THE STORY OF DON QUIXOTE
ARVID PAULSON and CLAYTON EDWARDS
With Illustrations in Color by Florence Choate and Elizabeth Curtis
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
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
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
"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
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."
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING