man to grudge a share of his beast to this reverend father."
"That is most certain," said the barber, and got off his steed at
once.
The curate now mounted, but the misfortune was that when the barber
tried to get up behind, the mule, which was a hired one, lifted up her
legs and kicked out with such fury that she knocked Mr. Nicholas to
the ground, and, as he rolled over, his beard fell off and lay upon
the earth. Don Quixote, seeing that huge mass of beard torn from the
jaw without blood, and lying at a distance from the squire's face,
said: "This, I vow, is one of the greatest miracles I ever saw in my
life. The beard is taken off as clean by the heel of the mule as if it
had been done by the hand of a barber."
The curate, seeing the risk they ran of their plan being found out,
came to where Master Nicholas was lying, and with one jerk clapped it
on again, muttering as he did so some Latin words, which he said were
a charm for fixing on beards.
By this means, to Don Quixote's amazement, the squire was cured again,
and he asked the curate to tell him this charm, which, he said, since
it could heal a wound of this kind, must be good for even more
dangerous injuries.
The curate agreed to tell him the secret some other day, and, having
mounted the mule, the party rode slowly away towards the inn.
THE JOURNEY TO THE INN
Retold by Judge Parry
The curate rode first on the mule, and with him rode Don Quixote and
the princess. The others, Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza,
followed on foot.
And as they rode, Don Quixote said to the damsel: "Madam, let me
entreat your highness to lead the way that most pleaseth you."
Before she could answer, the curate said: "Towards what kingdoms would
you travel? Are you for your native land of Micomicon?"
She, who knew very well what to answer, being no babe, replied: "Yes,
sir, my way lies towards that kingdom."
"If it be so," said the curate, "you must pass through the village
where I dwell, and from thence your ladyship must take the road to
Carthagena, where you may embark. And, if you have a prosperous
journey, you may come within the space of nine years to the Lake
Meona, I mean Meolidas, which stands on this side of your highness's
kingdom some hundred days' journey or more."
"You are mistaken, good sir," said she, "for it is not yet fully two
years since I left there, and, though I never had fair weather, I have
arrived in time to see what I so longed for, the presence of the
renowned Don Quixote of the Mancha, whose glory was known to me as
soon as my foot touched the shores of Spain."
"No more," cried Don Quixote. "I cannot abide to hear myself praised,
for I am a sworn enemy to flattery. And though I know what you speak
is but truth, yet it offends mine ears. And I can tell you this, at
least, that whether I have valour or not, I will use it in your
service, even to the loss of my life. But let me know, master curate,
what has brought you here?"
"You must know, then," replied the curate, "that Master Nicholas, the
barber, and myself travelled towards Seville to recover certain sums
of money which a kinsman of mine in the Indies had sent me. And
passing yesterday through this way we were set upon by four robbers,
who took everything that we had. And it is said about here, that those
who robbed us were certain galley slaves, who they say were set at
liberty, almost on this very spot, by a man so valiant that in spite
of the guard he released them all. And doubtless he must be out of his
wits, or else he must be as great a knave as they, to loose the wolf
among the sheep, and rebel against his king by taking from the galleys
their lawful prey."
Sancho had told the curate of an adventure they had had with galley
slaves, and the curate spoke of it to see what Don Quixote would say.
The knight, however, durst not confess his part in the adventure, but
rode on, changing colour at every word the curate spoke.
When the curate had finished, Sancho burst out: "By my father, master
curate, he that did that deed was my master, and that not for want of
warning, for I told him beforehand that it was a sin to deliver them,
and that they were great rogues who had been sent to the galleys to
punish them for their crimes."
"You bottlehead!" replied Don Quixote. "It is not the duty of
knights-errant to examine whether the afflicted, enslaved, and
oppressed whom they meet by the way are in sorrow for their own
default; they must relieve them because they are needy and in
distress, looking at their sorrow and not at their crimes. And if any
but the holy master curate shall find fault with me on this account, I
will tell him that he knows nought of knighthood, and that he lies in
his throat, and this I will make him know by the power of my sword."
Dorothea, who was discreet enough to see they were carrying the jest
too far, now said: "Remember, sir knight, the boon you promised me,
never to engage in any other adventure, be it ever so urgent, until
you have seen me righted. And had master curate known that it was the
mighty arm of Don Quixote that freed the galley slaves, I feel sure he
would have bit his tongue through ere he spoke words which might cause
you anger."
"That I dare swear," said the curate.
"Madam," replied Don Quixote, "I will hold my peace and keep my anger
to myself, and will ride on peaceably and quietly until I have done
the thing I promised. Tell me, therefore, without delay, what are your
troubles and on whom am I to take revenge."
To this Dorothea replied: "Willingly will I do what you ask, so you
will give me your attention."
At this Cardenio and the barber drew near to hear the witty Dorothea
tell her tale, and Sancho, who was as much deceived as his master, was
the most eager of all to listen.
She, after settling herself in her saddle, began with a lively air to
speak as follows: "In the first place, I would have you know,
gentlemen, that my name is--" Here she stopped a moment, for she had
forgotten what name the curate had given her.
He, seeing her trouble, said quickly: "It is no wonder, great lady,
that you hesitate to tell your misfortunes. Great sufferers often lose
their memory, so that they even forget their own names, as seems to
have happened to your ladyship, who has forgotten that she is called
the Princess Micomicona, heiress of the great Kingdom of Micomicon."
"True," said the damsel, "but let me proceed. The king, my father,
was called Tinacrio the Sage, and was learned in the magic art. By
this he discovered that my mother, the Queen Xaramilla, would die
before him, and that I should soon afterwards be left an orphan. This
did not trouble him so much as the knowledge that a certain giant,
called Pandafilando of the Sour Face, lord of a great island near our
border, when he should hear that I was an orphan, would pass over with
a mighty force into my kingdom and take it from me. My father warned
me that when this came to pass I should not stay to defend myself, and
so cause the slaughter of my people, but should at once set out for
Spain, where I should meet with a knight whose fame would then extend
through all that kingdom. His name, he said, should be Don Quixote,
and he would be tall of stature, have a withered face, and on his
right side, a little under his left shoulder, he should have a tawny
spot with certain hairs like bristles."
On hearing this, Don Quixote said: "Hold my horse, son Sancho, and
help me to strip, for I would know if I am the knight of whom the sage
king spoke."
"There is no need," said Sancho, "for I know that your worship has
such a mark near your backbone."
"It is enough," said Dorothea, "for among friends we must not be too
particular, and whether it is on your shoulder or your backbone is of
no importance. And, indeed, no sooner did I land in Osuna than I heard
of Don Quixote's fame, and felt sure that he was the man."
"But how did you land in Osuna, madam," asked Don Quixote, "seeing
that it is not a sea town?"
"Sir," said the curate, "the princess would say that she landed at
Malaga, and that Osuna was the first place wherein she heard tidings
of your worship."
"That is so," said Dorothea; "and now nothing remains but to guide you
to Pandafilando of the Sour Face, that I may see you slay him, and
once again enter into my kingdom. For all must succeed as the wise
Tinacrio, my father, has foretold, and if the knight of the prophecy,
when he has killed the giant, so desires, then it will be my lot to
become his wife, and he will at once possess both me and my kingdom."
"What thinkest thou of this, friend Sancho? Did I not tell thee this
would come about? Here we have a kingdom to command and a queen to
marry."
When Sancho heard all this he jumped for joy, and running to Dorothea
stopped her mule, and asking her very humbly to give him her hand to
kiss, he kneeled down as a sign that he accepted her as his queen and
lady.
All around could scarcely hide their laughter at the knight's madness
and the squire's simplicity, and when Dorothea promised Sancho to make
him a great lord, and Sancho gave her thanks, it roused their mirth
anew.
"Madam," continued Don Quixote, who appeared to be full of thought, "I
repeat all I have said, and make my vow anew, and when I have cut off
the head of Pandafilando I will put you in peaceable possession of
your kingdom, but since my memory and will are captive to another, it
is not possible for me to marry."
So disgusted was Sancho with what he heard that he cried out in a
great rage: "Surely, Sir Don Quixote, your worship is not in your
right senses. Is it possible your worship can refuse to marry a
princess like this? A poor chance have I of getting a countship if
your worship goes on like this, searching for mushrooms at the bottom
of the sea. Is my Lady Dulcinea more beautiful? She cannot hold a
candle to her. Marry her! Marry at once, and when you are king make me
a governor."
Don Quixote, who heard such evil things spoken of his Lady Dulcinea,
could not bear them any longer, and therefore, lifting up his lance,
without speaking a word to Sancho, gave him two blows that brought him
to the earth, and if Dorothea had not called to the knight to spare
him, without doubt he would have taken his squire's life.
"Think you, miserable villain," cried Don Quixote, "that it is to be
all sinning on thy side and pardoning on mine? Say, scoffer with the
viper's tongue, who dost thou think hath gained this kingdom and cut
off the head of this giant and made thee marquis--for all this I take
to be a thing as good as completed--unless it be the worth and valour
of Dulcinea using my arm as her instrument? She fights in my person,
and I live and breathe in her. From her I hold my life and being. O
villain, how ungrateful art thou that seest thyself raised from the
dust of the earth to be a nobleman, and speakest evil of her who gives
thee such honours!"
Sancho was not too much hurt to hear what his master said. He jumped
up nimbly and ran behind Dorothea's palfrey, and from there said to
his master: "Tell me, your worship, if you are not going to marry this
great princess, how this kingdom will become yours, and how you can do
me any favours. Pray marry this queen now we have her here. I say
nothing against Lady Dulcinea's beauty, for I have never seen her."
"How, thou wicked traitor, thou hast not seen her!" cried Don
Quixote. "Didst thou not but now bring me a message from Her?"
"I mean," replied Sancho, "not seen her for long enough to judge of
her beauty, though, from what I did see, she appeared very lovely."
"Ah!" said Don Quixote, "then I do excuse thee, but have a care what
thou sayest, for, remember, the pitcher may go once too often to the
well."
"No more of this," said Dorothea. "Run Sancho, kiss your master's
hand, and ask his pardon. Henceforth speak no evil of the Lady
Dulcinea, and trust that fortune may find you an estate where you may
live like a prince."
Sancho went up hanging his head and asked his lord's hand, which he
gave him with a grave air, and, after he had kissed it, the knight
gave him his blessing, and no more was said about it.
While this was passing, they saw coming along the road on which they
were a man riding upon an ass, and when he drew near he seemed to be a
gipsy.
But Sancho Panza, whenever he met with any asses, followed them with
his eyes and his heart, and he had hardly caught sight of the man when
he knew him to be an escaped robber, Gines of Passamonte, and the ass
to be none other than his beloved Dapple.
Gines had disguised himself as a gipsy, but Sancho knew him, and
called out in a loud voice: "Ah! thief Gines, give up my jewel, let go
my life, give up mine ass, give up the comfort of my home. Fly,
scoundrel! Begone, thief! Give back what is none of thine."
He need not have used so many words, for Gines leaped off at the first
and raced away from them all as fast as his legs could carry him.
Sancho then ran up to Dapple, and, embracing him, cried: "How hast
thou been cared for, my darling and treasure, Dapple of mine eyes, my
sweet companion?" With this he stroked and kissed him as if he had
been a human being. But the ass held his peace, and allowed Sancho to
kiss and cherish him without answering a word.
SANCHO PANZA'S STORY OF HIS VISIT TO THE LADY DULCINEA
Retold by Judge Parry
"Friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "let us bury all our differences,
and tell me when, how, and where didst thou find Dulcinea. What was
she doing? What saidst thou to her? What answer made she? How did she
look when she read my letter? Who copied it for thee? Tell me all,
without adding to it or lying, for I would know everything."
"Master," replied Sancho, "if I must speak the truth, nobody copied
out the letter, for I carried no letter at all."
"Thou sayest true," said Don Quixote, "for I found the pocket-book,
wherein it was written, two days after thy departure, and I did expect
that thou wouldst return for it."
"I had done so," said Sancho, "if I had not carried it in my memory
when you read it to me, so that I could say it to a parish clerk, who
copied it out of my head, word for word, so exactly that he said that
in all the days of his life he had never read such a pretty letter."
"And hast thou it still by heart, Sancho?" asked Don Quixote.
"No, sir, for after I gave it, seeing that it was to be of no more
use, I let myself forget it. If I remember, it began, _Scrubby Queen,
Sovereign Lady_, and the ending--_yours till death, the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance_--but between these things I put in three hundred
_hearts_, and _loves_, and _dear eyes_."
"All this I like to hear, therefore say on," said Don Quixote. "Thou
didst arrive; and what was the Queen of Beauty doing then? I daresay
thou foundest her threading pearls or embroidering some curious device
with golden threads for this her captive knight."
"No, that I did not," said Sancho, "but winnowing two bushels of wheat
in the yard of her house."
"Why, then," said Don Quixote, "thou mayest reckon that each grain of
wheat was a pearl, seeing they were touched by her hands. But tell me,
when thou didst deliver my letter, did she kiss it? Did she use any
ceremony worthy of such a letter? Or what did she?"
"When I went to give it to her," said Sancho, "she was all in a bustle
with a good lot of wheat in her sieve, and said to me: 'Lay down that
letter there on the sack, for I cannot read it until I have winnowed
all that is here.'"
"O discreet lady!" said Don Quixote; "she must have done that, so that
she might read and enjoy it at leisure. Go on, then, Sancho, and tell
all she said about me, and what thou saidst to her."
"She asked me nothing," replied the squire, "but I told her the state
which I left you in for her sake, doing penance, and I told her how
you slept on the ground and never combed your beard, but spent your
time weeping and cursing your fortune."
"There thou saidst ill," said Don Quixote, "for I do not curse my
fortune, but rather bless it, seeing that it hath made me worthy to
merit the love of so beautiful a lady as Dulcinea of Toboso. But tell
me, after she had sifted her corn and sent it to the mill, did she
then read my letter?"
"The letter," replied Sancho, "she did never read, for she said she
could neither read nor write, and therefore she tore it into small
pieces, and would allow no one to read it lest the whole village might
know her secrets. Lastly, she told me that I was to say to your
worship that she kissed your hands, and that she had a greater desire
to see you than to write to you. Therefore she begged, as you loved
her, that you should quit these bushes and brambles, and leave off
these mad pranks, and set out for Toboso, for she had a great longing
to see your worship. She laughed a good deal when I told her they
called your worship the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. I asked her
whether the beaten Biscayan came there. She said yes, and that he was
a very good fellow. I asked also after the galley slaves you sent; but
she told me that she had seen none of them as yet."
"All goes well, then," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, what jewel did
she bestow on thee at thy departure for reward of the tidings thou
hadst brought? For it is a usual and ancient custom among
knights-errant and their ladies to give to their squires, damsels, or
dwarfs who bring good tidings, some rich jewel as a reward for their
welcome news."
"It may well be," replied Sancho; "and I think it was a most excellent
custom, but I doubt if it exists nowadays, for it would seem to be the
manner of our age only to give a piece of bread and cheese; for this
was all that my Lady Dulcinea bestowed on me when I took my leave,
and, by the way, the cheese was made of sheep's milk."
"She is marvellous liberal," said the knight; "and if she gave thee
not a jewel of gold, it was doubtless because she had none then about
her. But that will be put right some day. Knowest thou, Sancho, at
what I am astonished? It is at thy sudden return, for it seems to me
thou wast gone and hast come back again in the air, for thou hast been
away but a little more than three days, although Toboso is more than
thirty leagues from hence. Therefore I do believe that the wise
enchanter, who takes care of my affairs and is my friend, must have
helped thee to travel without thy being aware of it. For there are
sages that take up a knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and, without
knowing how or in what manner, he awakes the next day more than a
thousand leagues from the place where he fell asleep. For otherwise
knights-errant could not help one another in perils as they do
now. For it may be that one is fighting in the mountains of Armenia
with some dragon or fierce serpent, and is at the point of death, and,
just when he least expects it, he sees on a cloud, or in a chariot of
fire, some other knight, his friend, who a little before was in
England, who helps him and delivers him from danger. And all this is
done by the craft and wisdom of those sage enchanters who take care of
valorous knights. But, leaving all this apart, what dost thou think I
should do about my lady's commands to go and see her?"
"Tell me, good your worship," replied Sancho, "do you intend to
journey to Toboso and lose so rich and noble a prize as this princess
we have just met at the inn? Peace! take my advice and marry her in
the first village that hath a parish priest, or let the curate do it,
for he is here, and remember the old saying, 'A bird in the hand is
worth two in the bush.'"
"Look you, Sancho," said his master, "if you counsel me to marry, to
the end that I may be king when I have slain the giant and be able to
give you an island, know that I can do that without marrying, for I
will make it a condition that upon conquering this monster they shall
give me a portion of the kingdom, although I marry not the princess,
and this I will bestow upon thee."
"Let it be so, then," said Sancho. "And trouble not your mind, I pray
you, to go and see the Lady Dulcinea at this moment, but go away and
kill the giant and let us finish off this job, for I believe it will
prove of great honour and greater profit."
"I believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou art in the right,
and I will follow thy advice in going first with the princess rather
than visiting Dulcinea."
DON QUIXOTE WAGES A BATTLE AGAINST A GIANT
Retold by Judge Parry
When they had finished their dinner, they saddled and went to horse
once more, and travelled all that day and the next without any
adventure of note, until they arrived at the inn, which was the dread
and terror of Sancho Panza, and though he would rather not have
entered it, yet he could not avoid doing so. The innkeeper, the
hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes, seeing Don Quixote and Sancho
return, went out to meet them with tokens of great love and joy. The
knight returned their compliments with grave courtesy, and bade them
prepare a better bed than they gave him the last time.
"Sir," said the hostess, "if you would pay us better than the last
time, we would give you one fit for a prince."
Don Quixote answered that he would, and they prepared a reasonable
good bed for him in the same room where he lay before. Then he went
off to bed at once, because he was tired and weary, both in body and
mind.
Don Quixote was still asleep when the dinner was served, and during
dinner--the innkeeper, his wife, his daughter, and Maritornes being
there, as well as all the travellers--they talked of Don Quixote's
strange craze, and of the state in which they had found him. The
hostess told them of what had happened between him and the carrier,
and glancing round to see if Sancho were present, and not seeing him,
she told them the story of his being tossed in the blanket, to the no
small entertainment of all the company.
The curate told him it was the books of knighthood that Don Quixote
had read that had turned his head.
"I know not how that can be," said the innkeeper, "for to my thinking,
there is no finer reading in the world; and when it is harvest-time,
the reapers here often collect during the midday heat, and one who can
read takes one of these books in hand, while some thirty of us get
round him, and sit listening with so much delight that I could find it
in my heart to be hearing such stories day and night."
"And I think well of them, too," said the hostess, "for when the
reading is going on, you are so full of it that you forget to scold
me, and I have a good time of it."
"Ah," said her daughter, "I too listen, and though I like not the
fights which please my father, yet the lamentations which the knights
make when they are away from their ladies make me weep for pity, and I
enjoy that."
"We have need here," said the curate, "of our friends, the old woman
and the niece. Beware, my good host, of these books, and take care
that they carry you not on the road they have taken Don Quixote."
"Not so," said the innkeeper, "I shall not be such a fool as to turn
knight-errant; for I see well enough that it is not the fashion now to
do as they used to do in the times when these famous knights roamed
about the world. All that is of no use nowadays."
Sancho came in in the midst of this, and was amazed to hear them say
that knights-errant now were of no use, and that books of knighthood
were full of follies and lies, and he made up his mind to see the end
of this voyage of his master, and if that did not turn out as happily
as he expected, to return home to his wife and children and to his
former labours.
At this moment a noise came from the room where Don Quixote was lying,
and Sancho went hastily to see if his master wanted anything.
In a few moments he returned, rushing wildly back, and shouting at the
top of his voice: "Come, good sirs, quickly, and help my master, who
is engaged in one of the most terrible battles my eyes have ever
seen. I swear he has given the giant, the enemy of my lady, the
Princess Micomicona, such a cut, that he has sliced his head clean off
like a turnip."
"What sayest thou, friend?" said the curate. "Art thou in thy wits,
Sancho? How can it be as you say, when the giant is at least two
thousand leagues from here?"
By this time they heard a marvellous great noise within the chamber,
and Don Quixote shouting out: "Hold, thief, scoundrel, rogue! now I
have thee, and thy scimitar shall not avail thee!"
And it seemed as if he were striking a number of mighty blows on the
walls.
"Do not stand there listening," cried Sancho, "but go in and part the
fray, or aid my master. Though I think it will not now be necessary,
for doubtless the giant is dead by now, and giving an account of the
ill life he led; for I saw his blood was all about the house and his
head cut off, which is as big as a great wine-bag."