The Story of Don Quixote Part 8

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL ALL DON QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN

The following day they reached the inn. The landlady at once wanted her ox-tail back, so it was decided that the barber should hereafter appear in his own true character, having supposedly arrived at the inn after the galley-slaves' hold-up.

Don Quixote was tired, and was given a bed in the garret where he had slept once before. While the others were having dinner, the landlady was confidentially telling all who would listen of Don Quixote's absurdities during his previous visit, and also of Sancho Panza's being juggled in the blanket. And while the curate was discussing Don Quixote's madness, the innkeeper confided to him that he himself had a weakness for reading about deeds of the past, particularly stories of chivalry. Often, he said, he would read aloud from these books to his family and servants. He had just read a novel ent.i.tled "Ill-Advised Curiosity," which he had found very interesting. He showed the ma.n.u.script of it to the curate, who seemed to think it might make very good reading and expressed a desire to copy it. Whereupon the innkeeper asked him whether he would not read it aloud to them; and as they were all eager to hear it, the curate commenced the reading of the ma.n.u.script.

CHAPTER x.x.xV

WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE NOVEL OF THE "ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY" TO AN END

The curate had almost finished the reading of the novel, (which consumed all of the two chapters which are omitted here) when Sancho Panza burst into the room, excitedly shouting that his master was having the wildest battle he had ever seen, up in the garret. He pleaded for reinforcements, and wanted them all to join in conquering the enemy who, he declared, was no other than the fierce giant that had invaded the kingdom of Micomicon. He said he had left just as his master had cut the giant's head clean off with his sword, leaving the beast to bleed like a stuffed pig.

While Sancho was relating his blood-curdling story, a tremendous noise and loud exclamations poured forth from the garret, and the innkeeper, suddenly remembering all the many wine-skins he had hung up there on the previous night sprang out of his chair and toward the scene of action, followed by the rest.

The worst that the innkeeper might have feared was true; for there, on the garret floor, was a sea of red wine, with hosts of empty skins floating about upon it. In the middle of the sea stood Don Quixote, sword in hand, slas.h.i.+ng right and left, dressed in nothing but his s.h.i.+rt. But the strangest thing of all was not his attire, but the fact that he was fast asleep, his eyes shut tightly, dreaming that he had already arrived in the distant realm of the Princess Micomicona and had encountered the giant enemy.

Seeing all his precious wine floating away, the innkeeper became enraged and set upon Don Quixote with his bare fists; but the beating had no effect on the knight except, perhaps, that it made him sleep more soundly. It was not until the barber had drenched him in cold water that he came to his senses.

The Princess Micomicona, who had been listening to the saving of her kingdom outside the door, became eager, after she had heard the tempest subside, to enter and see the conquered giant; but she retired hastily and with a slight exclamation of horrified modesty on seeing the abbreviated length of her defender's night-s.h.i.+rt, the tail of which had been sacrificed to his prayers in the wilderness.

The landlord, cursing his luck, swore that this time the knight errant and his squire should not escape without paying. But Don Quixote, whose hand the curate was holding in an endeavor to calm him, merely fell on his knees before the curate, exclaiming: "Exalted and beautiful Princess! Your Highness may now live in peace; for I have slain the giant!" He imagined that he was at the feet of Micomicona.

Soon after having spoken thus, he showed signs of great weariness, and the curate, the barber and Cardenio carried him to his bed, where he fell asleep.

Next they had to console Sancho, who was grief-stricken because he had been unable to find the giant's head. He swore he had seen it falling when his master cut it off, and imagined that if it could not be produced there would be no reward for either him or his master; but Dorothea, in her role of Princess, calmed and comforted him.

All this time the innkeeper's wife was crying about the ox-tail, which, she said, had lost its usefulness after having served as beard, and the innkeeper was demanding that he be paid for the spilt wine and other losses. The curate a.s.sured them that he himself would see to it that they were reimbursed for everything; and when the excitement in the inn had simmered down, and everybody had gathered again in the room where they had heard the curate read from "Ill-Advised Curiosity," he was asked to resume the reading. This he did; and they all thought it a very entertaining story and listened intensely to what the curate was reading.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SLAs.h.i.+NG RIGHT AND LEFT, DREAMING THAT HE HAD ENCOUNTERED THE GIANT ENEMY."--_Page 93_]

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN

At this moment there was a sound of people approaching on horseback, and the innkeeper rushed to the gate to receive the guests. There were four men, with lances and bucklers, and black veils for their faces; a woman, dressed in white and also veiled, and two attendants on foot.

One of the four, a gentleman of distinction, helped the lady to dismount, and they entered the inn.

As they came into the room where the curate had just finished reading the novel of "Ill-Advised Curiosity," Dorothea covered her face, and Cardenio left and went to the garret. As the gentleman seated the lady in a chair, she heaved a deep sigh. Her arms fell limply by her side.

The curate was curious to know who these people were, so he asked one of the servants that accompanied them. But none of them knew, for they had met the travelers on the road, they said, and had been offered employment at good pay. They added that they feared the lady was being taken somewhere against her will, as she had done nothing but sigh all through the journey, and had exchanged no words whatever with her escort.

Dorothea, hearing the lady sigh repeatedly, felt compa.s.sion for her, and asked her whether there was anything that she could do for her.

But although she asked her the question several times, she got no reply.

When the gentleman with the distinguished bearing observed that Dorothea was interested in this lady, he told her it was useless to bother with her, for her answers were all lies and anything done for her would be rewarded with ingrat.i.tude. This remark was speedily answered by the lady, who retorted. "I have never told a lie. On the contrary, it is because I am truthful and cannot lie that I am now in this miserable condition. And you are the lying one!"

Cardenio was in the adjoining room, just returning from the garret, and when he heard these words he exclaimed: "Good G.o.d! What is this I hear! It is her voice!"

The lady heard the exclamation, and seeing no one, she became agitated and rose, but was held back by the gentleman. Her veil suddenly fell off, and every one could see her face, which was one of alabaster-like whiteness and great beauty. And while the gentleman was struggling to keep her from leaving the room, his own veil became unfastened and Dorothea saw that he was no other than her own lover, Don Fernando.

The moment she recognized him she fainted, and the barber caught her, or she would have fallen to the floor. The curate was quick to throw some water on her face, and she soon came to. As soon as Cardenio heard the commotion, he rushed in from the other room, imagining that the worst had happened to his Luscinda--for it was no other than she--and it was a curious thing to see the four suddenly finding themselves face to face.

Luscinda was the first one to speak, and she implored Don Fernando to take her life, so that her beloved Cardenio might believe that she had been true and loyal and faithful to him until the very last.

When Dorothea heard Luscinda speak thus, she fell on her knees before Don Fernando and implored him to reconsider everything that he had done that was base and wrong and sinful. She pleaded with tears in her eyes, begging him to give up Luscinda to her faithful Cardenio, told him how much she still loved him in spite of his wrong-doing, and said she would forgive him everything if he would only let his real and better nature come into its own. And her tears and sincerity moved Don Fernando so that he himself wept, and he promised to abide by the ending which Fate itself seemed to have provided for by bringing them all together in this strange way.

He told Luscinda that when he had found the paper in which she declared she could never be the wife of any other man than Cardenio, he was tempted to kill her, but was prevented by chance. He had left the house in a rage, and had not returned home till the following day, when he found that she had disappeared. Some months later he learned that she had taken refuge in a convent. He gathered the companions they had seen at the inn, and with their help he carried her from the convent. Now he repented of what he had done, prayed he might be permitted forever to live with his Dorothea, and asked them all for forgiveness. Then he gave his blessing to the overjoyed Cardenio and Luscinda, who were both so affected at their reunion that they shed tears. Even Sancho was weeping, although for quite another reason. He was grieved to find his Princess Micomicona suddenly lose her royal ident.i.ty and turn out to be a mere lady.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA, WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES

Sancho thought it his solemn duty to go to his master at once and inform him of the catastrophe. Dejected, he approached Don Quixote, who had just awakened, and said: "Sir Rueful Countenance, your Wors.h.i.+p may as well sleep on, without troubling yourself about killing or restoring her kingdom to the Princess; for that is all over and settled now."

Don Quixote agreed with his squire enthusiastically, and then told him of the tremendous battle he had just had with the giant, dwelling particularly upon the great amount of blood that flowed when the giant's head was cut off.

"Red wine, your Wors.h.i.+p means," said Sancho, "and no less than twenty-four gallons, all of which has to be paid for! The Princess your Wors.h.i.+p will find turned into a private lady named Dorothea; and there is much more that will astonish your Wors.h.i.+p."

Whereupon there ensued a rich and varied conversation between master and servant. When Don Quixote heard his squire confound blood with wine, he called him a fool. And when he heard that his Princess had turned into a simple Dorothea, the fears he had entertained during his past visit to the inn, began to return, and he decided that the place was enchanted. But of that his squire could not be convinced, for the episode of the blanketing still remained a most vivid reality to him. Had it not been for that, he repeated, he could have believed it readily.

Meanwhile the curate had been telling Don Fernando and the others of Don Quixote's strange malady; he described how they had succeeded in taking him away from the wilderness and his self-inflicted penance, and told them all the strange adventures he had heard Sancho relate.

They were greatly amused and thought it the most remarkable craze they had ever heard of. Don Fernando was eager that Dorothea should continue playing her part, and they all decided to come along on the journey to the village in La Mancha.

At this moment Don Quixote entered in his regalia, the barber's basin on his head, spear in hand, and with the buckler on his arm. Don Fernando was struck with astonishment and laughter at the sight of the mixed armament and the peculiar long yellow face of the knight. After a silence, Don Quixote turned to Dorothea and repeated his vow to regain her kingdom for her. He said he approved heartily of the magic interference of the spirit of the king, her father, who had devised this new state of hers, that of a private maiden, in which guise she would no doubt be more secure from evil influence on her journey to her home.

His ignorant squire broke in when his master related of his battle in the garret, and inferred irreverently and rather loudly that he had attacked wine-skins instead of giants, but Don Fernando quickly made him be quiet. Dorothea rose and thanked our rueful knight at the end of his speech for the renewed offer of his sword.

Having listened to her lovely voice, Don Quixote turned angrily to his squire and reprimanded him for being a disbeliever, saying that he could now judge for himself what a fool he had made of himself. Sancho replied that he hoped he had made a mistake about the Princess not being a princess, but that as to the wine-skins, there could be no doubt, for the punctured skins he had seen himself at the head of Don Quixote's bed--and had not the garret floor been turned into a lake of wine? Whereupon his master swore at his stupidity, until Don Fernando interrupted and proposed that they spend the evening in pleasant conversation at the inn instead of continuing their journey that night.

While that was being agreed upon, two travelers, a man and a woman, dressed in Moorish fas.h.i.+on, came to the inn. They asked for rooms overnight, but were told there were none to be had. Dorothea felt sorry for the strange lady--whose face was covered with a veil--and told her that she and Luscinda would gladly share their room with her.

The lady rose from her chair, bowed her head and made a sign with her hands as if to thank them; and they concluded, because of her silence, that she could not speak their language. At this moment her companion returned to her and, seeing her surrounded by the guests at the inn, he confirmed what they had thought, for he made the remark that it was useless to address any questions to her as she could speak no other tongue than her own. They explained that they had asked no questions, but had only offered her quarters for the night. When the stranger learned this, it seemed to please him very much, and he thanked them profusely.

As they were all curious to know who the lady was, they asked the stranger whether or not she was a Christian. He replied that while she was not, she wished to become one; and he informed them that she was a lady of high rank from Algiers. This excited a desire to see her face as well as to know whom she might be, and Dorothea could not resist the temptation of asking her to remove her veil. When her companion had told her Dorothea's desire, and the Moorish lady had removed her veil, they all stood in awe, for they beheld a face that seemed to them lovelier than any they had ever beheld before. Don Fernando asked her name, and the stranger replied it was Lela Zoraida; but when the fair lady heard him speak this name, she exclaimed emphatically that she was called Maria and not Zoraida. Luscinda embraced her in a loving way and said they would call her by that name.

The supper was now ready and all placed themselves at a long table, at the head of which Don Quixote was asked to seat himself. At his request Dorothea--as the Princess Micomicona in disguise--sat on his right. All were merry and content and many pleasantries were pa.s.sed.

But suddenly Don Quixote stopped eating, rose, and with inspiration in his eyes and voice, began a long discourse on knight-errantry, reviewing the great good it had done for mankind. The language he used was so perfect, his manners so free and easy, and his delivery possessed of such charm, that his listeners could hardly make themselves believe they were in the presence of one who was demented.