CHAPTER 2
WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM
HOME
These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the exe-
cution of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world was los-
ing by his delay, seeing what wrongs he intended to right, grievances to re-
dress, injustices to repair, abuses to remove, and duties to discharge. So,
without giving notice of his intention to anyone, and without anybody see-
ing him, one morning before the dawning of the day (which was one of the
hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit of armour, mounted Roci-
nante with his patched-up helmet on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and
by the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the highest con-
tentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had made a beginning
with his grand purpose. But scarcely did he find himself upon the open
plain, when a terrible thought struck him, one all but enough to make him
abandon the enterprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he had not
been dubbed a knight, and that according to the law of chivalry he neither
could nor ought to bear arms against any knight; and that even if he had
been, still he ought, as a novice knight, to wear white armour, without a de-
vice upon the shield until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflec-
tions made him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than any
reasoning, he made up his mind to have himself dubbed a knight by the first
one he came across, following the example of others in the same case, as he
had read in the books that brought him to this pass. As for white armour, he
resolved, on the first opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter than an er-
mine; and so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking that which his
horse chose, for in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.
Thus setting out, our new-fledged adventurer paced along, talking to him-
self and saying, “Who knows but that in time to come, when the veracious
history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes it, when he
has to set forth my first sally in the early morning, will do it after this fash-
ion? ‘Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o’er the face of the broad spa-
cious earth the golden threads of his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of
painted plumage attuned their notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous har-
mony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of her
jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and balconies of the
Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote of La Man-
cha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated steed Rocinante and be-
gan to traverse the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel;'” which in fact
he was actually traversing. “Happy the age, happy the time,” he continued,
“in which shall be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be moulded in
brass, carved in marble, limned in pictures, for a memorial for ever. And
thou, O sage magician, whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the
chronicler of this wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee, my good
Rocinante, the constant companion of my ways and wanderings.” Presently
he broke out again, as if he were love-stricken in earnest, “O Princess Dul-
cinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to
drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy banish me from
the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in remembrance this heart,
thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for love of thee.”
So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in the
style of those his books had taught him, imitating their language as well as
he could; and all the while he rode so slowly and the sun mounted so rapid-
ly and with such fervour that it was enough to melt his brains if he had any.
Nearly all day he travelled without anything remarkable happening to him,
at which he was in despair, for he was anxious to encounter some one at
once upon whom to try the might of his strong arm.
Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that of
Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the windmills; but what I have as-
certained on this point, and what I have found written in the annals of La
Mancha, is that he was on the road all day, and towards nightfall his hack
and he found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, looking all around to
see if he could discover any castle or shepherd’s shanty where he might re-
fresh himself and relieve his sore wants, he perceived not far out of his road
an inn, which was as welcome as a star guiding him to the portals, if not the
palaces, of his redemption; and quickening his pace he reached it just as
night was setting in. At the door were standing two young women, girls of
the district as they call them, on their way to Seville with some carriers who
had chanced to halt that night at the inn; and as, happen what might to our
adventurer, everything he saw or imaged seemed to him to be and to happen
after the fashion of what he read of, the moment he saw the inn he pictured
it to himself as a castle with its four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver,
not forgetting the drawbridge and moat and all the belongings usually as-
cribed to castles of the sort. To this inn, which to him seemed a castle, he
advanced, and at a short distance from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that
some dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and by sound of
trumpet give notice that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing that
they were slow about it, and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the sta-
ble, he made for the inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were
standing there, and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely
ladies taking their ease at the castle gate.
At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through
the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology, that is
what they are called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them together, and
forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was expecting, the signal
of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so with prodigious satisfaction
he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, seeing a man of this sort ap-
proaching in full armour and with lance and buckler, were turning in dismay
into the inn, when Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their flight, raising
his pasteboard visor, disclosed his dry dusty visage, and with courteous
bearing and gentle voice addressed them, “Your ladyships need not fly or
fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of knighthood which I
profess to offer to anyone, much less to highborn maidens as your appear-
ance proclaims you to be.” The girls were looking at him and straining their
eyes to make out the features which the clumsy visor obscured, but when
they heard themselves called maidens, a thing so much out of their line,
they could not restrain their laughter, which made Don Quixote wax indig-
nant, and say, “Modesty becomes the fair, and moreover laughter that has
little cause is great silliness; this, however, I say not to pain or anger you,
for my desire is none other than to serve you.”
The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our cava-
lier only increased the ladies’ laughter, and that increased his irritation, and
matters might have gone farther if at that moment the landlord had not
come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, seeing
this grotesque figure clad in armour that did not match any more than his
saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at all indisposed to join
the damsels in their manifestations of amusement; but, in truth, standing in
awe of such a complicated armament, he thought it best to speak him fairly,
so he said, “Senor Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, bating the bed
(for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of everything else here.” Don
Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of the Alcaide of the fortress (for
so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes), made answer, “Sir Castellan, for
me anything will suffice, for
‘My armour is my only wear, My only rest the fray.'”
The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a “wor-
thy of Castile,” though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from the
strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of tricks as a stu-
dent or a page. “In that case,” said he,
“‘Your bed is on the flinty rock, Your sleep to watch alway;’
and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of
sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a single
night.” So saying, he advanced to hold the stirrup for Don Quixote, who got
down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had not broken his fast all
day), and then charged the host to take great care of his horse, as he was the
best bit of flesh that ever ate bread in this world. The landlord eyed him
over but did not find him as good as Don Quixote said, nor even half as
good; and putting him up in the stable, he returned to see what might be
wanted by his guest, whom the damsels, who had by this time made their
peace with him, were now relieving of his armour. They had taken off his
breastplate and backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his
gorget or remove his make-shift helmet, for he had fastened it with green
ribbons, which, as there was no untying the knots, required to be cut. This,
however, he would not by any means consent to, so he remained all the
evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure that can be imag-
ined; and while they were removing his armour, taking the baggages who
were about it for ladies of high degree belonging to the castle, he said to
them with great sprightliness:
“Oh, never, surely, was there knight So served by hand of dame, As
served was he, Don Quixote hight, When from his town he came; With
maidens waiting on himself, Princesses on his hack—
or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse’s name, and Don Quixote
of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of declaring myself
until my achievements in your service and honour had made me known, the
necessity of adapting that old ballad of Lancelot to the present occasion has
given you the knowledge of my name altogether prematurely. A time, how-
ever, will come for your ladyships to command and me to obey, and then
the might of my arm will show my desire to serve you.”
The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had nothing
to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything to eat. “I would
gladly eat a bit of something,” said Don Quixote, “for I feel it would come
very seasonably.” The day happened to be a Friday, and in the whole inn
there was nothing but some pieces of the fish they call in Castile “abadejo,”
in Andalusia “bacallao,” and in some places “curadillo,” and in others
“troutlet;” so they asked him if he thought he could eat troutlet, for there
was no other fish to give him. “If there be troutlets enough,” said Don
Quixote, “they will be the same thing as a trout; for it is all one to me
whether I am given eight reals in small change or a piece of eight; more-
over, it may be that these troutlets are like veal, which is better than beef, or
kid, which is better than goat. But whatever it be let it come quickly, for the
burden and pressure of arms cannot be borne without support to the inside.”
They laid a table for him at the door of the inn for the sake of the air, and
the host brought him a portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfish,
and a piece of bread as black and mouldy as his own armour; but a laugh-
able sight it was to see him eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver
up, he could not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless
some one else placed it there, and this service one of the ladies rendered
him. But to give him anything to drink was impossible, or would have been
so had not the landlord bored a reed, and putting one end in his mouth
poured the wine into him through the other; all which he bore with patience
rather than sever the ribbons of his helmet.
While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgelder, who, as he
approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and thereby complete-
ly convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous castle, and that they
were regaling him with music, and that the stockfish was trout, the bread the
whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the castellan of the castle; and
consequently he held that his enterprise and sally had been to some purpose.
But still it distressed him to think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it
was plain to him he could not lawfully engage in any adventure without re-
ceiving the order of knighthood.
