Don Quixote, a working translation
Which Treats the Conditions and Habits of the Famous Nobleman Don Quijote de la Mancha
In some place of La Mancha, of whose name I have no wish to recall, there lived not so long ago one of those noblemen who keep a lance on the rack, a leather shield, a skinny horse and a speedy hound. A pot with a bit more beef than lamb, hodgepodge most nights, eggs and bacon on Saturday, lentils on Friday, and a stuffed pigeon on Sundays, consumed three quarters of his income. The rest was spent in a woolen tunic, velvet slippers for holidays made of the same material, and for the weekdays he reserved a dun-colored cloth of the finest coarse material. He had in his house a maid that was past forty, a niece who wasn’t quite twenty, and a boy for the field and market, who could saddle the horse as well as handle the pruning shear. Our nobleman’s age was edging fifty, he had stout complexion, bony flesh, and was lean of face; he was a great early riser and friend of the hunt. They want to say that his surname was Quijada or Quesada (and in this there are differences of opinion amongst those who write of this matter), though by conjectures of reliable verisimilitude one is led to understand that he was named Quijana; but this matters little in our story, all that matters is that its narration not stray a point from the truth.
It is to be known, then, that the aforementioned nobleman, during times of leisure (meaning most days), gave himself to the reading of books of chivalry with such relish and abandon, that he almost completely forgot the finer points in the exercise of the hunt and even the administration of his estate; and such was his curiosity and nonsense that he sold many acres of arable land in order buy books of chivalry to read; and in this way he brought home as many as he could find; and none seemed to him as good as those that the famous Feliciana de Silva composed: because the clarity of his prose and those intricate reasons of his seemed to him pearls, and even more when he read those compliments and letters of defiance, where in many places he found written: the reason of the unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I complain of thy beauty; and also when he read: … the high heavens that from thy divinity divinely with stars is fortified, make thou worthy of the worthiness that is worth thy greatness. With these and similar reasons the poor knight would lose his judgement, and many sleepless nights were spent trying to understand and unravel their meaning, which he was unable to bring out, and which Aristotle himself would not be able to understand if he came back to life just for that. He was not at all pleased with the wounds which Don Belianis gave and received, because he imagined that no matter how great were those masters who cured him, he was still going to have his face and body all covered with marks and scars. But despite everything, he praised the author for finishing his book with the promise of that never-ending adventure, and many times he was overcome with the desire to pick up the pen and give a satisfactory end, there and then like it is promised; and without a doubt he would have done it and brought it out, if not for other greater and ongoing thoughts that got in the way.
He had many quarrels with the village priest (a man of learning, graduate of Siguenza), over who had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul; though master Nicholas, barber of the same village, said that no one got close to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if anyone could be compared, it was Don Galaor, brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he was up for anything, wasn’t finicky or such a whiner like his brother, and who in terms of bravery was not far off.
In short, he became so bottled up in his readings, that nights passed him by from clear to clear, and the days from gloom to gloom, and so, from little sleep and much reading, his brain dried up in such a way that he came to lose his mind. His fantasy became filled with everything he found in books, from enchantments, to quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, and indeed became so settled in his imagination, that everything he read seemed true, and for him no story was truer. He said that Cid Ruy Diaz had been a very good Knight, but that he had nothing on the Knight of the Flaming Sword, who had split in half two enormous and unruly giants. He sided with Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roldan the Enchanted, availing himself of Hercules’s treasure from when he strangled Anteus, son of Gaia, with his bare arms. He had a lot of good to say of Morgante, because even though he was of that generation of giants who all where rude and arrogant, he alone was gentle and well groomed; but overall, he sided with Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him leave his castle and rob whoever crossed his path, or like when in Allende he stole that idol of Mohammad, that was all gold according to the story. He was even willing to give his housekeeper and add his niece, just to have the chance to give a good beating to the traitor of Galalon.
Indeed, his mind quite gone, he came to the strangest idea ever conceived by a nutcase anywhere in the world, and it was that it seemed to him appropriate and necessary, for the sake of his honor as well as a service to the republic, to become a knight errant and travel the world with his sword and horse, seeking adventures and engaging in everything which he had read errant knights engaged in, undoing all kinds of wrongs, throwing themselves into encounters and dangers, which once overcome, win for them everlasting fame and renown.
He imagined himself, poor fool, already crowned by the valor of his arm, at least by the Empire of Trebizond: and so, with these very agreeable thoughts, carried on by the strange joy that they produced, he hurried to put in effect what he desired. And the first thing he did was clean an armor that had once belonged to his great-grandfather and that, covered with rust and full of mildew, had for centuries been left and forgotten in some corner. He cleaned and straightened it as best he could, but he saw that it had one great defect, which was that it did not have a full sallet, but only a simple helmet; to this he supplied his industry, and out of cardboard he made a sort of bevor that once attached to the helmet took the appearance of a full sallet. It is true that that to test if it was strong and able to withstand the thrust of a blade, he took out his sword and gave it two blows, and with the first he undid what he had done in a week; and the ease with which he tore it to pieces did not sit well, and to guard against this risk, he made another one, placing some iron bars inside in such a way that he became satisfied of its strength and, not wanting to relive the experience, he judged and took it as a headpiece of the finest sallet.
He then went to see his rocín [work horse], and though he had more dents than an old coin, and more flaws then Gonela’s horse, who tantum pellis, et ossa fuit [was all skin and bones], it seemed to him that neither Alexander’s Bucephalus nor El Cid’s Babieca could equal his own. Four days passed in trying to imagine what name he should give him: because, as he told himself, it didn’t seem right that horse of such a famous knight, and on his own so excellent, should remain without a well-known name: and so he searched for a fitting name that would declare who he had been, before becoming an errant knight, and what he now was: for he was fixed on the idea that, having his master risen in station, his name should reflect the newfound fame and recognition that belonged to his new position and the new profession which he now practiced: and in this way, after many names he made, erased and procured, added, undid, and remade in his memory and imagination, finally he came to name him Rocínante, a name high-sounding on its own, resonant and suggestive of what he had been when he was a mere rocín, before he became what he was now, the ante-, the first,preceding all the rocínes of the world. Having put a name so fitting to his horse, he wanted to give himself a name, and in this thought he took another eight days, and in the end, he came to call himself Don Quixote, from which, as has been noted, the authors of this absolutely true story were able to determine, without a shred of doubt, that he must have been named Quijada and not Quesada like some want to claim. Then, remembering that the brave Amadis wasn’t satisfied with merely calling himself Amadis point blank, but had also added the name of his kingdom and people to bring them fame, and so had called himself Amadis of Gaul, he too, like a good knight, wanted to add the name of his, and called himself Don Quixote de La Mancha, with which it seemed to him he was declaring out in the open his lineage and country, honoring it by adding it to his title.
Having cleaned his armor, with its helmet furnished by a bevor, and having named his horse and given himself confirmation in the same, he realized that he needed nothing save find a lady with whom to fall in love with, because an errant knight without love, was like a tree without leaves and without fruit, a body without soul.
He would say to himself, “if I, for punishment of my sins, or through good fortune, find myself in a fateful encounter with some giant, as is common for errant knights, and I strike him down in a single blow, or cut his body in half, or if after a long encounter, I finally subdue and defeat him—will it not be good to have someone to whom to send him to, entering and presenting himself on his knees to my sweet lady, saying with a humble and surrendering voice: my lady, I am that giant known as Caraculiambro, lord of the isle of Marlindrania, who was defeated in singular battle by the never to be sufficiently praised Don Quixote de La Mancha, who commanded me to appear before thy highness, so that thou may dispose of me as thy heart desires”
Oh, how our good knight would relish in the delivery of this speech, and even more when he found a name for his lady! It so happened, it is said, that in a place close to his there was a good-looking peasant girl with whom he had once been in love, though we are led to believe that she never knew or gave him any notice. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and to her she gave the title of lady of his thoughts; and searching for a name as suggestive as his, that would imply the elegance and refinement of a princess and great lady, he came to call her Dulcinea del Taboso, because she was native of Taboso; a name in turn musical, unique, and filled with significance, as were all the others he had given to himself and his things