Chap. V Which Treats of What Happened to Don Quixote and His Company at the Inn
Their sumptuous meal being ended, they saddled their beasts, and without meeting any thing worthy of mention, arrived next day at the very inn which was so much the dread and terror of Sancho; but, unwilling as he was to enter, he could not avoid going into it. The innkeeper, his wife, daughter, and Maritornes, seeing Don Quixote and Sancho at the gate, went out to receive them, with great demonstrations of joy; and the knight returned their compliments with grave deportment and solemn approbation, desiring them to prepare a better bed for him than that which he had occupied before. To this demand, the landlady answered, that, provided he would pay better than he did before, he should lie like a prince; he promised to see her satisfied, and they immediately made up a tolerable bed, in the same garret where he had formerly lodged, in which he laid himself down, very much disordered, both in body and mind. He was no sooner locked up in his chamber, than the landlady attacked the barber, and seizing him by the beard, cried, ‘By my faith! you shall no longer use my tail for a beard. Give me my tail, I say; for it is a shame to see how my husband’s thing is bandied about for want of it; I mean the comb that he used to stick in my tail.’ But the barber would not part with it, for all her tugging, until the priest desired him to restore it: because there was no farther occasion for the disguise, as he might now appear in his own shape, and tell the knight, that after he had been robbed by the galley-slaves, he had fled to that inn; and if he should enquire for the princess’s gentleman usher, they would tell him, she had dispatched him away before her, to advertise her friends and subjects, that she was upon the road, accompanied by the deliverer of them all. Thus satisfied, the barber willingly restored the landlady’s tail, and every thing else they had borrowed with a view of disengaging Don Quixote from the mountain; and all the people of the inn were astonished at the beauty of Dorothea, as also at the genteel mien of the swain Cardenio. The curate ordered them to get ready something to eat; and the innkeeper, in hope of being well paid, dressed, with all dispatch, a pretty reasonable dinner; but they did not think proper to waken Don Quixote, who, they believed, stood at that time more in need of sleep than of food.
The discourse at table, in presence of the innkeeper, his wife, daughter, Maritornes, and all the other lodgers, happening to turn upon the uncommon madness of the knight, and the condition in which they found him; the hostess recounted to them, what had happened in her house between him and the carrier; then looking round the room, and seeing Sancho was not present, she told the whole story of the blanketting, to the no small entertainment of the company. The curate observing that Don Quixote’s understanding was disordered by the books of chivalry he had read, the innkeeper replied, ‘I cannot conceive how that is possible; for, really, in my opinion, they are the best reading in the world: I have now in my custody two or three of them, together with some other papers, which, I verily believe, have preserved not only my life, but also that of many others; for, in harvest-time, a great number of reapers come hither, to pass the heat of the day; and there being always one among them who can read, he takes up a book, and we, to the number of thirty or more, forming a ring about him, listen with such pleasure, as were enough to make an old man grow young again; at least, I can say for myself; when I hear him read of those furious and terrible strokes that have been given by certain knights, I am seized with the desire of being at it myself, and could listen to such stories whole nights and days without ceasing.’—‘I wish you would, with all my heart,’ replied the wife; ‘for, I am sure, I never enjoy a quiet minute in the house, except when they are reading, and then you are so bamboozled with what you hear, you forget to scold for that time.’—‘That is the very truth of the matter,’ said Maritornes; ‘in good faith, I myself am hugely diverted, when I hear those things; they are so clever, especially when they tell us how yon t’other lady lay among orange trees, in the embraces of her knight, while a duenna, half dead with envy and surprize, kept sentry over them; odd! all these things make my chops water.’
‘And what is your opinion of the matter, my young mistress?’ said the priest to the innkeeper’s daughter. ‘Truly, Signior, I don’t well know,’ she replied; ‘but listen among the rest; and really, though I do not understand it, I am pleased with what I hear; yet I take no delight in those strokes that my father loves; but, in the lamentations made by the knights, when they are absent from their mistresses, which in good sooth, often make me weep with compassion.’—‘Then you would soon give them relief, if they mourned for you, my pretty maid?’ said Dorothea. ‘I don’t know what I should do,’ answered the girl; ‘but, this I know, that some of those ladies are so cruel, their knights call them lions, tygers, and a thousand other reproachful names. Jesus! I can’t conceive what sort of folks those must be, who are so hard-hearted and unconscionable as to let a man of honour die, or lose his senses, rather than take the least notice of him; why should they be so coy? If their suitors court them in an honest way, let them marry, and that is all the men desire.’—‘Hold your peace, child,’ said the landlady; ‘methinks, you are too well acquainted with these things; young maidens, like you, should neither know nor speak so much.’ The daughter said, as the gentleman asked her the question, she could do no less than answer him: and the curate demanding a sight of the books, ‘With all my heart,’ replied the innkeeper, who, going to his own chamber, brought out an old portmanteau secured with a chain, which being opened, the priest found in it three large volumes and some manuscripts written in a very fair character.
The first book they opened appeared to be Don Cirongilio of Thrace; the second, Felixmarte of Hyrcania; and the third, was the history of that great Captain Gonçalo Hernandes de Cordova, with the life of Diego Garcia de Paredes. The curate having read the titles of the two first, turned to the barber, saying, ‘We now want our friend’s housekeeper and cousin.’—‘Not at all,’ answered Mr. Nicholas, ‘I myself can convey them to the yard, or rather to the chimney, where there is actually a special good fire.’—‘What! you intend to burn these books, then?’ said the innkeeper. ‘Only these two,’ answered the curate, pointing to Don Cirongilio and Felixmarte. ‘I suppose, then,’ resumed the landlord, ‘my books are heretick and flegmatick?’—‘You mean schismatick, honest friend, and not flegmatick,’ said the barber. ‘Even so,’ replied the landlord; ‘but, if any of them be burnt, let it be the history of that great captain, together with Diego Garcia; for, I would rather suffer you to commit my son to the flames, than to burn e’er a one of the rest.’—‘Heark ye, brother,’ said the curate, ‘these two books are stuffed with lyes, vanity and extravagance; but that of the great captain is a true history, containing the exploits of Gonçalo Hernandez de Cordova, who, by his numerous and valiant atchievements, acquired, all the world over, the epithet of the Great Captain, a renowned and splendid appellation, merited by him alone; and that Diego Garcia de Paredes was a noble cavalier, born in the city of Truxillo in Estremadura, a most valiant soldier, and endowed with such bodily strength, that with a single finger he could stop a mill-wheel in the heat of its motion; and being once posted at the end of a bridge, with a two-handed sword, he alone prevented a vast army from passing over it; he performed a great many actions of the same kind, which he himself hath recounted with all the modesty of a gentleman who writes his own memoirs; whereas, had they been committed to writing by any other free and dispassionate author, they would have eclipsed all the Hectors, Achilles’, and Orlandos, that ever lived.’—‘You may tell such stuff to my grannam,’ said the inn-keeper. ‘Lord! how you are surprized at the stopping of a mill-wheel! before God, I advise your worship to read, as I have done91, the history of Felixmarte of Hyrcania, who, with a single back-stroke, cut five giants through the middle, as easily as if they had been made of beans, like the figures with which the boys divert themselves. Another time, he engaged a most infinite and powerful army, consisting of a million and six hundred thousand soldiers, all armed cap-a-pee, whom he totally routed, as if they had been flocks of sheep. Then what shall we say of the most excellent Don Cirongilio of Thrace, who was so valiant and courageous, as may be seen in the book of his history, that while he was sailing on the river, a fiery serpent rose above the water, which he no sooner saw, than leaping on its back, he fastened himself astride upon its scaly shoulders, and seized if by the throat, with both hands, so forcibly, that the serpent feeling itself well-nigh strangled, could find no other remedy but dive into the profound, with the knight, who would not quit his hold; and when he descended to the bottom, he found himself in a palace situated in the midst of a garden that was wonderfully pleasant; and then the serpent turned itself into an ancient man, who told him such things as you would rejoice to hear. Say no more, Signior; if you was to hear it, you would run stark mad for joy; so that, a fig for your great captain, and that same Diego Garcia you talk of!’
Dorothea hearing this harangue, whispered to Cardenio, ‘Our host wants not much to make the second edition of Don Quixote.’—‘I think so too,’ answered Cardenio; ‘for, by his discourse, he seems to take it for granted, that every thing which is recounted in these books, is neither more nor less than the truth; and all the capuchins in Spain will not be able to alter his belief.’—‘Consider, brother,’ resumed the curate, ‘that there never was upon earth such a person as Felixmarte of Hyrcania, nor Don Cirongilio of Thrace, nor any other of such knights as are celebrated in books of chivalry. The whole is a fiction composed by idle persons of genius, for the very purpose you mentioned, namely pastime, which was the aim of your reapers; for, I swear to you, no such knights ever existed, nor were any such exploits and extravagancies ever performed in this world.’—‘You must throw that bone to some other dog!’ replied the landlord: ’as if I did not know that two and three make five; or where my own shoe pinches. Your worship must not think to feed me with pap, for egad I am no such suckling! A good joke, faith! You would make me believe that all the contents of these books are madness and lyes, although they are printed by licence from the king’s council; as if they were persons who would wink at the printing of such lyes, battles, and inchantments, as turn people’s brains.’—‘Friend,’ replied the curate, ‘I have already told you, that they are designed for the amusement of our idle hours; and, as in every well-governed commonwealth, the games of chess, billiards, and tennis, are licensed for the entertainment of those who neither can nor ought to work; in like manner, those books are allowed to be printed, on the supposition, that no body is so ignorant as to believe a syllable of what they contain; and if I was now permitted, or the company required it, I could give some hints towards the improvements of books of chivalry, which perhaps might be both serviceable and entertaining; but, I hope, the time will come, when I may have an opportunity of imparting my suggestions to those who can convert them to general use: meanwhile, Mr. Publican, you may depend upon the truth of what I have said; take your books away, and settle the affair of their truth or falshood, just as your own comprehension will permit; much good may they do you, and God grant that you may never halt on the same foot on which your lodger Don Quixote is lame!’—‘I hope,’ answered the innkeeper, ‘I shall never be mad enough to turn knight-errant, as I can easily perceive that the customs now-a-days are quite different from those in times past, when, as it is reported, those famous heroes travelled about the world.’
Sancho, who had come into the room, about the middle of this conversation, was very much confounded and perplexed, when he heard them observe, that there was no such thing as knight-errantry in the present age, and that all the books of chivalry were filled with extravagance and fiction; he therefore determined within himself, to wait the issue of his master’s last undertaking; and if it should not succeed as happily as he expected, to leave him, and return, with his wife and children, to his former labour.
When the innkeeper took up the portmanteau with the books, in order to carry them away, ‘Stay,’ said the curate, ‘until I examine these papers which are written in such a fair character.’ The landlord accordingly pulled out a manuscript, consisting of eight sheets of paper, intitled, in large letters, ‘The Novel of the Impertinent Curiosity92.’ The priest having read three or four lines to himself, said, ‘Really the title of this novel pleases me so much, that I have a strong inclination to peruse the whole.’ To this observation, the innkeeper replied, ‘Then your reverence may read it aloud; for, you must know, the reading of it hath given great satisfaction to several lodgers at this inn, who have earnestly begged the copy; but that request I would not comply with, because I think of restoring it to the right owner, as I expect that the person who left the portmanteau with the books and papers, in a mistake, will return, on purpose to fetch them; or, you know, he may chance to travel this way on, other business; and though I should miss them heavily, in faith they shall be restored; for, though an innkeeper, I am still a Christian.’—‘Friend,’ said the curate, ‘you are very much in the right; but, for all that, if I like the novel, you shall give me leave to transcribe it.’—‘With all my heart,’ replied the landlord. While this discourse passed between them, Cardenio having taken up the manuscript, and began to read, was of the curate’s opinion, and intreated him to read it aloud, that the whole company might hear it. ‘I will,’ answered the priest, ‘if you think we had not better spend the time in sleeping than in reading.’—‘For my own part,’ said Dorothea, ‘it will be a sufficient refreshment for me to listen to some entertaining story; for my mind is not composed enough to let me sleep, even if I stood in need of repose.’—‘If that be the case,’ resumed the curate, ‘I will read it out of curiosity, at a venture, and perhaps it will yield us some entertainment into the bargain.’ Master Nicholas earnestly joined in the request, and Sancho himself expressed a desire of hearing it; upon which the licentiate finding he should please the whole company as well as himself, ‘Well, then,’ said he, ‘listen with attention, for the novel begins in this manner.’