Volume I (1605)

CHAPTER XXV (click to read it in Spanish)

Which tells of the strange events that befell the valiant knight of La Mancha in the Sierra Morena, and of his imitation of the penance of Beltenebros 173

image

Don Quixote took his leave of the goatherd, and mounting Rocinante once again, he told Sancho to follow him, which he did, on his donkey, very unwillingly.[1] Gradually they were entering the most rugged part of the mountains, and Sancho, longing to talk to his master but not wanting to disobey his orders, waited for him to begin the conversation; unable to endure so much silence, however, Sancho said:

“Señor Don Quixote, your grace should give me your blessing and let me leave, because now I want to go back to my house and my wife and children, for with them, at least, I’ll talk and speak all I want; your grace wanting me to go with you through these deserted places by day and by night without talking whenever I feel like it is like burying me alive. If animals could still talk the way they did in the days of Guisopete,174 it wouldn’t be so bad because I could talk to my donkey whenever I wanted to, and that would help me bear my misfortunes; it’s a hard thing, and not something to be borne patiently, when a man searches his whole life and doesn’t find anything but kicks and tossings in a blanket, stones and fists hitting him, and still he has to keep his mouth shut tight, not daring to say what’s in his heart, like a mute.”

“I understand you very well, Sancho,” responded Don Quixote. “You long to have the interdiction which I have placed on your tongue lifted. Consider it lifted and say whatever you wish, on the condition that this license lasts no longer than the time we spend traveling through these mountains.”

“That’s fine,” said Sancho. “Let me talk now, for only God knows what will happen later, and I’ll begin to enjoy this freedom now and ask why was it that your grace defended so strongly that Queen Magimasa or whatever her name is? And what difference did it make if that abbot175 was her lover or not? For if your grace had let it pass, since you weren’t her judge, I think the madman would have gone on with his story, and we would have avoided stones, and kicks, and more than half a dozen punches.”

“By my faith, Sancho,” responded Don Quixote, “if you knew, as I do, what an honorable and distinguished lady Queen Madásima was, I know you would say that I showed a good deal of forbearance, for I did not smash the mouth that uttered such blasphemies. Because it is an exceedingly great blasphemy to say or think that a queen would take a surgeon as her lover. The truth of the matter is that Master Elisabat, mentioned by the madman, was a very prudent man and a wise counselor, and he served as tutor and physician to the queen, but to think that she was his mistress is an outrage deserving of the most severe punishment. And so that you may see that Cardenio did not know what he was saying, you should realize that when he said it, he was not in his right mind.”

“That’s just what I’m saying,” said Sancho. “There wasn’t any reason to pay attention to the words of a madman, because if luck hadn’t been with your grace, and the stone had hit your head the way it hit your chest, then what kind of condition would we have been in to defend that lady, may God confound her! And, by my faith, Cardenio would’ve been pardoned because he’s crazy!”

“Against sane men and madmen, every knight errant is obliged to defend the honor of ladies, no matter who they may be, and especially queens of such high birth and distinction as Queen Madásima, for whom I have a particular regard because of her many virtues; in addition to being beauteous, she was also very prudent and long-suffering in her calamities, of which she had many, and the advice and companionship of Master Elisabat were of great benefit and comfort to her and helped her to endure her travail with prudence and patience. And the vulgar and low-born took advantage of this to say and think that she was his mistress; and I say that all those who say and think such a thing lie, and lie again, and will lie another two hundred times whenever they say or think it.”

“I don’t say it and I don’t think it,” responded Sancho. “It’s their affair and let them eat it with their bread; whether or not they were lovers, they’ve already made their accounting with God; I tend to my vines, it’s their business, not mine; I don’t stick my nose in; if you buy and lie, your purse wants to know why. Besides, naked I was born, and naked I’ll die: I don’t lose or gain a thing; whatever they were, it’s all the same to me. And many folks think there’s bacon when there’s not even a hook to hang it on. But who can put doors on a field? Let them say what they please, I don’t care.”

“Lord save me!” said Don Quixote. “What a lot of foolish things you put on the same thread, Sancho! What does the subject of our conversation have to do with the proverbs you string together like beads? If you value your life, Sancho, be quiet, and from now on tend to spurring your donkey and leave matters alone that do not concern you. And know with all five of your senses that everything I have done, am doing, and shall do follows the dictates of reason and the laws of chivalry, which I know better than all the knights in the world who have ever professed them.”

“Señor,” responded Sancho, “is it a law of chivalry that we should wander through these mountains with no path or direction, looking for a madman who, when he’s found, may feel like finishing what he began, and I don’t mean his story but your grace’s head and my ribs, and break them completely?”

“I tell you again, Sancho, to be quiet,” said Don Quixote, “because you should know that it is not only my desire to find the madman that brings me to these parts, but also my desire to here perform a deed that will bring me perpetual fame and renown throughout the known world; and it will be so great a deed that with it I shall put the crowning touch on all that can make a knight errant perfect and worthy of fame.”

“And is this deed very dangerous?” asked Sancho Panza.

“No,” responded the Knight of the Sorrowful Face, “although depending on luck and the throw of the dice, our fortunes may be either favorable or adverse, but everything will depend on your diligence.”

“On my diligence?” said Sancho.

“Yes,” said Don Quixote, “because if you return quickly from the place where I intend to send you, then my suffering will end quickly and my glory will quickly commence. And since it is not right to keep you in suspense, waiting to hear where my words will lead, I want you, Sancho, to know that the famous Amadís of Gaul was one of the most perfect knights errant. I have misspoken: not one of, but the sole, the first, the only, the lord of all those in the world during his lifetime. Bad luck and worse fortune for Don Belianís and for anyone else who may claim to be his equal in anything, because, by my troth, they are deceived. I say, too, that when a painter wishes to win fame in his art, he attempts to copy the original works of the most talented painters he knows; this same rule applies to all the important occupations and professions that serve to embellish nations, and it must be, and is, followed when the man who wishes to be known as prudent and long-suffering imitates Ulysses, in whose person and hardships Homer painted a living portrait of prudence and forbearance; Virgil, too, in the person of Aeneas, portrayed for us the valor of a devoted son and the sagacity of a valiant and experienced captain; they were depicted and described not as they were, but as they should have been, to serve as examples of virtue to men who came after them. In the same manner, Amadís was the polestar, the morning star, the sun to valiant, enamored knights, the one who should be imitated by all of us who serve under the banner of love and chivalry. This being true, and it is, then I deduce, friend Sancho, that the knight errant who most closely imitates Amadís will be closest to attaining chivalric perfection. And one of the things in which this knight most clearly showed his prudence, valor, courage, patience, constancy, and love was when, scorned by the Lady Oriana, he withdrew to do penance on the Peña Pobre,176 calling himself Beltenebros, a name truly significant and suited to the life he voluntarily had chosen. It is, therefore, easier for me to imitate him in this fashion than by cleaving giants in two, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, routing armies, thwarting armadas, and undoing enchantments. And since this terrain is so appropriate for achieving that end, there is no reason not to seize Opportunity by the forelock177 when it is convenient to do so.”

“In fact,” said Sancho, “what is it that your grace wants to do in this lonely place?”

“Have I not told you already,” responded Don Quixote, “that I wish to imitate Amadís, playing the part of one who is desperate, a fool, a madman, thereby imitating as well the valiant Don Roland when he discovered in a fountain the signs that Angelica the Fair had committed base acts with Medoro, and his grief drove him mad, and he uprooted trees, befouled the waters of clear fountains, killed shepherds, destroyed livestock, burned huts, demolished houses, pulled down mares, and did a hundred thousand other unheard-of things worthy of eternal renown and record? And since I do not intend to imitate Roland, or Roldán, or Orlando, or Rotolando (for he had all those names) in every detail of all the mad things he did, said, and thought, I shall, to the best of my ability, sketch an outline of those that seem most essential to me. And it well may be that I shall be content with the imitation solely of Amadís, who, with no harmful mad acts but only outbursts of weeping and grief, achieved as much fame as anyone else.”

“It seems to me,” said Sancho, “that the knights who did these things were provoked and had a reason to do senseless things and penances; but what reason does your grace have for going crazy? What lady has scorned you, and what signs have you found to tell you that my lady Dulcinea of Toboso has done anything foolish with Moor or Christian?”

“Therein lies the virtue,” responded Don Quixote, “and the excellence of my enterprise, for a knight errant deserves neither glory nor thanks if he goes mad for a reason. The great achievement is to lose one’s reason for no reason, and to let my lady know that if I can do this without cause, what should I not do if there were cause? Moreover, I have more than enough reason because of my long absence from her who is forever my lady, Dulcinea of Toboso; as you heard the shepherd Ambrosio say, all ills are suffered and feared by one who is absent. And so, friend Sancho, do not waste time advising me to abandon so rare, so felicitous, so extraordinary an imitation. Mad I am and mad I shall remain until you return with the reply to a letter which I intend to send with you to my lady Dulcinea; if it is such as my fidelity warrants, my madness and my penance will come to an end; if it is not, I shall truly go mad and not feel anything. Therefore, no matter her reply, I shall emerge from the struggle and travail in which you leave me, taking pleasure as a sane man in the good news you bring, or, as a madman, not suffering on account of the bad news you bear. But tell me, Sancho, have you kept the helmet of Mambrino safe? For I saw you pick it up from the ground when that ingrate tried to shatter it. But he could not, and in this we can see how finely it is tempered.”

To which Sancho responded:

“By God, Señor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, but I lose my patience and can’t bear some of the things your grace says; because of them I even imagine that everything you tell me about chivalry, and winning kingdoms and empires, and giving me ínsulas and granting me other favors and honors, as is the custom of knights errant, must be nothing but empty talk and lies, and all a hamburg or a humbug or whatever you call it. Because if anyone heard your grace calling a barber’s basin the helmet of Mambrino without realizing the error after more than four days, what could he think but that whoever says and claims such a thing must be out of his mind? I have the basin in the bag, all dented, and I’m taking it along so I can fix it when I get home, and use it to trim my beard, if someday, by the grace of God, I ever find myself with my wife and children again.”

“Well, Sancho, by the same oath you swore before, I swear to you,” said Don Quixote, “that you have the dimmest wits that any squire in the world has or ever had. Is it possible that in all the time you have traveled with me you have not yet noticed that all things having to do with knights errant appear to be chimerical, foolish, senseless, and turned inside out? And not because they really are, but because hordes of enchanters always walk among us and alter and change everything and turn things into whatever they please, according to whether they wish to favor us or destroy us; and so, what seems to you a barber’s basin seems to me the helmet of Mambrino, and will seem another thing to someone else. It was rare foresight on the part of the wise man who favors me to make what is really and truly the helmet of Mambrino seem a basin to everyone else, because it is held in such high esteem that everyone would pursue me in order to take it from me; but since they see it as only a barber’s basin, they do not attempt to obtain it, as was evident when that man tried to shatter it, then left it on the ground, not taking it away with him; by my faith, if he had recognized it for what it was he never would have left it behind. Keep it, my friend, since I have no need of it for the moment; rather, I must remove all this armor and be as naked as the day I was born, if I wish in my penance to follow Roland more than Amadís.”

As they were conversing, they came to the foot of a high mountain, which, almost like a peak carved out of the rock, stood alone among the many others that surrounded it. At its base there flowed a gentle stream, and all around it lay a meadow so green and luxuriant it brought joy to the eyes that gazed upon it. There were many woodland trees and plants and flowers, making it a peaceful spot. The Knight of the Sorrowful Face chose this place to carry out his penance, and so, as soon as he saw it, he began to say in a loud voice, as if he had lost his reason:

“This is the place I designate and choose, O heavens, to weep for the misfortune to which you have condemned me. This is the place where the humor of my eyes will increase the waters of this small stream, and my continual deep sighs will constantly move the leaves of these un-tamed trees in testimony to and as proof of the grief that afflicts my troubled heart. And O you rustic gods, whoever you may be, who dwell in this desolate place, hear the laments of this unfortunate lover, brought by long absence and imagined jealousy to this harsh terrain to complain and weep over the unyielding nature of that ungrateful beauty, the culmination and perfection of all human comeliness. O you nymphs and dryads, who are wont to dwell in thickets and forests, loved, although in vain, by wanton and lustful satyrs, may they ne’er disturb your sweet tranquility and may you help me lament my misfortune, or at least not grow weary of hearing it! O Dulcinea of Toboso, day of my night, glory of my grief, guide of my travels, star of my good fortune, may heaven grant all that thou mayest request just as thou considereth the place and plight to which thy absence hath led me and respondeth with the favor merited by my faithfulness! O solitary trees that from this day forth will accompany my solitude, give a sign, with the gentle movement of your branches, that my presence doth not displease you! O thou, my squire, amiable companion of my favorable and adverse adventures, take note and fix in thy mind what thou wilt see me do here, so that thou mayest recount and relate it to the sole cause of all my actions!”

And having said this, he dismounted Rocinante and in an instant removed the bit and saddle, and slapping the horse on the rump, he said:

“Liberty is given to thee by him who hath none, O steed as great in thy deeds as thou art unfortunate in thy destiny! Goest thou whither thou wilt, for on thy forehead it is written that the Hippogryph of Astolfo was not thy equal in speed, nor the renowned Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear.”178

Seeing this, Sancho said:

“Good luck to whoever spared us the trouble of unsaddling the gray;179 by my faith, we would have plenty of little slaps to give that donkey, and plenty of things to say in his praise, but if he were here, I wouldn’t agree to anybody unsaddling him, because there’d be no reason to; he couldn’t be described as a lover or desperate, since his master, who was me so long as God was willing, wasn’t those things either. The truth is, Señor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, that if my leaving and your grace’s madness are serious, it would be a good idea to saddle Rocinante again and let him take the place of the gray, which would make my going and coming shorter; if I make the trip on foot, I don’t know when I’ll arrive or when I’ll get back, because, to make a long story short, I’m a very poor walker.”

“What I say, Sancho,” responded Don Quixote, “is that it will be as you wish, for your plan does not seem to be a bad one, and I also say that three days hence you will leave here, because in that time I want you to see what I do and say for her sake, so that you can recount it to her.”

“But what else do I have to see,” said Sancho, “besides what I’ve seen already?”

“How little you know!” responded Don Quixote. “Now I have to tear my clothes, toss aside my armor, and hit my head against these rocks, along with other things of that nature, all of which will astonish you.”

“For the love of God,” said Sancho, “your grace should be careful how you go around hitting your head, because you might come up against a boulder that’s so hard that with the first blow you put an end to the whole plan for this penance; in my opinion, if your grace believes that hitting your head is necessary and you can’t do this thing without it, you should be content, since it’s all make-believe and fake and a joke, with knocking your head on water or something else that’s soft, like cotton; leave the rest to me, and I’ll tell my lady that your grace was hitting your head against the sharp edge of a boulder that was harder than a diamond.”

“I thank you for your good intentions, friend Sancho,” responded Don Quixote, “but I want you to realize that all the things I am doing are not jokes but very real; otherwise, I would be contravening the rules of chivalry that command us never to lie, or else suffer the punishment of those who relapse into sin, and doing one thing instead of another is the same as lying. And so, my head hittings have to be real, solid, and true, with no sophistry or fantasy about them. And it will be necessary for you to leave me some lint bandages to heal my wounds, since it was our misfortune to lose the balm.”

“Losing the donkey was more serious,” responded Sancho, “because when we lost him we lost the bandages and everything else. And I beg your grace to say no more about that cursed potion; just hearing its name turns my soul, not to mention my stomach. And I beg something else: just assume that the three days you gave me to see the mad things you do have already passed, because as far as I’m concerned, I’ve seen them, and judged them, and will tell wonderful things about them to my lady; so write the letter now and send me on my way, because I have a great desire to come back and take your grace out of this purgatory where I’m leaving you.”

“You call it purgatory, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. “You would do better to call it hell, and even worse, if anything can be worse.”

“Whoever’s in hell,” responded Sancho, “nulla es retencio, 180 or so I’ve heard.”

“I do not understand what retencio means,” said Don Quixote.

Retencio means,” responded Sancho, “that whoever’s in hell never gets out and can’t get out. Which is just the opposite of your grace, unless my feet go the wrong way when I use the spurs to liven up Rocinante; just put me once and for all in Toboso, before my lady Dulcinea, and I’ll tell her such wonders about the foolish things and the crazy things, because they amount to the same thing, that your grace has done and is still doing that she’ll become softer than a glove even if I find her harder than a cork tree; with her sweet and honeyed reply I’ll come flying back through the air, like a wizard, and I’ll take your grace out of this purgatory that seems like hell but isn’t, since there’s a hope of getting out, which, as I said before, the people in hell don’t have, and I don’t think your grace will say otherwise.”

“That is true,” said the Knight of the Sorrowful Face, “but what shall we use to write the letter?”

“And the order for the donkeys, too,”181 added Sancho.

“Everything will be included,” said Don Quixote, “and it would be a good idea, since we have no paper, to write it, as the ancients did, on the leaves of trees, or on some wax tablets, although they would be as difficult to find now as paper. But it occurs to me that it would be good, and even better than good, to write it in the notebook that belonged to Cardenio, and you will take care to have it transcribed onto paper, in a fine hand, in the first town you come to where there is a schoolmaster, or else some sacristan can transcribe it for you, but do not give it to any notary, for their writing is so difficult to read that not even Satan can understand it.”

“And what do we do about the signature?” said Sancho.

“The letters of Amadís were never signed,” responded Don Quixote.

“That’s fine,” responded Sancho, “but the order must be signed, and if it’s copied they’ll say the signature is false, and I won’t have my donkeys.”

“The order will be written in the same notebook, and it will be signed, and when my niece sees it, there will be no difficulty putting it into effect. As for the love letter, as a signature you will have them put: ‘Thine until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Face.’ And it will not matter if it is written in another’s hand, because, if I remember correctly, Dulcinea does not know how to read or write, and never in her life has she seen my writing or a letter of mine, because my love and her love have always been platonic, not going beyond a virtuous glance. And even this was so infrequent that I could truly swear that in the twelve years I have loved her more than the light of these eyes that will be consumed by the earth, I have not seen her more than four times; and it well may be that with regard to these four times, she might not have noticed the one time I looked at her; such is the retirement and seclusion in which her father, Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother, Aldonza Nogales, have reared her.”

“Well, well!” said Sancho. “Are you saying that Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter, also known as Aldonza Lorenzo, is the lady Dulcinea of Toboso?”

“She is,” said Don Quixote, “and she is worthy of being lady and mistress of the entire universe.”

“I know her very well,” said Sancho, “and I can say that she can throw a metal bar just as well as the brawniest lad in the village. Praise our Maker, she’s a fine girl in every way, sturdy as a horse, and just the one to pull any knight errant or about to be errant, who has her for his lady, right out of any mudhole he’s fallen into! Damn, but she’s strong! And what a voice she has! I can tell you that one day she stood on top of the village bell tower to call some shepherds who were in one of her father’s fields, and even though they were more than half a league away, they heard her just as if they were standing at the foot of the tower. And the best thing about her is that she’s not a prude. In fact, she’s something of a trollop: she jokes with everybody and laughs and makes fun of everything. Now I say, Señor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, that your grace not only can and should do crazy things for her, but with good cause you can be desperate and hang yourself; there won’t be anybody who knows about it who won’t say you did the right thing, even if the devil carries you off. And I’d like to be on my way, just for the chance to see her; I haven’t seen her for a long time, and she must be changed by now, because women’s faces become very worn when they’re always out in the fields, in the sun and wind. And I confess to your grace, Señor Don Quixote, that till now I lived in great ignorance because I really and truly thought the lady Dulcinea must be a princess your grace was in love with, or the kind of person who deserved the rich presents your grace sent to her, like the Basque and the galley slaves and probably many others, just as many as the victories your grace won in the days before I was your squire. But, thinking it over carefully, what good does it do Aldonza Lorenzo, I mean, the lady Dulcinea of Toboso, if all those vanquished by your grace are sent and will be sent to kneel before her? Because it might be that when they arrive she’s out raking flax, or on the threshing floor, and they’ll run away when they see her, and she’ll laugh and get angry at the present.”

“I have already told you many times before now, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that you talk far too much, and although your wits are dull, your tongue often is sharp; however, so that you may see how foolish you are and how discerning I am, I wish to tell you a brief story. Once there was a widow who was beautiful, free, rich, and above all, easy in her ways, and she fell in love with a lay brother, a sturdy, good-looking boy; his superior learned of this, and one day he said to the good widow, in fraternal reprimand: ‘I am amazed, Señora, and with reason, that a woman as distinguished, as beautiful, and as rich as your grace has fallen in love with a man as crude, as base, and as stupid as he, when there are in this house so many masters, so many scholars, so many theologians, among whom your grace could make a selection as if you were choosing pears, saying, I want this one but not the other.’ But she responded with a good deal of wit and verve: ‘Your grace, Señor, is very much mistaken, and you are thinking in an old-fashioned way if you think I have chosen badly, no matter how stupid he may seem to you; because considering the reason I love and want him, he knows as much philosophy as Aristotle, and even more.’ In the same way, Sancho, because of my love for Dulcinea of Toboso, she is worth as much as the highest princess on earth. And yes, not every poet who praises a lady, calling her by another name, really has one. Do you think the Amaryllises, Phyllises, Sylvias, Dianas, Galateas, Alidas, and all the rest that fill books, ballads, barbershops, and theaters are really ladies of flesh and blood who belong to those who celebrate them? No, of course not, for most are imagined in order to provide a subject for their verses, and so that people will think of them as lovers and as men who have the capacity to be lovers. And therefore it is enough for me to think and believe that my good Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and virtuous; as for her lineage, it matters little, for no one is going to investigate it in order to give her a robe of office, and I can think she is the highest princess in the world. Because you should know, Sancho, if you do not know already, that two things inspire love more than any other; they are great beauty and a good name, and these two things reach their consummation in Dulcinea, for in beauty, no one is her equal, and as for a good name, few can approach her. And to conclude, I imagine that everything I say is true, no more and no less, and I depict her in my imagination as I wish her to be in beauty and in distinction, and Helen cannot approach her, Lucretia cannot match her, nor can any of the other famous women of past ages, Greek, barbarian, or Latin. Let each man say what he chooses; if because of this I am criticized by the ignorant, I shall not be chastised by the learned.”

“I say that your grace is correct in everything,” responded Sancho, “and that I am an ass. But I don’t know why my mouth says ass, when you shouldn’t mention rope in the hanged man’s house. But let’s have the letter, and I’ll say goodbye and be on my way.”

Don Quixote took out the notebook, moved off to one side, and very calmly began to write the letter, and when he had finished, he called Sancho and said he wanted to read it to him so that Sancho could commit it to memory in the event he lost it along the way, for his own misfortune was such that it was reasonable to fear the worst. To which Sancho responded:

“Your grace should write it two or three times in the book, and give it to me, and I’ll take good care of it, because it’s foolish to think I’ll commit it to memory; mine is so bad I often forget my own name. But even so, your grace should read it to me, and I’ll be very happy to hear it, for it must be perfect.”

“Listen, then, for this is what it says,” said Don Quixote:

LETTER FROM DON QUIXOTE TO DULCINEA OF TOBOSO

Supreme and most high lady:

He who is sore wounded by the sharp blade of absence, he whose heart-strings are broken, most gentle Dulcinea of Toboso, sendeth thee wishes for the well-being he doth not have. If thy beauty scorneth me, if thy great merit opposeth me, if thy disdain standeth firm against me e’en though I possess a goodly portion of forbearance, I shall not be able to endure this affliction, which is both grievous and long-lasting. My good squire, Sancho, will recount the entire tale to thee, O ungrateful beauty! O my beloved enemy! regarding the state in which I findeth myself for thy sake: if it be thy desire to succor me, I am thine; if not, do as thou pleaseth, for by ending my life I shall have satisfied both thy cruelty and mine own desire.

Thine until death,
THE KNIGHT OF THE SORROWFUL FACE

“By my father’s life,” said Sancho when he heard the letter, “that’s the highest thing I’ve ever heard. Confound it, but how your grace says everything anyone could want, and how well The Knight of the Sorrowful Face fits into the closing! I’m telling the truth when I say your grace is the devil himself, and there’s nothing your grace doesn’t know.”

“Everything is necessary,” responded Don Quixote, “for the profession I follow.”

“Well, then,” said Sancho, “your grace just has to make a note on the other page about the three donkeys, and sign it very clearly so that when they see it they’ll know the signature.”

“It will be my pleasure,” said Don Quixote.

And when he had written it, he read it to Sancho, and it said:

Señora, my niece, your grace will arrange, by means of this order for donkeys, the presentation to Sancho Panza, my squire, of three of the five said animals which I left behind and which are in your grace’s charge. These aforementioned three donkeys I hereby order immediately transferred as payment for others herewith received, which shall comprise, by this compensatory writ, full and complete payment thereof. Duly executed in the heart of the Sierra Morena on the twenty-second day of August of the current year.

“That’s fine,” said Sancho. “Now your grace should sign it.”

“It is not necessary to sign it,” said Don Quixote. “All I need do is add my mark and flourish, which is the same as a signature and enough for three donkeys, and even for three hundred.”

“I trust in your grace,” responded Sancho. “Let me go and saddle Rocinante, and let your grace get ready to give me your blessing, for I plan to leave right away without seeing the crazy things your grace is going to do, though I’ll say I saw you do more than anyone could wish.”

“At least, Sancho, I want, because it is necessary, I say I want you to see me naked and performing one or two dozen mad acts, which will take me less than half an hour, because if you have seen them with your own eyes, you can safely swear to any others you might wish to add, and I assure you that you will not recount as many as I intend to perform.”

“For the love of God, Señor, don’t let me see your grace naked, for that will make me feel so bad I won’t be able to stop crying, and my head’s in such a state after the crying I did last night over my gray that I’m in no mood for any more tears; if it’s your grace’s wish that I see some crazy actions, do them fully dressed, and let them be brief and to the point. Especially because none of this is necessary for me, and like I said before, I want to shorten the time it takes me to get back here with the news your grace desires and deserves. Otherwise, let the lady Dulcinea get ready, and if she doesn’t answer the way she should, I make a solemn vow to God that I’ll get a good answer out of her stomach if I have to kick her and slap her. Because how can anybody stand for a knight errant as famous as your grace to go crazy, without rhyme or reason, for the sake of a…? And don’t let her make me say it, because by God I’ll tear everything apart and never look back. And I’m the one who can do it! She doesn’t know me! By my faith, if she knew me she’d think twice!”

“Well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “it seems you are no saner than I.”

“I’m not as crazy,” responded Sancho, “I just have a more choleric nature. But, leaving that aside, what will your grace eat until I get back? Will you go out to the road, like Cardenio, and take food from the shepherds?”

“Do not concern yourself with that,” responded Don Quixote, “be-cause even if I had food, I would eat nothing but the plants and fruits that this meadow and these trees might offer me; for the elegance of my plan lies in not eating and in suffering other comparable hardships. Goodbye, then.”

“But, does your grace know what I’m afraid of? That I won’t be able to find this place again, it’s so out of the way.”

“Take careful note of the landmarks, and I shall try not to leave the vicinity,” said Don Quixote, “and I shall even be sure to climb up to the highest peaks to watch for your return. Better yet, so that you will not make a mistake and lose your way, you should cut some of the broom that grows in such abundance here, and place the stalks at intervals along the way until you reach level ground, and they will serve as markers and signs, as did the thread of Perseus182 in the labyrinth, so that you can find me when you return.”

“I’ll do that,” responded Sancho Panza.

And after cutting some stalks of broom, he asked for his master’s blessing, and, not without many tears on both their parts, he took his leave. He mounted Rocinante, whom Don Quixote commended to his care, saying he should attend to him as to his own person, and he set out for the plain, scattering stalks of broom at intervals, as his master had advised. And so he left, although Don Quixote was still urging him to watch at least two mad acts. But he had not gone a hundred paces when he turned and said:

“Señor, your grace is right: so that I can swear with a clear conscience that I saw you do crazy things, it would be a good idea for me to see at least one, even though I’ve already seen a pretty big one in your grace’s staying here.”

“Did I not tell you so?” said Don Quixote. “Wait, Sancho, and I shall do them before you can say a Credo.”

And hastily he pulled off his breeches and was left wearing only his skin and shirttails, and then, without further ado, he kicked his heels twice, turned two cartwheels with his head down and his feet in the air, and revealed certain things; Sancho, in order not to see them again, pulled on Rocinante’s reins and turned him around, satisfied and convinced that he could swear his master had lost his mind. And so we shall let him go on his way until his return, which did not take long.

image


  1. Cervantes forgot to correct this sentence when he inserted in the second edition the story of the theft of Sancho's donkey in chapter XXIII. It was only in the edition printed by Roger Velpius in Brussels in 1607 that this textual inconsistency disappeared whereas the third edition printed in 1608 kept the misplaced allusion to Sancho's ass at the beginning of chapter XXV.

Licencia

Icon for the Public Domain license

This work (Don Quixote of la Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes) is free of known copyright restrictions.

Compartir este libro