The History of Don Quixote, Volume 1, Part 06 — Key Ideas to Explore

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Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de, 1547-1616, Doré, Gustave, 1832-1883 [Illustrator], Ormsby, John, 1829-1895 [Translator] Project Gutenberg 2004 Not confirmed
Spain -- Social life and customs -- 16th century -- Fiction; Knights and knighthood -- Spain -- Fiction; Picaresque literature; Romances Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 9,832
Reading time 43 min
Text sections 2

For The History of Don Quixote, Volume 1, Part 06 — Key Ideas to Explore, the stored edition analysis reports 9,832 words, 43 min estimated reading time, and 2 detected text sections.

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Cervantes' wordplay and physical comedy in Chapters 16-17 of Don Quixote, where the inn becomes a castle and the balsam of Fierabras backfires on Sancho.
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OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN WHICH HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE

The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass, asked Sancho what was amiss with him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only that he had fallen down from a rock and had his ribs a little bruised. The innkeeper had a wife whose disposition was not such as those of her calling commonly have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt for the sufferings of her neighbours, so she at once set about tending Don Quixote, and made her young daughter, a very comely girl, help her in taking care of her guest. There was besides in the inn, as servant, an Asturian lass with a broad face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of one eye and not very sound in the other. The elegance of her shape, to be sure, made up for all her defects; she did not measure seven palms from head to foot, and her shoulders, which overweighted her somewhat, made her contemplate the ground more than she liked. This graceful lass, then, helped the young girl, and the two made up a very bad bed for Don Quixote in a garret that showed evident signs of having formerly served for many years as a straw-loft, in which there was also quartered a carrier whose bed was placed a little beyond our Don Quixote's, and, though only made of the pack-saddles and cloths of his mules, had much the advantage of it, as Don Quixote's consisted simply of four rough boards on two not very even trestles, a mattress, that for thinness might have passed for a quilt, full of pellets which, were they not seen through the rents to be wool, would to the touch have seemed pebbles in hardness, two sheets made of buckler leather, and a coverlet the threads of which anyone that chose might have counted without missing one in the reckoning.

On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and the hostess and her daughter soon covered him with plasters from top to toe, while Maritornes--for that was the name of the Asturian--held the light for them, and while plastering him, the hostess, observing how full of wheals Don Quixote was in some places, remarked that this had more the look of blows than of a fall.

It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had many points and projections, and that each of them had left its mark. "Pray, senora," he added, "manage to save some tow, as there will be no want of some one to use it, for my loins too are rather sore."

"Then you must have fallen too," said the hostess.

"I did not fall," said Sancho Panza, "but from the shock I got at seeing my master fall, my body aches so that I feel as if I had had a thousand thwacks."

"That may well be," said the young girl, "for it has many a time happened to me to dream that I was falling down from a tower and never coming to the ground, and when I awoke from the dream to find myself as weak and shaken as if I had really fallen."

"There is the point, senora," replied Sancho Panza, "that I without dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am now, find myself with scarcely less wheals than my master, Don Quixote."

"How is the gentleman called?" asked Maritornes the Asturian.

"Don Quixote of La Mancha," answered Sancho Panza, "and he is a knight-adventurer, and one of the best and stoutest that have been seen in the world this long time past."

"What is a knight-adventurer?" said the lass.

"Are you so new in the world as not to know?" answered Sancho Panza. "Well, then, you must know, sister, that a knight-adventurer is a thing that in two words is seen drubbed and emperor, that is to-day the most miserable and needy being in the world, and to-morrow will have two or three crowns of kingdoms to give his squire."

"Then how is it," said the hostess, "that belonging to so good a master as this, you have not, to judge by appearances, even so much as a county?"

"It is too soon yet," answered Sancho, "for we have only been a month going in quest of adventures, and so far we have met with nothing that can be called one, for it will happen that when one thing is looked for another thing is found; however, if my master Don Quixote gets well of this wound, or fall, and I am left none the worse of it, I would not change my hopes for the best title in Spain."

Cervantes builds the inn-as-castle conceit through precise, comic detail. The innkeeper's wife is notably kind-hearted, a departure from type, while the Asturian servant is described with unflattering specificity: broad face, snub nose, and a shape that makes her contemplate the ground. Don Quixote's bed, four rough boards on uneven trestles with a thin, pellet-filled mattress, is contrasted with the carrier's pack-saddle bed, which has much the advantage. These concrete observations ground the fantasy in tangible reality.

The Balsam of Fierabras: A Recipe in Action

Don Quixote's concoction of the balsam of Fierabras is a set piece of mock-heroic ritual. He recites more than eighty paternosters and as many ave-marias, salves, and credos over a tin oil-flask, accompanying each word with a cross. The absurd precision—the number of prayers, the improvised container—underscores the gap between his chivalric delusion and the mundane setting. When he drinks nearly a quart, the result is immediate vomiting, profuse sweat, and a three-hour sleep. He wakes feeling cured, convinced of the balsam's virtue. Sancho, however, fares worse: his stomach, less delicate, produces violent gripings and retchings, and he curses the balsam and the thief who gave it to him. Cervantes uses the same event to expose the master's self-deception and the squire's bodily suffering.

Sancho's Body as Comic Counterpoint

Sancho's physical ordeal is described with clinical relish. After drinking the balsam, he begins to discharge both ways, ruining the rush mat and canvas blanket. His paroxysms and convulsions last two hours, leaving him so weak he cannot stand. Don Quixote, by contrast, feels relieved and eager to depart. The asymmetry is deliberate: the knight's delusion grants him resilience, while the squire's realism makes him vulnerable. Cervantes also plays with the logic of knighthood: Don Quixote blames the balsam's failure on Sancho not being dubbed a knight, a circular argument that Sancho bitterly rejects. The scene balances slapstick with a subtle critique of the chivalric code's exclusivity.

The Inn as a Stage for Social Observation

The inn's inhabitants form a small society. The innkeeper's daughter, a comely girl, helps tend Don Quixote, while the Asturian lass—blind in one eye, not sound in the other—assists. The carrier, peacefully attending to his mules, is indifferent to the chaos. More than twenty people watch Don Quixote's departure. Cervantes uses the inn's confined space to juxtapose multiple perspectives: the innkeeper's practical questions, the daughter's silent observation, the crowd's amused gaze. Don Quixote's sighs, interpreted as pain from his ribs, are actually directed at the daughter, but no one perceives his chivalric intent. The scene demonstrates how Cervantes layers subjective reality within a shared physical space.

Diction and the Gap Between Ideal and Real

Cervantes' diction consistently undercuts heroic language. Don Quixote's bed is described as consisting of four rough boards on two not very even trestles, with a mattress that for thinness might have passed for a quilt, full of pellets. The balsam is boiled in a pigskin, then decanted into a tin oil-flask. The Asturian lass's elegance of shape is immediately qualified by her defects. These details are not merely comic; they establish a linguistic tension between how Don Quixote perceives the world and how the narrator describes it. The narrator's voice remains detached, precise, and slightly ironic, never endorsing the knight's interpretations. This gap is the engine of the novel's humor and its philosophical inquiry into perception and reality.

Readers attentive to Cervantes' word choices will notice how the narrator's plain descriptions consistently undermine Don Quixote's elevated language. The balsam episode, in particular, rewards close reading of its ritualistic details and their bathetic outcomes. This portion of the novel shows Cervantes refining his technique of using physical comedy to probe the boundaries between delusion and truth.

Years of shelving these volumes taught me that Don Quixote's inn-yard miseries—Sancho retching over that wretched balsam—are not cruelty but kinship. The same fond, wobbly humanness glows in Man Overboard! — Reading Companion, where drowning is a metaphor for that same blessed, ridiculous stumble. Both books whisper: we were never meant to be graceful, only honest.

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