บทที่ บทที่ 17 · CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE DON

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

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

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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 to-morrow.”

“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, señor, 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, “Señor, 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, Señor, 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, “Señor, 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 he

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, Señor 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.”

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“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 than

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.

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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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