Repository path: workshop/translations/quijote-I3/R06-v1/translation.md · rendered 2026-09-09

T-quijote-I3-R06-v1 — Cervantes, Don Quijote I.3 (1605), Spanish → English

The frozen first-pass draft. R04 §Procedure 2a: the draft is written out and frozen as its own artifact before the self-revision begins, and the frozen draft is an R06 output. This file is that draft, committed before a word of T-quijote-I3-R04-v1 was revised. Its divergences from the R04 text are the paired-regime datum; they are catalogued in the R04 log, not here.

Source. Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, El ingenioso hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha, Primera parte, Capítulo III, «Donde se cuenta la graciosa manera que tuvo don Quijote en armarse caballero» (1605). Copy-text: Project Gutenberg ebook 2000, lines 1455–1667, 2,332 Spanish words.

Contamination: suspected, and MEASURED — see T-quijote-I3-R04-v1 §Contamination for the gate. The declaration is not a placeholder here: four published English renderings of this exact chapter are freely reachable and the measurement was run against all four.

Priming, declared. No published rendering of this chapter, in any language, was read before this draft and its log were frozen (R04 §1). What was read first is Ormsby's 1885 critical introduction — commentary, not a rendering, and so within R04 §1 — but it states a diagnosis of Cervantes's humour and a prescription for translating it, and this translator had both in mind while drafting. That is recorded in the R04 log and it bounds what this artifact may be used for: it is a labeled subject, not evidence that an unprimed translator would land on the same sites.

Chapter III. Wherein is told the droll manner in which Don Quixote had himself dubbed knight

And so, wearied by this thought, he cut short his scanty inn supper; which done, he called the innkeeper, and shutting himself up with him in the stable, fell on his knees before him, saying:

"Never shall I rise from where I am, valorous knight, until thy courtesy grant me a boon I would ask of thee, the which shall redound to thy praise and to the profit of the human race."

The innkeeper, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing such language, stood confounded, looking at him, not knowing what to do or what to say to him, and pressed him to rise; and he would by no means, until he had to tell him that he granted him the boon he asked.

"I looked for no less of your great magnificence, my lord," replied Don Quixote; "and so I tell you that the boon I have asked of you, and which your liberality has granted me, is that tomorrow on that day you shall dub me knight, and this night in the chapel of this your castle I shall watch my arms; and tomorrow, as I have said, that which I so much desire shall be accomplished, so that I may, as I ought, go through all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures on behalf of the needy, as is the charge of chivalry and of knights errant, such as I am, whose desire is inclined to such deeds."

The innkeeper, who, as has been said, was something of a sly rogue and had already some inklings of his guest's want of wits, was finally convinced of it on hearing such language, and, to have something to laugh at that night, determined to humour him; and so he told him he was well advised in what he desired and asked, and that such a purpose was proper and natural in knights as distinguished as he seemed and as his gallant bearing showed; and that he himself, in the years of his youth, had given himself to that honourable exercise, going through divers parts of the world seeking his adventures, without having failed to visit the Percheles of Malaga, the Isles of Riaran, the Compass of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the Olive Grove of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of Sanlucar, the Colt of Cordova and the Little Taverns of Toledo, and divers other parts, where he had exercised the lightness of his feet and the subtlety of his hands, doing many a wrong, soliciting many a widow, undoing certain maidens and gulling sundry wards, and, in fine, making himself known in as many courts and tribunals as there are in nearly all Spain; and that at the last he had come to retire to this his castle, where he lived on his own property and on other people's, taking in all knights errant of whatever quality and condition they might be, solely for the great affection he bore them and that they might share with him their substance in payment of his good will.

He told him also that in this his castle there was no chapel where he might watch his arms, because it had been pulled down to be built anew; but that in case of necessity he knew they might be watched anywhere, and that this night he might watch them in a courtyard of the castle; and in the morning, God being served, the due ceremonies should be performed, in such sort that he should be dubbed knight, and so much a knight that there could be no more so in the world.

He asked him if he carried money; Don Quixote answered that he had not a farthing, for he had never read in the histories of knights errant that any of them had carried any. To this the innkeeper said that he was mistaken; for, granted it was not written in the histories, because it had seemed to their authors that there was no need to write down a thing so plain and so necessary to be carried as money and clean shirts, it was not on that account to be believed that they carried none; and so he might hold it for certain and proven that all the knights errant of whom so many books are full and crammed carried their purses well lined against what might befall them; and that in like manner they carried shirts and a little casket full of ointments to heal the wounds they received, for not on every occasion in the fields and deserts where they fought and came off wounded was there one to heal them, unless indeed they had some sage enchanter for a friend, who would succour them at once, bringing through the air in some cloud some damsel or dwarf with a phial of water of such virtue that, on tasting a drop of it, they were instantly whole of their sores and wounds, as though no hurt had come to them. But that, so long as this was wanting, the knights of past time held it a right thing that their squires should be furnished with money and other necessary things, such as lint and ointments to heal themselves; and when it happened that such knights had no squires — which was seldom and rarely — they carried it all themselves in saddle-bags so fine that they were hardly to be seen, on the horse's croup, as though it were some other thing of more importance; because, save for such an occasion, this carrying of saddle-bags was not much allowed among knights errant; and therefore he gave him for counsel — since he might yet even command it of him, as of his godson, which he was so soon to be — that he should not travel thenceforward without money and the said provisions, and that he would see how well he found himself with them when he least expected it.

Don Quixote promised to do what was counselled him with all punctuality; and so order was presently given how he should watch his arms in a great yard that lay to one side of the inn; and Don Quixote, gathering them all up, laid them on a trough that stood beside a well, and, bracing on his buckler, took hold of his lance and with a graceful carriage began to pace to and fro before the trough; and as he began his pacing, night began to fall.

The innkeeper told all who were in the inn of his guest's madness, of the watching of the arms and of the dubbing he looked for. They marvelled at so strange a kind of madness and went to watch him from a distance, and saw that, with a composed air, he now paced to and fro; now, leaning on his lance, fixed his eyes on the arms without taking them off them for a good while. Night had fully fallen, but with such brightness from the moon that it could vie with him that lent it her, so that all the new knight did was well seen by all. Now it came into the head of one of the carriers who were in the inn to go and water his team, and it was needful to take off Don Quixote's arms, which lay on the trough; who, seeing him come, called out to him in a loud voice:

"O thou, whosoever thou be, rash knight, that comest to lay hand on the arms of the most valorous errant that ever girded sword! look to what thou dost, and touch them not, if thou wouldst not leave thy life in payment of thy rashness."

The carrier took no heed of these words (and it had been better for him had he taken heed, for it would have been taking heed of his health); rather, seizing them by the straps, he flung them a great way from him. Which seen by Don Quixote, he raised his eyes to heaven, and, setting his thought — as it appeared — on his lady Dulcinea, said:

"Succour me, my lady, in this first affront that is offered to this breast that is thy vassal; let not thy favour and protection fail me in this first trial."

And, saying these and other such words, letting go his buckler, he raised his lance in both hands and with it dealt the carrier so great a blow on the head that he brought him to the ground, so sorely handled that, had he followed it with a second, he would have had no need of a surgeon to heal him. This done, he gathered up his arms and returned to pacing with the same calm as before. Not long after, without anything being known of what had passed (for the carrier was still stunned), there came another with the same intent of watering his mules; and as he came to take off the arms to clear the trough, without Don Quixote's speaking a word or asking favour of any, he let go his buckler again and raised his lance again, and, without breaking it in pieces, made more than three of the second carrier's head, for he split it in four. At the noise all the people of the inn came running, and among them the innkeeper. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced on his buckler, and, laying hand on his sword, said:

"O lady of beauty, strength and vigour of my enfeebled heart! now is the time to turn the eyes of thy greatness upon this thy captive knight, who awaits so great an adventure."

With this he gathered, to his own thinking, so much spirit that had all the carriers in the world assailed him he would not have given back a foot. The companions of the wounded, seeing them in such case, began from a distance to rain stones upon Don Quixote, who sheltered himself as best he could with his buckler, and dared not leave the trough for fear of forsaking his arms. The innkeeper cried out to them to let him be, for he had already told them he was mad, and as a madman he would go free though he killed them all. Don Quixote cried out too, and louder, calling them treacherous and false, and saying that the lord of the castle was a craven and base-born knight, since he suffered knights errant to be so used; and that had he received the order of chivalry, he would give him to understand his treachery:

"But of you, foul and base rabble, I make no account: throw, come on, come at me and do me what hurt you can, for you shall see the payment you get for your folly and presumption."

He said this with such spirit and boldness that he struck a terrible fear into those who were assailing him; and as much for this as for the innkeeper's persuasions, they left off throwing at him, and he let the wounded be carried off and returned to the watching of his arms with the same quiet and composure as before.

The innkeeper did not think well of his guest's jests, and determined to cut it short and give him the wretched order of chivalry at once, before some other mishap should occur. And so, coming up to him, he excused himself for the insolence which that low people had used towards him without his knowing anything of it; but that they were well punished for their rashness. He told him, as he had told him already, that in that castle there was no chapel, and that for what remained to be done there was no need of one; that the whole point of being dubbed knight lay in the blow on the neck and the stroke on the shoulder, according to what he knew of the ceremonial of the order, and that this could be done in the middle of a field; and that he had already fulfilled what touched the watching of the arms, since two hours' watch was enough, and he had been at it more than four. Don Quixote believed it all, and said that he was there ready to obey him, and that he should make an end with all the speed he might; because if he were assailed again and saw himself dubbed knight, he did not think to leave a soul alive in the castle, save those the castellan might bid him spare, whom for his sake he would leave.

The castellan, thus warned and made fearful, presently brought out a book in which he entered the straw and barley he served to the carriers, and with a candle-end that a boy brought him, and with the two aforesaid damsels, came to where Don Quixote was, whom he bade kneel down; and, reading in his manual, as though he were saying some devout prayer, in the middle of the reading he raised his hand and gave him a good blow on the neck, and after it, with his own sword, a handsome stroke on the shoulder, muttering all the while between his teeth as though he were praying. This done, he bade one of those ladies gird on his sword, which she did with much address and discretion, for no little was needed to keep from bursting with laughter at every point of the ceremonies; but the prowess they had already seen in the new knight kept their laughter in check. As she girded on the sword, the good lady said:

"God make your worship a fortunate knight and give you fortune in your frays."

Don Quixote asked her what her name was, that he might know from thenceforward to whom he stood obliged for the favour received; because he thought to give her some part of the honour he should win by the valour of his arm. She answered with much humility that her name was la Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler of Toledo who lived by the stalls of Sancho Bienaya, and that wherever she might be she would serve him and hold him for her lord. Don Quixote answered that, for his love, she would do him the favour to take the "don" from thenceforward and call herself doña Tolosa. She promised him she would, and the other buckled on his spur, with whom he had almost the same colloquy as with her of the sword: he asked her name, and she said she was called la Molinera, and that she was the daughter of an honest miller of Antequera; whom Don Quixote also besought to take the "don" and call herself doña Molinera, offering her new services and favours.

The ceremonies, then, till then never seen, being done at a gallop and in haste, Don Quixote could not see the hour to find himself on horseback and go out seeking adventures; and saddling Rocinante at once, he mounted him, and, embracing his host, said things to him so strange, in thanking him for the favour of having dubbed him knight, that it is not possible to hit upon the way to report them. The innkeeper, to see him once outside the inn, answered his speeches with no less rhetoric, though with briefer words, and, without asking him the cost of the lodging, let him go in a good hour.