CHAPTER II

Our history recounts that the cries heard by Don Quixote, the priest, and the barber came from the niece and housekeeper and were directed at Sancho Panza, who was struggling to come in to see Don Quixote, while they barred his way, shouting:

“What does this vagabond want in our house? Go back home, brother, for you and nobody else lead our master astray and lure him out of his house and take him to those godforsaken places.”

To which Sancho responded:

“Housekeeper from hell, the one who’s lured and led astray and taken to godforsaken places is me, not your master; he led me everywhere, and you two are deceived and are blaming the wrong person; he lured me out of my house with tricks and lies, promising me an ínsula that I’m still waiting for.”

“I hope you choke on those damned ínsulas, Sancho, you wretch,” responded the niece. “And what are ínsulas? Something to eat, you greedy glutton?”

“It’s not something to eat,” replied Sancho, “but something to govern and rule better than any town council or magistrate in criminal court.”

“Even so,” said the housekeeper, “you won’t come in, you bag of evil and sack of wickedness. Go and govern your own house and work your parcel of land and stop trying to rule ínsulas or ínsulos or whatever you call them.”

The priest and the barber were delighted to hear this three-way conversation, but Don Quixote, fearful that Sancho would blurt out and disclose a quantity of malicious nonsense and touch on points that would not redound to his credit, called to him and made the two women be quiet and allow him to enter. Sancho came in, and the priest and the barber took their leave of Don Quixote, in despair over his health, for they saw how fixed his foolish ideas were and how enthralled he was by the nonsense of his calamitously errant chivalry; and so, the priest said to the barber:

“You’ll see, compadre, that when we least expect it, our gentleman will leave again and beat the bushes, putting all the birds to flight.”

“I have no doubt about that,” responded the barber, “but I’m not as astounded by the madness of the knight as I am by the simplicity of the squire, who has so much faith in the story of the ínsula that I don’t believe all the disappointments imaginable will ever get it out of his head.”

“May God help them,” said the priest, “and let us be on the alert: we’ll see where all the foolishness in this knight and squire will lead, because it seems as if both were made from the same mold, and that the madness of the master, without the simplicity of the servant, would not be worth anything.”

“That’s true,” said the barber, “and I’d certainly like to know what they’re talking about now.”

“I assure you,” responded the priest, “that the niece or the housekeeper will tell us later, because they’re not the kind not to eavesdrop.”

In the meantime, Don Quixote had taken Sancho into his room and closed the door, and when they were alone, he said:

“It grieves me, Sancho, that you have said and still say that I lured you away, knowing that I did not remain in my own house; we went out together, we left together, and we traveled together; together we shared a single fortune and a single fate: if you were tossed in a blanket once, I was battered and bruised a hundred times, and that is the one advantage I have over you.”

“That was right and proper,” responded Sancho, “because, according to your grace, misfortunes afflict knights errant more than their squires.”

“You are wrong, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “As the saying goes, Quando caput dolet—”

“I don’t understand any language but my own,” responded Sancho.

“I mean,” said Don Quixote, “that when the head aches, all the other members ache, too; since I am your lord and master, I am your head, and you my part, for you are my servant; for this reason, the evil that touches or may touch me will cause you pain, and yours will do the same to me.”

“That’s how it should be,” said Sancho, “but when they tossed me, a member, in the blanket, my head was behind the fence watching me fly through the air and not feeling any pain at all; since the members are obliged to suffer the pains of the head, the head should be obliged to feel their pains, too.”

“Do you mean to say, Sancho,” responded Don Quixote, “that I felt no pain when you were tossed in the blanket? If that is what you mean, do not say it and do not think it, for at the time I felt more pain in my spirit than you did in your body. But let us put that aside for now; there will be time for us to ponder this and draw the proper conclusion; tell me, Sancho my friend: what are people saying about me in the village? What opinion of me do the commoners have, and the gentlefolk, and the knights? What do they say about my valor, my deeds, and my courtesy? What is the talk with regard to my undertaking to revive and bring back to the world the forgotten order of chivalry? In short, Sancho, I want you to tell me what has reached your ears regarding this, and you must tell me without adding anything to the good or taking anything away from the bad, for it is fitting that loyal vassals tell the exact and unvarnished truth to their lords, not swelling it because of adulation or allowing any other idle considerations to lessen it; and I want you to know, Sancho, that if the naked truth, bare of flattery, were to reach the ears of princes, the times would be different and other ages would be deemed to be of iron when compared to our own, which, I believe, would be considered golden. Heed this warning, Sancho, and with good sense and intentions bring to my ears the truth of what you know in response to what I have asked you.”

“I will do that very gladly, Señor,” responded Sancho, “on the condition that your grace will not be angry at what I say, since you want me to tell the naked truth and not dress it in any clothes except the ones it was wearing when I heard it.”

“Under no circumstances shall I be angry,” responded Don Quixote. “You may certainly speak freely, Sancho, without evasions.”

“Well, the first thing I’ll say,” he said, “is that the common people think your grace is a great madman, and that I’m just as great a simpleton. The gentry say you have not stayed within the bounds of being a gentleman and have called yourself Don ³²¹ and rushed into being a knight when you have just a vine or two and a couple of fields and nothing but rags on your back. The knights say they wouldn’t want the minor gentry to compete with them, especially those squirish gentlefolk who polish their shoes with lampblack and mend their black stockings with green thread.”

“That,” said Don Quixote, “has nothing to do with me, because I am always well-dressed, and never in patches; my clothes may be frayed, but more by my armor than by time.”

“As for your grace’s valor, courtesy, deeds, and undertakings,” Sancho continued, “there are different opinions. Some say, ‘Crazy, but amusing’; others, ‘Brave, but unfortunate’; and others, ‘Courteous, but insolent’; and they go on and on so much in this vein that they don’t leave an untouched bone in your grace’s body or mine.”

“Look, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “wherever extraordinary virtue resides, there it is persecuted. Very few, if any, of the famous men of the past escaped the slanders of the wicked. Julius Caesar, that most spirited, prudent, and valiant captain, was called ambitious and not particularly clean in his clothing or habits. Alexander, whose feats earned him the title of Great, was said to have been something of a drunkard. Hercules, with all his labors, was called lascivious and soft. Don Galaor, the brother of Amadís of Gaul, was whispered to be more than a little quarrelsome, and his brother was called tearful. And so, dear Sancho, with so many calumnies directed against good men, let them say what they wish about me, as long as there is no more than what you have told me.”

“That’s the problem, I swear by my father!” replied Sancho.

“Then, there is more?” asked Don Quixote.

“And something much worse,” said Sancho. “So far it’s been nothing but child’s play, but if your grace wants to know all the slander they’re saying about you, I’ll bring somebody here who will tell you everything and not leave out a crumb; last night Bartolomé Carrasco’s son, who’s been studying at Salamanca, came home with his bachelor’s degree, and I went to welcome him home and he told me that the history of your grace is already in books, and it’s called The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha; and he says that in it they mention me, Sancho Panza, by name, and my lady Dulcinea of Toboso, and other things that happened when we were alone, so that I crossed myself in fear at how the historian who wrote them could have known about them.”

“I assure you, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that the author of our history must be some wise enchanter, for nothing is hidden from them if they wish to write about it.”

“Well,” said Sancho, “if he was wise and an enchanter, then how is it possible (according to what Bachelor Sansón Carrasco says, for that’s the name of the person I was telling you about) that the author of the history is named Cide Hamete Berenjena?”

“That is a Moorish name,” responded Don Quixote.

“It must be,” responded Sancho, “because I’ve heard that most Moors are very fond of eggplant.”³²²

“You must be mistaken, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “in the last name of this Cide, which in Arabic means señor.”

“That may be,” replied Sancho, “but if your grace would like me to bring Sansón Carrasco here, I’ll go find him right away.”

“I would like that very much, my friend,” said Don Quixote. “What you have told me has left me in suspense, and nothing I eat will taste good until I learn everything.”

“Then I’ll go for him now,” responded Sancho.

And leaving his master, he went to find the bachelor, with whom he returned in a very short while, and the three of them had a most amusing conversation.