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THE STORY OF DON QUIXOTE
by
ARVID PAULSON and CLAYTON EDWARDS
With Illustrations in Color by Florence Choate and Elizabeth Curtis
[Illustration: "DON QUIXOTE INSISTED THAT THE BOAT HAD BEEN SENT BY
MAGIC TO FETCH HIM TO SOME GREAT KNIGHT."--_Page 222_]
The Hampton Publishing Company
New York
Copyright, MCMXXII, by
Frederick A. Stokes Company
All rights reserved, including that of translation
into foreign languages
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
VOLUME I
CHAPTER PAGE
I WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF
THE FAMOUS GENTLEMAN, DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA 1
II-III WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY DON QUIXOTE
MADE FROM HOME 6
IV WHICH TREATS OF DON QUIXOTE'S FURTHER
ADVENTURES 14
V IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT'S MISHAP
IS CONTINUED 20
VI OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH
THE CURATE AND THE BARBER MADE IN THE LIBRARY
OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN 22
VII OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON
QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA 24
VIII-IX OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON
QUIXOTE HAD IN THE TERRIBLE AND UNDREAMT-OF
ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER
OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO BE FITLY RECORDED,
INCLUDING THE TERRIBLE BATTLE BETWEEN THE
GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN 27
X OF THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN
DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA 33
XI OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN
GOATHERDS 37
XII OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH
DON QUIXOTE 39
XIII IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS
MARCELA WITH OTHER INCIDENTS 41
XIV WHEREIN ARE DESCRIBED THE DESPAIRING VERSES
OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD 45
XV IN WHICH IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE
THAT DON QUIXOTE FELL IN WITH WHEN HE FELL
OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS 47
XVI OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN
THE INN WHICH HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE 50
XVII IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES
WHICH THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD
SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED AT THE INN, WHICH,
TO HIS MISFORTUNE, HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE 51
XVIII IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA
HELD WITH HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING 55
XIX OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH
HIS MASTER, AND OF THE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM
WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE
OCCURRENCES 59
XX OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE
WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE
OF LA MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER
ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD 62
XXI WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH
PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT 65
XXII OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL
UNFORTUNATES WHO AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING
CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO 68
XXIII OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA,
WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED
IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY 71
XXIV IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA
MORENA 73
XXV WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED
TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA
MORENA 75
XXVI IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH
DON QUIXOTE PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER
IN THE SIERRA MORENA 77
XXVII OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH
THEIR SCHEME, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS
WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY 80
XXVIII WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL
ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE CURATE AND THE
BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA 81
XXIX WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD
ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT
FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON
HIMSELF 83
XXX WHICH TREATS OF THE ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE
FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER MATTERS, PLEASANT AND
AMUSING 88
XXXI OF THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE
AND SANCHO PANZA, HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER INCIDENTS 90
XXXII-XXXIV WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL ALL DON
QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN 91
XXXV WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE
DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE,
AND BRINGS THE NOVEL OF THE "ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY"
TO AN END 92
XXXVI WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT
OCCURRED AT THE INN 95
XXXVII IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS
PRINCESS MICOMICONA, WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES 98
XXXVIII WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE
DELIVERED ON ARMS AND LETTERS 102
XXXIX-XLI WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE
AND ADVENTURES 103
XLII WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE
INN, AND OF SEVERAL OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING 108
XLIII WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE
MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT
CAME TO PASS IN THE INN 112
XLIV IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES
AT THE INN 117
XLV IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO'S
HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLED,
WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED IN TRUTH
AND EARNEST 123
XLVI OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS
OF THE HOLY BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT
FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE 127
XLVII OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF
LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS 132
XLVIII IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE
BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY
OF HIS WIT 137
XLIX WHICH TREATS OF HOW OUR KNIGHT IS PERMITTED TO
DESCEND FROM HIS CAGE, AND OF THE CANON'S ATTEMPT
TO CONVERT HIM FROM HIS ILLUSIONS 138
L-LI OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND
THE CANON HELD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS 139
LII OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE
GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH THE RARE ADVENTURE OF
THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF
SWEAT HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION 142
VOLUME II
CHAPTER PAGE
I OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD
WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY 147
II WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO
PANZA HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE'S NIECE AND HIS
HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLL MATTERS 150
III OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN
DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR
SAMSON CARRASCO 153
IV IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY
TO THE DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR
SAMSON CARRASCO TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS
WORTH KNOWING AND MENTIONING 156
V OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL CONVERSATION THAT PASSED
BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA
PANZA, AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY
RECORDED 159
VI OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
NIECE AND HIS HOUSEKEEPER; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT
CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY 161
VII OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS 163
VIII WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE ON
HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO 167
IX WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE 170
X WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO
ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER
INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE 172
XI OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON
QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE CAR OR CART OF "THE CORTES
OF DEATH" 175
XII OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT
DON QUIXOTE WITH THE BOLD KNIGHT OF THE
GROVE 178
XIII-XIV IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE
KNIGHT OF THE GROVE, TOGETHER WITH THE SENSIBLE
AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE
TWO SQUIRES 180
XV WHEREIN IT IS MADE KNOWN HOW THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRROR
AND HIS SQUIRE EMERGED FROM THEIR ADVENTURE 186
XVI OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN
OF LA MANCHA 187
XVII WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FARTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT
WHICH THE UNEXAMPLED COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE
REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE HAPPILY
ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS 190
XVIII OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE
OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GREEN COAT, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON 194
XIX IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMORED
SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL INCIDENTS 196
XX WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF
CAMACHO THE RICH, TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT
OF BASILIO THE POOR 199
XXI IN WHICH CAMACHO'S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH
OTHER DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS 200
XXII WHEREIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE
CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN THE HEART OF LA MANCHA,
WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A
HAPPY TERMINATION 203
XXIII OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON
QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF
MONTESINOS, THE IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF
WHICH CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE APOCRYPHAL 206
XXIV WHEREIN ARE RELATED SOME TRIFLING MATTERS,
AS TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT
UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY 209
XXV WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND
THE DROLL ONE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER
WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING
APE 210
XXVI WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE
PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS
IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD 214
XXVII WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE
WERE, TOGETHER WITH THE MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD
IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT
CONCLUDE AS HE WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD
EXPECTED 217
XXVIII OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS
THEM WILL KNOW, IF HE READS THEM WITH ATTENTION 220
XXIX OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK 222
XXX OF DON QUIXOTE'S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS 225
XXXI WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS 228
XXXII OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURER, WITH
OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE AND DROLL 232
XXXIII OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND
HER DAMSELS HELD WITH SANCHO PANZA, WELL
WORTH READING AND NOTING 236
XXXIV WHICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN
WHICH THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT THE PEERLESS
DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE
RAREST ADVENTURES IN THIS BOOK 238
XXXV WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN TO DON
QUIXOTE TOUCHING THE DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER MARVELOUS INCIDENTS 242
XXXVI WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMED-OF
ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA, ALIAS THE
COUNTESS TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH
SANCHO PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA 244
XXXVII-XXXIX WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE
OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA, INCLUDING HER
MARVELOUS AND MEMORABLE TALE OF MISFORTUNE 246
XL OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE
AND TO THIS MEMORABLE HISTORY 249
XLI THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE 250
XLII OF THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO
PANZA BEFORE HE SET OUT TO GOVERN THE ISLAND,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS 254
XLIII OF THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE
SANCHO PANZA 255
XLIV HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT;
AND OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL
DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE 257
XLV OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION
OF HIS ISLAND; AND OF HOW HE MADE A BEGINNING
IN GOVERNING 259
XLVI OF THE TERRIBLE BELL AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON
QUIXOTE GOT IN THE COURSE OF THE ENAMORED
ALTISIDORA'S WOOING 260
XLVII WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO
PANZA CONDUCTED HIMSELF IN HIS GOVERNMENT 263
XLVIII-XVIX OF WHAT HAPPENED TO SANCHO IN MAKING THE
ROUND OF HIS ISLAND 265
L WHEREIN IS SET FORTH HOW GOVERNOR SANCHO PANZA'S
WIFE RECEIVED A MESSAGE AND A GIFT FROM THE
DUCHESS; AND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE PAGE WHO
CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA 267
LI OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO'S GOVERNMENT; AND OTHER
SUCH ENTERTAINING MATTERS 271
LII WHEREIN THREE DELECTABLE EPISTLES ARE READ BY
THE DUCHESS 273
LIII OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION OF SANCHO
PANZA'S GOVERNMENT 275
LIV-LV OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD; AND OTHER
THINGS THAT CANNOT BE SURPASSED 280
LVI-LVII WHICH TREATS OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AGAIN
FELT THE CALLING OF KNIGHT-ERRANTRY AND HOW
HE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND OF WHAT FOLLOWED
WITH THE WITTY AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE OF
THE DUCHESS' DAMSELS 284
LVIII WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING ON
DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH NUMBERS THAT THEY GAVE
ONE ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME 286
LIX WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY
BE REGARDED AS AN ADVENTURE, THAT HAPPENED TO
DON QUIXOTE 292
LX OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO
BARCELONA 297
LXI OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING
BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS THAT
PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN THE INGENIOUS 303
LXII WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED
HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH
CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD 305
LXIII THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH
THE VISIT TO THE GALLEYS 310
LXIV TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE
MORE UNHAPPINESS THAN ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO
BEFALLEN HIM 313
LXV WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE
WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE OTHER EVENTS 316
LXVI-LXVII OF THE RESOLUTION WHICH DON QUIXOTE
FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A LIFE IN
THE FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD
GIVEN HIS WORD WAS RUNNING ITS COURSE; WITH
OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY 317
LXVIII OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE 319
LXIX OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE
THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF
THIS GREAT HISTORY 323
LXX WHICH FOLLOWS CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH
MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THE CLEAR COMPREHENSION
OF THIS HISTORY 328
LXXI OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO THEIR VILLAGE 331
LXXII-LXXIII OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED
HIS OWN VILLAGE; AND OTHER INCIDENTS THAT
EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY 334
LXXIV OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE
MADE, AND HOW HE DIED 337
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Don Quixote insisted that the boat had been sent by
magic to fetch him to some great knight" _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
"Slashing right and left, dreaming that he had encountered
the giant enemy" 94
"He prayed that he should not be left to perish in the cage" 132
"With each lash he gave out the most heartrending cries" 334
THE STORY OF DON QUIXOTE
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I
WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS
GENTLEMAN, DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
Nearly four hundred years ago, there lived in the village of La Mancha
in Spain an old gentleman of few worldly possessions but many books,
who was given to a hardy and adventurous way of life, and who beguiled
his spare time by reading the many tales of chivalry and knighthood
that were in his possession.
This old gentleman was a tall, gaunt man of about fifty, with a
lantern jaw and straggling gray hair, and eyes that had a sparkle of
madness in them. His surname was Quixada or Quesada, and though not
rich, he was well known to the country folk and had some reputation in
the community where he lived.
In his younger days he was a great sportsman and used to get up before
the sun to follow his favorite pursuits of hunting and hawking, but as
he grew older he spent almost all his time in reading books on
chivalry and knighthood with which his library was stocked; and at
last he grew so fond of these books that he forgot to follow the
hounds or even to look after his property, but spent all his time in
his library, mulling over the famous deeds and love affairs of knights
who conquered dragons and vanquished wicked enchanters.
At the time when Quesada lived, Spain was saturated with this sort of
literature, and everybody wasted much time in reading books which had no
merit or value of any kind and which were full of the most ridiculous and
impossible adventures. On the whole they were the most utter rubbish that
it was possible to print. They told about impossible deeds in the most
impossible language, and were filled with ambitious sentences that meant
nothing under the sun. Senor Quesada spent hours racking his brains to
puzzle out the meaning of something like this:
"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."
Poor Senor Quesada could not understand these sentences. Who could? No
man in his right mind certainly, it would have taken a madman to read
any real meaning into them. And he wasted so much time in puzzling
over them that at last he became quite mad and the words in the books
would appear on the walls of his room, written in letters of fire,
with so bright a light that they prevented him from sleeping. From
trying to read a meaning into things that had no meaning whatever,
Senor Quesada was mad--as mad as the books he had been reading.
Senor Quesada lived with his niece and his housekeeper, both sensible
women who loved him and who were much grieved over the havoc his
books of chivalry had worked with his senses. They believed that to
talk about these books made the old gentleman worse, so they refused
to answer him when he argued about knights and dragons and whether
this fair lady was an enchantress in disguise or only a mortal woman,
and whether that dragon actually did breathe forth fire from his
nostrils, or only sulphur fumes and smoke. His niece and the
housekeeper would run away when he started upon one of his favorite
subjects; so he turned to the society of the village curate, a learned
man for those times, who knew almost as much about books of chivalry
as Senor Quesada himself, and to that of Master Nicholas, the village
barber. And these three friends would sit up until dawn arguing as to
who was the better knight, Sir Lancelot or Amadis of Gaul, and how
these both compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword, who with one
back stroke cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants.
After he had become thoroughly mad from reading, and more so from such
arguments and discussions, Senor Quesada hit upon the strangest notion
that ever entered the head of a lunatic. He believed that he and no
other was called upon to restore the entire world to the ancient
conditions of chivalry, and bring back the tournaments and the
courteous knights and fair ladies whose like had existed in the times
of the famous King Arthur of Britain. Believing this, it was an easy
step for him to think that the world was still full of giants and
fierce dragons for him to vanquish, and that as a man of honor and
skill at arms he must leave his comfortable home and do battle with
them. To his disordered senses things took on a different appearance
than was actually the case--inns seemed castles, and towers and hills
appeared as giants that moved about in the distance; and Senor Quesada
could hardly wait before he could meet them on horseback and overthrow
them in battle.
To become a knight and encounter all these strange and visionary dangers
it was necessary for him, however, to have a war horse, a stout lance and
a suit of armor, and he cast about among his possessions to see what he
could find that would answer the purpose--for he had no money to buy
them, and no shop could have furnished them for him if he had possessed
all the money in Spain. In his attic he found an old suit of armor that
had belonged to his great-grandfather and had been lying there for ages,
rotting with rust and mildew in company with old chests, bedding and
other family treasures. He brought it out and scoured it as best he could
and at last made it shine with considerable brightness. But the helmet
was only partially complete, for it lacked a beaver and a visor to
protect his face, so Senor Quesada constructed these from pasteboard and
painted them to resemble the armor as closely as possible. He tried their
strength with his rusty sword, and on the first stroke cut them entirely
away; so he rebuilt them and forbore to try them again, hoping they would
be strong enough, but fearing to make a test that might undo once more
all the troublesome work that he had spent upon them.
His armor now complete, he looked in his stables for a horse to carry
him, and found there his old hack, whose every bone was visible and
who was more used to carrying sacks of potatoes and onions to market
than to bearing the weight of a knight or a man at arms. This horse
must have been at least twenty years old into the bargain, but to
Quixada's brain it appeared a mettlesome charger and he was quite sure
that his new steed would prove equal to any fatigue or danger that
might come its way in the course of his adventures. And remembering
that all the horses of famous warriors had possessed high-sounding
names he called his horse Rocinante and adopted for himself the title
of Don Quixote of La Mancha, under which name he will be known through
the rest of the present history.
Another thing, however, remained wanting--a lady-love for whose sake
he might do battle and whose affections might inspire him to endure
all sorts of dangers and hardships. So Don Quixote straightway
searched through his recollection to find one that might answer, and
hit at last upon a peasant girl named Aldonza Lorenzo, with whom it is
supposed he had been in love when he was a young man. And though
Aldonza Lorenzo was more used to winnowing wheat and caring for the
live-stock than to fine phrases and courtly manners, and though she
was no better than any of the other peasant girls who lived in her
locality, Don Quixote believed that she was a lady of high lineage and
noble birth and christened her in his mind Dulcinea del Toboso. And he
was ready to fight with any man in Spain who would not acknowledge
that she was the loveliest and most gifted lady in the world.
A lance was easily made, and now, possessed of war horse, armor,
weapons, and a glorious lady to do battle for, the poor old man was
ready, so he believed, to go forth and meet the high adventures that
he felt sure were awaiting him.
CHAPTERS II-III
WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME
All things being ready, Don Quixote wished for no delay, and before
sunrise on one of the hottest days of midsummer, he stole from his
bed--taking care not to awaken his niece or his housekeeper--put on
his ancient armor, saddled Rocinante, and with lance in hand and sword
clattering beside him made his way across the fields in the highest
state of content and satisfaction at the ease with which his purpose
had been accomplished. He could hardly wait for his adventures to
begin, or for the chance to try the strength of his mighty arm upon
some wicked warrior or, better still, some dragon or giant; but
scarcely did he find himself upon the open plain before a terrible
thought came to his mind and one that nearly made him abandon his
adventure before it was well begun. He reflected that, according to
the rules of chivalry, he must be dubbed a knight before he could
undertake any battles or engagements, and afterward he must wear white
armor without any device upon his shield, until he had proved by
bravery and endurance his right to these privileges of knighthood. He
consoled himself, however, by resolving to have himself dubbed a
knight by the first person who came along; and as for white armor, he
determined to make his own rival the brightness of the moon by
industrious scouring.
Comforting himself with thoughts such as these, he pursued his way,
which he allowed his horse to choose for him, thinking that in so
doing he would be guided more surely and more quickly to the
adventures that were awaiting him. And as he rode along he amused
himself by quoting imaginary passages from the books that he felt sure
would be written about his noble deeds--deeds that he would soon
accomplish and that would astonish the entire world by their bravery
and hardihood. At times he would break into wild speech, calling his
lady Dulcinea by name and saying: "O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this
captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to drive me forth
with scorn and banish me from the presence of thy beauty!"
And so he went along, stringing such absurd phrases together, while
the hot sun rose and grew hotter, until it would have melted his
brains in his helmet, if he had any. He traveled nearly all day
without seeing anything remarkable, at which he was in despair, for he
could hardly wait, as we have said, for his adventures to begin.
Toward evening he came in sight of a common wayside inn, and standing at
the door were two peasant girls who looked with astonishment on the
strange figure that was approaching them. To the disordered imagination
of Don Quixote, this appeared to be a castle with four towers, and the
girls who stood in front of the door seemed ladies of noble birth and
peerless beauty. He seemed to see behind them a drawbridge and a moat,
and waited for some dwarf to appear upon the castle battlements and by
sound of a trumpet announce that a knight was approaching the gates.
At this point a swineherd who was gathering his pigs did happen to
blow a blast on his horn to scare his charges along the road; and
this, appearing to Don Quixote to be the dwarfs signal that he had
expected, he drew near in high satisfaction, while Rocinante, scenting
stables and hay and water, pricked up his ears and advanced at a brisk
trot until the inn door was reached and Don Quixote addressed the
astonished girls who were waiting there.
The girls, on seeing an armed man approaching them, had turned to seek
safety indoors, when Don Quixote, lifting his pasteboard beaver, said
to them in the most courteous manner he could command:
"Ladies, I beseech you, do not fly or fear any manner of rudeness, for
it is against the rules of the knighthood, which I profess, to offer
harm to high-born ladies such as you appear to be."
The girls, hearing themselves addressed in this strange manner and
called ladies, could not refrain from giggling, at which Don Quixote
rebuked them, saying:
"Modesty becomes the fair, and laughter without cause is the greatest
silliness."
The strange language and dilapidated appearance of the speaker only
increased the girls' laughter, and that increased Don Quixote's
irritation; and matters might have gone farther if the landlord had
not appeared at this moment to see what might be the matter. When he
beheld the grotesque figure on horseback whose armor did not match and
whose mount was the sorriest one imaginable, it was all he could do to
refrain from joining the girls in their hilarity; but being a little
in awe of the strange knight, whose lance was pointed and whose sword
appeared to have both strength and weight, he spoke courteously to Don
Quixote. He told him that if he sought food or lodging he should have
the best that the inn could afford for man or beast. And the poor old
gentleman, who had been riding in the heat all day without food or
drink, climbed stiffly out of the saddle and suffered Rocinante to be
led away to the stable, cautioning the landlord to take the utmost
care of him, for he was the finest bit of horseflesh in the world. The
host, however, looking over the bony carcass of the old farm animal,
had more difficulty than before in restraining his laughter.
The girls now perceived that they had a crazy man before them and they
entered into the spirit of the occasion.
They helped Don Quixote remove his armor; but the helmet they could do
nothing with, for it was tied tightly with green ribbons about his
neck and on no pretext whatever would he hear of cutting them.
They laid a table for him at the door of the inn for the sake of the
air, and the host brought him a piece of badly soaked and badly cooked
fish and a piece of bread as black and moldy as his own armor. And a
laughable sight it was to see Don Quixote eat--for, having his helmet
on, he could not reach his own mouth, but had to be fed, bit by bit,
by one of the girls; and for drink he would have gone without
altogether if the innkeeper had not brought a hollow reed and putting
one end into the knight's mouth, poured wine through the other.
While this was going on Don Quixote heard once more the swineherd's
horn and felt entirely happy and satisfied, for he was convinced that
he was in some famous castle and that they were regaling him with
music; that the fish was trout, the bread of the whitest, the peasant
girls beautiful ladies, and the landlord the castle steward. But he
still felt distressed because he had not been dubbed a knight, and
resolved to remedy this fault as soon as his supper was finished.
As soon as he had eaten his fill, he called the landlord of the inn,
and taking him into the stable, knelt on the ground before him,
declaring that he would not rise until the landlord should grant his
wish and dub him a knight so that he could continue on his adventures
according to the laws of chivalry. For Don Quixote, as we have said,
looked on the landlord as a person of great authority, with full power
to make him a knight if he chose to do so.
The landlord was something of a wag, and well aware that his guest was
mad. He therefore decided to fall in with his wishes for the sport of
the thing; so he told Don Quixote that he would make him a knight and
gladly, that he too had been a knight errant in his time and wandered
all over Spain seeking adventures, where he had proved the lightness
of his feet in running away and the quickness of his fingers in
picking pockets, until he had swindled and cheated so many people
that he had been forced to retire to this castle of his. Here he lived
on his property--and that of other persons--and he accepted money from
wandering knights errant in return for the kindness and services he
rendered them. And when Don Quixote told him that he never carried
money with him in his travels, the landlord assured him he was making
the greatest mistake in the world and that he must not suppose that,
just because money and clean shirts were not mentioned in the books of
chivalry of the time, the knights did without them; that was not the
case at all.
At last it was decided that the landlord should dub Don Quixote a
knight on the following morning, and that the night should be spent by
Don Quixote in watching over his armor in prayer and fasting, as was
the custom with knights before they received the title of full
knighthood and could go abroad on their adventures with a strong arm
and untroubled spirit.
It had been arranged between the landlord and Don Quixote that the
watch over the armor should take place in the courtyard of the inn.
Don Quixote placed his corselet and helmet by the side of a well from
which the carriers drew water, and, grasping his lance, commenced to
march up and down before it like a sentinel on duty; and as the hours
wore by and the march continued, the landlord called other persons to
watch the performance, explaining that the man was mad, and telling of
the ceremony that was to take place in the morning. The passers-by,
viewing the steadiness with which Don Quixote paced to and fro in the
moonlight and the resolute way in which he handled his lance, were
struck with wonder both at the peculiarity of the sight and the
strange form that Don Quixote's madness had taken.
At last, however, it became necessary for one of the carriers to draw
water from the well. He did not observe the madman and he paid no
attention to the armor until he stumbled across it, when he picked it
up and flung it from him, whereupon Don Quixote raised his lance and
struck him such a blow that he fell senseless on the ground and lay
there stunned. Soon after this another carrier, who did not know of
what had happened to the first one, approached with the same object;
and Don Quixote, thinking him an enemy, also struck at him and laid
his head open with two cuts from his lance in the form of a cross.
The people of the inn heard the noise of the second encounter and came
running to the spot. When they beheld what had happened and saw the
battered condition of the carriers they commenced to throw stones at
Don Quixote, not daring to approach him; and he, shielding himself as
best he could with his buckler, defied them to draw near on pain of
their lives, and returned the abuse and hard names they showered upon
him. And he shouted at them with such a terrible voice that they
became afraid and left him alone, moved not only by his threats but by
the entreaties of the landlord, who kept calling out to them that the
man was mad and would not be held accountable should he kill them all.
The freaks of Don Quixote were not to the landlord's liking, and he
desired to get rid of the strange knight with as little trouble as
possible. He approached the well and told Don Quixote that the time
for the ceremony of knighthood had now arrived, and that all the
requirements had been met with by the watch that Don Quixote had
already performed. He pulled out an account-book in which he kept the
record of the straw and grain that he sold and bade Don Quixote kneel
down before him. Then he read out the accounts in a solemn voice as
though he were repeating some devout prayer, and the stable-boy and
the two girls who worked at the inn stood by with a candle, trying to
control their laughter. When the reading was finished the landlord
took Don Quixote's sword and tapped him sharply on the shoulder,
pretending to mutter more prayers while he was doing it, and one of
the girls girded the sword about Don Quixote's waist, saying, as she
did so:
"May God make your Worship a very fortunate knight, and grant you
success in battle!"
Thus the ceremony was ended and Don Quixote was satisfied. And then it
came about as the landlord had hoped and expected. The new knight was
so eager to set out on his journey that he saddled his horse and rode
forth at once, without paying his bill for his supper; and the
landlord was so glad to see the last of him that he made no objection
to this, thinking himself lucky to have got rid of the knight so
cheaply, and he closed the door behind him as quickly as possible,
thanking his lucky stars that Don Quixote was gone.
CHAPTER IV
WHICH TREATS OF DON QUIXOTE'S FURTHER ADVENTURES
It was dawn when Don Quixote quitted the inn. He decided to return
home to provide himself with money, shirts, and a squire, as the
innkeeper had suggested, and so he turned his horse's head toward his
village.
He had not gone far, however, when he heard a feeble cry from the
depths of a thicket on the roadside, as of some one in pain. He paused
to thank Heaven for having favored him with this opportunity of
fulfilling the obligation he had undertaken and gathering the fruit of
his ambition; for he was certain that he had been called on from above
to give aid and protection to some one in dire need. He quickly turned
Rocinante in the direction from which the cries seemed to come; and he
had gone but a few paces into the wood when he saw a youth, stripped
to the waist and tied to a tree, being flogged in a merciless way by a
powerful farmer. All the while the boy was crying out in his agony: "I
won't do it again, master! I won't do it again! I promise I'll take
better care of the sheep hereafter!"
When Don Quixote saw what was going on he became most indignant.
"Discourteous knight," he commanded in angry tones, "it ill becomes
you to assail one who cannot defend himself! Mount your steed and take
your lance! I will make you know that you are behaving like a coward!"
The farmer looked up and saw Don Quixote in full armor, brandishing a
lance over his head. He gave himself up for dead, then, and answered
meekly:
"Sir knight, the youth I am chastising is my servant. I employ him to
watch a flock of sheep, and he is so careless that he loses one for me
every day. And when I punish him for being careless, he accuses me of
being a miser, saying that I do it that I might escape paying him the
wages I owe him. That, I swear, is a sinful lie!"
But the farmer's defense only angered Don Quixote all the more. He
threatened to run the man through with his lance if he did not release
the boy at once and pay him every penny he owed him in wages. Don
Quixote then helped the lad to add up how much nine months' wages at
seven reals a month might be, and found that it would make sixty-three
reals; and the farmer was given his choice between paying his debt and
dying upon the spot. The farmer replied, trembling with fear, that the
sum was not so great and asked Don Quixote to take into account and
deduct three pairs of shoes he had given the boy and a real for two
blood-lettings when he was sick. But Don Quixote would not listen to
this at all. He declared that the shoes and the blood-lettings had
already been paid for by the blows the farmer had given the boy
without cause, for, said he, "If he spoiled the leather of the shoes
you paid for, you have damaged that of his body; and if the barber
took blood from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was
sound; so on that score he owes you nothing."
When the farmer had heard his final judgment pronounced, he commenced
to wail that he had no money about him, and pleaded with Don Quixote
to let Andres, the lad, come home with him, when he would pay him real
by real. Upon hearing this Andres turned to our knight errant and
warned him that once he had departed his master would flay him like a
Saint Bartholomew; but Don Quixote reassured him, saying now that his
master had sworn to him by the knighthood that he, Don Quixote, had
conferred upon him, justice would be done, and he himself would
guarantee the payment.
The youth had his doubts, however, and he dared to correct Don
Quixote.
"Consider what you say, Senor," he said. "This master of mine is not a
knight; he is simply Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar."
To this Don Quixote replied that it mattered little; and the farmer
again swore by all the knighthoods in the world to pay the lad as he
had promised if he only came home.
"See that you do as you have sworn," said Don Quixote, "for if you do
not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you out and punish
you; and I shall find you though you should lie closer than a lizard!
If you desire to know who it is lays this command upon you, that you
may be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous Don
Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices. And so, God
be with you! But keep in mind what you have promised and sworn on
pain of those penalties that have been already declared to you!"
With these words he gave his steed the spur and rode away in a
triumphant gallop, and was soon out of sight and reach. Now, when the
farmer had convinced himself that the undoer of wrongs and injustices
had entirely disappeared, he decided to give payment to the lad,
Andres, then and there, without waiting till he came home; and so he
tied him again to the tree and beat him until he was nearly dead.
"Your valiant knight has made me realize an affection for you hitherto
unknown to me. I shall give you added payment for that. Now go and
look for him!" he remarked, as he gave him a last blow and untied him.
And while the poor boy went off weeping, the lusty farmer stood there
and laughed.
Thus it was that our noble knight righted _that_ wrong. Don Quixote,
however, was thoroughly satisfied with what he had done. He thought
himself a most heroic figure and felt that he had made a most
auspicious beginning in his knighthood. And as he was taking the road
toward his village, utterly content with his own behavior, he said to
himself: "Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all
on earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has
fallen to thy lot to hold subject and submissive to thy will and
pleasure a knight so renowned as Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as all
the world knows, yesterday received the order of knighthood, and hath
to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance that ever injustice
conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day plucked the rod
from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly lashing that
tender child."
As he was meditating and speaking in this fashion, he suddenly found
himself at four crossroads. Of course, he had to emulate other knights
who had gone before him, and follow tradition; so he paused in the
manner that all knights do in books, and pondered, and, after much
deep concern and consideration, finally decided to leave it to the
instinct of his horse. The noble animal, realizing that his master had
relinquished his will in his favor, made straight for his own stable,
of course.
After he had ridden a few miles, Don Quixote encountered six merchants
from Toledo, who were on their way to Murcia to buy silk. They were
accompanied by four mounted servants, and three who were on foot.
Scarcely had he perceived them when his romantic imagination prompted
him to believe that a fresh adventure was intended for him, and he
began to prepare for it with great gestures. He fixed himself
majestically and safely in the saddle, made ready with his lance, and
planted himself firmly in the middle of the road. Here he awaited the
arrival of the traders, who appeared to him to be real knights like
himself; and as they came close to him, he halted them with a broad
sweep of his lance, exclaiming boldly:
"All the world stand, unless all the world confess that in all the
world there is no maiden fairer than the Empress of la Mancha, the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso!"
The thirteen men could not help but stand still at the sound of such
words; nor did they hesitate about thinking that the speaker of them
might be lacking in some of his wits. One of the travelers, however,
either was curious or had a failing for making fun of people, for he
asked Don Quixote to produce the lady before asking him to pay her his
respects. Perhaps he was skeptical of his country's harboring such a
rare beauty unbeknown to him.
But Don Quixote was not to be fooled. "If I were to show her to you,"
he replied, "what merit would you have in confessing a truth so
manifest? You must believe without seeing her; otherwise you have to
do with me in battle. Come on, you rabble! I rely on the justice of
the cause I maintain!"
The merchant with a sense of humor tried to plead for consideration.
He suggested that a portrait of the fair lady might suffice to bring
about a conversion to his conception of her beauty. But Don Quixote
was determined that they were intolerant blasphemers who simply had to
be thrashed. So he suddenly charged with such vehemence and fury that,
if luck had not interfered and made his gentle steed stumble, the
trader might have been killed. As Rocinante went down, our gallant
hero went over his head, and after he had struck the ground he rolled
for some distance. But when he tried to rise he could not: he was so
weighted down with armor, helmet, spurs, buckler and lance. To make
matters worse, one of the servants, having broken his lance in two,
proceeded to batter him with one of the pieces until it seemed as if
Don Quixote would be able to stand no more. Finally the man grew tired
and went to catch up with his party, which had continued its way.
But Don Quixote still lay on the ground, unable to get up.
CHAPTER V
IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT'S MISHAP IS CONTINUED
When Don Quixote began to realize that he was, so to speak, anchored
to the ground, he turned his thoughts to his usual remedy, his books
on knighthood and chivalry, which, in fact, had been the cause of his
downfall. He decided that the passage to fit his case was the one
about Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua when Carloto left him wounded
on the mountainside--for that he had been wounded by brigands he had
no doubt. So he began to feign severe suffering, rolling to and fro on
the ground, and repeating words that he had read in his books and
ascribed to Baldwin as he lay wounded; until he finally was discovered
by a peasant from his own village, a neighbor of his, whom he took for
Baldwin's uncle, the Marquis of Mantua. This good neighbor of Don
Quixote's was much concerned over his ravings. He removed the knight's
breastplate, back piece and visor, expecting to see him badly wounded;
but he found no trace of blood or marks upon him. Then he succeeded in
hoisting poor Don Quixote up on his donkey, which seemed the easiest
mount for him, while he tied the pieces of his arms on Rocinante. And
thus they proceeded toward the village. Because of his blows and
bruises, Don Quixote had a hard task sitting upright on the ass, and
he emphasized the romance of his situation by constantly heaving sighs
to heaven. But every time the peasant was driven by these sighs to ask
him his trouble, he replied in the language of a different hero from a
different book.
It was nightfall when they arrived at Don Quixote's house in the
village. His housekeeper, the curate, and the village barber were all
in confusion, for it was now six days since the old gentleman had
disappeared from La Mancha with his hack and armor. They had just come
to the conclusion that his books were to blame for his dilapidated
mentality, and agreed that they ought to be condemned to be publicly
burned, when the peasant suddenly arrived with Don Quixote himself.
They all ran out to greet and embrace him while he was still on the
donkey--he had not dismounted because he could not. He insisted that
he was severely wounded--through no fault of his own, however, but
that of his horse--and asked that they put him to bed and send for the
wise Urganda to cure him.
The good people carried him to bed, but still they could find no
wounds, although he insisted that he had been wounded in combat with
ten giants, the greatest and most bloodthirsty in the world. Then he
asked for something to eat; and then fell asleep.
CHAPTER VI
OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH THE CURATE AND
THE BARBER MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN
Early the next morning the curate and his friend Master Nicholas, the
barber, went to Don Quixote's house to settle their grievance with the
cause of all the mischief--the books of their demented friend. The
curate asked the niece for the keys to the library, and she was only
too willing to let him have them. They all went in, followed by the
housekeeper, who grew faint-hearted as soon as she caught sight of all
the beautifully bound books in the room. She ran out as if beset,
returning immediately with a bowl of holy water and a sprinkler, with
which she implored the curate to sprinkle the room, so that none of
the magicians who might come out of the books would be left to bewitch
her.
She was afraid that their ghosts might survive and bother her in
revenge for having instigated their banishment from this world.
The curate was amused by the housekeeper's fear. He asked the barber
to give him the books one by one, as he was afraid that among the many
there must be some innocent ones which did not deserve the penalty of
death. But both the niece and the housekeeper made emphatic and
vociferous remonstrances against such leniency and insisted that a
bonfire be made in the courtyard for all of them. Now, the barber had
a particular leaning toward poetry, and he thought that _such_ volumes
ought to escape the stake; but he was promptly overruled by the
conclusions of the niece, who reasoned that enough harm had already
been done by books. "Your worship," she pleaded with the curate, "had
best burn them all; for if my uncle, having been cured of his craze
for chivalry, should take to reading these pastoral poems, he might
take a fancy to become a shepherd and stroll the woods and pastures,
singing and piping. What would be still worse, however, would be his
turning poet; for that, they say, is both an incurable and infectious
malady."
Against such logic, strongly supported by the housekeeper, the
arguments of the two men came to nothing; and the barber saw his
favorite form of literature thrust into the heap that was being
prepared in the yard for illumination. Only a few books were saved
from this fate, and they only through the boldness of the curate and
the barber together against the united efforts of the female members
of the party. There was one volume in particular, called "The Tears of
Angelica," which the curate fought for valiantly. "I should have shed
tears myself," he said, "had I seen that book burn."
CHAPTER VII
OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
While the curate was praising the merits of "The Tears of Angelica,"
there was suddenly a tremendous outcry and noise from Don Quixote's
bedroom. They hastened to see what was the matter, and when they
reached his room they found him out of bed, sword in hand, cutting and
slashing all around him, raving and shouting, with perspiration
dripping from his body. He imagined that he was keeping at a distance
several bold and daring warriors, and he kept exclaiming that the
envious Don Roland had battered him with the trunk of an oak-tree
because of his illustrious achievements in chivalry. They finally
succeeded in forcibly putting him to bed, having wiped away the
perspiration--which he insisted was blood. He then asked for something
to eat; and when it was brought he fell asleep again.
After the housekeeper had burned up all the books that were in the
house, the curate and the barber thought it best to safeguard
themselves against their friend's fury when he should find that his
treasures had disappeared. So they decided to wall up and plaster the
room where the books had been. Two days later, when Don Quixote got up
out of bed, he went to look for his library. And it was nowhere to be
found, of course: where the door had been, there was only a wall. He
asked his housekeeper where his books were, as well as the room they
had been kept in; but she had been well instructed and blamed it all
on the devil. His niece told him that she believed a magician had
taken the room away. She had seen him, she declared, come on a cloud,
riding on a serpent; and when he had disappeared, the whole house was
full of smoke and there was no trace of either room or books. The
niece also declared that she had heard the magician say plainly that
he was the Sage Munaton.
The niece's explanation of the magic was heartily approved of by Don
Quixote. The only doubt he expressed was about the identity of the
magician. "He must have said Friston," he insisted. The housekeeper
here came to the niece's aid and stated that she did not know whether
he had said "Friston" or "Friton" or what he had said; but one thing
she was sure of was that his name ended with "ton."
This convinced Don Quixote that it was no other than the Sage Munaton,
a great enemy of his, whose vanity could not tolerate the prophecies
that Don Quixote was about to conquer in battle a certain knight whom
Munaton had befriended.
After this our worthy knight stuck to his house and home for a
fortnight. His two gossiping friends, the curate and the village
barber, did everything in their power to divert his thoughts from his
fixed idea of a revival of the days of knighthood and chivalry. But
the fire in Don Quixote's breast was smouldering: it was an undying
flame.
Near Don Quixote there lived a man by the name of Sancho Panza. He was
a farm-hand--a poor but honest fellow who had both wife and children.
Sancho Panza was not overburdened with thoughts derived from reading
books of chivalry--the simple facts being that he could neither read
nor write--nor, for that matter, with thoughts of any other kind on
any other subject, for while Don Quixote had lost his wits, Sancho had
never had any.
To this poor fellow Don Quixote would talk of his adventures by the
hour, trying to persuade Sancho that he was missing much romance by
remaining a farm-hand all his life and that he ought to become the
squire of some noble knight--for instance, himself. And so, after much
persuasion and many promises, Sancho Panza decided to adopt his noble
neighbor as his master. He was told that he must provide himself with
all the necessaries for such an important and lofty position; and he
assured his master that he would bring along his very best donkey. The
mention of this ignoble animal somewhat took the knight aback. He
ransacked his memory for any instance in which any other mount than a
horse had been used, but he could recall none. However, he could not
very well have an attendant on foot, so he decided to take him along,
mounted on his donkey. Of course, there was no doubt in his mind that
an opportunity would present itself ere long to appropriate the horse
of some rebellious knight.
One night the two sallied forth from the village, unseen. Sancho Panza
sat on his donkey, a picture of grave joviality, already seeing
himself the governor of some conquered island. Don Quixote was taking
the same road he took on his first campaign, the road that led over
the Campo de Montiel.
CHAPTERS VIII-IX
OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE
TERRIBLE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER
OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO BE FITLY RECORDED, INCLUDING THE TERRIBLE
BATTLE BETWEEN THE GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN
When they had traveled a few miles they suddenly saw thirty or forty
windmills scattered over a plain. Don Quixote pulled in his horse, his
eyes staring out of their sockets.
"Look, friend Sancho Panza!" he exclaimed. "Thirty or more monstrous
giants present themselves! I mean to engage them all in battle and
slay them; for this is righteous warfare. It is serving God to sweep
so evil a breed from off the face of the earth!"
"What giants?" asked Sancho curiously.
"Those with the long arms," replied Don Quixote.
"But, your worship," said Sancho, "those are not giants but windmills,
and what seem to be their arms are the sails that make the millstones
go."
Hearing his squire make such a foolish remark, Don Quixote could not
quite make up his mind whether it was through ignorance, inexperience
in the pursuit of adventure, or cowardice, that he spoke like that. So
he suggested Sancho would better stay away and pray while he, Don
Quixote, fought the giants single-handed. The honor of conquering in
such an unequal combat would be so much greater for him, he thought,
if he won victory all by himself.
Don Quixote made ready for the attack by commending himself to his
Lady Dulcinea, and then he gave the spur to Rocinante in spite of the
pleas and outcries of Sancho Panza. Just at this moment a breeze began
to blow and the sails of the windmills commenced to move. The knight
charged at his hack's fullest gallop, drove his spear with such force
into one of the sails that the spear was shattered to pieces while the
poor knight fell over the pommel of his saddle, head over heels in the
air, and Rocinante fell stunned to the ground. There they rolled
together on the plain, in a battered and bruised condition.
Sancho hurried to his master's side as fast as his donkey could carry
him. He was worried beyond words, for he expected to find Don Quixote
well nigh dead, and he was not bent on giving up all hopes of
governing an island, at so early a stage. The misguided knight was
unable to move. Nevertheless Sancho Panza could not resist the impulse
to reprimand his master. "Did I not tell your worship so!" he
admonished. But Don Quixote would hear nothing, answering in a
sportsmanlike fashion:
"Hush, friend Sancho! The fortunes of war fluctuate, that's all." And
then he added his suspicion that the same Sage Friston, the magician
who had carried off his room of books, had turned the giants into
windmills so that he would be unable to boast of having conquered
them--all out of sheer envy and thirst for vengeance. What he most
bewailed, however, was the loss of his lance.
With much difficulty Sancho succeeded in placing Don Quixote on his
horse, and they proceeded on their way, following the road to Puerto
Lapice. All the while Don Quixote was scanning the woods along the
roadside for the branch of an oak-tree that he would deem a worthy
substitute for his departed spear. It seemed to him as if he had read
somewhere in one of his books that some knight had done such a thing
in an emergency.
Having reminded Don Quixote that he must sit straight in the saddle,
Sancho was in turn reminded by an inner feeling that it was time to
eat. His master, however, scorned this idea, and let Sancho indulge by
himself, while he fasted.
Finally night fell, and they passed it in the woods. There Don Quixote
chose at last the branch of an oak-tree that was to serve him as a
spear, and to one of its ends he attached the head of his broken
lance. All night long he lay looking up into the sky, visioning his
sweet Dulcinea--all for the purpose of emulating other heroes of the
past age of chivalry who could not sleep for thinking of their lady
loves.
Sancho Panza, unluckily, was stimulated in no such blessed way. He was
supported by no sweet dreams of any beloved one of his. As for his
wife, he had forgotten all about her. But as a matter of truth he had
no memory of anything, having absorbed too much fluid out of his
leather wine-bag, or _bota_, as it is called in Spanish. On getting up
in the morning Sancho Panza was grieved to find the contents of his
_bota_ decidedly diminished.
Don Quixote bravely maintained his self-inflicted hunger and
swallowed his appetite by thoughts of his past valiant deeds. They
soon started out, and again took the road leading to Puerto Lapice,
whose outlines they sighted in the afternoon. Don Quixote thought this
an opportune time for addressing his squire on the etiquette and laws
of knighthood, as they were now approaching a very hotbed of
adventure.
"Under no pretext," he admonished the faithful one, "must thou put a
hand to thy sword in my defense unless it be that I am attacked by
mere rabble or base folk; in such case, thou art in duty bound to be
my bodyguard. But if my assailants be knights, thou must in no way
interfere until thou hast been dubbed a knight thyself."
Sancho promised to obey his master as nearly as his human nature
permitted him. He declared that he liked peace and hated strife, yet, if
he were assailed, he did not believe in turning the other cheek more than
once. Don Quixote saw a certain amount of reason in this; still, he asked
his squire to do his utmost to restrain himself against any such rash
impulse in the case of members of the knighthood. And Sancho Panza swore
that he would keep this precept as religiously as Sunday.
While our noble knight was thus instructing his squire, there appeared
on the road two friars of the order of St. Benedict. They were riding
mules; and behind them came a coach with an escort numbering nearly
half a dozen men on horseback and two men on foot. In the coach,
traveling in state, was a lady of Biscay, on her way to Seville.
What could this be except a plot of scheming magicians to steal away
some princess? The friars, innocently traveling by themselves, became
in Don Quixote's eyes a pair of evil magicians, and in his thirst for
adventure the nearer one assumed stupendous proportions.
"This will be worse than the windmills!" sighed Sancho, who tried in
vain to convince his master of the facts in the case.
But Don Quixote cut him short. "Thou knowest nothing of adventures,"
he said; and that settled it.
Boldly the knight went forward and took position in the middle of the
road.
"Devilish and unnatural beings!" he cried in a loud voice, "release
instantly the high-born princess whom you are carrying off by force in
this coach, else prepare to meet a speedy death as the just punishment
of your evil deeds!"
The mules came to a standstill, their ears erect with astonishment at
such a figure, and the friars gaped in wonder. At last they recovered
sufficiently to declare that they were traveling quite by themselves,
and had no knowledge of the identity of the travelers following behind
them.
To their meek reply Don Quixote paid no heed, but bellowed forth
furiously: "No soft words with me! I know you, you lying rabble!" And
with his spurs in Rocinante and his lance lifted he rode against the
two friars like a whirlwind, so that if one of them had not quickly
thrust himself off his mule, he would certainly have been torn to
shreds. The other one saved his skin by setting off across the country
at a speed rivaling our hero's charge.
At this stage Sancho Panza began to realize the full extent of his
position as squire to a successful knight. Over by the roadside he saw
the first friar lying breathless on the ground as a result of his
jumping off his mule in such amazing hurry. He proceeded to strip off
the friar's gown, using as a moral for doing this his own thoughts on
the subject. He reasoned that if he could not share in the honors of
battle, he at least ought to share in the spoils.
He was intercepted by some of the men attending the carriage.
Unfortunately, they were serious-minded men, and they failed to see
the joke. Sancho Panza gave them his views on etiquette pertaining to
such matters as these; but it would have been much better for him had
he not, for the men set upon him with great fury, beating and kicking
him until he was insensible. They left him lying on the ground and
then helped the pale and trembling friar to mount his mule. As soon as
he was in the saddle, he hastened to join his companion, and the two
of them continued their journey, making more crosses than they would
if the devil had pursued them.
In the meantime Don Quixote had been trying to persuade the fair
occupant of the coach to return to El Toboso that she herself might
relate to his beloved Dulcinea the strange adventure from which he had
delivered her.
A Biscayan gentleman, who was one of her attendants and rode a hired
mule, took offense at his insistence to bother her, and a fight was
soon in progress. The Biscayan had no shield, so he snatched a cushion
from the carriage and used it to defend himself. The engagement was a
most heated one, and Don Quixote lost a piece of his ear early in the
combat. This enraged him beyond words; he charged his adversary with
such tremendous force and fury that he began to bleed from his mouth,
his nose, and his ears. Had the Biscayan not embraced the neck of his
mount, he would have been spilled on the ground immediately. It
remained for his mule to complete the damage, and when the animal
suddenly set off across the plain in great fright, the rider plunged
headlong to the ground.
Seeing this, Don Quixote hastened to the man's side and bade him
surrender, at the penalty of having his head cut off. Absolutely
bewildered, the gentleman from Biscay could say nothing; and had it
not been for the ladies in the coach who interceded with prayers for
his life, the Biscayan might have been beheaded right then and there.
Don Quixote finally agreed to spare his opponent's life on one
condition: that he present himself before the matchless Lady Dulcinea
in the village of El Toboso, and it would be for her to determine his
punishment. The ladies having promised that their protector should do
anything and everything that might be asked of him, our hero from La
Mancha said that he would harm the gentleman no more.
CHAPTER X
OF THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE
AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA
When Sancho Panza had regained consciousness, he saw his master again
engaged in battle. He thought that the best thing he could do was to
pray, at a distance, for victory; and so he did. Soon he saw Don
Quixote emerge from the struggle as victor! Overcome by emotion and
gratitude to God, he ran to his master's side and fell on his knees
before him. He kissed his hand, then helped him to mount his steed.
All the while he did not forget the island of which Don Quixote had
promised him he should become governor. He expectantly reminded his
master of it now, and Don Quixote said to him that if things continued
to go as they had gone, there would be even greater honors in store
for him; perhaps he would become a king or an emperor, even.
Much satisfied with this prospect, Sancho lifted himself up into the
saddle and trotted after his master, who was galloping ahead at a wild
pace. Sancho, seeing him disappear in a wood nearby, steered his ass
in the same direction. He yelled to him in a loud voice, begging him
to stop.
At last our knight condescended to hear his tired squire, and waited
until Sancho caught up with him. Sancho ventured to suggest that they
hide in some church, for he was afraid that by this time the friars
had reported the happening to the Holy Brotherhood; but his master
only laughed at his simplicity and fear; and finally Sancho had to
admit that he never in his life had served so brave and valiant a
knight. However, he begged his master not to overlook his bleeding
ear, and gave him some ointment to apply to the wound. It was only
after a long discourse on the merits of the strange balsam of
Fierabras, which possessed the enchanted quality of healing bodies cut
in twain--he particularly dwelt upon the necessity of fitting the two
separated halves evenly and exactly--that Don Quixote deigned to apply
Sancho's ointment. In doing so he lamented the absence of the famous
balsam.
Now, Sancho Panza saw untold possibilities for making money out of
such a remarkable remedy as this balsam. He was even willing to
relinquish his rights to any throne in its favor. So what interested
him more than anything else was the recipe for making it. But his
master told him that he would teach him even greater secrets when the
time came, and suddenly changed the subject by cursing the Biscayan,
of whom he had just been reminded by a twinge in his bleeding ear. The
sight of his shattered helmet brought the climax to his anger, and he
swore by the creator and all the four gospels to avenge himself. When
Sancho heard this, he reminded his knight of his solemn oath to the
ladies. Had he not promised them to refer the Biscayan's punishment to
the court of his Dulcinea? Being thus reminded by his squire, Don
Quixote nobly declared his oath null and void, and commended Sancho
Panza for unknowingly having made him conform with the customs of
chivalry.
Then he repeated his vows of knighthood and swore to capture from some
other knight a helmet as good as his own. Sancho, by this time, was
beginning to wonder whether so many oaths might not be injurious to
Don Quixote's salvation. He suggested, for instance, the possibility
of meeting with no one wearing a helmet, and asked what his master
intended to do to keep his oath in such a case. Don Quixote assured
him that they would soon encounter more men in armor than came to
Albraca to win the fair Angelica.
Unwittingly Sancho's thoughts went back to his favorite unconquered
island, and again his master admonished him to feel no uneasiness on
that score. He even bettered his chances, explaining that if the
island should disappear or for some reason be out of the question,
there were countless other realms to be considered. He mentioned the
kingdoms of Denmark and Sobradisa as some of them, and added that
these possessed advantages that no island had. These were on the
mainland and did not have to be reached by boat or by swimming.
Now Don Quixote was beginning to feel hungry, and he asked Sancho
Panza to give him some food out of his _alforjas_. Sancho made
apologies for having nothing but onions, cheese, and a few crusts of
bread to offer such a valiant knight, but Don Quixote explained that
one of the glories of knighthood was self-denial: many a knight had
been known to go without food for a month at a time. However, he
thought it advisable for Sancho to gather dry fruits from time to time
as a safeguard against overwhelming hunger. Sancho feared that his
appetite might crave food of a more substantial kind, and added that
he would garnish his meals with some poultry. His master made no
direct remonstrance to this assertion of his squire, but presumed that
not _all_ knights at _all_ times lived on dry fruit.
As soon as they had finished their repast, they mounted and continued
their way, anxious to find some inhabited place before nightfall.
When it had grown dark, they found themselves near the huts of some
goatherds, and Don Quixote decided that they should spend the night
there. Sancho had hoped that they would find some house where he could
have a comfortable bed; but his master was pleased to sleep once more
in the open. Each act of self-denial made him a more honored and more
valuable member of the knighthood.
CHAPTER XI
OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS
The goatherds were cordial in their greeting to our knight and his
squire, and invited them to partake of their meal, which was just
being served on a tablecloth of sheepskin spread on the ground. Don
Quixote was given a seat of honor on a trough turned upside down.
Sancho remained standing to serve him, but his master insisted upon
his coming down to his level. To this Sancho objected. He said that he
could enjoy his food much better in a corner by himself, where he
could chew it as he pleased, without having to take into consideration
the formalities inflicted by the presence of one so much above his own
state as his worthy master. He called his master's attention to the
fact that in company like this, a humble servant like himself would
have to suppress all such inclinations as sneezing, coughing and other
natural outbursts, and, worst of all, drinking to his heart's content.
But Don Quixote would listen to no arguments and seated him by force
at his side.
All the while the goatherds were marveling at our knight's bombastic
speech and flourishing manners, and their interest was only enhanced
when Don Quixote suddenly commenced a vast and poetic discourse on the
golden age of the past. Some parched acorns he had just eaten had
served him as a reminder and this in turn as an inspiration.
Sancho took advantage of his master's long speech by paying numerous
visits to the leather wine-bag, which had been suspended from a
cork-tree in order to keep the wine cool.
Hardly had Don Quixote finished his discourse when the sound of music
was heard in the distance, and soon a good-looking youth of twenty
appeared, playing a lute. At the goatherds' request he sang a ballad
of love, which was much favored by Don Quixote. Sancho Panza, however,
felt the necessity for sleep and slyly suggested consideration on his
master's part for the men, who no doubt had to rise with the sun and
attend to their labors. This appeal did not fail to move Don Quixote,
especially since his ear again began to trouble him with pain. One of
the goatherds offered his help. He plucked some leaves of rosemary,
put them in his mouth and chewed them well, then mixed them with a
pinch of salt and put them as a plaster over the wounded ear, safely
attaching it with a bandage. As he had predicted, this proved to be an
excellent treatment.
CHAPTER XII
OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE
Just as Don Quixote was about to retire for the night, a young man from
the village came to the hut and informed the goatherds of the death of a
famous villager named Crysostom. The youth said there was a rumor that
Crysostom--who had been a student and had turned shepherd--had died of a
broken heart, for love of the daughter of Guillermo the Rich. In his will
he had directed that he desired to be buried, like a Moor, at the very
place where he first saw her, at the foot of a rock by a spring in the
fields. The clergy of the village had been aroused by this and other
directions in the will, which they considered smacked of heathenism, and
objected to the carrying out of the will. Ambrosio, the bosom friend of
Crysostom--and a student who had also become a shepherd--started an
opposition to the clergy, and was determined that his dead friend's will
should be done. The young man said that the whole village was in an
uproar, and he was looking forward to interesting events in the morning,
when the burial was to take place.
Don Quixote was eager to learn something of the maiden for whose sake
Ambrosio's friend had died. One of the goatherds, named Pedro, related
to him all that he knew.
The parents of Marcela--for that was the maiden's name--and of
Crysostom were very rich people, although they were farmers. Marcela's
father and mother died when she was a baby, and she was brought up
under the care of her uncle, a priest in the village. As she grew up,
her beauty was increased with each day that passed, and her uncle had
many offers for her hand in marriage; but she would hear of none of
them. One day, to the consternation of all in the village, she
appeared dressed in the costume of a shepherdess, and declared her
intention of turning to that kind of life.
Just about this time the father of Crysostom died, leaving his great
fortune to his son, who had just finished his studies in astrology and
other learned subjects in the University of Salamanca. Crysostom
returned home together with his friend and companion Ambrosio, and
both became very well liked in the village. There Crysostom saw
Marcela and fell deeply in love with her, and he, like so many others
before him, decided to turn shepherd in order to be near her
constantly. But she was indifferent to all talk of love; and the sting
of her scorn made him take his life.
Having ended his story, Pedro advised our knight not to miss the
ceremonies that Crysostom's shepherd friends were to hold at his grave
in the morning. Sancho, who had been greatly annoyed by the goatherd's
talkativeness, was by this time beginning to think aloud that it might
be time for his master to go to bed; and Pedro begged him to sleep in
his hut, as he was afraid that the cold night air might hurt his
wound.
So Don Quixote retired for the night to the bed given him by his
hosts, and dreamed all night of his beloved one in his native village,
in imitation of other great lovers. Sancho rested, as comfortable and
unemotional as a barrel of settled wine, between his master's charger
and his own peaceful donkey.
CHAPTER XIII
IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA WITH
OTHER INCIDENTS
As soon as the sun was rising in the east, Don Quixote was awakened,
and a little later they were on their way to the burial of Crysostom.
They had gone only a short distance, when they met six shepherds, all
dressed in black sheepskins and with crowns of bitter oleander and
cypress on their heads. In his hand each shepherd carried a staff of
holly. Directly behind them came two dignified gentlemen on horseback,
followed by three servants on foot. While stopping to exchange
greetings, all had learned that they were going in the same direction
for the same purpose. The two gentlemen had met the mourning
shepherds, and from them had heard the sad story of the love of
Crysostom for Marcela. That had aroused their curiosity and sorrow,
and they wanted now to do him honor.
The battle-clad Don Quixote, of course, attracted their attention, and
one of the gentlemen was eager to learn why any one should be
masquerading in armor so early in the morning. To which he got the
reply that the danger of his calling made it necessary for him to wear
it. The gentlemen could not help then but realize Don Quixote's mental
condition. But one of them possessed a restless sense of humor, and
when Don Quixote began to discourse on chivalry and knights errant, he
asked to know what these things were. Our hero then explained their
mysteries at length. He described the deeds of King Arthur, spoke of
the famous Round Table, and told the love-story of Don Lancelot and
Queen Guinevere.
In the course of these descriptions the jesting gentleman felt that he
had fully diagnosed the madness of our knight, and thought it only
fair play to beguile the journey to the burial-place by listening to
his absurdities. Now and then he would put in a word or ask a question
in order not to break the thread. For instance, he suggested cunningly
that the calling of a knight errant was as serious as that of a
Carthusian monk; and Don Quixote replied that he thought it a much
more necessary one. And as to its demands, there was no comparison, he
declared, for if ever one rose to become an emperor it was only after
tremendous sacrifice of blood and sweat.
The traveling gentleman was agreed with him on that score; but there
was one thing he did not approve of: whenever a knight went into
battle, he commended himself to his lady, instead of God. This he
thought wrong and unchristianlike. Don Quixote, however, saw no wrong
in it. It was only human, he contended, to think first of his beloved
one at so austere a moment; and, besides, often the knight errant
would say things under his breath that would not be understood. Then
only Heaven could know whether he had called upon his lady or God.
The gentleman then soon found another argument. He expressed a doubt that
all knights errant were in love, saying that some of them commended
themselves to ladies fictitiously. Don Quixote denied this emphatically;
but the traveler thought that he had read somewhere that Don Galaor, the
brother of the valiant Amadis of Gaul, never commended himself to any
particular lady, yet he was a brave and most illustrious knight errant.
All that Don Quixote replied to this argument was: "Sir, one solitary
swallow does not make summer!" and offered, as if in confidence, his
conviction that this very knight had been very deeply in love, but
secretly.
At that very moment he heaved a sigh of weariness. The sigh was
misinterpreted by the traveler, however, for he asked our knight
whether he was reticent about telling the name of _his_ lady.
"Dulcinea del Toboso, of La Mancha," answered Don Quixote. And this
time he made her a princess, extolling her virtues and her beauty to
the traveler, who found it amusing to hear the knight tell of her
ancestry and lineage. First of all Don Quixote named to the traveler
the families of Spain that she was _not_ connected with, then informed
him that she was of the house of El Toboso of La Mancha. And though
this was a most modern family, one could never foretell what position
it would hold in the future.
The traveler in his turn told Don Quixote of his own family, saying
that he of course dared not to compare it with that of the fair
Dulcinea, although he never had heard of hers ere this--a confession
that surprised Don Quixote exceedingly.
During this conversation between the knight and the traveling
gentleman--who was named Senor Vivaldo--they came in sight of a score
of shepherds, all dressed in black sheepskins and crowned with
garlands. Six of them were carrying a bier on which lay the body of
the dead Crysostom. At his side were scattered some papers and books.
When they had found the resting-place that the dead man had chosen for
himself, Ambrosio, his dearest friend, spoke some words in his memory.
He mentioned how Crysostom's heart had been rent asunder by the cruel
treatment of one whom his departed friend would have immortalized to
the world in poetry, had Ambrosio not been commissioned by him to
consign the verses to the flames after having entrusted his body to
the earth.
Senor Vivaldo thought it would be a great pity to do away with such
beautiful verses, and he pleaded with Ambrosio against their consignment
to oblivion. As he was speaking, he reached out his hand for some of the
papers that were close to him, and Ambrosio considerately permitted him
to keep them. The remaining ones were burned.
Senor Vivaldo glanced through the papers eagerly and read the
title--"Lay of Despair." When Ambrosio heard this, he asked him to
read the words aloud that all those assembled might hear the last
verses of the dead shepherd. And while Senor Vivaldo spoke the
despairing lines, some of the shepherds were digging the grave for
their friend.
CHAPTER XIV
WHEREIN ARE DESCRIBED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD
Senor Vivaldo had finished the last verse and was about to glance
through the rest of the papers he had saved from the fire, when
suddenly on the summit of the rock by the grave he saw a most glorious
apparition. It was no other than Marcela, the shepherdess, and
every-one was aghast at her presence. The moment Ambrosio saw her, he
became indignant beyond words and commanded her to leave. But she
remained and asked them all to listen to her. She had come there to
defend herself, she said; she knew what people had accused her of:
cruelty, scornfulness, arrogance, ingratitude, deception, and hatred.
But she hated no one, she declared. She had deceived no one. Crysostom
had loved her because of her beauty; but she had loved neither him nor
any other man. She had chosen solitude, the woods and the fields,
because of her inborn craving for freedom. Should she have forced
herself to give that up because any man chose to say, "I love you,"
while she did not love him? Was she to be blamed for Crysostom's
death. For not loving him? Would not that have been to pawn her
modesty and her womanly honor and virtue? And why should he have
wanted to rob her of them?
So she spoke; and when she had finished she waited for no reply but
turned and ran like a deer into the woods. All stood gazing after her
in silent admiration, not only for her beauty but for her frank speech
and good sense also. Some of the men seemed to be about to run after
her, having been wellnigh enchanted by her gloriously bright eyes; but
they were stopped by Don Quixote, who thundered: "Let no one, whatever
his rank or condition, dare to follow the beautiful Marcela, under
pain of incurring my fierce indignation! She has shown by clear and
satisfactory arguments that no fault is to be found with her for the
death of Crysostom. Instead of being followed and persecuted, she
should in justice be honored and esteemed by all the good people of
the world, for she shows that she is the only woman in it that holds
to such a virtuous resolution."
These words Don Quixote uttered in a threatening manner, his hand on
the hilt of his sword. Whether because of his threats or because the
grave had been dug and Crysostom's remains were about to be lowered
into it, they all stayed until the burial was over. The grave was
closed with a large stone, and then the shepherds strewed flowers,
leaves and branches upon it, and shed many tears.
The two travelers extended an invitation to Don Quixote to accompany
them to Seville, where they assured him he would find no end of
adventures awaiting him. But he told them that for the present he had
his hands full ridding these very regions of highwaymen and robbers.
He thanked them, however, and they continued their journey without our
hero.
Don Quixote now saw his duty clearly. He would search the woods and
wilds for the beautiful Marcela. He was certain that she would need
his services.
But things did not turn out as he expected.
CHAPTER XV
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT DON QUIXOTE
FELL IN WITH WHEN HE FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS
When Don Quixote had taken leave of his hosts, he set off with his
squire into the woods where he had seen Marcela disappear. They
wandered about for some time and found no trace of the shepherdess.
Then they came to a pasture through which a brook was running, and as
they were both thirsty, warm, and tired, they decided to remain there
for their noontide meal. They feasted on the scraps that remained in
the _alforjas_, while Rocinante and Sancho's ass were left free to
pluck all the grass they desired.
Now, Fate would have it that at that very hour a band of Yanguesans
were resting nearby, with their ponies let loose in the pasture. As
soon as the ponies were discovered by Rocinante, he wanted to exchange
friendly greetings with them, so he set off at a brisk trot in their
direction. But the ponies seemed to have no desire to strike up an
acquaintance with an unknown hack, for they arrogantly turned their
backs on him and commenced to snort and kick and bite until the saddle
fell off Rocinante and he was left quite naked. By this time the
Yanguesans had heard the commotion and rushed up, armed with sticks,
and with these they thrashed poor Rocinante so soundly that he fell to
the ground in a heap.
Just at this time Don Quixote and Sancho, having finished their
repast, went to look for their chargers. As soon as Don Quixote had
taken in the situation, he realized that these were no knights errant
and confided this to his squire, charging him to help him in his
battle for Rocinante's honor. Sancho made vehement pleas for
abstaining from vengeance, seeing the great numbers of the enemy; but
his master's conviction that he alone counted for a hundred eased his
mind.
Don Quixote attacked at once and cut off a portion of his opponent's
shoulder; Sancho fought bravely too. But when the men saw that they
were fighting such a small number they set upon them, all at one time,
and after a few thrusts they had unseated our knight and his squire,
both sorely battered. Then, fearing the hand of the law, the
Yanguesans set off in great haste.
When Sancho came to, he was certain that all his bones were broken,
and he feebly turned to his master saying that he only wished that he
had at hand the marvelous balsam of Fierabras, of which his master had
spoken. Sancho lamented the lack of it no more than Don Quixote, who
swore that within two days he would have the potion in his possession.
As to his wounds, he took all the blame upon himself: he felt that it
was God's punishment for having engaged in battle with ordinary rabble
like these carriers, and decided that henceforth he would have Sancho
alone chastise those who had not been dubbed knights.
To this Sancho took exception, for he maintained that he had wife and
children to support, and was by nature a peaceful, meek and timid man.
He called upon God to forgive in advance all the insults man or beast
might offer him in the future and for all times; but at this Don
Quixote took him to task and admonished him not to lose his valor in
attacking and defending himself in all sorts of emergencies.
Sancho's soft heart now turned to Rocinante, who had been the cause of
all the trouble. The poor horse was in a sorry plight. So it was
considered best that Don Quixote--who could not sit upright--should be
slung across his servant's donkey. This decision was reached when Don
Quixote remembered that Silenus, the teacher of the God of Laughter,
had entered the city of the hundred gates mounted on a handsome ass.
When his master had been secured and Rocinante raised from the ground,
Sancho took the two beasts by the halter and led them out to the road,
and from there they proceeded on their way. Soon Sancho saw the
outlines of an inn, which Don Quixote insisted must be a castle, and
before they had finished their dispute, they found themselves at the
gate and entered.
CHAPTER XVI
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN
WHICH HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE
When the keeper of the inn saw the sorry body of the knight on the
ass, he became anxious to learn what had happened to him. His wife was
a kindly and good-natured woman, and when Sancho had explained that
his master had fallen from a rock, she and her pretty daughter offered
to care for him. The daughter, and a one-eyed Asturian servant-girl,
with turned-up nose and high cheek-bones, made a bed for Don Quixote
on four rough boards in a garret, where a carrier was also quartered.
Stretched on this bed Don Quixote was attended by the innkeeper's
wife, who soon covered him with more plasters than he had quilts. In
the meantime she, her daughter, and the Asturian girl, all curious,
questioned Sancho about his master.
Sancho told, in as thrilling words as he could command, of their
marvelous adventures; to all of which they listened with astonishment.
The Asturian servant nearly stared her one eye out of her head. She
asked Sancho Panza, trembling with excitement, what a knight errant
was. To this Sancho replied that a knight was an adventurer, who one
day might be the poorest and meanest of men, and the next day emperor,
with crowns and kingdoms in abundance to give away to his squire and
underlings. Here the women expressed surprise that he himself,
judging by appearance, did not possess even so much as a small strip
of land. He then confided to them that he and his master had been
going but a short time; that as yet it was much too soon; that the
adventures they had met with so far were but a beginning and not
worthy of mention.
Don Quixote, who had been listening to everything his squire said, now
sat up in bed and informed them of the great honor he had conferred
upon them by being in their house; he told them of his indescribable
gratitude to them; and of his love for his Dulcinea del Toboso of La
Mancha.
The women, not being accustomed to such language, which seemed to them
more difficult to understand than Greek, stared at him in bewilderment;
then, thanking him for his courtesy, they left him while the Asturian
plastered Sancho, who seemed to be in need of treatment as sadly as his
master.
CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE
BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED
AT THE INN, WHICH TO HIS MISFORTUNE HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE
The following morning Sancho, feeling his pains even more, reminded
his master of the famous balsam he was to make. Don Quixote himself
was anxious for it too, so he sent Sancho to an imagined fortress for
some oil, wine, rosemary and salt. He mixed these ingredients in a
pot, and boiled them. Then he poured the mixture into a tin flask,
crossed himself and repeated innumerable paternosters and ave-marias.
When he had nearly exhausted himself doing that, he swallowed a good
portion of the liquid; and immediately he began to vomit and perspire,
while his face and body contracted in the most horrible spasms. He
asked to be put to bed at once, and they let him sleep for three
hours. When he woke he felt so relieved that he really thought he had
hit upon the remedy of Fierabras.
Seeing his master's miraculous recovery, Sancho begged to be permitted
to drink some of the wonderful liquid, and Don Quixote gave him a dose
of it. Unlike his master, Sancho retained what he had drunk for some
time before letting it all come up again, but in the meantime his
agony was insufferable. He was seized with such gripings and faintness
that he was sure his last hour had come. He even cursed his master for
having given him such terrible stuff; but Don Quixote said that he had
only now come to realize that the remedy was made solely for those who
had been dubbed knights: whereupon Sancho, writhing in convulsions
cursed him still more. Sancho's agony lasted for several hours.
In the meantime Don Quixote himself, being anxious for new adventures,
had saddled Rocinante. He had to help his squire mount the ass, for
Sancho still was in a sorry condition. All the folk at the inn had
gathered to see them depart, and when Don Quixote's eyes fell on the
beautiful young daughter of the innkeeper, he heaved a heavy sigh;
but no one there realized the soul or the reason of it, for they all
thought it must be from the pain in his ribs.
As he was about to leave, the valiant knight called the innkeeper and
asked him with profound gravity whether he had any enemies that
remained unpunished; if so, he, Don Quixote, would chastise them for
him. The innkeeper answered shortly that he could take care of his own
grudges; all he asked of our knight was payment for lodging and for
what he and the beasts and the squire had consumed.
"Then this is an inn?" cried Don Quixote, who could hardly believe his
ears. He ransacked his memory for any incident when knight had ever
paid for food and lodging, and, unable to remember one, raised his
lance, turned Rocinante, and set off at a quick gallop, leaving Sancho
behind.
The innkeeper immediately took steps to attach the squire for the
unpaid debt; but Sancho's stolid indifference to his representations
only tended to prove the truth of the old proverb: like master, like
servant. He argued that it was not for him to tear down traditions of
noble knighthood.
Unfortunately for Sancho, he was overheard by a good many guests at the
inn, rollicking fellows, who were on the alert for amusement. These men
seized a blanket, dismounted the squire unceremoniously, placed him in
the middle of the blanket, and proceeded to hoist him, not gently, high
in the air. This movement no doubt caused a return of Sancho's
stomach-ache, for he commenced to groan and scream helplessly. His
screams were heard far off by his master, who, believing that some new
and glorious adventure was at hand, spurred his hack into a playful
gallop and returned to the inn.
The gates were closed, but over the wall the knight could see the
tricks that his faithful follower was made to perform in the air and
on the blanket, and he boiled with rage, unable to come to the rescue,
for he could not dismount because of stiffness. Finally, when the men
had been sufficiently amused, they stopped their sport, then mounted
Sancho with no little kindness on his ass and bade him godspeed on his
journey. The one-eyed Asturian compassionately offered the poor fellow
some water to drink; but seeing this, Don Quixote commenced to
gesticulate wildly, waving a tin flask in the air, and crying:
"Sancho, my son, drink not water, for it will kill thee! See, here I
have the blessed balsam: two drops of it will restore thee!"
His master's advice did not appeal to the squire, and he replied
rather cuttingly that Don Quixote ought to remember that he was not a
knight. Saying this he put the cup the lass had offered him to his
lips. But he found that it was not wine but water. He begged her to
exchange it, which she did with Christian spirit, paying for it
herself. The squire, having drunk the wine, spurred his ass toward the
gate, and the innkeeper let him depart without further payment,
having, unbeknown to Sancho, appropriated his _alforjas_.
CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH
HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER ADVENTURES
WORTH RELATING
Don Quixote told his squire he was certain that the inn was an
enchanted castle, and blamed his transgressions of the laws of
chivalry for all their mishaps; for he imagined that, had he abstained
from laying hands on the rabble and base folk, these would not have
occurred. His being unable to get out of the saddle and climb over the
wall, he ascribed to enchantment as well. Sancho thought this might be
the moment for reforming his master. He suggested that it was harvest
time at home; and reminded the knight of the fact that of all his
battles he had come out victorious but once, when he fought with the
Biscayan, and then with half of his ear lost, not to speak of all the
damage done to his armor.
But Don Quixote was in no mood to contemplate past disasters, for in
the distance he suddenly perceived rising clouds of dust, and what
could it be but two opposing armies making ready for battle; since the
clouds were seen on either side of the road! He made Sancho believe
they were the great armies of the mighty emperor Alifanfaron and his
enemy, the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare Arm,
explaining--on seeing a bare-armed shepherd--that this lord always
went into battle in this manner.
Sancho Panza asked what they should do. His master replied that their
duty was clear: they should, of course, help the weak and needy. Then
he went on to explain that the reason for the feud was the pagan
Alifanfaron's wish to marry the beautiful and Christian daughter of
Pentapolin, and her father's refusal to sanction the marriage unless
the emperor became a convert. Immediately Sancho's instinct for
righteousness made him declare himself for Pentapolin, and he wanted
to fight for him. This spirit pleased Don Quixote tremendously, for,
he said, it was not required of dubbed knights to engage in feuds of
this sort; thus Sancho would have a chance to distinguish himself all
alone.
Scratching his head, Sancho now began to worry about his faithful
donkey, for he believed it was not good taste to go into battle
mounted on an ass, and if he dismounted, he was afraid his Dapple
would be lost in the ensuing tumult. Don Quixote, however, calmed his
fears. There would be hundreds of riderless horses after the battle,
from which both of them might choose; and he asked Sancho to follow
him to a hill nearby that he might point out to his valiant squire the
great and illustrious knights of the two armies. He cried out name
after name, the last one always more illustrious than the previous
one. But Sancho could see nothing but the two flocks of sheep and the
shepherds, and he said so.
"How can you say that!" cried Don Quixote. "Do you not hear the
neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of the
drums?"
Sancho answered in despair that he could hear nothing but the
bleating of ewes and sheep. To this his master explained that often
fear deranged the senses and made things appear different from what
they were. Therefore, being certain that Sancho had suddenly become
possessed of fear, he put the spurs in Rocinante and charged down the
hill like a flash of lightning, determined to down the pagan emperor.
Lifting his lance, he galloped into the midst of the sheep, and
commenced spearing right and left. The shepherds, panic-stricken, used
their slings. Stones hit his head and body, but it was not until a
large one struck him in the ribs that he imagined himself really
wounded. He stopped in the midst of the furious battle, and suddenly
remembering his flask of balsam, drew it out, put it to his mouth, and
was about to swallow a quantity of it when there came a stone that
took the flask out of his hand, and another one that smashed out three
or four of his teeth. Don Quixote was so astonished and the force of
the blow was so sudden that he lost his reins and fell backwards off
his horse. When the shepherds came up and saw what they had done to
him, they quickly gathered their flocks and hastened away, taking with
them the seven sheep that Don Quixote killed with his spear.
During this rampage, Sancho Panza was nearly beside himself where he
stood on the hill. He was tearing his hair and beard, wishing he had
never laid eyes on his master, and berating himself for ever having
joined in his mad adventures. When the shepherds had disappeared, he
ran to his master's side.
"Did I not tell your worship," he reproached the prostrate knight,
"that they were not armies, but droves of sheep!"
But again our hero blamed his misfortune on his arch-enemy, that
cursed Sage Friston, who had falsified the armies in such a way that
they looked like meek and harmless sheep. Then he begged his squire to
pursue the enemy by stealth that he might ascertain for himself that
what he had said was true; for he was sure that ere they had gone very
far they would resume their original shape.
However, before Sancho Panza had time to make up his mind whether to
go or not, his master's sip of the balsam during the battle suddenly
began to take effect, and Sancho's presence became for the moment a
necessity. Having gone through this ordeal, Don Quixote rose and asked
his squire for a remedy for hunger. It was then they discovered that
the _alforjas_ had disappeared, with all its precious contents. Both
were dejected. Don Quixote tried to impart, out of the abundance of
his optimism for the future, new hope to the discouraged Sancho. It
was a difficult task, and he might have failed, had not the loss of
his teeth and the sorry plight he was in made Sancho sway from his
intentions of home-going. When, at his master's request, the squire
put his finger in Don Quixote's mouth in order to learn the extent of
the damage done in that region of his body, his heart was touched by
the terrible devastation there. He could not, of course, leave his
master to shift for himself on the highways in such a condition. So he
consented to remain, and they proceeded along the road, hoping that
they would soon come to a place where they could find shelter for the
night, as well as something with which to still their hunger.
CHAPTER XIX
OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTER,
AND OF THE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODY,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE OCCURRENCES
Night had fallen, yet they had discovered no place of refuge.
Suddenly, in the darkness, they saw a number of lights that came
closer and closer without their being able to make out what it was.
Sancho commenced to shake like a leaf, and even Don Quixote was
frightened and muttered a paternoster between his teeth while his hair
stood on end. They withdrew to the roadside, from where they soon
distinguished twenty bodies on horseback, all dressed in white shirts,
and carrying lighted torches in their hands. With chattering teeth
Sancho stared at this awe-inspiring procession, which was not yet at
an end, for behind the mounted bodies there came others, these in
black and on mule-back, and surrounding a bier, covered with a large
black cloth. All the while a quiet, solemn mumbling came from the
moving figures, and Sancho Panza was now so stricken with fear that he
was almost paralyzed.
Don Quixote's courage--which likewise had been rather shaky at this
passing of ghostlike beings, at such a time of the night--suddenly
revived and mounted to such heights that he decided he would ask where
they were carrying the wounded king on the bier. This he did without
delay. But such a question seemed silly and out of place to one of
the guardians of the corpse, and he commanded the knight to move on.
This angered Don Quixote beyond measure. He seized the man's mule by
the bridle; but this, in turn, annoyed the mule, which rose on its
hind legs and flung its rider to the ground. Another man came up to
Don Quixote and tried to talk reason to him, but to no avail, and in
the disturbance that followed the procession was soon scattered over
the fields and plains, with torches glimmering from all points like so
many eyes in the black night.
While our knight errant was lunging with his spear in all directions,
the meek followers of the dead body became ensnared in their skirts
and gowns and long white shirts, and fell head over heels wherever
they happened to be, in ditch or field. Moans, groans, and prayers
were intermingled, and they all were convinced that the procession had
been interrupted by the devil himself, come to carry away the body of
the dead man.
When the battle had ceased, Don Quixote approached the man who was flung
by his mule, to make him his prisoner. The poor man declared that Don
Quixote had made a grave mistake; that the dead man was not a king and
had not fallen in battle, but a gentleman who had died from fever; and he
himself was a poor servant of the Holy Church who could harm no one. On
hearing this confession Don Quixote made a slight apology for having
mistaken him in the dark for something evil, if not for the very devil,
explaining that since it was his sworn duty to right all wrongs, he had
only set out to do so. But the worthy ecclesiastic was not easily
appeased, and before making his departure, he unceremoniously
excommunicated his attacker in flowing and flourishing Latin.
Sancho, moved by a desire to alleviate the sting of the outburst,
called out after him: "If the gentleman should wish to know who was
the hero who served them thus, your worship may tell them he is the
famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance."
Don Quixote asked his squire why he called him thus; and Sancho
replied that the loss of his teeth had given his master a face so
sorry looking that he could find no milder name to describe its
ugliness. Don Quixote laughed at the compliment; nevertheless he
decided to adopt Sancho's meaning name, and also to have his own
rueful face commemorated on his shield at the first opportunity.
After this conversation Sancho persuaded his master to continue their
journey; although Don Quixote was eager to view the bones of the
deceased man, and Sancho had some difficulty in preventing him from
doing so.
Sancho had made his coat into a sack and filled it with the provisions
of the clergy; and so, when they arrived in a valley where they found
an abundance of grass, they ate all the meals they had been missing.
Their repast would have been complete had they had some wine; but they
did not have even water.
CHAPTER XX
OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED
BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN
ANY EVER ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD
Sancho's thirst drove him to use his instincts in search for drink. He
judged by the rank grass that there must be water nearby. So, leading
their mounts, Don Quixote and Sancho came in the darkness to a meadow,
and they had gone only a short distance when they heard the welcome
sound of falling water. Then suddenly a most tremendous, ear-splitting
noise came out of the darkness, a din like the beating of gigantic
hammers, and added to this a shifting wind. All these furious sounds,
the mystery of them, and the blackness of the night, might have
intimidated any heart, however stout; but it only made Don Quixote
leap like a flash upon his horse. Turning to Sancho, he cried: "I am
he who is to revive the Knights of the Round Table, the Twelve of
France, and the Nine Worthies; he who is to consign to oblivion the
whole herd of famous knights errant of days gone by; he for whom all
great perils and mighty deeds are reserved. Therefore, tighten
Rocinante's girth a little, and God be with thee! Wait for me three
days and no more. If in that time I come not back, thou canst return
to our village, and thence thou wilt go to El Toboso, where thou
shalt say to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea that her captive knight
hath died in attempting things that might make him worthy of being
called her own."
These words made Sancho weep copious tears, and he begged his master
not to undertake so dreadful an adventure. He even offered to
sacrifice himself to such an extent as to go without water for three
days, if his master would only return. When Don Quixote was firm in
his resolve, Sancho decided that this was a case where the ends
justified the means; therefore while tightening Rocinante's girth, he
tied the horse's forelegs, so that when Don Quixote was going to ride
off, his charger could move only by fits and starts. The more his
rider spurred him, the more impossible it became for Rocinante to
stir. Sancho had no great difficulty in persuading his master that
this was a sign from above that he ought not to pursue any phantom
adventure at that hour of the night, but wait until daybreak. Don
Quixote resigned himself to do so, although it nearly made him weep,
while Sancho tried to soothe his outraged feelings by telling amusing
stories in a laborious way.
At daybreak Sancho stole over to Rocinante and untied his legs. The
horse immediately became spirited, and when Don Quixote saw this, he
believed it a sign from heaven. Again he took a touching leave of his
squire--who began to cry, as he had done before--and gave the spur to
his steed. Sancho was resolved to follow his master to the end, so he
took his donkey by the halter, as was his custom, and led him on foot
in pursuit of his knight errant.
They passed through a meadow that was fringed with trees, then came
upon some huge rocks with cascades of water pouring over them. Below
stood a row of dilapidated houses. It was from these houses that the
din and noise emanated. As Rocinante came close to the racket, he
began to make hysterical movements, pirouetting backward and forward,
and Don Quixote crossed himself, commending himself to God and his
Lady Dulcinea.
Coming up cautiously from behind the houses, Don Quixote peered around
the corner, and there beheld the cause of the awe-inspiring din--six
hammers of the kind that were used in mills.
Sancho could not help himself. He burst into uncontrollable laughter,
shaking from head to foot. Don Quixote was mortified with shame and
astonishment. And when he heard Sancho's laughter behind him, he broke
into a rage, during which he repeated almost every word he had spoken
the night before, when he was about to ride away to adventure on a
three-legged horse. But Sancho was helpless. Four distinct times he
broke into a fit of mirth, and finally his master struck him a blow on
the body with his spear. Then he calmed down, and Don Quixote scolded
him for his hilarity, saying that no such familiarity would be
tolerated in the future. He quoted various chapters from books of
chivalry, and cited Gandalin, squire to Amadis of Gaul. There, he
said, was a model squire, for he would always address his lord with
cap in hand, his head bowed down and his body bent double. And there
were many others to look to. He mentioned a few, the most shining
examples. Then he decreed that from that day on respect must be the
barrier between squire and knight in all their intercourse. He spoke
also about his squire's wages and the treasures and islands that were
to be his in time to come. He told Sancho not to worry, for if he
should not pay him his wages, he had at any rate mentioned him in his
will. From the first he had considered everything; he knew the world,
and what a hazardous task he had set before himself.
CHAPTER XXI
WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF
MAMBRINO'S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS THAT HAPPENED
TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT
It started to rain, and Sancho suggested the fulling-mills as a place
of refuge; but Don Quixote had taken such an aversion to them that he
would not listen to it, and they continued riding, taking the roadway.
Suddenly they saw a man on horseback, who had on his head something
that shone like gold, and at once Don Quixote exclaimed: "There comes
towards us one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino,
concerning which I took the oath thou rememberest."
Sancho's only reply to this was that he did not want anything more to
do with any fulling-mills; and his master entirely failed to fathom
the connection. Sancho then said he could plainly see that the man's
horse was an ass and that the man had something on his head that
shone.
The truth of the matter was that in the neighborhood were two villages
so small that the apothecary and barbershop in one of them had to
serve for both. The village barber had just been summoned to shave and
bleed a patient in the adjoining community, so he mounted his ass,
armed with a brass basin for the bleeding, and set off. He had got
about half-way, when it commenced to rain. Having a new hat, he
covered it with the clean basin, that glittered like gold.
But Don Quixote had more sense than his squire, of course, and pursued
the unknown knight with the helmet at Rocinante's wildest gallop. When
the fear-stricken barber realized that Don Quixote's uplifted spear
was aimed at him, he promptly threw himself from his ass and ran all
the way home without stopping, leaving his brass basin behind as a
trophy for our hero, who could not understand why this helmet had no
visor.
"That pagan must have had a very large head," remarked Don Quixote,
turning the basin round and round, trying to fit it to his own head,
now this way, now that.
"It looks exactly like a barber's basin," said Sancho Panza, who had
all he could do to keep from bursting into laughter.
Don Quixote treated this blasphemous thought with scorn, and said he
would stop at the next smithy to have its shape changed. His next
concern was his stomach; and when they found that the barber's ass
carried ample supplies, they soon satisfied their appetites. Sancho
now turned the conversation to the rest of the spoils of war; but Don
Quixote was unable to make up his mind that it was chivalrous to
exchange a bad ass for a good one, as was his squire's wish; so Sancho
had to satisfy himself with the barber's trappings.
Then they set out again. Soon Sancho felt the need of unburdening
something he had had on his heart for some time. He suggested that
instead of roaming about seeking adventures which no one ever witnessed
and which therefore remained unsung and unheralded, they go and serve
some great emperor engaged in war, so that their achievements and valor
might go down to posterity. This struck a resonant chord in his master's
heart. In fact, he went into raptures over it, and commenced to rant
about all the great honors the future had in store for the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance. He cunningly surmised that their first task would be
to find a king who had an uncommonly beautiful daughter, for of course he
had to marry a princess first of all. The plan excited him to such an
extent that for a moment he forgot about the existence of his Dulcinea.
The only thing that worried him was his royal lineage; he could not think
of any emperor or king whose second cousin he might be. Yet he decided
not to trouble too much about that; for were there not two kinds of
lineages in the world? And Love always worked wonders: it had since the
beginning of time. What would the princess care, if he _were_ a
water-carrier's son? And if his future father-in-law should object, all
he would have to do would be to carry her off by force.
As Don Quixote went on picturing himself in the most romantic roles in
the history of this as yet unknown kingdom, Sancho began to think it
was time for him to be considered as well, when it came to bestowals
of honor. Once he had been beadle of a brotherhood, and he had looked
so well in a beadle's gown, he said, that he was afraid his wife would
burst with pride when she saw him in a duke's robe, with gold and lace
and precious stones. Don Quixote thought so, too, but admonished him
that he would have to shave his beard oftener, as it was most unkempt.
Sancho replied that would be an easy matter, for he would have a
barber of his own, as well as an equerry; he knew that all men of fame
kept such a man, for once in Madrid he had seen a gentleman followed
by a man on horseback as if he had been his tail. He inquired why the
gentleman was being followed in that manner and learned it was his
equerry. Don Quixote thought Sancho's idea to have a barber was an
excellent one, and Sancho urged his master to make haste and find him
his island, that he might roll in his glory as a count or a duke.
CHAPTER XXII
OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES
WHO AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO
WISH TO GO
Hardly had they finished their conversation, when a gang of convicts
came along on the road, guarded by two men on horseback and two on
foot.
"Galley-slaves," remarked Sancho Panza laconically.
"If they are going against their own free will, it is a case for the
exercise of my office," answered Don Quixote.
He approached their custodians and asked to know what crimes these men
had committed against his majesty the King. They answered it was not
his business.
"Nevertheless, I should like to know," insisted Don Quixote, and he
used such choice and magic language that one of the guards was induced
to give him permission to ask each one of the men about his crime and
sentence.
Don Quixote had questioned every one but the twelfth, and when he came
to him he found that he was chained in a way different from the rest.
This prisoner was a man of thirty, and crossed-eyed. His body was
weighted down by very large irons and especially heavy chains, his
hands were padlocked and so secured he could not raise them. Don
Quixote asked why he was thus overburdened, and got the reply that he
had committed more crimes than all the rest together. The guard then
told the knight that the man had written a story of his unfinished
life, and that he was no other than the famous Gines de Pasamonte. The
culprit strongly objected to hearing his identity mentioned, and there
ensued a furious battle of words between him and the guard. The latter
lost his temper and was about to strike the slave a blow, when Don
Quixote interfered, and pleaded for more kindly treatment. It seemed
only fair to him that they, with their hands tied, might be permitted
a free tongue. He grew fiery in his defense of them, reminded the
guard that there was a God in heaven who would punish all sinners. He
ended by requesting their immediate release.
This demand seemed worse than absurd to the guard, who wished him
godspeed on his journey, advised him to put the basin straight on his
head, and told him not to go looking for trouble. This was too much
for our knight. He set upon his jesting adversary with such speed and
suddenness that the musket fell out of the guard's hand. And the other
guards were so taken aback at what was going on, and there was such
confusion, that they did not notice Sancho untying the arch-criminal
Gines. They suddenly saw him free, and with him the rest of the
slaves, who had broken the chain; whereupon the guards fled in all
directions as fast as their legs could carry them.
When the fray was over, Don Quixote asked the galley-slaves to gather
around him, and to show him reverence for the deed he had done. He
further demanded that they, armed with their chains, proceed in a
body, to El Toboso to pay their respects to the fair Dulcinea. Gines
attempted to explain the necessity of each one hiding himself,
separately, in order to escape the pursuers, and offered to send up
prayers for her instead; but Don Quixote would not listen to any
argument. At last Gines decided he was quite mad, and when Don Quixote
started to abuse him, he lost his temper, and they all attacked the
knight with a rain of stones, until Rocinante and he both fell to the
ground. There they belabored him savagely. Sancho had taken refuge
behind his donkey, but the convicts found him, stripped him of his
jacket, and left him shivering in the cold.
While Don Quixote lay there, fearing the vengeance of the law and the
Holy Brotherhood for what he had done, he was also reviewing in rage
the ingratitude of mankind and the perversity of the iron age.
CHAPTER XXIII
OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHICH IS ONE
OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY
Sancho at last convinced his master that they had best hide in the
Sierra Morena mountains for a few days, in case a search should be
made for them; and Don Quixote was pleased to find that the provisions
carried by Sancho's ass had not disappeared. When night fell they took
refuge under some cork-trees between two rocks. Fate would have it
that to this very place should come that night the convict Gines.
While Sancho was slumbering peacefully, Gines stole his ass; and by
daybreak the thief was already far away. Don Quixote, awakened by
sorrowful wailing, in order to console his squire, promised him three
of his ass-colts at home in exchange. Then Sancho's tears stopped. But
he now had to travel on foot behind his master, and he tried to keep
up his humor by munching the provisions it had become his lot to
carry.
Suddenly he observed that his master had halted, and was poking with
his lance into some object lying on the road. He quickly ran up to him
and found an old saddle-pad with a torn knapsack tied to it. Sancho
opened it covetously and came upon four shirts of excellent material,
articles of linen, nearly a hundred gold crowns in a handkerchief, and
a richly bound little memorandum book. The little volume was all that
Don Quixote kept for himself. Brimful of curiosity, he read it through
and learned that it contained the bemoanings of a rejected lover.
Meantime Sancho Panza's great discovery of the gold coins had entirely
banished from his memory all the suffering and pain and humiliation he
had had to go through since he had became a squire. But Don Quixote
was anxious to find out something about the owner of the knapsack, for
he was convinced there was some very strange adventure connected with
his disappearance. And as he was planning what to do, he perceived on
the summit of a great height, a man, half-naked, jumping with
remarkable swiftness and agility from rock to rock.
Don Quixote saw no way of getting there, so he stood for some time
pondering what to do. Then he saw above him on the mountainside a
flock of goats, tended by an elderly goatherd. Calling to him, the
knight asked him to come down, and the old man descended, amazed at
seeing human beings there. Don Quixote immediately began to ask about
the strange half-naked man he had seen, and the goatherd told what he
knew of him and the mystery of the knapsack.
The stranger, he said, was a youth of good looks and no doubt of high
birth, who had lost his wits because of the faithlessness of a friend.
His behavior was such that they had never seen the like of it. In fits
of madness he would approach people, snatch away food offered him out
of their hands, and then run away with the speed of a deer. Then
again he would come begging for food, the tears flowing down his
cheeks.
Now, while they were standing there discussing the young man, chance
would have it that he came along, and greeted them courteously. Don
Quixote returned his greeting with grand gestures, descended from
Rocinante's tired back, and advanced to the youth with open arms. He
held him in his embrace for some time, as if he had known him forever.
Finally the youth tore away and, placing his hands on the shoulders of
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, the youth, who might be called
the Ragged One of the Sorry Countenance, looked into his eyes and
spoke to him.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA
The Ragged One thanked Don Quixote for being so kind and courteous;
and Don Quixote replied that his duty to the world consisted in giving
succor to those in despair and need. He implored the youth to tell him
the name of the one who had caused his misfortune, that he might
revenge him. The Ragged One stared at him strangely and said: "If you
will give me to eat, I will tell you my story."
Sancho and the goatherd gave the youth something to appease his
hunger; and he ate it ravenously. When he had finished, he motioned
to them to follow him, and they came to a spot where green grass grew
and all stretched themselves on the ground in silence. Before he began
his story, the youth warned them not to interrupt him, for then it
would come to an end. Don Quixote promised solemnly for all of them.
The youth told of his love for one Luscinda, and how his best friend,
Don Fernando, son of a grandee of Spain, had stolen her love away from
him; but suddenly he was interrupted by Don Quixote, and refused to
continue. Whereupon Don Quixote nearly lost his senses--for his
curiosity was aroused beyond words--and called the Ragged One a
villain.
The Ragged One broke into a violent fit when he heard himself called
names and picked up a stone which he hurled against the knight
errant's breast with such force that it placed him flat on his back.
Seeing this, Sancho Panza flew at the madman; but the youth seemed to
possess supernatural strength, for he felled Sancho to the ground with
one single blow, and then jumped on his chest and buckled his ribs.
Having also beaten the old goatherd, he went into the woods again.
When Sancho had seen the last of him, he turned loose his rage on the
poor old goatherd, whom he cursed for not having warned them that the
youth might be taken with fits. Words led to blows; the two grabbed
each other by their beards, and had it not been for Don Quixote, their
fray might have had a sad ending. He calmed his squire by absolving
the old man of all blame. Then he asked him--for he was still aching
with curiosity to learn the end of the story--whether he knew where
he might find Cardenio (that being the youth's name). The goatherd
answered that if he remained in the neighborhood long enough he could
not help meeting him; but as to his mood, he could not answer for
that.
CHAPTER XXV
WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE
STOUT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza now made their way into unknown regions
of the mountains, Sancho trailing behind his master, on foot, silent,
and in bad humor. Finally he requested his master's permission to say
what was in his heart, and Don Quixote removed the ban under which his
squire was suffering. Sancho asked for the knight's blessing and
begged leave to return to his wife and home; but his master could not
make up his mind until he hit upon a great inspiration, the carrying
out of which made necessary his using Sancho as a messenger to his
incomparable Dulcinea.
Don Quixote, in short, had decided to go mad, in emulation of other
bold knights, such as Roland and Amadis--a decision that extracted
from Sancho Panza some muttered words to the effect that any one who
could mistake a barber's basin for a gold helmet could not go much
madder. And then Don Quixote explained to what sufferings, sorrow,
penance, and folly he would subject himself; and quite unintentionally
he revealed to Sancho the real identity of his famous Lady Dulcinea,
whom Sancho had always thought a princess. Now the good squire learned
to his dismay that the famous Dulcinea was no other than Lorenzo
Corchuelo's daughter, Aldonza Lorenzo, a lady with manners like a man,
and a man's ability to handle a crowbar easily.
When Don Quixote had determined upon his penance in the wilderness, all
for the sake of Dulcinea, he thought it would be a good idea to make
known to her the sacrifices and sufferings he was about to undergo for
her sake. Therefore he granted his squire the requested permission to
return to his family, and bade him speed homeward on Rocinante, so that
he himself, horseless, might undergo an even greater penance. He sent a
letter by Sancho to his fair one, relating to her the pain of his wounded
heart; a pain enhanced by self-inflicted absence and to be ended only by
death, to satisfy her cruelty.
Sancho's covetousness did not permit his master to forget the three
promised ass-colts; so Don Quixote wrote an order to his niece in the
notebook of the ill-starred Cardenio.
Before they parted, Don Quixote asked Sancho to stay and see some of
the insanities he meant to perform in his absence. He then stripped to
the skin and went through some remarkable capers before his squire.
This exhibition nearly brought tears to Sancho's eyes, and he besought
him to stop. And when he expressed a fear that he would not be able to
find his way back, Don Quixote assured him that he would remain in
that very spot, or thereabouts, until the squire returned from El
Toboso; and he told him also to cut some branches and strew them in
his path. Furthermore he said he would be on the lookout for him from
the peak of the highest cliff.
When Sancho finally took leave of his master, he felt that he could
swear with unprotesting conscience that his beloved master was quite
mad.
CHAPTER XXVI
IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE
PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER IN THE SIERRA MORENA
Soon after Sancho had gone, Don Quixote came to the conclusion that
the exercises he was putting himself through were much too hard and
troublesome. So he decided to change them, and instead of imitating
Roland and his fury, he turned to the more melancholy Amadis, whose
madness was of a much milder form and needed a less strenuous outlet.
But to imitate Amadis, he had to have a rosary, and he had none. For a
moment he was in a quandary; but a miracle gave him the inspiration to
use the tail of his shirt--which was too long anyhow--and tearing off
a long piece, on which he made eleven knots, he repeated quantities of
credos and ave-marias on it, there in the wilderness. His love would
at times drive him to write verses to his cruel and beloved one on the
bark of the trees, all the while he would make moaning sounds of
lovesickness. Again he would go about sighing, singing, calling to the
nymphs and fauns and satyrs, and, of course, looking for herbs to
nourish himself with.
But while Don Quixote exiled himself in the wilds, his servant Sancho
Panza was making for El Toboso. On the second day he found himself at
the inn at which the incident of his blanket journey had taken place.
The smell of food reminded him that it was dinner time; yet he
hesitated about entering. As he was standing there, along came two
men; and one of them was heard to say: "Is not that Sancho Panza?" "So
it is," said the other one; and it turned out to be the curate and the
barber of Don Quixote's own village.
At once they approached him. They asked him about his master, but it
was not until they had threatened to believe that he had robbed and
murdered Don Quixote--for was he not mounted on Rocinante?--that he
divulged the secret of his master's hiding-place. He told them of
everything; even about his master's strange and unbounded love for the
daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo and the letter he had written to her.
When the curate asked to see it, Sancho could not find it; and then he
suddenly remembered that Don Quixote had given him neither the letter
nor the order for the ass-colts. He turned pale and green, and beat
his chest frantically, but it produced no miracle. The curate and the
barber told him that the only thing to do was to find Don Quixote and
get him to write them anew; and the thought of losing the ass-colts
made Sancho only too anxious to return.
When the squire had been comforted somewhat, he tried to recite Don
Quixote's epistle of love; and his recital amused the two friends to
such a degree that he had to repeat it thrice, each time adding new
absurdities. Finally they invited him to come into the inn and eat,
while they talked over the journey to their friend's wilderness
paradise of penitence. Sancho was quick to refuse; but he gave no
reason for so doing. He said he preferred to eat outside and asked
that they bring him the food, and also some barley for Rocinante.
While the barber was serving Sancho and Rocinante, the curate was
developing a plan of strategy which was unanimously adopted by all
concerned. It was arranged that the curate should invade the region of
knightly penitence, dressed as an innocent-looking maiden with a
masked countenance; while his friend the barber should appear on the
scene behaving like a squire. The bogus maiden should be in great
distress and ask for protection, when Don Quixote, valiant knight that
he was, would be sure to give it. She would then beg him to shield her
on her journey, and, as a favor, to ask her no questions regarding her
identity, until she was safely at home. Once they had him there, they
would try to find a cure for his strange madness.
CHAPTER XXVII
OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME;
TOGETHER WITH MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY
The curate proceeded to borrow the needed dress from the landlady, whose
curiosity he satisfied by explaining Don Quixote's madness and their
mission in the mountains. The landlady recognized Don Quixote by the
description the curate gave, and willingly furnished the clothes, and an
ox-tail out of which the barber made himself a beard. As security for
these things the curate left behind a brand-new cassock.
When the curate's transfiguration was completed, however, his conscience
began to trouble him; so it was agreed that he and the barber were to
change roles. The curate shed his female attire, and the barber decided
not to don it until they approached the mountainside. Meanwhile Sancho
was instructed as to how to act and what to say, when he saw his master.
The day after they set out, they came to the place where Sancho's
branches were strewn. The curate thought it best that they send Sancho
ahead to take to his master Lady Dulcinea's reply; this was agreed to,
and Sancho left.
While the two conspirators were resting in the shade of some trees
they were suddenly startled by hearing a man singing in the distance.
It was clearly a voice trained in the art of singing, and the verses
he sang were not of rustic origin. Soon they perceived the singer, and
it was no other than Cardenio, the Ragged One. Now he was untouched by
madness, for he spoke quite sanely, telling them of his woeful
misfortune, the memory of which, he said, would sometimes overpower
and strangle his senses. The curate and the barber were both eager to
know the story of the comely youth's life, and he then told them of
the faithlessness of his friend. This time he was not interrupted, and
he finished his story, which was one of a great love as much as one of
misfortune. He had just reached the end, when from no great distance
came the sound of a lamenting voice.
CHAPTER XXVIII
WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURES THAT
BEFELL THE CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA
When Cardenio and the curate and the barber looked about they
discovered a youth with exquisite, delicate features bathing his feet
in the brook below them. His garb was that of a peasant lad; on his
head he had a _montera_. Having finished bathing, he took from under
the _montera_ a cloth with which he dried his feet. In removing the
cap there fell from under it a mass of auburn hair, and all were
amazed to find that instead of a youth, it was a most lovely maiden.
In their astonishment either the curate or the barber uttered a cry;
and frightened at the sight of them, the girl took to flight, but soon
stumbled and fell.
The curate was the first one to reach her. He spoke some kind words
and told her that they were there to help her, to fulfill any wish she
might express. And he begged her to cast away any pretence, for he was
certain that she was there because of some misery that had befallen
her.
At first the maiden seemed bewildered, but after a while she showed
that the curate had gained her confidence, and she spoke to him in a
beautiful, melancholy voice. She seated herself on a stone, while the
three gathered around her, and confided to them with tears in her eyes
the reasons for her being there. She told them of a certain grandee of
Spain, living in Andalusia, of whom her father, lowly in birth but
rich in fortune, was a vassal. This grandee had two sons. She had been
betrothed to the younger one of these, Don Fernando, and he had jilted
her in favor of a lady of noble birth, whose name was Luscinda.
When Cardenio heard his own lady's name, he bit his lips and tears
came to his eyes. Dorothea--for that was the maiden's name--wondered
at such interest and such emotion, but she continued her story. She
told of how, upon Don Fernando's marriage to lady Luscinda, she had
fled in despair from house and home. A herdsman in the heart of the
Sierra had given her employment as a servant; but when he had
discovered that she was a woman, she was forced to leave. While she
was bemoaning her evil fate, and praying to God in the woods, she had
cut her feet on the stones; and she was bathing them in the brook when
she encountered the present gathering.
CHAPTER XXIX
WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD ADOPTED TO
EXTRICATE OUR LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE
HE HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF
Dorothea had told her story with great simplicity. When she had ended
it, the curate arose to console her; but Cardenio was already at her
side.
"Are you not the daughter of the rich Clenardo?" he asked of her
eagerly.
She gazed at him in wonder, for she had not spoken her father's name.
She asked the youth who he might be, and he told her that he was the
Cardenio who had been wronged by Don Fernando, the faithless friend
and faithless lover; and he swore then and there a holy oath that he
should see her married to Don Fernando or the latter would perish by
his, Cardenio's, sword. Dorothea was moved to tears by the youth's
words and thanked him profusely. The curate then made the suggestion
that both of them return with him and the barber to their village
where they could make further plans as to what to do to set things
aright. And Dorothea and Cardenio accepted this kind offer gratefully.
Sancho was now seen arriving, and the curate told the youth and the
maiden the reason for his being there. He explained to them the
curious nature of Don Quixote's madness, and Cardenio mentioned to the
curate his meeting with the knight.
Sancho had found Don Quixote nearly dead with hunger, crying aloud for
his Dulcinea; and when his squire entreated him in her name to return
to El Toboso, he refused, declaring that his penitence was not yet
complete; that he was not yet worthy of her favor. Sancho was quite
worried lest he should lose his island and his titles and all the
other honors he had expected, and the curate did his best to calm his
fears. The good man then explained to Cardenio and Dorothea how they
had planned to take Don Quixote back to his home by persuading him to
go there on an adventure in aid of a distressed damsel.
Dorothea at once offered to play the part of the damsel. Having read a
good many books of chivalry, herself, she thought she could qualify in
asking favors of our knight. She had brought with her a complete
woman's dress, with lace and rich embroidery, and when Sancho Panza
saw her in her new array, he asked, in astonishment, what great lady
she might be. The curate replied that she was the ruler of the great
kingdom of Micomicon, and after having been dethroned by an evil giant
had come all the way from Guinea to seek the aid of Don Quixote.
Immediately Sancho's hope for his titles and possessions was revived,
for the thought of his master's fame having spread to such distant
parts seemed most encouraging.
While Sancho Panza was entertaining these visions, Dorothea mounted
the curate's mule, and the barber decorated himself with the ox-tail
for a beard. Sancho was told to lead the way, and the curate explained
to him that the success of their mission depended on him. He was
warned that he must not give away the identity of the curate and the
barber; if he did, the empire would be lost. And then they started
out, leaving the curate and Cardenio behind, as that was thought best.
They had gone almost a league when they saw Don Quixote on a rock,
clothed, but wearing no armor. Dorothea was helped from her horse. She
walked over to Don Quixote and knelt before him; and she told him the
errand that had brought her there, saying that she would not rise
until he had granted her the boon she was asking. While she was
kneeling before him, Sancho Panza was anxiously whispering to Don
Quixote bits of information about her and her kingdom, afraid that his
master might refuse her; but, demented though he was, rank and riches
mattered little to Don Quixote, for he drew his sword, he said, in
defense of anything that was righteous, and the meek and downtrodden
always found in him a ready and courteous defendant. When he learned
from the Princess that a big giant had invaded her kingdom, he at once
granted her the promise of his services. Dorothea wanted to kiss his
hand as a proof of her gratitude; but Don Quixote would not permit her
to do this, being ever a respectful and courteous knight. He commanded
his squire to saddle his horse immediately, while he put on his armor,
mounted, and was ready for the crusade.
They set out, Sancho on foot, cheerfully grinning to himself at the
covetous thought of all the possessions that would be his in a short
time. Soon they passed the place where Cardenio and the curate were
hiding. The curate had by this time conceived the idea of shearing
Cardenio of his beard that Don Quixote would be unable to recognize
him; and he had furnished him with his own grey jerkin and a black
cloak, so that he himself appeared in breeches and doublet only.
Having effected the change, they took a short-cut through the woods
and came out on the open road ahead of Don Quixote.
As he approached them, the curate feigned astonishment beyond words at
seeing his old friend; and Don Quixote was so surprised that he hardly
recognized the curate. He courteously offered Rocinante to him, but
the curate remonstrated and finally accepted the long-bearded squire's
mule, inviting the squire to sit behind him. This arrangement did not
please the mule, however, for he commenced to kick with his hind legs.
Luckily the beast did not damage the barber, but the demonstration
frightened him so that he turned a somersault in a ditch. In so doing,
his beard came off, but he had enough presence of mind to cover his
face at the same moment, crying that his teeth were knocked out. When
Don Quixote saw the beard on the ground without any sign of flesh or
blood, he was struck with amazement, and thought that the barber had
been shaved by a miracle.
The curate hastened breathlessly to the barber's side, and began to
mumble incomprehensible words, while the barber was groaning on the
ground in an uncomfortable position. When the barber finally rose, Don
Quixote's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets, for he beheld the
barber bearded again. He begged the curate to teach him the charm that
could produce such a miracle, and the curate promised he would. Then
they proceeded on the journey.
The curate now began to wonder about the road (all this was pre-arranged)
and said that in order to go to the kingdom of Micomicon, they had to
take the road to Cartagena, where they would embark on a ship. That, he
said, would take them through his own village, and from there it was a
journey of nine years to Micomicon. Here the Princess corrected him,
saying that it had taken her only two years to make the journey here,
in quest of the noble and famous knight who had now sworn to restore
her kingdom to her.
Don Quixote at this moment happened to observe the light attire of the
curate, and was curious to know the reason for it. Whereupon the
curate (having learned of the incident through Sancho) related how he
and Master Nicholas, on their way to Seville, had been held up by a
gang of liberated galley-slaves. These criminals, it was said, had
been set free by a man on horseback, as brave as he was bold, for he
had fought off all the guards, single-handed. The curate criticized
this man heartlessly, called him a knave and a criminal for having set
himself against law and order and his king, and expressed a belief
that he could not have been in his right mind. The Holy Brotherhood,
he said further, was searching for him now, and he himself was afraid
that the man's soul would be lost. He finished his story by calling
upon the Lord to pardon this unregenerate being who had taken away the
galley-slaves from the punishment that had been meted out to them by
justice.
Don Quixote seemed to take the curate's sermon to heart, and bent his
head humbly, not daring to admit that he was the culprit, and not
knowing that the curate knew it.
CHAPTER XXX
WHICH TREATS OF THE ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA,
WITH OTHER MATTERS, PLEASANT AND AMUSING
When Sancho heard the harsh sermon of the curate, he, being a good
Christian, became afraid that his own soul might be lost too; for was
he not an accomplice? So he confessed then and there his own and his
master's guilt, much to the shame and anger of Don Quixote. The
Princess was quick to sense the danger, and she calmed our hero before
his anger had risen to any great height, by reminding him of his
promise, and how he had sworn to engage in no conflict of any kind
until her kingdom had been saved. He answered her with infinite
courtesy and expressed his regrets for having let his anger get the
better of him; he would stand by his word. Then he asked her to tell
him all that she could about herself and her kingdom. She would
willingly do that, she said, and began her story.
But she came very near ending it then and there, for she could not
remember the name she had assumed. Luckily the curate--who had
invented her long and difficult name--was there to prompt her, and the
situation was saved. Having told Don Quixote that her name was
Princess Micomicona, she continued her story, relating how she was
left an orphan, how a certain giant and lord of an island near her
kingdom had asked for her hand in marriage and she had refused, how
his forces had overrun her country and she had fled to Spain, where it
had been predicted by a magician she would find a certain great knight
errant by the name of Don Quixote, otherwise called the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, who would be recognized by a gray mole with hairs
like bristles under the left shoulder.
Immediately upon hearing this, Don Quixote wanted to strip, but Sancho
assured them that he did have just such a mark. Dorothea said she was
quite sure he must, for in other respects the description that the
magician had given fitted him; and she hastened to relate to him how
she had first heard of him on her landing at Osuna. But evidently the
pretended Princess had not been as careful a student of geography as
Don Quixote, who was quick to ask her: "But how did you land at Osuna,
senorita, when it is not a seaport?" Again the curate displayed proof
of rare presence of mind, for he broke in: "The Princess meant to say
that after having landed at Malaga, the first place where she heard of
your worship was Osuna." And Dorothea immediately corroborated the
curate's explanation with great self-assurance.
However, she thought it best to end her story here, for fear of
complications, and only added how happy she was to have found him so
soon. She also pointed out, demurely enough, that it had been
predicted if after having cut off the giant's head the knight should
ask her to marry him, she would accept. But Don Quixote said he would
be true to his Dulcinea; and this made Sancho exclaim with dismay
that he was out of his head, for Dulcinea could never come up to this
fair princess.
Sancho's remark angered his master so intensely that he knocked him to
the ground with his spear; and if the Princess had not interfered the
unfortunate squire might never again have been able to say his
ave-marias or credos or, more to the point, have eaten another square
meal. He was quick to cry out that he had meant no ill by what he
said, and acting upon the suggestion of the Princess, he kissed his
master's hand.
At this moment a man, mounted on an ass, was seen on the road, and
Sancho, no doubt feeling instinctively the proximity of his beloved
animal, recognized in the man Gines de Pasamonte. Wildly shouting, he
set out after the galley-slave, who threw himself off the ass at
Sancho's first shout. Sancho, crying with joy, was so glad to have his
faithful donkey returned to him that he did not pursue the thief. And
Don Quixote himself was so pleased that he entirely forgot about his
quarrel with Sancho. He called him to his side, and asked him to
repeat everything his Dulcinea had told him, over and over again.
CHAPTER XXXI
OF THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO
PANZA, HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS
Don Quixote was anxious to know what jewel his fair one had bestowed
on Sancho before the leave-taking. Sancho replied that the only jewel
Dulcinea had given him was some bread and cheese; whereupon Don
Quixote remarked that no doubt she had had no jewels at hand. He
expressed wonder at the speedy trip Sancho had made, to which Sancho
replied that Rocinante had gone like lightning; and Don Quixote then
was sure some friendly enchanter had carried him through the air.
CHAPTERS XXXII-XXXIV
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL ALL DON QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN
The following day they reached the inn. The landlady at once wanted
her ox-tail back, so it was decided that the barber should hereafter
appear in his own true character, having supposedly arrived at the inn
after the galley-slaves' hold-up.
Don Quixote was tired, and was given a bed in the garret where he had
slept once before. While the others were having dinner, the landlady
was confidentially telling all who would listen of Don Quixote's
absurdities during his previous visit, and also of Sancho Panza's
being juggled in the blanket. And while the curate was discussing Don
Quixote's madness, the innkeeper confided to him that he himself had a
weakness for reading about deeds of the past, particularly stories of
chivalry. Often, he said, he would read aloud from these books to his
family and servants. He had just read a novel entitled "Ill-Advised
Curiosity," which he had found very interesting. He showed the
manuscript of it to the curate, who seemed to think it might make very
good reading and expressed a desire to copy it. Whereupon the
innkeeper asked him whether he would not read it aloud to them; and as
they were all eager to hear it, the curate commenced the reading of
the manuscript.
CHAPTER XXXV
WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE DON QUIXOTE
HAD WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE NOVEL OF
THE "ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY" TO AN END
The curate had almost finished the reading of the novel, (which
consumed all of the two chapters which are omitted here) when Sancho
Panza burst into the room, excitedly shouting that his master was
having the wildest battle he had ever seen, up in the garret. He
pleaded for reinforcements, and wanted them all to join in conquering
the enemy who, he declared, was no other than the fierce giant that
had invaded the kingdom of Micomicon. He said he had left just as his
master had cut the giant's head clean off with his sword, leaving the
beast to bleed like a stuffed pig.
While Sancho was relating his blood-curdling story, a tremendous noise
and loud exclamations poured forth from the garret, and the innkeeper,
suddenly remembering all the many wine-skins he had hung up there on
the previous night sprang out of his chair and toward the scene of
action, followed by the rest.
The worst that the innkeeper might have feared was true; for there, on
the garret floor, was a sea of red wine, with hosts of empty skins
floating about upon it. In the middle of the sea stood Don Quixote,
sword in hand, slashing right and left, dressed in nothing but his
shirt. But the strangest thing of all was not his attire, but the fact
that he was fast asleep, his eyes shut tightly, dreaming that he had
already arrived in the distant realm of the Princess Micomicona and
had encountered the giant enemy.
Seeing all his precious wine floating away, the innkeeper became
enraged and set upon Don Quixote with his bare fists; but the beating
had no effect on the knight except, perhaps, that it made him sleep
more soundly. It was not until the barber had drenched him in cold
water that he came to his senses.
The Princess Micomicona, who had been listening to the saving of her
kingdom outside the door, became eager, after she had heard the
tempest subside, to enter and see the conquered giant; but she retired
hastily and with a slight exclamation of horrified modesty on seeing
the abbreviated length of her defender's night-shirt, the tail of
which had been sacrificed to his prayers in the wilderness.
The landlord, cursing his luck, swore that this time the knight errant
and his squire should not escape without paying. But Don Quixote,
whose hand the curate was holding in an endeavor to calm him, merely
fell on his knees before the curate, exclaiming: "Exalted and
beautiful Princess! Your Highness may now live in peace; for I have
slain the giant!" He imagined that he was at the feet of Micomicona.
Soon after having spoken thus, he showed signs of great weariness, and
the curate, the barber and Cardenio carried him to his bed, where he
fell asleep.
Next they had to console Sancho, who was grief-stricken because he had
been unable to find the giant's head. He swore he had seen it falling
when his master cut it off, and imagined that if it could not be
produced there would be no reward for either him or his master; but
Dorothea, in her role of Princess, calmed and comforted him.
All this time the innkeeper's wife was crying about the ox-tail, which,
she said, had lost its usefulness after having served as beard, and the
innkeeper was demanding that he be paid for the spilt wine and other
losses. The curate assured them that he himself would see to it that they
were reimbursed for everything; and when the excitement in the inn had
simmered down, and everybody had gathered again in the room where they
had heard the curate read from "Ill-Advised Curiosity," he was asked to
resume the reading. This he did; and they all thought it a very
entertaining story and listened intensely to what the curate was reading.
[Illustration: "SLASHING RIGHT AND LEFT, DREAMING THAT HE HAD
ENCOUNTERED THE GIANT ENEMY."--_Page 93_]
CHAPTER XXXVI
WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN
At this moment there was a sound of people approaching on horseback,
and the innkeeper rushed to the gate to receive the guests. There were
four men, with lances and bucklers, and black veils for their faces; a
woman, dressed in white and also veiled, and two attendants on foot.
One of the four, a gentleman of distinction, helped the lady to
dismount, and they entered the inn.
As they came into the room where the curate had just finished reading
the novel of "Ill-Advised Curiosity," Dorothea covered her face, and
Cardenio left and went to the garret. As the gentleman seated the lady
in a chair, she heaved a deep sigh. Her arms fell limply by her side.
The curate was curious to know who these people were, so he asked one
of the servants that accompanied them. But none of them knew, for they
had met the travelers on the road, they said, and had been offered
employment at good pay. They added that they feared the lady was being
taken somewhere against her will, as she had done nothing but sigh all
through the journey, and had exchanged no words whatever with her
escort.
Dorothea, hearing the lady sigh repeatedly, felt compassion for her,
and asked her whether there was anything that she could do for her.
But although she asked her the question several times, she got no
reply.
When the gentleman with the distinguished bearing observed that
Dorothea was interested in this lady, he told her it was useless to
bother with her, for her answers were all lies and anything done for
her would be rewarded with ingratitude. This remark was speedily
answered by the lady, who retorted. "I have never told a lie. On the
contrary, it is because I am truthful and cannot lie that I am now in
this miserable condition. And you are the lying one!"
Cardenio was in the adjoining room, just returning from the garret,
and when he heard these words he exclaimed: "Good God! What is this I
hear! It is her voice!"
The lady heard the exclamation, and seeing no one, she became agitated
and rose, but was held back by the gentleman. Her veil suddenly fell
off, and every one could see her face, which was one of alabaster-like
whiteness and great beauty. And while the gentleman was struggling to
keep her from leaving the room, his own veil became unfastened and
Dorothea saw that he was no other than her own lover, Don Fernando.
The moment she recognized him she fainted, and the barber caught her,
or she would have fallen to the floor. The curate was quick to throw
some water on her face, and she soon came to. As soon as Cardenio
heard the commotion, he rushed in from the other room, imagining that
the worst had happened to his Luscinda--for it was no other than
she--and it was a curious thing to see the four suddenly finding
themselves face to face.
Luscinda was the first one to speak, and she implored Don Fernando to
take her life, so that her beloved Cardenio might believe that she
had been true and loyal and faithful to him until the very last.
When Dorothea heard Luscinda speak thus, she fell on her knees before
Don Fernando and implored him to reconsider everything that he had
done that was base and wrong and sinful. She pleaded with tears in her
eyes, begging him to give up Luscinda to her faithful Cardenio, told
him how much she still loved him in spite of his wrong-doing, and said
she would forgive him everything if he would only let his real and
better nature come into its own. And her tears and sincerity moved Don
Fernando so that he himself wept, and he promised to abide by the
ending which Fate itself seemed to have provided for by bringing them
all together in this strange way.
He told Luscinda that when he had found the paper in which she
declared she could never be the wife of any other man than Cardenio,
he was tempted to kill her, but was prevented by chance. He had left
the house in a rage, and had not returned home till the following day,
when he found that she had disappeared. Some months later he learned
that she had taken refuge in a convent. He gathered the companions
they had seen at the inn, and with their help he carried her from the
convent. Now he repented of what he had done, prayed he might be
permitted forever to live with his Dorothea, and asked them all for
forgiveness. Then he gave his blessing to the overjoyed Cardenio and
Luscinda, who were both so affected at their reunion that they shed
tears. Even Sancho was weeping, although for quite another reason. He
was grieved to find his Princess Micomicona suddenly lose her royal
identity and turn out to be a mere lady.
CHAPTER XXXVII
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS
MICOMICONA, WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES
Sancho thought it his solemn duty to go to his master at once and
inform him of the catastrophe. Dejected, he approached Don Quixote,
who had just awakened, and said: "Sir Rueful Countenance, your Worship
may as well sleep on, without troubling yourself about killing or
restoring her kingdom to the Princess; for that is all over and
settled now."
Don Quixote agreed with his squire enthusiastically, and then told him
of the tremendous battle he had just had with the giant, dwelling
particularly upon the great amount of blood that flowed when the
giant's head was cut off.
"Red wine, your Worship means," said Sancho, "and no less than
twenty-four gallons, all of which has to be paid for! The Princess
your Worship will find turned into a private lady named Dorothea; and
there is much more that will astonish your Worship."
Whereupon there ensued a rich and varied conversation between master
and servant. When Don Quixote heard his squire confound blood with
wine, he called him a fool. And when he heard that his Princess had
turned into a simple Dorothea, the fears he had entertained during
his past visit to the inn, began to return, and he decided that the
place was enchanted. But of that his squire could not be convinced,
for the episode of the blanketing still remained a most vivid reality
to him. Had it not been for that, he repeated, he could have believed
it readily.
Meanwhile the curate had been telling Don Fernando and the others of
Don Quixote's strange malady; he described how they had succeeded in
taking him away from the wilderness and his self-inflicted penance,
and told them all the strange adventures he had heard Sancho relate.
They were greatly amused and thought it the most remarkable craze they
had ever heard of. Don Fernando was eager that Dorothea should
continue playing her part, and they all decided to come along on the
journey to the village in La Mancha.
At this moment Don Quixote entered in his regalia, the barber's basin
on his head, spear in hand, and with the buckler on his arm. Don
Fernando was struck with astonishment and laughter at the sight of the
mixed armament and the peculiar long yellow face of the knight. After
a silence, Don Quixote turned to Dorothea and repeated his vow to
regain her kingdom for her. He said he approved heartily of the magic
interference of the spirit of the king, her father, who had devised
this new state of hers, that of a private maiden, in which guise she
would no doubt be more secure from evil influence on her journey to
her home.
His ignorant squire broke in when his master related of his battle in
the garret, and inferred irreverently and rather loudly that he had
attacked wine-skins instead of giants, but Don Fernando quickly made
him be quiet. Dorothea rose and thanked our rueful knight at the end
of his speech for the renewed offer of his sword.
Having listened to her lovely voice, Don Quixote turned angrily to his
squire and reprimanded him for being a disbeliever, saying that he
could now judge for himself what a fool he had made of himself. Sancho
replied that he hoped he had made a mistake about the Princess not
being a princess, but that as to the wine-skins, there could be no
doubt, for the punctured skins he had seen himself at the head of Don
Quixote's bed--and had not the garret floor been turned into a lake of
wine? Whereupon his master swore at his stupidity, until Don Fernando
interrupted and proposed that they spend the evening in pleasant
conversation at the inn instead of continuing their journey that
night.
While that was being agreed upon, two travelers, a man and a woman,
dressed in Moorish fashion, came to the inn. They asked for rooms
overnight, but were told there were none to be had. Dorothea felt
sorry for the strange lady--whose face was covered with a veil--and
told her that she and Luscinda would gladly share their room with her.
The lady rose from her chair, bowed her head and made a sign with her
hands as if to thank them; and they concluded, because of her silence,
that she could not speak their language. At this moment her companion
returned to her and, seeing her surrounded by the guests at the inn,
he confirmed what they had thought, for he made the remark that it was
useless to address any questions to her as she could speak no other
tongue than her own. They explained that they had asked no questions,
but had only offered her quarters for the night. When the stranger
learned this, it seemed to please him very much, and he thanked them
profusely.
As they were all curious to know who the lady was, they asked the
stranger whether or not she was a Christian. He replied that while she
was not, she wished to become one; and he informed them that she was a
lady of high rank from Algiers. This excited a desire to see her face
as well as to know whom she might be, and Dorothea could not resist
the temptation of asking her to remove her veil. When her companion
had told her Dorothea's desire, and the Moorish lady had removed her
veil, they all stood in awe, for they beheld a face that seemed to
them lovelier than any they had ever beheld before. Don Fernando asked
her name, and the stranger replied it was Lela Zoraida; but when the
fair lady heard him speak this name, she exclaimed emphatically that
she was called Maria and not Zoraida. Luscinda embraced her in a
loving way and said they would call her by that name.
The supper was now ready and all placed themselves at a long table, at
the head of which Don Quixote was asked to seat himself. At his
request Dorothea--as the Princess Micomicona in disguise--sat on his
right. All were merry and content and many pleasantries were passed.
But suddenly Don Quixote stopped eating, rose, and with inspiration in
his eyes and voice, began a long discourse on knight-errantry,
reviewing the great good it had done for mankind. The language he used
was so perfect, his manners so free and easy, and his delivery
possessed of such charm, that his listeners could hardly make
themselves believe they were in the presence of one who was demented.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED
ON ARMS AND LETTERS
Don Quixote told them in his discourse of that age in which victory in
battle depended on personal courage and good swordsmanship, before the
use of such devilish contrivances as lead and powder. These things
almost made him despair of success for his revival of chivalry in this
age, he said; for while guns and artillery could instill no fear in
his breast, they did make him feel uneasy, as one never knew when a
bullet, intended for some one else, might cut off one's life. The very
worst of such a death, he maintained, was that the bullet might have
been discharged by a fleeing coward. And so he pledged himself again,
in spite of all the things he had to struggle against, not to give up
what he had undertaken to do: to set the world aright in accordance
with the principles of knight-errantry.
All the while that Don Quixote was discoursing, Sancho was much
concerned because he neglected his food. He broke in whenever he had
an opportunity, and admonished his master that he would have much time
for talking after he had eaten.
When they had finished their supper, the landlord informed them that
he had re-arranged their quarters in order to accommodate all, and
that the three women might sleep in the garret, as Don Quixote
gallantly had given up his quarters to them. Their interest then
turned again to the stranger. Don Fernando asked him some questions
about his life, and he replied that while his life-story would be
interesting, it might not afford them much enjoyment. However, he
said, he would tell it if they so wished. The curate begged that he do
so; and, seeing the interest of all, the stranger mentioned by way of
introduction that while his was a true story, many a story of fiction
would seem tame and less strange in comparison. And while all of the
company expectantly turned their eyes toward the strange traveler in
Moorish garb, he began the following tale.
CHAPTERS XXXIX-XLI
WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES
As a young man, the stranger said, he had left Spain, bent on adventure
and on becoming a soldier. He had served with the Duke of Alva in
Flanders, and in the wars of the Christians against the Turks, the Moors,
and the Arabs. In one of these wars he was taken prisoner by King El
Uchali of Algiers; he had previously advanced to the rank of captain. He
was held a captive for a long time, first at Constantinople, then at
Tunis, then at Algiers. At Constantinople he encountered a good many
other Christian prisoners. Particularly he remembered one Don Pedro de
Augilar, a brave soldier and a native of Andalusia, who, he said, had
written some very excellent poetry. He especially spoke of two sonnets
which he had liked so well that he had learned them by heart. One day Don
Pedro succeeded in making his escape, but what had become of him he had
never heard.
As soon as the captive had spoken Don Pedro's name, the ladies and Don
Fernando exchanged glances and smiled, and Don Fernando could not
refrain from informing the narrator that Don Pedro was his brother.
Furthermore, he said, he was safe in Andalusia, where he was happily
married, in the best of health, and had three robust children. Then he
touched on his brother's gift for composing poetry, and said that the
very two sonnets the captive had mentioned, he himself knew by heart.
Whereupon every one asked him to recite them, and so he did with fine
feeling and intelligence. Then the captive resumed his story.
At Algiers, he said, there lived, overlooking the prison, a great
alcaide named Hadji Morato, a very rich man, who had but one child, a
daughter of great beauty. She had learned the Christian prayer from a
slave of her father's, when she was a child; the things that this
Christian woman had taught her had made her long to know more about
the religion and to become a Christian herself. This beautiful
Algerian maiden had seen the captive from her window, and she liked
him, and one day she managed to get a message to him, begging him to
escape and to take her with him. From time to time she would throw to
him gold coins wrapped in cloth, and these he would hide until finally
he had enough to buy not only himself but some other prisoners free
from their slavery.
However, in order to effect the escape of the maiden, the captive was
obliged to take into his confidence an old Algerian renegade who
turned out to be a believer in Christ. With this man the captive sent
messages to Zoraida. Now, this renegade was a sly fellow, and he
bought a small vessel with which he began to ply to and fro between
the city and some islands nearby, bringing back fruit each time, in
order to alleviate all suspicions of his having acquired the vessel
for any other purpose than trading. Finally it was decided the time
had come for the escape, and the captive had himself ransomed.
That night the renegade had the ship anchored opposite the prison and
Zoraida's garden, and, with the help of a number of Christians whom
they had gathered as rowers, and who were eager to return to Spain,
they secured the ship and put the Moorish crew in irons and chains.
Zoraida witnessed the proceedings from her window, and when she saw
her captive and the renegade return in the skiff of the vessel, she
hastened below into the garden. She was bedecked with a fortune in
pearls and precious stones. She asked the renegade to follow her into
the house, and when they returned, they brought with them a chest
laden with gold. Just then her father was awakened and he began to
shout in Arabic as loudly as he could that he was being robbed by
Christians. Had it not been for the quick action of the renegade all
might have been lost. He bound and gagged the father and carried him
downstairs, where Zoraida had fainted in the captive's arms. Then they
hastened back to the ship and set sail for Majorca.
It was some time before the old alcaide realized that his daughter had
gone with the captive of her own free will, and when he learned it, he
flung himself into the sea, but was rescued by one of the rowers. When
he found himself then on board the ship, he began to curse his
daughter, calling her a Christian dog and other vile names. Finally it
was deemed best to set him and the other Moors ashore; and when the
old man saw the ship sail away with his daughter, he began to sob and
cry aloud in the most heartrending way, threatening to kill himself if
she did not return to him. The last words that she heard were, "I
forgive you all!" and they made her weep so bitterly that it seemed as
if her tears would never cease flowing.
They were then less than a day's voyage from the coast of Spain. As
they were breezing along with all sails set, over a moonlit sea, they
saw a large ship appear in the distance. It turned out to be a French
corsair from Rochelle out for plunder, for when it came closer it
suddenly fired two guns that took terrible effect and wrecked their
vessel. As the ship began to sink, they begged to be taken aboard the
corsair, to which the captain was not averse. Once aboard they were
told that if they had been courteous enough to reply to the question
shouted from the corsair as to what port they were bound for, their
own vessel would still have been intact. The covetous crew stripped
them of all their valuable belongings, the pearls and jewels, money
and adornments of Zoraida. The chest of gold, however, the renegade
stealthily lowered into the sea without any one seeing it.
The next day when the Spanish coast was sighted the captain put them
all in a skiff, gave them some bread and water for their voyage, and
set out to sea. Before letting them depart, moved by some strange
impulse, he gave Zoraida forty crowns; and he had not robbed her of
her beautiful gown. They steered their skiff towards the shore, where
they landed soon after midnight. Immediately they left the shore,
eager to know where they were. They climbed the mountain--for the
shore was a rocky one--and there they rested until dawn, then went on
into the country.
Soon they met a young shepherd; but when he saw their strange garbs,
he ran away from them like a frightened lamb, crying that the Moors
had invaded the country. And not so long after that they encountered
fifty mounted men of the coast guard, but as soon as these saw their
Moorish costumes and had heard the captive's explanation, they
realized that the boy's vivid imagination had disturbed them
needlessly. And when one of the Christian captives recognized in one
of the guards an uncle of his, these men could not do enough for the
returned slaves. They gave them their horses, some of them went to
rescue the skiff for them, and when they arrived at the nearby city
they were welcomed by all the inhabitants.
At once they went to the church to return thanks to the Lord for their
marvelous escape, and Zoraida was impressed beyond expression with the
hosts of praying worshippers. She, the renegade, and the captive
stayed at the house of the returned Christian, and the rest were
quartered throughout the town. After six days the renegade departed
for Granada to restore himself to the Church through the means of the
Holy Inquisition. One by one the other captives left for their own
homes, and finally only Zoraida and he himself remained. He then
decided to go in search of his father, whom he had not seen for so
many years, and he did not know whether he was alive or not. His
journey had brought him to this inn, and it was here that his story
came to an end.
CHAPTER XLII
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF
SEVERAL OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING
The captive having finished his strange and interesting story, Don
Fernando rose and thanked him, and all were eager for an opportunity
to show him their goodwill. Don Fernando begged the stranger to allow
him to provide for his comfort, and offered to take him to his
brother, the Marquis, who, he said, would be most eager to act as
Zoraida's godfather at her baptism. But the stranger declined
graciously all the offers that were made.
Night was now setting in, and each one was contemplating going to his
room, when suddenly a coach with attendants on horseback arrived at
the inn. The landlady told the one demanding lodging that there was
none to be had at any price. Whereupon the man replied that room
_must_ be found for his lordship, the Judge, his master. As soon as
the landlady learned she was dealing with the law, she nearly fainted
from exertion to please, and offered to give up their own room and bed
to his lordship. By this time the Judge, attired in a long robe with
ruffled sleeves, had stepped out of the coach, accompanied by a
beautiful girl of about sixteen years of age. There were exclamations
from all when they saw the young lady, for she possessed beauty and
grace that were really rare.
The first one to greet the strangers was no other than Don Quixote,
who, with a grave air and the most exalted and flowery language, bade
them welcome to the castle. He finished his speech by saying: "Enter,
your worship, into this paradise, for here you will find stars and
suns to accompany the heaven your Worship brings with you. Here you
will find arms in their supreme excellence, and beauty in its highest
perfection."
The Judge looked for a moment as if he hesitated about entering with
his daughter after such an unusual reception; he seemed to wonder
whether he was at an inn or an asylum. He scrutinized Don Quixote's
curious armor, then turned his attention to the rest of the company,
which evidently made him feel more at ease.
It was arranged that the young lady should sleep with the other
ladies; which pleased her greatly, for it was evident that she was
very much taken with them and their beauty. The Judge was as much
pleased with the presence of so many people of quality as he was
puzzled by Don Quixote and his strange appearance and behavior.
The moment the former captive and captain had laid eyes on the Judge,
he was stirred by the conviction that here was his own younger
brother. He asked the Judge's name of one of the servants, and was
told he was called the Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, lately
appointed Judge of the Supreme Court of Mexico, to which country he
was now on his way. The Captain inquired whether the servant knew from
which part of Spain the Judge came, and got the reply that he had
heard it rumored he was a native of a little village in the mountains
of Leon. The Captain was then certain it was his brother, and he
hastened to tell the curate, Don Fernando, and Cardenio, saying he
felt diffident about making himself known too abruptly for fear his
brother might refuse to acknowledge him because of his poverty and
ill-fortune.
The curate understood the Captain's way of thinking, and asked that he
trust him to manage it in a discreet way. So when the Judge invited
them all to keep him company while he supped, the curate told the
story of the captive at the table. In telling it he pretended to have
been a captive in the hands of the Turks and the Algerians and a
comrade-in-arms of the Captain. When he had finished the story, tears
rolled down the Judge's cheeks, and he begged the curate to help him
to find his beloved brother, for whom their aged father was ever
praying, ever asking, hoping that he might see him once more before he
closed his eyes in death. It was then that the Captain, himself in
tears, stepped forward and, the Judge having recognized him, embraced
his brother. Then the Judge embraced Zoraida, offering her all the
worldly goods he possessed. His daughter, the lovely young girl, now
joined them, and all the others were moved to tears by the brothers'
happiness in finding each other after so many years of separation.
Don Quixote stood gazing in silence at what passed before his eyes,
ascribing the two brothers' luck to magic.
When the first emotion of the unexpected meeting had subsided, the
Judge asked his brother and Zoraida to return with him to Seville,
from where he would send a messenger to the father, telling him of the
good news and begging him to come to the joint marriage and baptismal
ceremony. As the Judge was obliged to leave for New Spain within a
month, it was agreed that a speedy return to Seville was necessary.
It was now early morning, though still dark, and all were tired, so it
was decided that every one should go to bed. But Don Quixote,
sacrificing himself in spite of his fatigue, appointed himself to keep
guard for the remainder of the night, fearing attack of some evil
giant or beast upon all the beauty that was slumbering within. They,
who were aware of his peculiar weakness, returned thanks in their most
gracious manner; and when they were alone with the Judge they hastened
to explain the knight's mental state. The Judge was much amused by the
accounts of his adventures and his attempts to revive knight errantry
in Spain.
There was only one unhappy being in the inn that night: that was
Sancho Panza. He was not at all pleased with his master's staying up
at such a late hour. But there seemed nothing he could do about it, so
he retired and spread himself comfortably on the trappings of his
donkey.
While Don Quixote was guarding the castle, and dawn was approaching,
Dorothea, who had lain awake, was suddenly stirred by the sound of a
man's voice, a voice so beautiful that it seemed to her there could be
none sweeter in the world. Then Cardenio was awakened by it, and he
felt that he ought to share the joy of hearing it with the ladies, so
he went to the garret to call their attention to it. When he knocked
on the door and told them, Dorothea called out that they were already
listening. The only one not awake at that time was Dona Clara, the
Judge's fair daughter.
CHAPTER XLIII
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN
Dorothea and the other ladies were in a quandary as to whether to
awake Dona Clara or not. Finally they decided that she would be sorry
if she had to learn what she had missed and would regret that they had
not awakened her; so they shook her until she opened her eyes and then
asked her to sit up in bed and listen. But scarcely had she heard one
note, before she began to sob hysterically. She threw her arms around
Dorothea and cried: "Why, oh, why did you wake me, dear lady? The
greatest kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes
and ears so that I could neither see nor hear that unhappy musician!"
Dorothea was at a loss to know what had happened to the child. All the
while she was trying to soothe her, the tears were streaming down the
young girl's face, and she was trembling like a leaf. Finally she
quieted her feelings sufficiently to be able to confide to Dorothea in
a whispering voice the story of her romance with the singer, who, she
said, was not a muleteer as his garb would indicate, but the only son
and heir of a rich noble of Aragon. This gentleman's house in Madrid
was situated directly opposite her father's, and having once seen Dona
Clara the youth proceeded to declare his love for her. She, being
motherless and having no one to whom she could confide her love
secrets, had to leave Madrid with her father, when he was given his
appointment to New Spain, without an opportunity to see her lover. But
as soon as the youth, who was not much older than herself, learned of
their departure, he dressed himself up as a muleteer and set out on
foot to pursue her. At every inn where they had stopped overnight she
had found him awaiting their departure in the morning, and she was
always in dread, she said, lest her father learn of their love for
each other.
With her arms tight around Dorothea, she confessed to her how great
her love was for the youth, saying that she could never live without
him. Dorothea kissed the girl, and promised her that with God's help
all would end well, telling her to put her trust in Him; and before
another day had passed she hoped to have good news for Dona Clara.
Dorothea's assurances calmed and put new faith in the young girl's
heart; and soon they all were fast asleep again.
Now, all this time the one-eyed Asturian maid, and the landlady's
daughter, both bent on deviltry, were keeping their eyes open. It was
impossible for them to forget Don Quixote, and they were determined to
play a joke on him before the night was over. They posted themselves
in the hayloft, where there was a hole in the wall; and when Don
Quixote passed on Rocinante, he heard some one calling: "Pst! Come
here, senor!"
As Don Quixote turned to see who it might be, he discovered the hole
in the wall and it seemed very much like a marvelously decorated
window, in keeping with the beautiful castle he had made out of the
inn. He beheld at this window the two maidens, and immediately they
became to him the daughter of the lord of the castle and her
attendant. Wistfully he gazed at them, certain, however, that they had
designed to destroy his faithful and stubborn allegiance to Dulcinea,
to whom he had just been sending up prayers and salutations under the
influence of the moon. Then he spoke to them, regretting that they
should let themselves be so overcome by love for him that they could
no longer master their feelings. He told them of that great and only
mistress of his soul, the incomparable one of El Toboso of La Mancha,
to whom he had sworn eternal love and undying admiration. And at last
he admonished the innkeeper's daughter to retire to her beauteous
apartment, lest he should be forced to prove himself ungrateful. If,
he said, she would demand any other thing than love, he would
willingly grant her the favor, even unto a lock of Medusa's hair.
The wench immediately realized that her opportunity had come, so she
quickly said that she cared for no lock of Medusa's or any other, but
would be satisfied to feel the touch of his hand.
Before sanctioning this demand, Don Quixote asserted his virtuousness
again by stipulating that she must not kiss it, only touch it. He
understood, of course, that any woman would be likely to ask such a
favor of him at any time (for who would not be proud to have touched
the sinewy hand of so remarkable and famous a knight errant as
himself?) but he insisted on being discreet at all times. So he
climbed up and stood on the saddle of his hack, reaching his lean arm
through the hole in the wall.
By this time the Asturian maid had procured from the stable the halter
of Sancho's donkey, on which her young mistress quickly made a running
knot and passed it over Don Quixote's wrist. As soon as she had
proceeded thus far in her deviltry, she jumped down from the hole and
made fast the other end of the halter to the bolt of the door. Then
she and her maid swiftly made off, bursting with laughter, leaving the
knight to complain of the roughness of her touch.
But after a while Don Quixote began to realize that no one was there to
listen to his complaints, and also that he was not standing too securely
on his Rocinante's back; for should Rocinante move without being urged--a
most unusual event--he would be left to hang in the air by one arm. It
suddenly came to him that he was a victim of enchantment, and he called
on all the saints, and Dulcinea, and Sancho Panza, on all kind magicians
and sages, and every one else he could think of, to come to his aid.
But no one came, until the morning brought four travelers on horseback.
They found the gate still shut, so they called to Don Quixote, who by
this time was almost exhausted. But although wearied, his spirit had not
left him. He reprimanded the strangers for their insolence; asked whether
they were so stupid they failed to realize that as yet the castle gates
were not open, that all were asleep. He commanded them to withdraw to a
distance and to approach the fortress after daylight; then he could
better tell whether they should be permitted to enter or not.
One of the travelers mistook Don Quixote for the innkeeper, and was
immediately reprimanded for this. The offended knight then began to
talk about knight errantry and its revival in the world, until finally
the men tired of his discourse. Again they knocked at the gate, this
time with such force and fury that the innkeeper woke up and came out
and admitted them in a hurry. They entered violently on their horses,
enraged because of their long waiting at the gate, and dismounted,
leaving their horses free. The moment the horses saw Rocinante and the
curious position of his master, they went to investigate him, and the
unsuspecting Rocinante leaped from under Don Quixote with such
suddenness that the poor knight's arm was nearly wrenched from his
body. There he was left to dangle, while the shouts that forced their
way from his throat rent the air fiercely.
CHAPTER XLIV
IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES AT THE INN
When the landlord heard the terrible outcries of Don Quixote, he ran,
greatly excited, to see who could be giving vent to such agony. The
travelers joined him; and the Asturian maid was stirred to quick
action by a bad conscience, as well as by the excited state of her
master. She untied the halter, and Don Quixote fell so suddenly that
his meager body landed like a dead weight on the ground.
The landlord and the travelers found him there, and asked him
impatiently why he was making such a tremendous noise. He ignored
their question entirely, pulled the rope off his wrist, and mounted
his charger with as much nonchalance and elegance as his stiff limbs
would permit. Then he haughtily raised his head, after having adjusted
all his knightly paraphernalia, and circled down the field, returning
in a canter. Having halted Rocinante, he bellowed out to those
assembled "Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just
cause, provided my lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission
to do so, I give him the lie, challenge him and defy him to single
combat."
The landlord saw at once the effect these words of the poor demented
knight had on his newly arrived guests, so he hastened to explain Don
Quixote's condition to them. They then asked whether the innkeeper had
seen a youth dressed like a muleteer. He replied that he had not; but
just then one of the men exclaimed that the youth must be there, since
the Judge's coach--which he had suddenly observed--was there. They
then decided to dissemble, each one going to a different entrance of
the inn, so there would be no chance for the youth to escape.
The landlord was curious to know what it was all about, but could
arrive at no conclusion. The truth was that these men were servants of
the young muleteer's father. And it was not long ere they had
discovered him, lying asleep, never thinking that he would himself be
pursued. The servant who roused him made a few caustic remarks to the
young Don Luis--for this was his name--about his bed and the luxury of
his surroundings, as particularly befitting a youth of his rank and
breeding.
Don Luis could not at first believe that he was really awake. He
rubbed his eyes in astonishment, and failed to find a reply to the
servant's remarks. The man then continued, advising his young master
to return to his home at once, saying that his father, as a result of
his disappearance, was dangerously ill. The youth was curious to learn
how his father had found out what road he had taken and that he had
disguised himself as a muleteer. The servant answered that a student
to whom Don Luis had confided his love for Dona Clara, had told his
master everything, when he saw how he suffered.
Now, it chanced that another muleteer, who had been sleeping with Don
Luis, could not keep what he was hearing to himself; besides, he
deemed it best to disappear from the scene. He informed some of the
guests of what had occurred, and thus it happened that Don Fernando
and Cardenio learned of the plight of the young singer, whose voice
they had so admired a short time before; and when the muleteer told
them that his comrade was a young nobleman in disguise, they decided
to go and help him in his quandary.
They found the four men entreating Don Luis to return to his father;
and the youth emphatically refusing to do so, saying that they might
take him dead, but never alive.
At this moment Dorothea saw Cardenio from her window, and she called
him and told him the story of the lad and Dona Clara. He in turn
related to her how the servants of the youth's father had come to take
him back to his home. In telling Dorothea this news Cardenio was
overheard by Dona Clara who would have swooned had not Dorothea
supported her.
By this time the servants had brought Don Luis into the inn,
threatening to take him back by force should he not go willingly.
Again he protested, and at last the argument attracted all the guests,
including Don Quixote, who had ceased his duties as guard for the
present. The Judge was there too, and when one of the servants
recognized in him their neighbor in Madrid, he pleaded with him to do
all he could to make the young man return to his ill father.
The Judge turned to the young muleteer, and saw that it was his
neighbor's son; whereupon he embraced him and asked in a fatherly way
what had brought him there dressed in such a manner. With his arm
around the youth's neck, the Judge withdrew with the lad to discuss
the reasons for his disguise and for his leaving his father.
While the kindly Judge was thus occupied with Don Luis, a tumult suddenly
arose at the gate of the inn. It was the landlord, trying to hold back
two guests who had attempted to get away without paying. The innkeeper
was stubbornly clinging to the garb of one of the adventurers, and in
return was being pummeled mercilessly, until his face was a study in dark
and fast colors, except his nose, which was tinted a running red. As soon
as the landlady perceived her mate's distress, the thought struck her
that this would be a most worthy opportunity for our valiant knight
errant to show his skill as a swordsman and a wielder of the lance. So
she dispatched her daughter, the fair young lady of the castle, to bring
the knight her message of distress.
Don Quixote received the young lady calmly and courteously, but said
that he was in honor bound to engage in no combat except by the
express permission of her Royal Highness the Princess Micomicona; she
having granted it, there could be no doubt as to the outcome of any
battle in which he chose to draw his sword. Seeing this, in her
opinion, ill-timed hesitancy, the one-eyed Asturian muttered that by
the time the Princess was found, her master would have passed the
heavenly border. The Princess, however, was quickly summoned, and Don
Quixote knelt on his stiff knees before her; but ere he had finished
his long harangue of request, she--having been advised of the urgency
of the situation--had already given him permission and wished him
godspeed.
Don Quixote arose and drew his sword, paced toward the gate, and then
suddenly stopped short. All wondered what had happened to cause his
hesitating thus, and the Asturian maid expressed her wonder aloud. Don
Quixote was not long about the answer. He replied at once that this
was no business for him; they had best call his squire. It was for
Sancho, he said, that he reserved the task and joy of fighting such
lowly people as the ones he saw before him here and now.
Now, while all of this was taking place, Don Luis, with tears in his
eyes, was confessing to Dona Clara's father his great and indomitable
love for her. This placed the Judge in a curious predicament, for he
found himself forced to sit in judgment on the welfare of his own
child. He was so taken with the charm and intelligence of the youth
that he was anxious to have him for a son-in-law, particularly as his
family was one of distinction, and extremely rich. Yet his better
judgment told him that it would be wise to wait another day before
giving his consent. He would have preferred to have Don Luis' father
approve of the marriage, although he thought it almost certain that
this gentleman would like to see his son married to a titled lady.
And while the fate of the young lovers was being weighed by the Judge,
peace had been declared between the innkeeper and the two travelers
who, persuaded by the chivalrous words of Don Quixote, and the
summoning of Sancho, had been made to see the light and pay the bill.
By this time everything was settled amicably, the landlord having
demanded no special indemnity for his battered, many-colored face.
But who should loom up on the scene, now that everything was peaceful
again, but the owner of Mambrino's golden helmet! This particular
barber was now leading his donkey to the stable, when he suddenly
discovered Sancho Panza hard at work repairing the barber's own
trappings, which our Sancho had taken as booty at the time his master
fell heir to the helmet. The barber left his donkey at no slow speed
and ran towards Sancho, to whom he exclaimed threateningly "There, you
thief, I have caught you! Give me my basin and my pack-saddle, and
everything you robbed me of!"
But Sancho was not willing to give up so easily things that he had gained
as spoils in righteous warfare. He refuted with his fists, as well as by
argument, the barber's coarse suggestion that he was a common highwayman;
and his master, coming up at this instant, was proud and pleased to hear
his faithful squire talk like that, and also to see the barber's teeth
gone, which the force of Sancho's blow evidently had carried away. As a
matter of fact, Sancho's demonstration of physical strength made such a
profound impression on Don Quixote, that he decided his squire was not
far from being eligible to knighthood.
As soon as the barber was able to make himself heard again, he began
to arraign both master and squire. He was not to be subdued. He told
all that quickly gathered round them that they could assure themselves
of the truth of what he said by fitting Sancho's saddle to his own
steed; furthermore, he said, they had plundered him of a basin.
When Don Quixote heard this ridiculous accusation, his lips twisted
into a scornful smile. He dispatched Sancho to fetch the helmet--which
seemed to Sancho a dangerous move--and when Sancho returned with the
basin, Don Quixote held it up with great self-assurance before
everybody.
"Your worships," said he, "may see with what face this squire can
assert that this is a basin and not the helmet I told you of; and I
swear by the order of chivalry I profess, that this helmet is the
identical one I took from him, without anything added to or removed."
This statement was corroborated in detail by Sancho, who added: "Since
that battle my master has fought in the helmet only once. That was
when he let loose the unfortunate ones in chains. And if it had not
been for this basin-helmet he might have been killed in that
engagement, for there were plenty of stones raining down on him at
that time."
CHAPTER XLV
IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET AND THE
PACK-SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT
OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND EARNEST
The barber appealed to those present and asked them what they thought
about Don Quixote's nonsense; and it was then that it occurred to Don
Quixote's friend, the barber of his village to play a joke on his
fellow barber. He solemnly asked the other barber whether he was out
of his head, for of course anybody could see that it was a helmet,
although, he admitted, not a complete one.
The poor barber was so taken aback, so perplexed that a learned
barber, and a seemingly sane one otherwise, could not tell the
difference between a basin and a helmet that he nearly toppled over.
But when the worthy curate, Cardenio, Don Fernando, and all--for they
realized at once the barber's joke--insisted that he was wrong, and
that it was not a basin, the perspiration began to trickle down his
face, and he exclaimed: "God bless me! Is it possible that such an
honorable company can say that this is not a basin but a helmet? Why,
this is a thing that would astonish a whole university, however wise
it might be! And if this basin is a helmet, then the pack-saddle must
be a horse's caparison!"
Some one present was quick to assert that it most certainly was a
caparison and not a pack-saddle at all; that no one but a fool could
take it for a pack-saddle. And when a gentleman of quality like Don
Fernando offered to take the votes of those present and they turned
out to be in favor of the pack-saddle's remaining a caparison, the
barber thought he had gone completely mad.
By this time the group of spectators had been increased by the arrival
of the four servants of Don Luis, Don Luis himself, and three new
guests--officers of the Holy Brotherhood, to whom the proceedings and
the amusement of those present seemed utter foolishness. One of these
uninitiated newcomers, one of the officers of the Brotherhood, dared
to say that any one who maintained that it was a helmet instead of a
basin must be drunk. But he should not have said it, for our knight
lifted his lance and let it fly out of his hand with such ferocity and
such sure aim that if the officer had not been lucky enough to be able
to dodge it, it would have pierced his body.
The tumult that followed was indescribable. The landlord came to the
rescue of his Brotherhood comrades. His wife fell into hysterics for
fear he would be beheaded by Don Quixote's vicious sword. The women
were all screaming, wailing, weeping and fainting. Then this
tremendous din and noise was suddenly rent by the voice of Don
Quixote; and like a flash there was peace, when the knight errant
began to appeal in soft lucid tones for a cessation of hostilities. It
was a curious thing to observe how willingly the demented man's appeal
to reason was listened to by all. The confusion had struck most of
them with terror and they were glad to heed in such a moment even the
will of unreason.
But as soon as there was quiet again, the grudge against Don Quixote
that had established itself in the heart of one of the Brotherhood,
began to assert itself. It suddenly came to his mind that among his
warrants he had one for a man of Don Quixote's description who was
accused of having set free a chain of galley-slaves. As soon as he had
convinced himself that there could be no mistake about the identity,
he strode forth and seized Don Quixote so abruptly by the collar that
the knight nearly choked.
"Help for the Holy Brotherhood!" the officer yelled aloud. "And that
you may see that I demand it in earnest, read this warrant which says
this highwayman is to be arrested!"
Hardly did Don Quixote feel himself handled in so undignified a
manner, when he clutched the villain's throat, foaming at the mouth
like a wild beast. Luckily they were separated in time by Don Fernando
and the rest, or they would have torn each other to pieces. Yet the
officer was not willing to give up his claim on Don Quixote's person:
a claim that our knight errant laughed at, for who had ever heard of
members of the knighthood being dependent on jurisdiction? Did he,
this base knave, this ill-born scoundrel, not know that the law of
knights was in their swords, their charter in their prowess, and their
edicts in their will? And then he calmly rambled on, his speech of
denunciation culminating in this last crushing remark: "What knight
errant has there been, is there, or will there ever be in the world,
not bold enough to give, single-handed, four hundred cudgellings to
four hundred officers of the Holy Brotherhood if they come in his
way?"
While his master was thus discoursing in his usual vein, Sancho was
reviewing past events at the inn, and he could not help but make this
sad exclamation: "By the Lord, it is quite true what my master says
about the enchantments of this castle, for it is impossible to live an
hour in peace in it!"
CHAPTER XLVI
OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE
HOLY BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY
KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE
The curate had to argue for some time with the officers of the
Brotherhood before he could finally persuade them that it would serve
no purpose to arrest Don Quixote, for, being out of his senses, he
would in the end be released as a madman. Furthermore, he warned them,
Don Quixote would never submit to force.
Sancho Panza and the barber were still quarreling over the pack-saddle
and the other booty, and at last the officers agreed to act as
mediators, and the differences were adjusted by arbitration. The
curate settled for the basin by paying eight reals, and received a
receipt for payment in full from the barber.
Don Fernando, in the meantime, extracted a promise from three of the
servants of Don Luis to return to Madrid, while the other one agreed
to remain and accompany his young master to where Don Fernando wanted
him to go. Dona Clara was sparkling with happiness; and Zoraida seemed
to feel at home with the Christians, in spite of the noise and tumult
she had had to live through during her short stay at the inn.
The landlord did not forget the reckoning for the wine-skins and all
the other things whose loss he could attribute to Don Quixote, for he
had witnessed the curate's paying off the debt for the barber's
helmet. Don Fernando paid all the innkeeper's demands generously,
after the curate had decided the claims were just.
But when Don Quixote felt no discord in the air, he betook himself to
the presence of Dorothea, knelt before her, and told her how willing
and anxious he was to serve her and conquer her giant. And he
requested that they make ready to leave. Her reply was simple and
direct, for she told him that his will was hers. So Don Quixote
ordered his squire to saddle Rocinante and his own donkey; but Sancho
only shook his head in sorry fashion.
"Master," he said, "there is more mischief in the village than one
hears of." And as his master begged him to speak freely, he burst out:
"This lady, who calls herself ruler of the great kingdom of Micomicon,
is no more so than my mother; for, if she was what she says, she would
not go rubbing noses with one that is here every instant and behind
every door."
Though it was merely with her husband, Don Fernando, that she had, as
Sancho said, rubbed noses, the crimson in her royal blood came to the
surface, and her face turned as red as a beet. Sancho, fearing that
the Princess was a courtesan, wanted to save his master the two years'
journey to Micomicon, if at the end of it it should turn out that
another one than Don Quixote or himself should reap the fruits of
their labor.
It is impossible to describe the terrible wrath of the knight when he
heard the Princess thus slandered. His indignation and fury knew no
bounds. He began to stammer and stutter, inarticulate with rage,
until Sancho was scared out of his wits, afraid of being cut open by
his raving master's sword. He was just about to turn his back on his
master and disappear till the storm had passed, when Dorothea came to
his rescue. She suggested that Sancho's strange behavior could only be
ascribed to one thing: enchantment. How else could he have seen such
diabolical things as he described, how could he have been made to bear
false witness against her, and how could he have spoken words so
offensive to her modesty? Knowing the heart of Sancho, Don Quixote at
once thought her explanation a most ingenious one, for what else could
have put into Sancho's head such disrespect for a royal personage? Don
Fernando, too, pleaded in Sancho's behalf; and Sancho meekly stumbled
to his knees before his master, and kissed his hand frantically,
begging him for forgiveness. Whereupon our knight errant with many
gestures pardoned and blessed him.
"Now, Sancho, my son," he said, "thou wilt be convinced of the truth
of what I have many a time told thee, that everything in this castle
is done by means of enchantment."
To which Sancho Panza replied meekly but firmly: "So it is, I believe,
except the affair of the blanket, which came to pass in reality by
ordinary means."
But Don Quixote as usual was not in a mood to listen to nonsense, and
he replied that if such were the case he would have avenged him, but
seeing no one to avenge himself upon, how could it have been anything
else but enchantment?
Those who were there were eager to know what had happened to Sancho, and
the landlord was most obliging in giving a graphic description of all
that had occurred. They all seemed to enjoy the account enormously, for
they laughed hilariously. Had Don Quixote not again assured Sancho that
it most certainly had happened by enchantment, there is no doubt that he
would have interrupted their hilarity.
It was now two days since they had arrived at the inn, and Don
Fernando and Dorothea were becoming anxious to depart. In order that
they might not have to go out of their way, it was arranged that they
should go by themselves; meanwhile a scheme was devised whereby the
curate and the barber could restore Don Quixote to his native village.
An ox-cart passed that day, and the curate, hearing it was going in
the direction of El Toboso, made arrangements with the owner to make
the journey with him. Then he ordered some of the servants to make a
cage, large enough to hold Don Quixote, and provided it with bars. He
then asked Don Fernando and his companions, the officers of the Holy
Brotherhood, the servants of Don Luis, and the innkeeper to cover
their faces and change their appearance so that Don Quixote would
think they were quite different people.
When this had been done they tiptoed to the valiant knight errant's
room, where they found him fast asleep, bound him, without waking him,
hand and foot; then they stood about the room silently. When the
knight awoke, he was startled to find that he could not move, and
seeing all these strangely conjured-up figures before him, it struck
him they must be phantoms of the enchanted castle. He was absolutely
helpless, and the men had no difficulty in stuffing him into the cage.
The bars were nailed on securely, and the cage was then carried out of
the inn and placed in the ox-cart.
While the procession slowly proceeded from the inn to the ox-cart, the
men supporting the cage on their shoulders, the barber chanted strange
words in a weird and hollow voice. The barber took it upon himself to
become the prophet of the occasion, and he proclaimed to the Knight of
the Rueful Countenance that he ought not to consider his present
imprisonment an affliction. It was in a way a sort of penance, he
said, through which he would be humbled to be in readiness for a still
greater, sweeter imprisonment, the bond of matrimony. This prediction
would come true, he avowed, when the fierce Manchegan lion and the
tender Tobosan dove met again. They would be joined in one, and the
offspring of this union would be of such stuff as to set the world
aflame.
When Don Quixote heard these words, he was stirred into an exalted
emotion. Had he not been well bound it would have been expressed by
kneeling. He raised his eyes toward Heaven and thanked the Lord for
having sent this prophet to him in this needy moment. He prayed that
he should not be left to perish in the cage, and also implored of the
prophet not to let his faithful Sancho Panza abandon him, saying that
if by chance the promise of the island should not come true, he had
made provision for him in his will. Sancho was much moved by what his
encaged and enchanted master had said, and he bent down and kissed
his hands--he had to kiss both since they were tied together. By that
time the procession had arrived at the ox-cart, and all was ready for
the departure.
CHAPTER XLVII
OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS
CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE
INCIDENTS
Don Quixote was greatly perplexed and, indeed, somewhat impatient with
the slow speed of the cart carrying away this enchanted knight. The
cart had rolled only a few paces and then stopped; there was nothing
exciting or heroic in being carried off in such a way! Never had he
read anywhere of so ridiculously slow and tame a proceeding. And on an
ox-cart! However, times had changed, and he realized that until he had
established the new era of knight-errantry, the most plebeian ways of
being captured by enchantment would have to serve. Yet, he did not
consider it beneath his dignity to ask Sancho what he thought on the
subject.
"I don't know what to think," answered Sancho, "not being as well read
as your Worship in errant writings; but for all that, I venture to say
and swear that these apparitions that are about us are not quite
Catholic."
Don Quixote could not refrain from laughing aloud at his squire's
simplicity. How could they be Catholics when they were devils, made
of no substance whatever, nothing but air?
[Illustration: "HE PRAYED THAT HE SHOULD NOT BE LEFT TO PERISH IN THE
CAGE."--_Page 131_]
"By the Lord, Master," interrupted Sancho excitedly, "I have touched
them already, and one of the devils, I swear, has firm flesh.
Furthermore, I have always heard it said that all devils smelled of
sulphur and brimstone, but this one smells of amber half a league
off."
Here Sancho was referring to Don Fernando, who, like most nobles, used
a perfume; but Don Quixote explained to his squire that this
particular devil was so besprinkled in order to give people the
impression he was not a devil.
While Don Quixote and his squire were thus exchanging thoughts on the
subject of devils and their religion and what stuff they were made of,
the curate and the barber were saying farewell to Don Fernando, his
bride, Dorothea, Cardenio, Luscinda, the Judge and Dona Clara, as well
as to the Captain and the Captain's bride, Zoraida. All of them
promised to write to the curate, so that he in return might let them
know how his and Don Quixote's journey had ended.
After many embraces, the curate and the barber were ready to make
their departure when the landlord came running out with some papers
which he handed to the curate as a gift. The landlord said it was the
manuscript of the novel, "Rinconete and Cortadillo," a part of the
contents of the valise in which he had found the story of "Ill-Advised
Curiosity," which the curate had read aloud at the inn.
The curate thanked the innkeeper, saying that he hoped it was as good
as the other novel. Then he and the barber covered their faces that
they might not be recognized by Don Quixote, and took their places
behind the cart, mounted on their mules. The three officers of the
Brotherhood had been brought by the curate to escort them to El
Toboso, armed with muskets. And then Sancho Panza, mounted on his
donkey, led Rocinante by the reins. As the procession started, the
landlady came out to weep make-believe tears for Don Quixote, who
begged her to shed none, for in the end, he said, virtue would
triumph.
At the head of the procession came the ox-cart, the officers of the
Brotherhood marching beside it, then followed Sancho Panza on his ass,
leading Rocinante by the bridle, and in the rear trailed the curate
and the barber on their mules. The slow pace of the oxen had to be
imitated by the rest, so the whole procession took on a solemn and
mysterious aspect, which was enhanced by the encaged Don Quixote's
stiff and stone-like form leaning against the wooden bars.
They had traveled several leagues, when the curate heard the sound of
riders approaching from behind. Turning in his saddle he perceived six
or seven men, mounted on mules, and riding at a quick pace. They had
soon overtaken the procession, and exchanged greetings with the curate
and the barber. One of the travelers was a canon of Toledo, and on
observing the fettered Don Quixote, with the armed officers of the
Brotherhood as an escort, he took it for granted that the knight was
some dangerous highwayman. Yet, scrutinizing the strange parade, he
could not help asking questions. So when he inquired of one of the
officers why Don Quixote was being transported in that way, the
officer did not know what to say but referred him for an explanation
to Don Quixote himself.
The knight errant had heard the canon's question, and he offered to
give him the information if he knew anything about errantry. As the
canon said he had read a good deal about knights errant and their
deeds, Don Quixote was quick to tell of his misfortune--how he had
been encaged and made helpless by enchantment. At this moment the
curate, seeing that the canon was talking to Don Quixote, and fearing
a mishap in the carrying out of their plan, came up and joined in the
conversation. He corroborated what the knight errant had just said,
and added that it was not for his sins that he was enchanted, but
because of his enemies' hatred of virtuous deeds, of which this famous
Knight of the Rueful Countenance was the strongest champion in their
age.
When the good canon heard the two of them talk like that, he was at a
loss for words and felt he had to cross himself, in which action his
attendants joined him. But as luck would have it, Sancho Panza had
been listening, and seeing the curate disguised by a mask, the
suspicion crept into his head that he was trying to play a joke on his
master. So he burst into the conversation with a grudge against them
all.
"Well, sirs, you may like it or not," he declared, "but my master is
as much enchanted as my mother! He is in his full senses; he can eat,
and sleep, and drink. Then why do they want me to believe that he is
enchanted? I have heard it said that when you are enchanted you cannot
do any of these things, nor talk. And my master will talk more than
thirty lawyers would if you do not stop him." Then turning to the
curate, he exclaimed: "And, senor curate, senor curate! Do you think I
do not know you? Well, I can tell you I do, for all your face is
covered; and I can tell you I am up to you, however you may hide your
tricks. If it had not been for your Worship, my master would be
married to the Princess Micomicona this minute, and I should be a
Count at least--for no less was to be expected."
And then the faithful Sancho went on to say that he had told all this
that the curate might weigh in his conscience the pranks he had played
on Don Quixote, and for which he would have to pay in heaven (if he
ever should come there) unless he did penance now. Here the barber
thought it best to put an end to Sancho's communications, and offered
him a place in the cage beside his master, but Sancho was quick to
retort: "Mind how you talk, master barber, for shaving is not
everything; and as to the enchantment of my master, God knows the
truth!"
Soon after Sancho had commenced his tirade, the curate thought it
best, having listened to his own denunciation, to explain everything
concerning the knight errant and his squire to the canon. Therefore he
asked him to ride on ahead with him. When the canon had heard the
whole story, he remarked that he thought that books of chivalry were
really harmful, for not one of them was truthful. He was amused when
the curate related how he and the barber had burned nearly all of Don
Quixote's treasures in literature of this sort.
"But what mind," asked the canon, "that is not wholly barbarous and
uncultured can find pleasure in reading of how a great tower full of
knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a fair wind, and
will be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the land of
Prester John of the Indies?"
CHAPTER XLVIII
IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF
CHIVALRY, WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT
The curate and the canon had become very much interested in their
subject, and the canon after a while confided to the curate that he
himself had once started to write a book on chivalry, with the
intention of making each incident in it a plausible one. It was his
view that fiction was all the better the more it resembled the truth.
Furthermore, he believed in adhering to good taste and to the rules of
art; these things, it seemed to him, had been ignored in the writing
of these books. From fiction the conversation drifted to playwriting,
and here again the curate and the canon were of the same mind. The
actors of their age chose plays that appealed to people of nonsense
and with bad taste. Instead of trying to improve the national taste,
they produced tawdry plays. The canon cited three excellent plays,
however, that he had seen at Madrid, which had earned great profits
for their producers; this proved to the canon that the great mass of
the public did appreciate a really good play if it was only produced.
While the two clergymen were thus whiling away the time, the barber
approached and told the curate they had reached a place which to him
seemed a good pasture for the oxen. It was now noon, and the canon
decided to join them in their rest. He offered them food out of the
provisions that he had brought along on a pack-mule. The rest of the
canon's mules were sent to an inn, which was seen nearby, to be fed
there.
Seeing his master unguarded, Sancho decided the time had come when he
could speak undisturbedly to him, so he hastened to tell him of the
plot that the curate and the barber had hit upon. He told his master
he was certain it was out of envy and malice, for his having surpassed
them in fame and brave deeds. Don Quixote, however, calmly told his
squire that if he saw two shapes that resembled the barber and the
curate there, they could be nothing but devils having taken on the
appearance of his friends in order to be able to do their black deeds
so much the more safely and cruelly.
CHAPTER XLIX
WHICH TREATS OF HOW OUR KNIGHT IS PERMITTED TO DESCEND FROM
HIS CAGE, AND OF THE CANON'S ATTEMPT TO CONVERT HIM FROM HIS
ILLUSIONS
During his conversation with Sancho, Don Quixote suddenly felt it an
absolute necessity to leave the cage, and to stretch himself in the
open. So Sancho went to the curate to ask his permission, which he
received upon promising to answer for his master's not disappearing.
The curate and the canon went to the cage, and Don Quixote swore as a
knight that he would not run away, whereupon they untied his hands and
feet.
The first thing Don Quixote did was to go to his Rocinante; and then
the canon thought he would try to talk sense into him, to see whether
he could not persuade him to give up his crazy notions and ideas. Don
Quixote listened courteously and attentively, but when the canon had
finished, he turned to him and said he rather thought it was the canon
and not he who was afflicted and out of his wits, since he had the
audacity to blaspheme the order of knighthood. And then he went on,
describing the deeds of all the famous knights he had read of; and the
canon was really amazed at the great ease and clearness of mind with
which he related these tales of adventure. He thought it a pity that
so much knowledge of a wrong kind should be heaped into one brain.
CHAPTERS L-LI
OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON
HELD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS
What the canon had tried on the knight, Don Quixote now decided to try
on him. Was that not the great mission he had undertaken in the
world--to revive the spirit of chivalry? So he told the canon of the
many fine qualities he had developed since he was dubbed a knight,
such as courtesy, generosity, valor, good breeding, patience, and many
others that he mentioned; how he had learned to bear hardships of all
kinds, and now, of late, enchantment. He ended his long discourse by
expressing a desire that he might soon be an emperor, for, he said, he
wished to do good to some of his faithful friends, especially his
squire Sancho Panza.
Sancho heard his master's last words, and reminded him again of the
island that he was to govern. On hearing this, the canon broke in with
a few remarks about administration and government, and their
difficulties, and Sancho interrupted the canon to say it would be very
easy to find some one to do all that for him. In reply to this the
canon came forward with a good many arguments phrased in philosophical
language which the squire could make neither head nor tail of. So he
took up the thread of his own mind, and replied: "I have as much soul
as another, and as much body as any one, and I shall be as much king
of my realm as any other of his; so let the country come, and God be
with you, and let us see one another, as one blind man said to the
other."
All the canon could do when he realized how badly both master and
servant were in the clutch of their beliefs and superstitions, was to
wonder at it. But by the time Sancho had finished his words, the
repast was being served on the grass.
As they were about to seat themselves, a goat came running from
between the trees, pursued by a man whose clear voice could be heard
distinctly from the distance. Soon he came up, and he caught the goat
by the horns and began to talk to her, calling her daughter, as if she
had been a child. The goat seemed to understand everything, and the
canon was so impressed with the scene that he asked the goatherd not
to be in a hurry, but to sit down and eat with them.
The goatherd accepted the invitation; and when they had finished the
repast, they had found that he was by no means a fool. When he asked
them if they would like to hear a true story, they were all anxious to
have him tell it to them. Only Sancho Panza withdrew, that he might
get a chance to load himself brimful of food; for he had heard his
master once say that a knight errant's squire should eat until he
could hold no more. The goatherd began his story, after having told
the goat to lie down beside him. She did so, and while the goatherd
was telling the story of his unfortunate love for Leandra, a rich
farmer's daughter, who had jilted both him and his rival Anselmo for
the good looks of a braggard by the name of Vicente de la Roca, the
goat was looking up into his face with an expression as it seemed of
understanding and sympathy.
CHAPTER LII
OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD,
TOGETHER WITH THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH
WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION
All had enjoyed the goatherd's story, and they thanked him for it. Don
Quixote offered him the aid of his sword for the future, and said that if
he had not been enchanted at this moment he would at once set out to free
his Leandra. When the goatherd perceived Don Quixote's strange behavior
and appearance and heard his remarkable language, he was struck with
amazement, and asked the barber what madness was his, who talked like the
knights he had read about in the books of knight-errantry. Scarcely had
Don Quixote heard that he was being taken for a madman by the goatherd
than he flew at him in a raging fit. The most fierce battle ensued,
during which the faces of both men were scratched until they could hardly
be recognized. They fought in the midst of the setting for the meal, and
plates and glasses were smashed and upset. Both were urged on like dogs
by the rest of the company, and soon blood began to flow. Finally Don
Quixote stumbled, and the goatherd managed to get him on his back, while
Sancho was held off by one of the canon's servants, moaning all the while
because he could not go to his master's rescue.
Just then a trumpet blew a solemn note, and all listened in surprise.
Don Quixote was all eagerness: there was no doubt in his mind but that
he was being summoned by one in distress, so he asked for and received
an hour's truce from the goatherd. As soon as he was on his feet, he
ran to Rocinante, whom he bridled in great haste, and set off, armed
with lance, buckler, sword and helmet, in the direction of the sound.
What Don Quixote saw when he had ridden a short distance at his
charger's usual comfortable canter was a procession of penitents, clad
in white, some of whom were carrying an image, draped in black. The
procession had been called for by the priests who desired to bring
relief to the country, which had been suffering that year from a
terrific heat and a lack of rain. They were now marching to a nearby
hermitage, where they wanted to do penance, praying in silence to God
that he might have pity on them.
But what could such a procession have suggested to an imaginative mind
like Don Quixote's but one of the many incidents that he had read of
in his books of chivalry, where some great and worthy lady was being
carried away by evil forces? To the knight the covered image easily
became the worthy lady. Violently kicking Rocinante in the sides, for
he had not had time to put on his spurs, he tried to increase his
steed's canter to a gallop that he might attack in real knight errant
fashion.
The faithful squire, the curate, the canon and the barber all did
their best to stop the knight by their yells. Sancho was frantic, and
cried after him: "Where are you going, Senor Don Quixote? What devils
have possessed you to set you against our Catholic faith? Plague take
me! It is a procession of penitents!" And then he asked him, filled
with horror and almost choking with tears, whether he knew what he was
doing. Why, he was charging the blessed image of the immaculate and
holy Virgin Mary! Sancho, seeing his master's lifted lance, could not
know that his master wanted to release her.
When Don Quixote had reached the penitents, he abruptly halted his
horse and demanded in no uncertain, though flowery, language that the
fair lady--whom, he said, he could plainly see they were carrying away
against her will--be released at once.
One of four priests, who had just begun to chant the Litany, stopped
on a high note and answered the knight that he must not hold up the
singing or the procession, for the marchers were doing penitence by
whipping themselves and could not stop once they had commenced the
ceremony. Again Don Quixote put forth his demand, this time in
language that seemed much more ludicrous to the penitents so that some
of them could not resist bursting into laughter. This sign of
disrespect was too much for our errant, who started his attack but was
prevented from finishing it by the blow of a stick carried by one of
the penitents. With one thwack of it he was felled to the ground.
Sancho had now come up, and when he saw his master stretched out, with
no sign of life, his eyes filled with tears, and he thrust himself
over his master's body, crying and wailing like a little child. It was
pitiful to see the sorrow and the devotion of the poor, simple-minded
fellow, bewailing his master's fall from the blow of a mere stick.
And he ended his tribute by thanking him for the great generosity he
had always shown; for Don Quixote, for but eight months of service,
had given him the best island that was afloat in the sea.
Sancho was suddenly called from his grief by the weak voice of the
knight, who implored his squire to mount him on the ox-cart, as his
shoulder was in a dilapidated condition. Then he commended himself to
his Lady Dulcinea, while Sancho recommended that they return with
their friends to their village, where they could prepare for another
sally at a more favorable time. The knight seemed inclined to take his
squire's advice, for he remarked that it was not a bad idea: that in
the meantime the prevailing evil influence of the stars might
disappear.
By this time the curate, the canon and the officers of the Brotherhood
had arrived at the spot, and the curate found that he knew one of the
priests in the procession. This simplified matters considerably, for
he found it easy to explain to his friend the malady and peculiarities
of Don Quixote, which had been the cause of so much disturbance in so
short a time. After the curate had taken leave of the canon, the
goatherd and those in the procession, he paid off the officers, who
considered it unwise to accompany the party any further. The canon
begged the curate to keep him informed of any change in Don Quixote's
behavior, as he was most interested in his case. Then Don Quixote was
heaved into the cart where a stack of hay served as a softer
resting-place this time; and after six days of travel, the oxen and
the cart and the whole procession entered the La Mancha village. When
they passed the square, it being Sunday, the people crowded around
them, and all were amazed at what they saw.
Soon Don Quixote's niece and his housekeeper got word of his
homecoming. When they saw him, and observed his pallor and leanness,
they began to weep and beat their breasts, and curse all books of
chivalry.
Then Sancho Panza's wife learned the news, and as soon as she saw her
husband the first thing she asked him was whether the donkey was well. To
this greeting he replied that the donkey was better than he himself. And
then she pestered him with questions as to what he had brought back with
him for her and the children; to which he impatiently remarked that she
would have to wait until he got his island or empire, when she would be
called Her Ladyship. Of course, it was not to be expected that Teresa
Panza should understand this; and she did not. Sancho attempted to give
her an insight into the intricacies of knight-errantry by telling her of
some of his remarkable experiences, such as the blanketing, which stood
out in his mind's eye as the culmination of suffering in his career as a
squire.
While this was going on in the Panza household, Don Quixote had been
undressed and put to bed by his niece and the housekeeper. The curate
had told them what troubles and tribulations he had been forced to
undergo in order to restore him to his community and his loved ones.
So they decided, with fear in their hearts, to be ever watchful, lest
he escape and depart on another rampage. And again and again they
would curse the books that they had burned too late.
VOLUME II
CHAPTER I
OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH
DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY
Don Quixote had been at home almost a month. During that time neither
the curate nor the barber had been to see him for fear that the sight
of them would remind him of his days of knight-errantry and make him
long for another campaign. They did visit the niece and housekeeper,
however, and advised them from time to time what to do; and at last
the women began to think that there was hope for our knight's being
restored to his right mind, for his conversation never touched upon
deeds of chivalry, and when he spoke on other subjects he always
talked most sanely.
Finally the curate and the barber decided to pay their friend a visit,
firmly resolved not to let the subject of conversation turn to
knight-errantry. They found him in bed, with a red Toledo cap on his
head. His face had changed greatly; it was so withered and yellow that
it resembled parchment rather than human flesh. He greeted them
cordially, however, and soon they engaged in an animated conversation,
which finally turned to such an intricate subject as government. So
unusually sane and clear was Don Quixote's reasoning that his friends
were amazed at the change that had taken place, and they felt quite
certain that he was cured. Then they began to discuss the news from
the capital, and the curate mentioned that the Turk was expected to
attack. Nobody knew when, he said, but in order to safeguard the
island of Malta and the coasts of Naples and Sicily, His Majesty had
already made provisions for the defense of these provinces.
Here Don Quixote interrupted and said that His Majesty could easily
settle the whole thing if he would only follow his advice. Both the
curate and the barber began to wonder and worry about what his plan
might be, but before divulging it Don Quixote insisted upon absolute
secrecy, which of course they promised. And then he began in the old,
familiar strain, citing the examples of the innumerable heroes of his
condemned books of chivalry, heroes who, single-handed, had conquered
armies of millions. He finished with a tirade about God's providing
such a knight errant to-day to save the nation and Christianity
against the onslaught of the heathen Turk, with an inference in his
last words that he was to be the chosen savior.
When the two women heard Don Quixote again rave in this manner, they
burst into tears, and the curate and the barber were as sorry and
concerned as the women. The curate turned in bewilderment to his poor
friend and asked him whether he truly believed that the heroes of these
tales of chivalry were men of flesh and blood. He himself, he said, was
convinced that these stories were nothing but fables and falsehoods, and
that none of the personages in them ever lived. Whereupon Don Quixote
began to ridicule the curate, and went on to describe his heroes,
saying that his faith was so strong that he could almost swear he had
seen Amadis of Gaul and some of the others he worshiped. Then he embarked
on a description of these knights, giving the color of their eyes, of
their beards and hair, their height, complexion, all according to his own
crazy imagination. Much of what he said seemed so amusing to his two
friends that they nearly went into hysterics from laughter. His mind's
image of Roland was particularly laughable, for he saw him as a
bow-legged, swarthy-complexioned gentleman with a hairy body, courteous
and well-bred.
On hearing Roland so pictured, the curate remarked it was no wonder
that he was jilted by the fair lady Angelica. To this Don Quixote
retorted that lady Angelica was a giddy and frivolous damsel with
desires that smacked of wantonness. He only regretted that Roland had
not been a poet that he might have libeled her in poetry for all
eternity.
Here the knight was interrupted by the sound of loud talking in the
courtyard, intermingled with screams, and when he and the curate came
running they saw the two women struggling to keep a man from entering
the house.