Chapter Chapter 3 · CHAPTER III. WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF

. CHAPTER III. WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF

CHAPTER III.

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF

DUBBED A KNIGHT

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Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty pothouse

supper, and having finished it called the landlord, and shutting

himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees before him, saying,

“From this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your courtesy grants

me the boon I seek, one that will redound to your praise and the

benefit of the human race.” The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet

and hearing a speech of this kind, stood staring at him in

bewilderment, not knowing what to do or say, and entreating him to

rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed to grant the boon

demanded of him. “I looked for no less, my lord, from your High

Magnificence,” replied Don Quixote, “and I have to tell you that the

boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that you shall dub

me knight to-morrow morning, and that to-night I shall watch my arms in

the chapel of this your castle; thus to-morrow, as I have said, will be

accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me lawfully to roam

through all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures on behalf

of those in distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights-errant

like myself, whose ambition is directed to such deeds.”

The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag, and

had already some suspicion of his guest’s want of wits, was quite

convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from him, and to make

sport for the night he determined to fall in with his humour. So he

told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in view, and

that such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers as

distinguished as he seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to be;

and that he himself in his younger days had followed the same

honourable calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of

the world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles of

Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the

Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar,

the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other quarters,

where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of his

fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining maids and

swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself under the notice of

almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at last he

had retired to this castle of his, where he was living upon his

property and upon that of others; and where he received all

knights-errant of whatever rank or condition they might be, all for the

great love he bore them and that they might share their substance with

him in return for his benevolence. He told him, moreover, that in this

castle of his there was no chapel in which he could watch his armour,

as it had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt, but that in a case

of necessity it might, he knew, be watched anywhere, and he might watch

it that night in a courtyard of the castle, and in the morning, God

willing, the requisite ceremonies might be performed so as to have him

dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so.

He asked if he had any money with him, to which Don Quixote replied

that he had not a farthing, as in the histories of knights-errant he

had never read of any of them carrying any. On this point the landlord

told him he was mistaken; for, though not recorded in the histories,

because in the author’s opinion there was no need to mention anything

so obvious and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be

supposed therefore that they did not carry them, and he might regard it

as certain and established that all knights-errant (about whom there

were so many full and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished

purses in case of emergency, and likewise carried shirts and a little

box of ointment to cure the wounds they received. For in those plains

and deserts where they engaged in combat and came out wounded, it was

not always that there was someone to cure them, unless indeed they had

for a friend some sage magician to succour them at once by fetching

through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial of water

of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured of their

hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if they had not

received any damage whatever. But in case this should not occur, the

knights of old took care to see that their squires were provided with

money and other requisites, such as lint and ointments for healing

purposes; and when it happened that knights had no squires (which was

rarely and seldom the case) they themselves carried everything in

cunning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse’s croup, as if

it were something else of more importance, because, unless for some

such reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very favourably regarded

among knights-errant. He therefore advised him (and, as his godson so

soon to be, he might even command him) never from that time forth to

travel without money and the usual requirements, and he would find the

advantage of them when he least expected it.

Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was

arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a large yard at

one side of the inn; so, collecting it all together, Don Quixote placed

it on a trough that stood by the side of a well, and bracing his

buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately air to

march up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his march

night began to fall.

The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze of

his guest, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing ceremony he

contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange a form of madness, they

flocked to see it from a distance, and observed with what composure he

sometimes paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed

on his armour without taking his eyes off it for ever so long; and as

the night closed in with a light from the moon so brilliant that it

might vie with his that lent it, everything the novice knight did was

plainly seen by all.

Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to water

his team, and it was necessary to remove Don Quixote’s armour as it lay

on the trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a loud

voice, “O thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to lay hands

on the armour of the most valorous errant that ever girt on sword, have

a care what thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst lay down thy

life as the penalty of thy rashness.” The carrier gave no heed to these

words (and he would have done better to heed them if he had been

heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps flung the armour

some distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote raised his eyes to

heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently, upon his lady Dulcinea,

exclaimed, “Aid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter that

presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection; let

not thy favour and protection fail me in this first jeopardy;” and,

with these words and others to the same purpose, dropping his buckler

he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a blow on

the carrier’s head that he stretched him on the ground, so stunned that

had he followed it up with a second there would have been no need of a

surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armour and returned to

his beat with the same serenity as before.

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Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for the

carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object of giving water

to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the armour in order to clear

the trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or imploring aid

from anyone, once more dropped his buckler and once more lifted his

lance, and without actually breaking the second carrier’s head into

pieces, made more than three of it, for he laid it open in four. At the

noise all the people of the inn ran to the spot, and among them the

landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and

with his hand on his sword exclaimed, “O Lady of Beauty, strength and

support of my faint heart, it is time for thee to turn the eyes of thy

greatness on this thy captive knight on the brink of so mighty an

adventure.” By this he felt himself so inspired that he would not have

flinched if all the carriers in the world had assailed him. The

comrades of the wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from a

distance to shower stones on Don Quixote, who screened himself as best

he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough and leave his

armour unprotected. The landlord shouted to them to leave him alone,

for he had already told them that he was mad, and as a madman he would

not be accountable even if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don

Quixote, calling them knaves and traitors, and the lord of the castle,

who allowed knights-errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and

a low-born knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he

would call to account for his treachery. “But of you,” he cried, “base

and vile rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come on, do all ye

can against me, ye shall see what the reward of your folly and

insolence will be.” This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness

that he filled his assailants with a terrible fear, and as much for

this reason as at the persuasion of the landlord they left off stoning

him, and he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with the same

calmness and composure as before resumed the watch over his armour.

But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the

landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at

once the unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure

could occur; so, going up to him, he apologised for the rudeness which,

without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these low people,

who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he had

already told him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was

it needed for what remained to be done, for, as he understood the

ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being dubbed a knight lay

in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder, and that could be

administered in the middle of a field; and that he had now done all

that was needful as to watching the armour, for all requirements were

satisfied by a watch of two hours only, while he had been more than

four about it. Don Quixote believed it all, and told him he stood there

ready to obey him, and to make an end of it with as much despatch as

possible; for, if he were again attacked, and felt himself to be dubbed

knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in the castle,

except such as out of respect he might spare at his bidding.

Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a book in

which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to the

carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle-end, and the two damsels

already mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and bade him

kneel down. Then, reading from his account-book as if he were repeating

some devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand

and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his own sword, a

smart slap on the shoulder, all the while muttering between his teeth

as if he was saying his prayers. Having done this, he directed one of

the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with great

self-possession and gravity, and not a little was required to prevent a

burst of laughter at each stage of the ceremony; but what they had

already seen of the novice knight’s prowess kept their laughter within

bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy lady said to him, “May

God make your worship a very fortunate knight, and grant you success in

battle.” Don Quixote asked her name in order that he might from that

time forward know to whom he was beholden for the favour he had

received, as he meant to confer upon her some portion of the honour he

acquired by the might of his arm. She answered with great humility that

she was called La Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler of

Toledo who lived in the stalls of Sanchobienaya, and that wherever she

might be she would serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote said

in reply that she would do him a favour if thenceforward she assumed

the “Don” and called herself Doña Tolosa. She promised she would, and

then the other buckled on his spur, and with her followed almost the

same conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her name, and

she said it was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a

respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote

requested that she would adopt the “Don” and call herself Doña

Molinera, making offers to her further services and favours.

Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these

never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw

himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and

saddling Rocinante at once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he

returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in

language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of it

or report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no

less rhetoric though with shorter words, and without calling upon him

to pay the reckoning let him go with a Godspeed.

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