
The keeper, then, in full detail, and bit by bit, described the end of the
contest, exalting to the best of his power and ability the valour of Don
Quixote, at the sight of whom the lion quailed, and would not and dared not
come out of the cage, although he had held the door open ever so long; and
showing how, in consequence of his having represented to the knight that it
was tempting God to provoke the lion in order to force him out, which he
wished to have done, he very reluctantly, and altogether against his will,
had allowed the door to be closed.
“What dost thou think of this, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. “Are there
any enchantments that can prevail against true valour? The enchanters may
be able to rob me of good fortune, but of fortitude and courage they
cannot.”
Sancho paid the crowns, the carter put to, the keeper kissed Don
Quixote’s hands for the bounty bestowed upon him, and promised to give an
account of the valiant exploit to the King himself, as soon as he saw him at
court.
“Then,” said Don Quixote, “if his Majesty should happen to ask who per-
formed it, you must say THE KNIGHT OF THE LIONS; for it is my desire
that into this the name I have hitherto borne of Knight of the Rueful Coun-
tenance be from this time forward changed, altered, transformed, and
turned; and in this I follow the ancient usage of knights-errant, who
changed their names when they pleased, or when it suited their purpose.”
The cart went its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he of the green ga-
ban went theirs. All this time, Don Diego de Miranda had not spoken a
word, being entirely taken up with observing and noting all that Don
Quixote did and said, and the opinion he formed was that he was a man of
brains gone mad, and a madman on the verge of rationality. The first part of
his history had not yet reached him, for, had he read it, the amazement with
which his words and deeds filled him would have vanished, as he would
then have understood the nature of his madness; but knowing nothing of it,
he took him to be rational one moment, and crazy the next, for what he said
was sensible, elegant, and well expressed, and what he did, absurd, rash,
and foolish; and said he to himself, “What could be madder than putting on
a helmet full of curds, and then persuading oneself that enchanters are soft-
ening one’s skull; or what could be greater rashness and folly than wanting
to fight lions tooth and nail?”
Don Quixote roused him from these reflections and this soliloquy by say-
ing, “No doubt, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, you set me down in your
mind as a fool and a madman, and it would be no wonder if you did, for my
deeds do not argue anything else. But for all that, I would have you take no-
tice that I am neither so mad nor so foolish as I must have seemed to you. A
gallant knight shows to advantage bringing his lance to bear adroitly upon a
fierce bull under the eyes of his sovereign, in the midst of a spacious plaza;
a knight shows to advantage arrayed in glittering armour, pacing the lists
before the ladies in some joyous tournament, and all those knights show to
advantage that entertain, divert, and, if we may say so, honour the courts of
their princes by warlike exercises, or what resemble them; but to greater ad-
vantage than all these does a knight-errant show when he traverses deserts,
solitudes, cross-roads, forests, and mountains, in quest of perilous adven-
tures, bent on bringing them to a happy and successful issue, all to win a
glorious and lasting renown. To greater advantage, I maintain, does the
knight-errant show bringing aid to some widow in some lonely waste, than
the court knight dallying with some city damsel. All knights have their own
special parts to play; let the courtier devote himself to the ladies, let him
add lustre to his sovereign’s court by his liveries, let him entertain poor gen-
tlemen with the sumptuous fare of his table, let him arrange joustings, mar-
shal tournaments, and prove himself noble, generous, and magnificent, and
above all a good Christian, and so doing he will fulfil the duties that are es-
pecially his; but let the knight-errant explore the corners of the earth and
penetrate the most intricate labyrinths, at each step let him attempt impossi-
bilities, on desolate heaths let him endure the burning rays of the midsum-
mer sun, and the bitter inclemency of the winter winds and frosts; let no li-
ons daunt him, no monsters terrify him, no dragons make him quail; for to
seek these, to attack those, and to vanquish all, are in truth his main duties.
I, then, as it has fallen to my lot to be a member of knight-errantry, cannot
avoid attempting all that to me seems to come within the sphere of my du-
ties; thus it was my bounden duty to attack those lions that I just now at-
tacked, although I knew it to be the height of rashness; for I know well what
valour is, that it is a virtue that occupies a place between two vicious ex-
tremes, cowardice and temerity; but it will be a lesser evil for him who is
valiant to rise till he reaches the point of rashness, than to sink until he
reaches the point of cowardice; for, as it is easier for the prodigal than for
the miser to become generous, so it is easier for a rash man to prove truly
valiant than for a coward to rise to true valour; and believe me, Senor Don
Diego, in attempting adventures it is better to lose by a card too many than
by a card too few; for to hear it said, ‘such a knight is rash and daring,’
sounds better than ‘such a knight is timid and cowardly.'”
“I protest, Senor Don Quixote,” said Don Diego, “everything you have
said and done is proved correct by the test of reason itself; and I believe, if
the laws and ordinances of knight-errantry should be lost, they might be
found in your worship’s breast as in their own proper depository and muni-
ment-house; but let us make haste, and reach my village, where you shall
take rest after your late exertions; for if they have not been of the body they
have been of the spirit, and these sometimes tend to produce bodily
fatigue.”
“I take the invitation as a great favour and honour, Senor Don Diego,”
replied Don Quixote; and pressing forward at a better pace than before, at
about two in the afternoon they reached the village and house of Don
Diego, or, as Don Quixote called him, “The Knight of the Green Gaban.”
