The Story of Don Quixote Part 1

The Story of Don Quixote.

by Arvid Paulson, Clayton Edwards, and Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.

VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

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."

Or again:

"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 s.h.i.+ne 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 t.i.tle 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 hards.h.i.+ps. 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 n.o.ble 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.

CHAPTERS II-III

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 s.h.i.+eld, 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 pa.s.sages from the books that he felt sure would be written about his n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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, p.r.i.c.ked 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 carca.s.s 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 a.s.sured him he was making the greatest mistake in the world and that he must not suppose that, just because money and clean s.h.i.+rts 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 t.i.tle 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 pa.s.sers-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, s.h.i.+elding 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 G.o.d make your Wors.h.i.+p 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.

CHAPTER IV