Don Quixote has not been slashing at one of the skins of red wine that
are standing filled at his bed head, and the wine that is spilt must
be what this fellow takes for blood."
So saying he ran into the room, and the rest followed him, and found
Don Quixote in the strangest guise imaginable. He was in his shirt,
which did not reach to his knees. His legs were very long and lean. On
his head he wore a greasy red nightcap which belonged to the inkeeper.
Round his left arm he had folded the blanket from off his bed, at
which Sancho gazed angrily, for he owed that blanket a grudge. In his
right hand he gripped his naked sword, with which he laid round about
him with many a thwack, shouting out as if indeed he was at battle
with some terrible giant. The best sport of all was that his eyes
were not open, for he was indeed asleep, and dreaming that he was
fighting a giant. For his imagination was so full of the adventure in
front of him that he dreamed that he had already arrived at Micomicon,
and was there in combat with his enemy; and he had given so many blows
to the wine-bags, supposing them to be the giant, that the whole
chamber flowed with wine.
When the innkeeper saw this, he flew into such a rage that he set upon
Don Quixote with his clenched fist, and began to pummel him, so that
if Cardenio and the curate had not pulled him off, he would have
finished the battle of the giant altogether. In spite of this, the
poor knight did not awake until the barber got a great kettleful of
cold water from the well, and threw it right over him, when Don
Quixote woke up, but even then did not understand where he was.
As for Sancho, he went up and down the floor, searching for the
giant's head, and seeing he could not find it, said: "Now I know that
everything I see in this house is enchanted, for this head is not to
be seen here, though I myself saw it cut off with my own eyes, and the
blood running from the body as from a fountain."
"What blood or what fountain dost thou cackle of here?" cried the
innkeeper. "Thou thief! dost thou not see that the blood and the
fountain is no other thing but the wine-bags which are ripped open,
and the red wine which swims up and down the room?"
"I know nothing but this," replied Sancho, "that if I cannot find the
giant's head, my earldom will dissolve like salt cast into water." For
indeed Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep, so greatly had
his master's promises turned his brain.
The innkeeper was at his wits' end at seeing the stupidity of the
squire and the mischief done by his master, but he determined that
they should not as before go away without paying; that knighthood
should be no excuse for this, and he would make them pay for the very
patches in the wine-skins that had been ruined.
All this time the curate was holding Don Quixote's hands, who,
believing that he had finished the adventure and was in the presence
of the Princess Micomicona herself, fell on his knees before the
curate, and said: "Your highness, exalted and beautiful lady, may live
from henceforth secure from any danger that this wretched giant might
have done to you; and I am also freed this day from the promise I made
to you, seeing that I have with the assistance of her through whose
favour I live and breathe, so happily completed my labour."
"Did I not say so?" cried Sancho, hearing his master. "I was not
drunk. My master has salted the giant down this time, and my earldom
is secure."
Who could help laughing at the follies of the two, master and man? All
of them laughed except the innkeeper, who burst out into fits of anger
ten times worse than before.
At length the barber, Cardenio, and the curate managed, not without
much ado, to get Don Quixote to bed again, and presently left him
sleeping, with every sign of being worn out. They let him sleep, and
went out to comfort Sancho Panza, whose grief was great at not finding
the giant's head. But they had more to do to pacify the innkeeper, who
was almost out of his wits at the sudden death of his wine-skins.
His wife, too, was running up and down, scolding and crying out:
"Alas, the unlucky hour when this knight-errant came to my house!
Would that mine eyes had never seen him, for he has cost me dear. The
last time he was here he went away scot free for his supper, bed,
straw, and barley for himself, his man, his horse, and his ass,
because he said he was a knight-errant. Then for his sake the other
gentlemen came and took away my good tail, and have returned it
damaged, and now he breaks my wine-skins and spills the wine. I wish I
may see as much of his blood spilt." And backed up by Maritornes, the
good innkeeper's wife continued her lamentations with great fury.
At length the curate quelled the storm, promising to satisfy them for
the wine and the skins, and also for the damage to the tail, about
which there was so much fuss. Dorothea comforted Sancho, telling him
that as soon as ever it was made certain that his master had slain the
giant, and placed her safely in her kingdom, she would give him the
best earldom she had.
With this he was consoled, and told her that he himself had seen the
giant's head cut off, and that it had a beard which reached down to
his girdle, and that if the beard could not now be found it was
because the affairs of this house were all guided by enchantment, as
he knew to his cost by what had happened to himself in his last visit.
Dorothea replied that she was of the same opinion, and bade him be of
good cheer, since all would be well ended to his heart's desire.
ADVENTURES AT THE INN
Retold by Judge Parry
Later in the day the innkeeper, who was standing at the door, cried
out: "Here is a fine troop of guests coming. If they stop here, we may
sing and rejoice."
"Who are they?" asked Cardenio.
"Four men on horseback," answered the innkeeper, "with lances and
targets, and all with black masks on their faces. With them comes a
woman dressed in white, on a side-saddle, and her face also masked,
and two lackeys that run with them on foot."
"Are they near?" asked the curate.
"So near," replied the innkeeper, "that they are now arriving."
Hearing this, Dorothea veiled her face, and Cardenio went into Don
Quixote's room; and they had hardly time to do this when the whole
party, of whom the innkeeper had spoken, entered the inn. The four who
were on horseback were of comely and gallant bearing, and, having
dismounted, went to help down the lady on the side-saddle; and one of
them, taking her in his arms, placed her upon a chair that stood at
the door of the room into which Cardenio had entered. All this while
neither she nor they took off their masks, or said a word, only the
lady, as she sank into the chair, breathed a deep sigh, and let fall
her arms as one who was sick and faint. The lackeys led away the
horses to the stable.
The curate, seeing and noting all this, and curious to know who they
were that came to the inn in such strange attire and keeping so close
a silence, went after one of the lackeys, and asked of him what he
wanted to learn.
"Faith, sir, I cannot tell you who these are, but they seem to be
persons of good quality, especially he who went to help the lady
dismount. The rest obey him in all things."
"And the lady--who is she?" asked the curate.
"I cannot tell you that neither," replied the lackey, "for I have not
once seen her face during all the journey, though I have often heard
her groan and utter deep sighs."
"And have you heard the name of any of them?" asked the curate.
"Not I, indeed," replied the man; "they travel in silence, and nothing
is heard but the sighs and sobs of the poor lady, and it is our firm
belief that, wherever she is going, she is going against her."
"May be it is so," said the curate, and he returned to the inn.
Dorothea, who heard the disguised lady sigh so mournfully, moved by
pity, drew near to her and asked: "What ails you, good madam, for I
offer you my service and good-will, and would help you as much as lies
in my power?"
To this the unhappy lady made no reply; and though Dorothea again
spoke kindly to her, yet she sat silent and spoke not a word.
At length the masked gentleman came across and said to Dorothea:
"Lady, do not trouble yourself to offer anything to that woman; she is
of a most ungrateful nature, and not wont to return any courtesy."
"I have never spoken," said the silent lady, "since I am too unhappy
to do so, and am almost drowned in my misfortunes."
Cardenio overheard these words very clearly and distinctly, for he was
close to her who uttered them, the door of Don Quixote's room being
the only thing that separated them, and he cried aloud: "What is this
I hear? What voice is this that hath touched mine ear?"
The lady, moved with a sudden passion, turned her head at these cries,
and as she could not see who uttered them, she rose to her feet and
would have entered the room, but the gentleman stopped her and would
not let her move a step.
This sudden movement loosened the mask, which fell from her face,
discovering her marvellous beauty.
But her countenance was wan and pale, and she turned her eyes from
place to place as one distracted, which caused Dorothea and the rest
to behold her with a vast pity.
The gentleman held her fast by the shoulders, and was so busied that
he could not hold up his own mask, which fell from his face, and, as
it did so, Dorothea looked up and discovered that it was her lover,
Don Fernando.
Scarce had she known him than, breathing out a long and most pitiful
"Alas!" from the bottom of her heart, she fell backward in a
swoon. And if the barber had not been by good chance at hand, she
would have fallen on the ground with all the weight of her body.
The curate removed the veil from her face, and cast water thereon, and
Don Fernando, as soon as he looked upon her, turned as pale as death.
Cardenio, who had heard the moan which Dorothea uttered, as she fell
fainting on the floor, came out of the room, and saw Don Fernando
holding his beloved Lucinda.
All of them held their peace and beheld one another; Dorothea looking
on Don Fernando, Don Fernando on Cardenio, Cardenio on Lucinda, and
Lucinda on Cardenio, all stood dumb and amazed, as folk that knew not
what had befallen them.
Lucinda was the first to break the silence. "Leave me, Don Fernando,"
she cried, "for the sake of what is due to yourself. Let me cleave to
the wall whose ivy I am, to his support from whom neither your threats
nor your promises could part me."
By this time Dorothea had come to herself, and seeing that Don
Fernando did not release Lucinda, she arose, and casting herself at
his feet, shed a flood of crystal tears as she thus addressed him: "If
the sun of Lucinda's beauty hath not blinded thine eyes, know that she
who is kneeling at thy feet is the hapless and miserable Dorothea. I
am that lowly country girl to whom thou didst promise marriage. Know,
my dear lord, that the matchless love I bear thee may make amends for
the beauty and nobility of her for whom thou dost abandon me. Thou
canst not be the beautiful Lucinda's, because thou art mine; nor she
thine, for she belongs to Cardenio. And all this being so, as in truth
it is, and seeing that thou art as good as thou art noble, wherefore
put off making me once more happy again? Do not vex the declining
years of my parents, who have ever been loyal vassals to thine. For
remember, whether thou wilt or no, thou must ever remain my promised
husband."
These and many other reasons did the grieved Dorothea use, with so
much feeling and so many tears, that all who were present, even those
who had come with Don Fernando, could not help from giving her their
sympathy.
As for Don Fernando, he stood gazing fixedly at Dorothea for some
time, and at last, overwhelmed with remorse and admiration, he took
her to his arms, saying: "Thou hast vanquished, O beautiful
Dorothea. Thou hast vanquished!"
At the same moment, Cardenio, who had stood close to Don Fernando,
started forward to catch the fainting Lucinda, who threw both her arms
around his neck, crying: "Thou, and thou only, art my lord and
master."
Thus were the true lovers all united, and the good curate, the barber,
and even Sancho Panza joined in their tears, delighted that so much
joy had taken the place of so much misery. As for Sancho, he excused
himself afterwards for his tears, saying he wept only because he saw
that Dorothea was not the Queen of Micomicona as he had imagined, from
whom he hoped to have received such mighty gifts and favours.
Each in turn told his or her story, and Don Fernando gave an account
of all that had befallen him in the city, after he had found the
scroll that Lucinda had written in which she declared her love for
Cardenio.
And it appeared that, the day after the interruption of the wedding,
Lucinda had secretly departed from her father's house, and had fled no
one knew whither; but within a few months Don Fernando had learned
that she was in a certain convent, intending to remain there all the
days of her life, if she could not pass them with Cardenio. As soon as
he had learned that, choosing three gentlemen to aid him, he went to
the place where she was. One day he surprised her walking with one of
the nuns in the cloisters, and carried her off without giving her a
chance to resist. From there they brought her to a certain village,
where they disguised themselves, and so rode on until they came to the
inn. But Lucinda, after she was in his power, did nothing but weep and
sigh without speaking a word.
Thus in silence and tears had they reached this inn, which to him and
all of them would always remain the most beautiful place in the world,
since it had seen the end of so many troubles, and brought him back to
his own true love.
THE PRINCESS MICOMICONA
Retold by Judge Parry
Sancho gave ear to what he heard with no small grief of mind, seeing
that all hopes of his earldom vanished away like smoke, and the fair
Princess Micomicona was turned into Dorothea, whilst his master was
sound asleep, careless of all that happened. Dorothea could not
believe that the happiness she enjoyed was not a dream. Cardenio and
Lucinda were of a similar mind, and Don Fernando was truly thankful
that he was free from the dangerous path he had taken, which must have
ended in loss of all honour and credit.
In a word, all were contented and happy. The curate, like a man of
sense, congratulated every one on his good fortune; but she that kept
greatest jubilee and joy was the hostess, because Cardenio and the
curate had promised to pay all the damages done by Don Quixote.
Only Sancho, as has been said, was unhappy and sorrowful. And thus he
went with a melancholy face to his master, who was then just awaking,
and said: "Your worship, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, may
well sleep on as long as you please, without troubling yourself to
kill any giant, or restore to the princess her kingdom, for all that
is done and finished already."
"That I well believe," replied Don Quixote, "for I have had the most
monstrous and terrible battle with that giant that ever I had all the
days of my life; and yet with one back stroke, swish, I tumbled his
head to the ground, and his blood gushed forth, so that streams of it
ran along the earth as if it had been water."
"As if it had been red wine, your worship might have said," replied
Sancho, "for I would have you know, if you do not know already, that
the dead giant is no other than a ruined wine-bag, and the blood
six-and-twenty gallons of red wine."
"What sayest thou, madman?" cried Don Quixote. "Art thou in thy right
wits?"
"Get up, sir," said Sancho, "and you shall see yourself the fine piece
of work you have done, and what we have to pay. You shall behold the
queen turned into a private lady, called Dorothea, with many other
things that may well astonish you."
"I should marvel at nothing," replied Don Quixote, "for if thou
rememberest right, I told thee, the other time that we were here, how
all that happened here was done by enchantment, and it would be no
wonder if it were the same now."
"I should believe it all," replied Sancho, "if my tossing in the
blanket had been a thing of that sort. Only it was not so, but very
real and certain. And I saw the innkeeper, who is here to this day,
hold one end of the blanket and toss me up to the sky with very good
grace and strength, and as much mirth as muscle. And where it comes to
knowing persons, I hold, though I may be a simpleton and a sinner,
that there is no enchantment, but only bruising and bad luck."
"Well," cried Don Quixote, "time will show; but give me my clothes,
for I would see these wonders that thou speakest of for myself."
Sancho gave him his clothes, and, whilst he was making him ready, the
curate told Don Fernando and the rest, of Don Quixote's mad pranks,
and the plan he had used to get him away from the Brown Mountains,
where he imagined he was exiled through the disdain of his lady.
The curate told them further, that since the good fortune of the Lady
Dorothea prevented them carrying out their scheme, they must invent
some other way of taking him home to his village.
Cardenio offered to continue the adventure, and let Luanda take
Dorothea's part.
"No," cried Don Fernando. "It shall not be so, for I will have
Dorothea herself carry out her plan, and if the good knight's home is
not far from here, I shall be very glad to help in his cure."
"It is not more than two days' journey," said the curate.
"Even if it were more," replied Don Fernando, "I should be happy to
make the journey in so good a cause."
At this moment Don Quixote sallied out, completely armed with
Mambrino's helmet, which had a great hole in it, on his head, his
shield on his arm, and leaning on his lance. His grotesque appearance
amazed Don Fernando and his companions very much, who wondered at his
gaunt face so withered and yellow, the strangeness of his arms, and
his grave manner of proceeding.
All stood silent to see what he would do, whilst the knight, casting
his eyes on the beautiful Dorothea, with great gravity and calmness
spoke as follows: "I am informed, beautiful lady, by this my squire,
that your greatness has come to an end, and your condition is
destroyed. For, instead of being a queen and a mighty princess, you
are now become a private damsel. If this has been done by the special
order of that sage magician, the king your father, because he dreaded
that I could not give you all necessary help, I say that he does not
know half his art, and has never understood the histories of knightly
adventures. For if he had read them with the attention that I have, he
would have found how many knights of less fame than myself have ended
far more desperate adventures than this, for it is no great matter to
kill a giant, be he ever so proud. For in truth it is not so many
hours since I myself fought with one; but I will be silent, lest they
tell me I lie. Time, the detecter of all things, will disclose it when
we least expect."
"Thou foughtest with two wine-bags, not with a giant," cried the
innkeeper.
Don Fernando told him to be silent and not to interrupt Don Quixote,
who continued his speech thus: "In fine, I say, high and disinherited
lady, do not trouble if your father has made this change in you, for
there is no peril so great on earth but my sword shall open a way
through it, and by overthrowing your enemies' head to the ground I
shall set your crown on your own head within a few days."
Don Quixote said no more, but waited for the princess's answer. She
knowing Don Fernando's wish that she should continue to carry out
their plan, answered with a good grace and pleasant manner, saying:
"Whosoever informed you, valorous Knight of the Rueful Countenance,
that I have altered and transformed my being, hath not told you the
truth, for I am the very same to-day as I was yesterday. True it is
that my fortunes have somewhat changed, and given me more than I hoped
for or could wish for, but for all that I have not ceased to be what I
was before, and I still hope to have the aid of your valorous and
invincible arm. Therefore, good my lord, restore to my father his
honour, and believe him to be both wise and sagacious, for by his
magic he has found me a remedy for all my misfortunes. For I believe
that had it not been for you, I should never have attained the
happiness I now enjoy, and that I speak the truth these good gentlemen
will bear witness. All that is now wanted is that to-morrow morning we
set out on our journey. As for the conclusion of the good success I
hourly expect, that I leave to the valour of your invincible arm."
Thus spoke the witty Dorothea, and Don Quixote, having heard her,
turned to Sancho with an air of great indignation, and said: "Now, I
say unto thee, Sancho, thou art the veriest little rascal in all
Spain. Tell me, thief and vagabond, didst thou not tell me that this
princess was turned into a damsel, and that she was called Dorothea?
And that the head that I slashed from a giant's shoulders, was a
wine-skin, with a thousand other follies, that threw me into the
greatest confusion I was ever in in my life? I vow," he continued,
looking up to the heavens and crashing his teeth together, "I vow that
I am about to make such a havoc of thee, as shall beat some wit into
the pates of all the lying squires that shall hereafter ever serve
knights-errant in this world.
"I pray you have patience, good my lord," answered Sancho, "for it may
well befall me to be deceived touching the change of the lady and
Princess Micomicona. But in what touches the giant's head, or at least
the cutting of the winebags, and that the blood was but red wine, I am
not deceived, I swear. For the bags lie wounded there at your own
bed-head, and the red wine hath made a lake in your room: and all this
you will know, when his honour the landlord asks you to pay the
damages."
"I tell thee, Sancho, thou art a blockhead," said Don Quixote. "Pardon
me, we have had enough of it."
"Enough, indeed," said Don Fernando, "and let me entreat you to say no
more of it. Seeing my lady the princess says she will go away
to-morrow, as it is too late to depart to-day, let us agree to spend
this evening in pleasant discourse."
It was now time for supper, and they all sat down at a long table, for
there was not a square or round one in the whole house. And they gave
the principal end to Don Quixote, though he did all he could to refuse
it; but when he had taken it, he commanded that the Lady Micomicona
should sit at his elbow, as he was her champion. The others being
placed in due order, they all enjoyed a pleasant supper, listening to
the wise, strange discourse that Don Quixote held upon his favourite
subject of knightly adventures.
THE LAST OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURES OF OUR GOOD KNIGHT
Retold by Judge Parry
Don Quixote, as soon as he found himself free from all the quarrels by
which he had been surrounded, held it high time to begin his voyage
and bring to an end the great adventure unto which he was called and
chosen.
Therefore, having made up his mind to depart, he went and cast himself
upon his knees before Dorothea and said: "I cannot but think, high and
worthy lady, that our abode in this castle is nothing profitable, and
may turn out to our disadvantage. For who knows but that your enemy
the giant hath learned by spies or other secret means how I intend to
come and destroy him, and he may by now have fortified himself in some
impregnable castle or fortress, against the strength of which even the
force of mine invincible arm will be of little use. Therefore, dear
lady, let us by our diligence hinder his plans, and let us depart to
the place where fortune calls us."
Don Quixote said no more but awaited the answer of the beautiful
princess, who, with a lordly air and in a style not unworthy of Don
Quixote himself, replied as follows:
"I thank you, sir knight, for the desire you show to assist me in this
my great need, and I trust your desires and mine may succeed, that I
may show you that there are some thankful women on earth. As for my
departure, let it be as you wish." * * *
Two days passed, when it seemed to all the noble company at the inn
that it was time to depart, and they considered how, without putting
Dorothea and Don Fernando to the pain of turning back with Don Quixote
to his village, the curate and the barber could carry him home as they
desired, and leave him cured of his folly in his own home.
This was the plan they decided on. They made a bargain with a wagoner,
who chanced to pass by that way with a team of oxen, to carry him in
the following manner:--