الفصل الفصل 5 · IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISHAP IS CONTINUED

. IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISHAP IS CONTINUED

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Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself of

having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to think of some passage

in his books, and his craze brought to his mind that about Baldwin and

the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on the

mountainside, a story known by heart by the children, not forgotten by

the young men, and lauded and even believed by the old folk; and for

all that not a whit truer than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to

him to fit exactly the case in which he found himself, so, making a

show of severe suffering, he began to roll on the ground and with

feeble breath repeat the very words which the wounded knight of the

wood is said to have uttered:

Where art thou, lady mine, that thou

My sorrow dost not rue?

Thou canst not know it, lady mine,

Or else thou art untrue.

And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines:

O noble Marquis of Mantua,

My Uncle and liege lord!

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As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there happened to

come by a peasant from his own village, a neighbour of his, who had

been with a load of wheat to the mill, and he, seeing the man stretched

there, came up to him and asked him who he was and what was the matter

with him that he complained so dolefully.

Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of Mantua,

his uncle, so the only answer he made was to go on with his ballad, in

which he told the tale of his misfortune, and of the loves of the

Emperor’s son and his wife all exactly as the ballad sings it.

The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and relieving him of

the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his face,

which was covered with dust, and as soon as he had done so he

recognised him and said, “Señor Quixada” (for so he appears to have

been called when he was in his senses and had not yet changed from a

quiet country gentleman into a knight-errant), “who has brought your

worship to this pass?” But to all questions the other only went on with

his ballad.

Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his breastplate

and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he could perceive no

blood nor any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise him from the

ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted him upon his ass, which

seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and collecting the arms,

even to the splinters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and

leading him by the bridle and the ass by the halter he took the road

for the village, very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote was

talking.

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Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could

not sit upright on the ass, and from time to time he sent up sighs to

heaven, so that once more he drove the peasant to ask what ailed him.

And it could have been only the devil himself that put into his head

tales to match his own adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he

bethought himself of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of

Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him away

to his castle; so that when the peasant again asked him how he was and

what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same words and phrases that

the captive Abindarraez gave to Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read

the story in the “Diana” of Jorge de Montemayor where it is written,

applying it to his own case so aptly that the peasant went along

cursing his fate that he had to listen to such a lot of nonsense; from

which, however, he came to the conclusion that his neighbour was mad,

and so made all haste to reach the village to escape the wearisomeness

of this harangue of Don Quixote’s; who, at the end of it, said, “Señor

Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair Xarifa I

have mentioned is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have

done, am doing, and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in

this world have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen.”

To this the peasant answered, “Señor—sinner that I am!—cannot your

worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of

Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is

neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Señor

Quixada?”

“I know who I am,” replied Don Quixote, “and I know that I may be not

only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and even

all the Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that they have

done all together and each of them on his own account.”

With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village just

as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it was a

little later that the belaboured gentleman might not be seen riding in

such a miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the proper time

he entered the village and went to Don Quixote’s house, which he found

all in confusion, and there were the curate and the village barber, who

were great friends of Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was saying to

them in a loud voice, “What does your worship think can have befallen

my master, Señor Licentiate Pero Perez?” for so the curate was called;

“it is three days now since anything has been seen of him, or the hack,

or the buckler, lance, or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of it, and

it is as true as that I was born to die, that these accursed books of

chivalry he has, and has got into the way of reading so constantly,

have upset his reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying

to himself that he would turn knight-errant and go all over the world

in quest of adventures. To the devil and Barabbas with such books, that

have brought to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in

all La Mancha!”

The niece said the same, and, more: “You must know, Master

Nicholas”—for that was the name of the barber—“it was often my uncle’s

way to stay two days and nights together poring over these unholy books

of misventures, after which he would fling the book away and snatch up

his sword and fall to slashing the walls; and when he was tired out he

would say he had killed four giants like four towers; and the sweat

that flowed from him when he was weary he said was the blood of the

wounds he had received in battle; and then he would drink a great jug

of cold water and become calm and quiet, saying that this water was a

most precious potion which the sage Esquife, a great magician and

friend of his, had brought him. But I take all the blame upon myself

for never having told your worships of my uncle’s vagaries, that you

might put a stop to them before things had come to this pass, and burn

all these accursed books—for he has a great number—that richly deserve

to be burned like heretics.”

“So say I too,” said the curate, “and by my faith to-morrow shall not

pass without public judgment upon them, and may they be condemned to

the flames lest they lead those that read to behave as my good friend

seems to have behaved.”

All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what was

the matter with his neighbour, so he began calling aloud, “Open, your

worships, to Señor Baldwin and to Señor the Marquis of Mantua, who

comes badly wounded, and to Señor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the

valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive.”

At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognised their

friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the ass

because he could not, they ran to embrace him.

“Hold!” said he, “for I am badly wounded through my horse’s fault;

carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and

see to my wounds.”

“See there! plague on it!” cried the housekeeper at this: “did not my

heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To bed

with your worship at once, and we will contrive to cure you here

without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once more, and a hundred

times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought your worship

to such a pass.”

They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his wounds

could find none, but he said they were all bruises from having had a

severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in combat with ten giants,

the biggest and the boldest to be found on earth.

“So, so!” said the curate, “are there giants in the dance? By the sign

of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day is over.”

They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer to all

was—give him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for that was

what he needed most. They did so, and the curate questioned the peasant

at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He told him, and

the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way home, all which

made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did the next day,

which was to summon his friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with

him to Don Quixote’s house.

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