CHAPTER LIX

The dust and weariness that Don Quixote and Sancho took away with them from their encounter with the discourteous bulls was alleviated by a clear, fresh spring that they found in a cool grove of trees, and the two of them, the fatigued master and servant, sat at its edge, leaving the gray and Rocinante free, without bridle or bit. Sancho turned to the provisions in his saddlebags and took out what he liked to call his feed; he rinsed his mouth, and Don Quixote washed his face, and this refreshment helped to revive their discouraged spirits. Don Quixote did not eat out of pure sorrow, and Sancho did not dare to touch the food before him out of pure courtesy, for he was waiting for his master to take the first mouthful; but seeing him so lost in thought that he forgot to raise the bread to his mouth, Sancho did not open his to speak, and violating every rule of good manners, he began to pack his stomach with the bread and cheese that were in front of him.

“Eat, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote, “sustain life, which matters to you more than to me, and let me die at the hands of my thoughts and by means of my misfortunes. I, Sancho, was born to live by dying, and you to die by eating; so you can see that I am telling you the truth in this regard, consider me, printed in histories, famous in the practice of arms, courteous in my actions, respected by princes, wooed by maidens; and when I expected the palms, triumphs, and crowns that were earned and deserved by my valorous deeds, I have seen myself this morning trampled and kicked and bruised by the feet of filthy and unclean animals. This thought dulls my teeth, blunts my molars, numbs my hands, and completely takes away my desire for food, and so I think I shall let myself die of hunger, the cruelest of all deaths.”

“That means,” said Sancho, not stopping his rapid chewing, “that your grace doesn’t agree with the proverb that says, ‘Let Marta die but keep her belly full.’ I, at least, don’t plan to kill myself; instead, I plan to do what the shoemaker does when he pulls on the leather with his teeth and stretches it until it reaches as far as he wants: I’ll stretch my life by eating until it reaches the end that heaven has arranged for it; you should know, Señor, that there’s no greater madness than wanting to despair, the way your grace does; believe me, after you eat something, you should sleep a little on the green featherbed of this grass, and you’ll see that when you wake up you’ll feel much relieved.”

Don Quixote complied, thinking that Sancho’s words were those of a philosopher, not a fool, and he said to him:

“If you, O Sancho, would do for me what I shall tell you now, my relief will be more certain and my sorrows not as great; and it is that while I sleep, following your advice, you ought to move a little distance from here, and expose your flesh, and with Rocinante’s reins give yourself three or four hundred of the three thousand–odd lashes you must give yourself in order to disenchant Dulcinea, for it is no small shame that the poor lady is still enchanted because of your thoughtlessness and neglect.”

“There is a good deal to say about that,” said Sancho. “For now, let’s both sleep, and later God will decide what will happen. Your grace should know that a man whipping himself in cold blood is a very harsh matter, especially if the lashes fall on a body that is badly nourished and underfed; let my lady Dulcinea be patient, and when she least expects it she’ll see me riddled with lashes; everything’s life until we die; I mean, I still have mine, along with the desire to keep my promise.”

Don Quixote thanked him and ate something, and Sancho ate a great deal, and both of them lay down to sleep, leaving Rocinante and the gray, the two constant companions and friends, free to wander wherever they chose to graze on the plentiful grass that abounded in the meadow. They awoke rather late and remounted and continued on their way, riding quickly in order to reach an inn that seemed to be about a league away. I say it was an inn because that is what Don Quixote called it, in contrast with his usual custom of calling all inns castles.

And so they reached the inn and asked the landlord if there was lodging. The answer was yes, with all the comfort and luxury that one could find in Zaragoza. They dismounted, and Sancho put his provisions away in a room to which the landlord gave him the key; he led the animals to the stable, gave them their fodder, went out to see what orders Don Quixote, who was sitting on a stone bench built into the wall, might have for him, and gave particular thanks to heaven because the inn had not seemed like a castle to his master.

The time for supper arrived, and they withdrew to their room; Sancho asked the landlord what he had for supper. The landlord responded that he could have anything and could ask for whatever he wanted: the inn was stocked with the birds of the air, the fowl of the earth, and the fish of the sea.

“There’s no need for so much,” responded Sancho. “If you roast a couple of chickens for us, we’ll have enough, because my master is delicate and doesn’t eat a lot, and I’m not much of a glutton.”

The landlord responded that he did not have any chickens because the hawks had devoured them all.

“Well, Señor Landlord,” said Sancho, “have them roast a pullet, if it’s tender.”

“A pullet? Good Lord!” responded the landord. “The truth of the matter is that yesterday I sent fifty to be sold in the city; but, except for pullets, your grace can order whatever you want.”

“Then that means,” said Sancho, “that you have plenty of veal or goat.”

“For the moment, there’s none in the house,” responded the landlord, “because it’s all gone, but next week there’ll be plenty.”

“That does us a lot of good!” responded Sancho. “I’ll wager that everything you don’t have can be made up for by all the eggs and bacon you do have.”

“By God,” responded the landlord, “that’s a nice sense of humor my guest has. I already told you I don’t have pullets or chickens, and now you want me to have eggs? Talk about some other delicacies, if you like, and stop asking for chickens.”

“Let’s settle this, for God’s sake,” said Sancho, “and tell me once and for all what you do have, and enough talking, Señor Landlord.”

“What I really and truly have are two cows’ heels that seem like calves’ feet, or two calves’ feet that seem like cows’ heels; they’re stewed with chickpeas, onions, and bacon, and right now they’re saying, ‘Eat me! Eat me!’”

“Right now I mark them as mine,” said Sancho, “and don’t let anybody touch them; I’ll pay a better price for them than anybody else, because as far as I’m concerned nothing could taste any better, and it’s all the same to me whether they’re calves’ feet or cows’ heels.”

“Nobody will touch them,” said the innkeeper, “because the other guests I have are so highborn they brought their own cook and steward, and their own provisions.”

“If it’s highborn you want,” said Sancho, “there’s nobody better than my master, but his profession doesn’t allow any butlers or wine stewards; we just lie down in the middle of a meadow and eat our fill of acorns and medlar fruit.”

This was the conversation that Sancho had with the innkeeper; Sancho did not want to answer any of his questions, for he had already asked about his master’s profession or office.

The time for supper arrived, Don Quixote returned to his room, the landlord brought in the olla full of stew, and Don Quixote sat down to eat very deliberately. It seems that in the next room, which was separated from his only by a thin partition, Don Quixote heard someone say:

“By heaven, Señor Don Jerónimo, while they bring in our supper, let us read another chapter of the second part of Don Quixote of La Mancha.”

As soon as Don Quixote heard his name, he stood and listened very carefully to what they were saying about him, and he heard the man called Don Jerónimo respond:

“Señor Don Juan, why does your grace want us to read this nonsense? Whoever has read the first part of the history of Don Quixote of La Mancha cannot possibly derive any pleasure from reading this second part.”

“Even so,” said Don Juan, “it would be nice to read it because there’s no book so bad that it doesn’t have something good in it. What I dislike the most in this one is that it depicts Don Quixote as having fallen out of love with Dulcinea of Toboso.”⁵⁸⁵

When he heard this, Don Quixote, full of wrath and fury, raised his voice and said:

“If anyone says that Don Quixote of La Mancha has forgotten or ever can forget Dulcinea of Toboso, I shall make him understand with the most steadfast arms that he is very far from the truth, because the peerless Dulcinea of Toboso cannot be forgotten, nor does forgetting have any place in Don Quixote, for his coat of arms is constancy and his profession is to preserve it gently, and without force of any kind.”

“Who is answering us?” came the response from the next room.

“Who can it be,” responded Sancho, “but Don Quixote of La Mancha himself, who’ll carry out everything he’s said, and even what he might say? For the man who pays his debts doesn’t worry about guaranties.”

As soon as Sancho said this, two gentlemen, for that is what they seemed to be, came in through the door of the room, and one of them threw his arms around Don Quixote’s neck and said:

“Your presence cannot give the lie to your name, nor can your name not vouch for your presence: there is no doubt, Señor, that you are the true Don Quixote of La Mancha, the polestar and guiding light of knight errantry, notwithstanding and despite one who has wanted to usurp your name and annihilate your deeds, as the author of this book, which I give to you now, has done.”

And he placed a book in his hands, which his companion had been carrying; Don Quixote accepted it and without saying a word began to leaf through it, and in a little while he returned it, saying:

“In this short perusal I have found three things in this author that are worthy of reprimand. The first is some words that I have read in the prologue;⁵⁸⁶ the second is that the language is Aragonese, because sometimes he writes without articles;⁵⁸⁷ the third, which confirms his ignorance, is that he strays and deviates from the truth in the most important part of the history, because he says that the wife of my squire, Sancho Panza, is named Mari Gutiérrez, which is incorrect, for her name is Teresa Panza;⁵⁸⁸ if he errs in something so important, it is reasonable to fear that he will err in everything else.”

To which Sancho said:

“That’s a nice thing in a historian! He must certainly know all about us if he calls my wife Mari Gutiérrez instead of Teresa Panza! Look at the book again, Señor, and see if I’m in it, and if he’s changed my name.”

“From what I have heard you say, my friend,” said Don Jerónimo, “you undoubedly are Sancho Panza, the squire to Señor Don Quixote.”

“Yes, I am,” responded Sancho, “and proud of it.”

“Well, by my faith,” said the gentleman, “this modern author does not treat you with the decency you demonstrate in your person: he depicts you as gluttonous, and simpleminded, and not at all amusing, and very different from the Sancho described in the first part of the history of your master.”⁵⁸⁹

“May God forgive him,” said Sancho. “He should have left me in my corner and forgotten about me, because you shouldn’t play music unless you know how, and St. Peter’s just fine in Rome.”

The two gentlemen asked Don Quixote to come into their room and have supper with them, for they knew very well that the inn did not have food worthy of his person. Don Quixote, who was always courteous, agreed to their request and had supper with them, and Sancho was left with the power of life and death and absolute jurisdiction over the olla; he sat at the head of the table, along with the innkeeper, who was no less fond than Sancho of feet and heels.

In the course of their supper, Don Juan asked Don Quixote if he had news of Señora Dulcinea of Toboso: if she had married, or given birth, or was pregnant, or if she was still a virgin and remembered—within the bounds of her modesty and decorum—the amorous thoughts of Señor Don Quixote. To which he responded:

“Dulcinea is a virgin, and my thoughts are more constant than ever; our communications, as barren as always; her beauty, transformed into that of a crude peasant.”

And then he recounted, point by point, the enchantment of Señora Dulcinea and what had happened to him in the Cave of Montesinos, along with the instructions the wise Merlin had given him on how to disenchant her, which had to do with Sancho’s lashes.

The two gentlemen were exceedingly happy to hear Don Quixote relate the strange events of his history, and they were as amazed by the nonsensical things he said as by the elegant manner in which he said them. Here they considered him intelligent, and there he seemed to slip into foolishness, and they could not determine where precisely to place him between intelligence and madness.

Sancho finished eating, and leaving the innkeeper looking like an X,⁵⁹⁰ he went to the room where his master was having supper, and when he entered he said:

“By my soul, Señores, I don’t think the author of this book that your graces have wants to get along with me; since he calls me a glutton, as your graces say, I wouldn’t want him to call me a drunkard, too.”

“He does say that,” said Don Jerónimo, “but I don’t remember precisely how, although I do know that his words are offensive, and false as well, as I can see by the physiognomy of the good Sancho here present.”

“Believe me, your graces,” said Sancho, “the Sancho and the Don Quixote in that history are not the ones who appear in the history composed by Cide Hamete Benengeli, the ones who are us: my master is valiant, intelligent, and in love, and I’m simple, amusing, and not a glutton or a drunkard.”

“I believe that,” said Don Juan, “and if it were possible, I would order that no one could dare to deal with the affairs of the great Don Quixote except Cide Hamete, the first author, just as Alexander the Great ordered that no one could dare paint his portrait except Apelles.”

“Let anyone who wishes to,” said Don Quixote, “portray me, but not mistreat me, for patience often falters when it is loaded down with injuries.”

“No injury,” said Don Juan, “can be done to Señor Don Quixote that he cannot avenge, if he does not ward it off with the shield of his patience, which, in my opinion, is strong and great.”

They spent a good part of the night in these and other similar conversations, and although Don Juan wanted Don Quixote to read more of the book in order to hear his comments, he would not be persuaded, saying he considered that he had read it, and confirmed that all of it was foolish, and if it happened to come to the attention of the author that he had held it in his hands, he did not want him to celebrate the idea that Don Quixote had read it, for one’s thoughts must eschew obscene and indecent things, as must one’s eyes. They asked him where he had decided to travel. He responded to Zaragoza, to take part in the jousts for the suit of armor that are held in the city every year. Don Juan told him that in the new history, the account of how Don Quixote, or whoever he was, ran at the ring⁵⁹¹ was lacking in invention, poor in letters,⁵⁹² and very poor in liveries,⁵⁹³ though rich in stupidities.

“For this very reason,” responded Don Quixote, “I shall not set foot in Zaragoza, and in this way I shall proclaim the lies of this modern historian to the world, and then people will see that I am not the Don Quixote he says I am.”

“That would be very wise,” said Don Jerónimo. “There are other jousts in Barcelona, where Señor Don Quixote will be able to prove his valor.”

“I intend to do that,” said Don Quixote, “and if your graces will permit me, it is time for me to go to bed, and I hope you will consider and count me among your greatest friends and servants.”

“And me too,” said Sancho. “Maybe I’ll be good for something.”

With this they took their leave, and Don Quixote and Sancho withdrew to their room, leaving Don Juan and Don Jerónimo astonished by the mixture of intelligence and madness they had seen and convinced that these were the true Don Quixote and Sancho, not the ones described by the Aragonese author.

Don Quixote awoke at dawn, and knocking on the wall of their room, he said goodbye to his supper hosts. Sancho paid the innkeeper very generously and advised him to praise the provisions of his inn a little less or to keep it better supplied.