Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes
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Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. Chapter one which treats of the character and pursuits of the famous gentleman. Don Quixote of La Mancha in a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind their lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance rack, an old buckler, allene hack and greyhound for coursing and Allah of rather more beef than mutton. A salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays made away with three quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays. While on weekdays he made a brave figure in his best homespun He had in his house a housekeeper past 40. A nice under 20, and a lad for the field and marketplace who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on 50. He was of a hearty habit, Spare Gaunt featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it. His surname was quijada, or quesada, for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject, although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Kahana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tail. It will be enough not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it. You must know then that the above named gentlemen whenever he was at leisure, which was mostly all the year round, gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field sports, and even the management of his property. And to such a pitch, did his eagerness and infatuation go, that he sold many an acre of tillage land to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get. But of all there were none he liked so well as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva's composition. For their lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and cartels, where he often found passages like the Reason of the unreason, with which my reason is afflicted, so weakens my reason, that with reason, I murmur at your beauty, or again the high heavens, that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert. Your greatness deserves over conceits of this sort. The poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake, striving to understand them, and worm the meaning out of them. What Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted had he come to life again for that special purpose. He was not at all easy about the wounds which Don billions gave and took, because it seemed to him that great as were the surgeons who had cured him. He must have had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars. He commended however, the authors way of ending his book with the promise of that interminable adventure and many a time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it properly? As is their proposed, which no doubt he would have done, and made a successful piece of work of it too, had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him. Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village, a learned man and a graduate of Siguenza, as to which had been the better night paul marin of England or Ahmadis of Goal. Master Nicholas, the village Barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to the night of Phoebus, and that if there was any that could compare with him. It was dawn galibier, the brother of Ahmadis of Goal, because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no Finnic in night, nor lachrymose like his brother. While in the matter of valor. He was not a wit behind him. In short he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them, and what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels battles, challenges, wounds, woundings, loves agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense. And it's so possessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true that to him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to say the Sid Ruidiaz was a very good night, but that he was not to be compared with the night of the burning sword. Who with one backstroke cut in half to fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of Bernardo del Carpio, because at Ron's Vallis he slew Roland in spite of enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Ontario's, the son of terra in his arms. He approved highly of the giant more gant because, although of the giant breed, which is always arrogant and ill conditioned, he alone was affable and well bred. But above all he admired Ronaldo's of Montalban, especially when he saw him selling forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met. And when beyond the seas, he stole that image of Muhammad, which, as his history says, was entirely of gold to have about of kicking at that traitor of a gallon. He would have given his housekeeper and his niece into the bargain. In short his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion that ever mad man in this world. Hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was right and requisite as well for the support of his own honor, as for the service of his country that he should make a knight errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armor and on horseback, in quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the usual practices of knights, errant writing, every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which in the issue he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already. The poor man saw himself crowned by the might of his arm, emperor of tributes, and at least, and so led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into execution. The first thing he did was to clean up some armor that had belonged to his great grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner, eaten with rust, and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as best he could. But he perceived one great defect in it that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple moron. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied for he contrived a kind of half helmet of paste board which fitted onto the moron looked like a whole one. It is true that in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a cut. He drew his sword and gave it a couple of slash is the first of which ended in an instant. What had taken him a week to do the ease with which he had knocked it to pieces, disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger, he set to work again fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength, and then not caring to try any more experiments with it. He passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most perfect construction. He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which with more cuantos than a rail and more blemishes than the steed of Gonnella, that tan tomb palace at Jos louis surpassed in his eyes. The bucha Faillace of alexander, or the baby aka of the sid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to give him, because, as he said to himself, it was not right that a horse belonging to a night so famous and one with such merits of his own should be without some distinctive name. And he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before, belonging to a knight errant, and what he then was for. It was only reasonable that his master taking a new character, he should take a new name, and that it should be a distinguished and full sounding one, befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow. And so, after having composed, struck out rejected, added to unmade and re made a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name to his thinking lofty, so onerous and significant of his condition as a hack before he became what he now was the first and foremost of all the hacks in the world. Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this point, until at last he made up his mind to call himself Don Quixote whence as has already been said, the authors of this voracious history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt ke ha to and not casada as others would have it. Recollecting however, that the valiant ahmadis was not content to call himself curtly ahmadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it famous and called himself ahmadis of goal. He, like a good night, resolved to add on the name of his and to style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby he considered he described accurately his origin and country, and did honor to it in taking his surname from it. So then his armor being furbish to his Myron turned into a helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed he came to the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady to be in love with. For a knight errant without love was like a tree without leaves or fruit or a body without a soul, as he said to himself, if for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts. A common occurrence with knights errant and overthrow him in one on slot or cleave him us under to the waist, or in short vanquish and subdue him. Will it not be well to have someone I may send him to as a present that he may come in and fall on his knees before my sweet lady and in a humble, submissive voice, say, I am re giant, Kara Cooley! Umbro Lord of the Island of Melinda, Rania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently extraordinaire knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before your grace, that your highness made dispose of me at your pleasure? Oh! How are good gentlemen enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of someone to call his lady. There was so the story goes, in a village near his own, A very good looking farm girl with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never knew it, nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was Al Don't cell Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title of Lady of his thoughts. And after some search for a name which should not be out of harmony with her own and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her, does Oceania Delta Bow, so she being of Al Tebow, So a name to his mind musical, uncommon and significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.