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VOLUME[ VOLUME 1  ]  

CHAPTER[ XVII. IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE DON

QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO HIS

MISFORTUNE HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE

By this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon; and in the same

tone of voice in which he had called to his squire the day before when he

lay stretched "in the vale of the stakes," he began calling to him now,

"Sancho, my friend, art thou asleep? sleepest thou, friend Sancho?"

"How can I sleep, curses on it!" returned Sancho discontentedly and

bitterly, "when it is plain that all the devils have been at me this

night?"

"Thou mayest well believe that," answered Don Quixote, "because, either I

know little, or this castle is enchanted, for thou must know-but this

that I am now about to tell thee thou must swear to keep secret until

after my death."

"I swear it," answered Sancho.

"I say so," continued Don Quixote, "because I hate taking away anyone's

good name."

"I say," replied Sancho, "that I swear to hold my tongue about it till

the end of your worship's days, and God grant I may be able to let it out

tomorrow."

"Do I do thee such injuries, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou

wouldst see me dead so soon?"

"It is not for that," replied Sancho, "but because I hate keeping things

long, and I don't want them to grow rotten with me from over-keeping."

"At any rate," said Don Quixote, "I have more confidence in thy affection

and good nature; and so I would have thee know that this night there

befell me one of the strangest adventures that I could describe, and to

relate it to thee briefly thou must know that a little while ago the

daughter of the lord of this castle came to me, and that she is the most

elegant and beautiful damsel that could be found in the wide world. What

I could tell thee of the charms of her person! of her lively wit! of

other secret matters which, to preserve the fealty I owe to my lady

Dulcinea del Toboso, I shall pass over unnoticed and in silence! I will

only tell thee that, either fate being envious of so great a boon placed

in my hands by good fortune, or perhaps (and this is more probable) this

castle being, as I have already said, enchanted, at the time when I was

engaged in the sweetest and most amorous discourse with her, there came,

without my seeing or knowing whence it came, a hand attached to some arm

of some huge giant, that planted such a cuff on my jaws that I have them

all bathed in blood, and then pummelled me in such a way that I am in a

worse plight than yesterday when the carriers, on account of Rocinante's

misbehaviour, inflicted on us the injury thou knowest of; whence

conjecture that there must be some enchanted Moor guarding the treasure

of this damsel's beauty, and that it is not for me."

"Not for me either," said Sancho, "for more than four hundred Moors have

so thrashed me that the drubbing of the stakes was cakes and fancy-bread

to it. But tell me, senor, what do you call this excellent and rare

adventure that has left us as we are left now? Though your worship was

not so badly off, having in your arms that incomparable beauty you spoke

of; but I, what did I have, except the heaviest whacks I think I had in

all my life? Unlucky me and the mother that bore me! for I am not a

knight-errant and never expect to be one, and of all the mishaps, the

greater part falls to my share."

"Then thou hast been thrashed too?" said Don Quixote.

"Didn't I say so? worse luck to my line!" said Sancho.

"Be not distressed, friend," said Don Quixote, "for I will now make the

precious balsam with which we shall cure ourselves in the twinkling of an

eye."

By this time the cuadrillero had succeeded in lighting the lamp, and came

in to see the man that he thought had been killed; and as Sancho caught

sight of him at the door, seeing him coming in his shirt, with a cloth on

his head, and a lamp in his hand, and a very forbidding countenance, he

said to his master, "Senor, can it be that this is the enchanted Moor

coming back to give us more castigation if there be anything still left

in the ink-bottle?"

"It cannot be the Moor," answered Don Quixote, "for those under

enchantment do not let themselves be seen by anyone."

"If they don't let themselves be seen, they let themselves be felt," said

Sancho; "if not, let my shoulders speak to the point."

"Mine could speak too," said Don Quixote, "but that is not a sufficient

reason for believing that what we see is the enchanted Moor."

The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such a peaceful

conversation, stood amazed; though Don Quixote, to be sure, still lay on

his back unable to move from pure pummelling and plasters. The officer

turned to him and said, "Well, how goes it, good man?"

"I would speak more politely if I were you," replied Don Quixote; "is it

the way of this country to address knights-errant in that style, you

booby?"

The cuadrillero finding himself so disrespectfully treated by such a

sorry-looking individual, lost his temper, and raising the lamp full of

oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow with it on the head that he gave him a

badly broken pate; then, all being in darkness, he went out, and Sancho

Panza said, "That is certainly the enchanted Moor, Senor, and he keeps

the treasure for others, and for us only the cuffs and lamp-whacks."

"That is the truth," answered Don Quixote, "and there is no use in

troubling oneself about these matters of enchantment or being angry or

vexed at them, for as they are invisible and visionary we shall find no

one on whom to avenge ourselves, do what we may; rise, Sancho, if thou

canst, and call the alcaide of this fortress, and get him to give me a

little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary to make the salutiferous balsam, for

indeed I believe I have great need of it now, because I am losing much

blood from the wound that phantom gave me."

Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and went after the innkeeper

in the dark, and meeting the officer, who was looking to see what had

become of his enemy, he said to him, "Senor, whoever you are, do us the

favour and kindness to give us a little rosemary, oil, salt, and wine,

for it is wanted to cure one of the best knights-errant on earth, who

lies on yonder bed wounded by the hands of the enchanted Moor that is in

this inn."

When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took him for a man out of

his senses, and as day was now beginning to break, he opened the inn

gate, and calling the host, he told him what this good man wanted. The

host furnished him with what he required, and Sancho brought it to Don

Quixote, who, with his hand to his head, was bewailing the pain of the

blow of the lamp, which had done him no more harm than raising a couple

of rather large lumps, and what he fancied blood was only the sweat that

flowed from him in his sufferings during the late storm. To be brief, he

took the materials, of which he made a compound, mixing them all and

boiling them a good while until it seemed to him they had come to

perfection. He then asked for some vial to pour it into, and as there was

not one in the inn, he decided on putting it into a tin oil-bottle or

flask of which the host made him a free gift; and over the flask he

repeated more than eighty paternosters and as many more ave-marias,

salves, and credos, accompanying each word with a cross by way of

benediction, at all which there were present Sancho, the innkeeper, and

the cuadrillero; for the carrier was now peacefully engaged in attending

to the comfort of his mules.

This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial himself, on the

spot, of the virtue of this precious balsam, as he considered it, and so

he drank near a quart of what could not be put into the flask and

remained in the pigskin in which it had been boiled; but scarcely had he

done drinking when he began to vomit in such a way that nothing was left

in his stomach, and with the pangs and spasms of vomiting he broke into a

profuse sweat, on account of which he bade them cover him up and leave

him alone. They did so, and he lay sleeping more than three hours, at the

end of which he awoke and felt very great bodily relief and so much ease

from his bruises that he thought himself quite cured, and verily believed

he had hit upon the balsam of Fierabras; and that with this remedy he

might thenceforward, without any fear, face any kind of destruction,

battle, or combat, however perilous it might be.

Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his master as

miraculous, begged him to give him what was left in the pigskin, which

was no small quantity. Don Quixote consented, and he, taking it with both

hands, in good faith and with a better will, gulped down and drained off

very little less than his master. But the fact is, that the stomach of

poor Sancho was of necessity not so delicate as that of his master, and

so, before vomiting, he was seized with such gripings and retchings, and

such sweats and faintness, that verily and truly be believed his last

hour had come, and finding himself so racked and tormented he cursed the

balsam and the thief that had given it to him.

Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, "It is my belief, Sancho, that

this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a knight, for I am persuaded

this liquor cannot be good for those who are not so."

"If your worship knew that," returned Sancho--"woe betide me and all my

kindred!--why did you let me taste it?"

At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor squire began to

discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat on which he had

thrown himself and the canvas blanket he had covering him were fit for

nothing afterwards. He sweated and perspired with such paroxysms and

convulsions that not only he himself but all present thought his end had

come. This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at the end of

which he was left, not like his master, but so weak and exhausted that he

could not stand. Don Quixote, however, who, as has been said, felt

himself relieved and well, was eager to take his departure at once in

quest of adventures, as it seemed to him that all the time he loitered

there was a fraud upon the world and those in it who stood in need of his

help and protection, all the more when he had the security and confidence

his balsam afforded him; and so, urged by this impulse, he saddled

Rocinante himself and put the pack-saddle on his squire's beast, whom

likewise he helped to dress and mount the ass; after which he mounted his

horse and turning to a corner of the inn he laid hold of a pike that

stood there, to serve him by way of a lance. All that were in the inn,

who were more than twenty persons, stood watching him; the innkeeper's

daughter was likewise observing him, and he too never took his eyes off

her, and from time to time fetched a sigh that he seemed to pluck up from

the depths of his bowels; but they all thought it must be from the pain

he felt in his ribs; at any rate they who had seen him plastered the

night before thought so.

As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, he called to

the host and said in a very grave and measured voice, "Many and great are

the favours, Senor Alcaide, that I have received in this castle of yours,

and I remain under the deepest obligation to be grateful to you for them

all the days of my life; if I can repay them in avenging you of any

arrogant foe who may have wronged you, know that my calling is no other

than to aid the weak, to avenge those who suffer wrong, and to chastise

perfidy. Search your memory, and if you find anything of this kind you

need only tell me of it, and I promise you by the order of knighthood

which I have received to procure you satisfaction and reparation to the

utmost of your desire."

The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness, "Sir Knight, I do not

want your worship to avenge me of any wrong, because when any is done me

I can take what vengeance seems good to me; the only thing I want is that

you pay me the score that you have run up in the inn last night, as well

for the straw and barley for your two beasts, as for supper and beds."

"Then this is an inn?" said Don Quixote.

"And a very respectable one," said the innkeeper.

"I have been under a mistake all this time," answered Don Quixote, "for

in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one; but since it

appears that it is not a castle but an inn, all that can be done now is

that you should excuse the payment, for I cannot contravene the rule of

knights-errant, of whom I know as a fact (and up to the present I have

read nothing to the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or

anything else in the inn where they might be; for any hospitality that

might be offered them is their due by law and right in return for the

insufferable toil they endure in seeking adventures by night and by day,

in summer and in winter, on foot and on horseback, in hunger and thirst,

cold and heat, exposed to all the inclemencies of heaven and all the

hardships of earth."

"I have little to do with that," replied the innkeeper; "pay me what you

owe me, and let us have no more talk of chivalry, for all I care about is

to get my money."

"You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper," said Don Quixote, and putting spurs

to Rocinante and bringing his pike to the slope he rode out of the inn

before anyone could stop him, and pushed on some distance without looking

to see if his squire was following him.

The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him ran to get payment of

Sancho, who said that as his master would not pay neither would he,

because, being as he was squire to a knight-errant, the same rule and

reason held good for him as for his master with regard to not paying

anything in inns and hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed very wroth,

and threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way that he would not

like. To which Sancho made answer that by the law of chivalry his master

had received he would not pay a rap, though it cost him his life; for the

excellent and ancient usage of knights-errant was not going to be

violated by him, nor should the squires of such as were yet to come into

the world ever complain of him or reproach him with breaking so just a

privilege.

The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that among the

company in the inn there were four woolcarders from Segovia, three

needle-makers from the Colt of Cordova, and two lodgers from the Fair of

Seville, lively fellows, tender-hearted, fond of a joke, and playful,

who, almost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse, made up to

Sancho and dismounted him from his ass, while one of them went in for the

blanket of the host's bed; but on flinging him into it they looked up,

and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower what they required for

their work, they decided upon going out into the yard, which was bounded

by the sky, and there, putting Sancho in the middle of the blanket, they

began to raise him high, making sport with him as they would with a dog

at Shrovetide.

The cries of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that they reached the

ears of his master, who, halting to listen attentively, was persuaded

that some new adventure was coming, until he clearly perceived that it

was his squire who uttered them. Wheeling about he came up to the inn

with a laborious gallop, and finding it shut went round it to see if he

could find some way of getting in; but as soon as he came to the wall of

the yard, which was not very high, he discovered the game that was being

played with his squire. He saw him rising and falling in the air with

such grace and nimbleness that, had his rage allowed him, it is my belief

he would have laughed. He tried to climb from his horse on to the top of

the wall, but he was so bruised and battered that he could not even

dismount; and so from the back of his horse he began to utter such

maledictions and objurgations against those who were blanketing Sancho as

it would be impossible to write down accurately: they, however, did not

stay their laughter or their work for this, nor did the flying Sancho

cease his lamentations, mingled now with threats, now with entreaties but

all to little purpose, or none at all, until from pure weariness they

left off. They then brought him his ass, and mounting him on top of it

they put his jacket round him; and the compassionate Maritornes, seeing

him so exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with a jug of water, and

that it might be all the cooler she fetched it from the well. Sancho took

it, and as he was raising it to his mouth he was stopped by the cries of

his master exclaiming, "Sancho, my son, drink not water; drink it not, my

son, for it will kill thee; see, here I have the blessed balsam (and he

held up the flask of liquor), and with drinking two drops of it thou wilt

certainly be restored."

At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquint, and in a still louder

voice said, "Can it be your worship has forgotten that I am not a knight,

or do you want me to end by vomiting up what bowels I have left after

last night? Keep your liquor in the name of all the devils, and leave me

to myself!" and at one and the same instant he left off talking and began

drinking; but as at the first sup he perceived it was water he did not

care to go on with it, and begged Maritornes to fetch him some wine,

which she did with right good will, and paid for it with her own money;

for indeed they say of her that, though she was in that line of life,

there was some faint and distant resemblance to a Christian about her.

When Sancho had done drinking he dug his heels into his ass, and the gate

of the inn being thrown open he passed out very well pleased at having

paid nothing and carried his point, though it had been at the expense of

his usual sureties, his shoulders. It is true that the innkeeper detained

his alforjas in payment of what was owing to him, but Sancho took his

departure in such a flurry that he never missed them. The innkeeper, as

soon as he saw him off, wanted to bar the gate close, but the blanketers

would not agree to it, for they were fellows who would not have cared two

farthings for Don Quixote, even had he been really one of the

knights-errant of the Round Table.

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