But it is also memorable because the wretched Godoy fled there
with the king, his friend, and the queen, his paramour, and there the
pitiable king abdicated in favor of his abominable son Ferdinand VII. It
is the careful Murray who reminds me of this fact; Gautier, who
apparently fails to get anything to his purpose out of Aranjuez, passes
it with the remark that Godoy built there a gallery from his villa to
the royal palace, for his easier access to the royal family in which he
held a place so anomalous. From Mr. Martin Hume's _Modern Spain_ I learn
that when the court fled to Aranjuez from Madrid before the advance of
Murat, and the mob, civil and military, hunted Godoy's villa through for
him, he jumped out of bed and hid himself under a roll of matting, while
the king and the queen, to save him, decreed his dismissal from all his
offices and honors.
But here just at the most interesting moment the successive bells and
whistles are screeching, and the _rapido_ is hurrying me away from
Aranjuez. We are leaving a railway station, but presently it is as if we
had set sail on a gray sea, with a long ground-swell such as we
remembered from Old Castile. These innumerable pastures and wheat-fields
are in New Castile, and before long more distinctively they are in La
Mancha, the country dear to fame as the home of Don Quixote. I must own
at once it does not look it, or at least look like the country I had
read out of his history in my boyhood. For the matter of that, no
country ever looks like the country one reads out of a book, however
really it may be that country. The trouble probably is that one carries
out of one's reading an image which one had carried into it. When I read
_Don Quixote_ and read and read it again, I put La Mancha first into the
map of southern Ohio, and then into that, after an interval of seven or
eight years, of northern Ohio; and the scenes I arranged for his
adventures were landscapes composed from those about me in my earlier
and later boyhood. There was then always something soft and mild in the
_Don Quixote_ country, with a blue river and gentle uplands, and woods
where one could rest in the shade, and hide one's self if one wished,
after easily rescuing the oppressed. Now, instead, a treeless plain
unrolled itself from sky to sky, clean, dull, empty; and if some azure
tops dimmed the clear line of the western horizon, how could I have got
them into my early picture when I had never yet seen a mountain in my
life? I could not put the knight and his squire on those naked levels
where they should not have got a mile from home without discovery and
arrest. I tried to think of them jogging along in talk of the adventures
which the knight hoped for; but I could not make it work. I could have
done better before we got so far from Aranjuez; there were gardens and
orchards and a very suitable river there, and those elm trees
overhanging it; but the prospect in La Mancha had only here and there a
white-availed white farmhouse to vary its lonely simplicity, its desert
fertility; and I could do nothing with the strips and patches of
vineyard. It was all strangely African, strangely Mexican, and not at
all American, not Ohioan, enough to be anything like the real La Mancha
of my invention. To be sure, the doors and windows of the nearer houses
were visibly netted against mosquitoes and that was something, but even
that did not begin to be noticeable till we were drawing near the Sierra
Morena. Then, so long before we reached the mighty chain of mountains
which nature has stretched between the gravity of New Castile and the
gaiety of Andalusia, as if they could not bear immediate contact, I
experienced a moment of perfect reconciliation to the landscape as
really wearing the face of that La Mancha familiar to my boyish vision.
Late in the forenoon, but early enough to save the face of La Mancha,
there appeared certain unquestionable shapes in the nearer and farther
distance which I joyously knew for those windmills which Don Quixote had
known for giants and spurred at, lance in rest. They were waving their
vans in what he had found insolent defiance, but which seemed to us glad
welcome, as of windmills waiting that long time for a reader of
Cervantes who could enter into their feelings and into the friendly
companionship they were offering.
II
Our train did not pass very near, but the distance was not bad for them;
it kept them sixty or sixty-five years back in the past where they
belonged, and in its dimness I could the more distinctly see Don Quixote
careering against them, and Sancho Panza vainly warning, vainly
imploring him, and then in his rage and despair, "giving himself to the
devil," as he had so often to do in that master's service; I do not know
now that I would have gone nearer them if I could. Sometimes in the
desolate plains where the windmills stood so well aloof men were lazily,
or at least leisurely, plowing with their prehistoric crooked sticks.
Here and there the clean levels were broken by shallow pools of water;
and we were at first much tormented by expanses, almost as great as
these pools, of a certain purple flower, which no curiosity of ours
could prevail with to yield up the secret of its name or nature. It was
one of the anomalies of this desert country that it was apparently
prosperous, if one might guess from the comfortable-looking farmsteads
scattered over it, inclosing house and stables in the courtyard framed
by their white walls.
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