Volume II (1615)

CHAPTER XVI

Regarding what befell Don Quixote with a prudent gentleman [1] of la Mancha

image

With the joy, contentment, and pride that have already been mentioned, Don Quixote continued his journey, imagining, because of his recent victory, that he was the world’s most valiant knight errant of the age; he considered any adventures that might befall him from that time on as already completed and brought to a happy conclusion; he held enchantments and enchanters in contempt; he did not recall the countless beatings he had received in the course of his chivalric exploits, or the stones that had knocked out half his teeth, or the ingratitude of the galley slaves, or the Yanguesans’ audacious rainstorm of staffs. In short, he said to himself that if he could find the art, means, or manner to disenchant his lady Dulcinea, he would not envy the greatest good fortune that ever was achieved or could be achieved by the most fortunate knight errant of past times. He was completely lost in these thoughts when Sancho said:

“Isn’t it funny, Señor, that I still can see the awful outsize nose of my compadre Tomé Cecial?”

“Do you still believe, Sancho, that the Knight of the Mirrors was Bachelor Carrasco, and your compadre Tomé Cecil was his squire?”

“I don’t know what to say about that,” responded Sancho. “All I know is that he was the only one who could have told me what he did about my house, my wife, and my children, and except for the nose, his face was the face of Tomé Cecial, just as I have seen it so often in my village and in his house that shares a wall with mine, and the sound of his voice was the same.”

“Let us reason about this, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote. “Come, does it make sense that Bachelor Sansón Carrasco should appear as a knight errant, armed with offensive and defensive weapons, to do battle with me? Have I, by chance, been his enemy? Have I ever given him reason to bear me ill will? Am I his rival, or does he profess arms, that he would be envious of the fame I have won through their exercise?”

“But what do we say, Señor,” responded Sancho, “about that knight, whoever he was, looking so much like Bachelor Carrasco, and his squire looking like my compadre Tomé Cecial? If it’s enchantment, like your grace says, weren’t there any other men in the world they could have looked like?”

“Everything is artifice and mere appearance,” responded Don Quixote, “devised by the evil magicians who pursue me; foreseeing that I would emerge victorious from the battle, they arranged for the defeated knight to show the face of my friend the bachelor, so that the friendship I have for him would be placed between the edges of my sword, and stay the severity of my arm, and temper the righteous anger of my heart, and in this manner the one who was attempting to take my life through trickery and falsehood would save his own. As proof of this you already know, O Sancho, through experience that will not allow you to lie or deceive, how easy it is for enchanters to transform one face into another, making the beautiful ugly and the ugly beautiful; no more than two days ago you saw with your own eyes the beauty and grace of the peerless Dulcinea in all her natural perfection and harmony, and I saw her as an ugly, lowborn peasant girl with cataracts in her eyes and a foul smell in her mouth; further, if the perverse enchanter dared to make so evil a transformation, it is not difficult to believe that he transformed Sansón Carrasco and your compadre in order to steal the glory of conquest right out of my hands. But despite this I am comforted, because in the end, regardless of his shape and appearance, I have conquered my enemy.”

“God knows the truth of all things,” responded Sancho.

And since he knew that the transformation of Dulcinea had been his own trickery and deception, the chimerical ideas of his master did not satisfy him, but he did not wish to respond so as not to say anything that might reveal his lie.

They were engaged in this conversation when they were overtaken by a man riding behind them on the same road, mounted on a very beautiful dapple mare and wearing a coat of fine green cloth trimmed with tawny velvet and a cap made of the same velvet; the mare’s trappings, in the rustic style and with a short stirrup, were also purple and green. He wore a Moorish scimitar hanging from a wide green and gold swordbelt, and his half boots matched his swordbelt; his spurs were not gilt but touched with a green varnish, so glossy and polished that, since they matched the rest of his clothing, they looked better than if they had been made of pure gold. When the traveler reached them he greeted them courteously and spurred his mare in order to pass by, but Don Quixote said:

“Gallant Señor, if your grace is traveling the same road and is not in a hurry, I would be very pleased if we traveled together.”

“The truth is,” responded the man on the mare, “that I would not ride by so quickly if it were not for my fear that the presence of my mare might disturb your horse.”

“Señor,” Sancho responded at this point, “you can certainly, certainly tighten your mare’s reins, because our horse is the most chaste, best-behaved horse in the world; on similar occasions he has never done anything low or base, and once when he was rude enough to try, my master and I made him pay for it seven times over. I say again that your grace can stop if you want to, because even if she’s brought to him on a silver platter, I’m sure our horse won’t even look your mare in the face.”

The traveler pulled on his reins, marveling at the bearing and face of Don Quixote, who rode without his sallet helmet, which Sancho had hung like a bag over the forebow of the donkey’s packsaddle; and if the man in green looked at Don Quixote a great deal, Don Quixote looked even more at the man in green, thinking him a virtuous and judicious person. He seemed to be about fifty, with few gray hairs and an aquiline face; his aspect was both cheerful and grave; in short, his dress and bearing made it clear that he was a man of good qualities.

The judgment of the man in green with regard to Don Quixote of la Mancha was that he had never seen anyone like him in manner or appearance; he was amazed by the length of his horse, his height, his thin, sallow face, his weapons, his bearing and behavior: a form and appearance not seen for many long years in that land. Don Quixote noticed how attentively the traveler was looking at him and read his desires in his astonishment, and since Don Quixote was courteous and wished to please everyone, before the traveler could ask anything he met him halfway, saying:

“Your grace has noticed my appearance, which is so unusual and far removed from what is commonly seen that I am not surprised at your surprise, but your grace will no longer be so when I tell you, as I do now, that I am a knight,

the kind, as people say,

who go to seek adventures.

I left my home, mortgaged my estate, left behind my comfort, and threw myself into the arms of Fortune so that she may carry me wherever she chooses. I have desired to revive a long-dead knight errantry, and for many days, stumbling here, falling there, dropping down in one place and standing up in another, I have fulfilled a good part of my desire, helping widows, protecting maidens, favoring married women, orphans, and wards, which is the proper and natural work of knights errant; because of my many worthy Christian deeds, I have deserved to be published in almost all or most of the nations in the world. Thirty thousand copies of my history have been printed, and thirty thousand thousand times more are on their way to being printed if heaven does not intervene. Briefly then, to summarize everything in a few words, or in only one, I say that I am Don Quixote of la Mancha, also known as the Knight of the Sorrowful Face, and although praising oneself is vile, I am obliged perhaps to sing my own praises, which is understandable since there is no one present to do it for me; and so, Señor, neither this horse nor this lance, this shield nor this squire, nor all of my armor, nor my sallow face and extreme thinness: none of this should surprise you now, for I have told you who I am and the profession I follow.”

Don Quixote fell silent when he said this, and the man in green took so long to respond that it seemed he did not know what to say, but after some time he said:

“You were correct, Señor Knight, in deducing my desire from my surprise, but you have not taken away the astonishment that seeing you has caused me, for although, Señor, you say my knowing who you are will take it away, that has not happened; rather, now that I know, I am more amazed and astonished than before. How is it possible that there are knights errant in the world today or that there are printed histories of true knightly deeds? I can’t convince myself that anyone in the world today favors widows, protects maidens, honors married women, and helps orphans, and I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it in your grace with my own eyes. Heaven be praised! With the history that your grace says has been published about your lofty and true chivalric feats, the countless tales of imaginary knights errant will be forgotten, for they have filled the world, harming good customs and damaging and discrediting good histories.”

“There is much to say,” responded Don Quixote, “regarding whether the histories of knights errant are imaginary or not.”

“Well, who can doubt,” said the Man in Green, “that those histories are false?”

“I doubt it,” responded Don Quixote, “and let us say no more; if our journey together is a long one, I hope to God to convince your grace that you have erred in going along with those who are certain they are not true.”

From this last statement of Don Quixote’s, the traveler assumed he must be a simpleton, and he waited to see if any further statements would confirm this, but before they could engage in other conversation, Don Quixote asked him to say who he was, for he had informed him of his circumstances and his life. To which the Man in the Green Coat responded:

“I, Señor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, am a gentleman who is a native of a village where, God willing, we shall have our dinner today. I am more than moderately wealthy, and my name is Don Diego de Miranda; I spend my time with my wife, and my children, and my friends; my pastimes are hunting and fishing, but I keep neither hawk nor greyhounds, only some tame decoy partridges or a few bold ferrets. I have some six dozen books, some in Castilian and some in Latin, some historical and some devotional; books of chivalry have not yet crossed my threshold. I read more profane books than devout ones, as long as the diversion is honest, and the language delights, and the invention amazes and astounds, though there are very few of these in Spain. From time to time I dine with my neighbors and friends, and often I invite them to my table; my meals are carefully prepared and nicely served and in no way meager; I don’t like gossip, and I don’t allow it in my presence; I don’t meddle in other people’s lives, and I don’t pry into what other people do; I hear Mass every day; I distribute alms to the poor but do not boast of doing good works, so as not to allow hypocrisy and vainglory into my heart, for they are enemies that can easily take possession of the most modest heart; I attempt to bring peace to those whom I know are quarreling; I am devoted to Our Lady, and trust always in the infinite mercy of the Lord our God.”

Sancho was very attentive to this recounting of the life and pastimes of the gentleman, and finding it a good and saintly life, and thinking that the man who led it must be able to perform miracles, he quickly dismounted the donkey and hurried to grasp the gentleman’s right stirrup, and with a devout heart, and almost in tears, he kissed his feet over and over again. Seeing this, the gentleman asked:

“What are you doing, brother? What is the reason for these kisses?”

“Let me give them to you,” responded Sancho, “because I think your grace is the first saint with short stirrups that I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“I’m not a saint,” responded the gentleman, “but a great sinner, but you, brother, must be a good man; your simplicity proves it.”

Sancho returned to his packsaddle, having moved his master to laughter despite his profound melancholy and causing Don Diego even more amazement. Don Quixote asked how many children he had and said that among the things that ancient philosophers, who lacked a true knowledge of God, considered the highest good were the riches of nature, worldly goods, and having many friends and many good children.

“I, Señor Don Quixote,” responded the gentleman, “have a son, and if I didn’t have him, perhaps I would consider myself more fortunate than I do, and not because he’s bad, but because he isn’t as good as I would like him to be. He’s eighteen, and has spent the last six years in Salamanca, studying Latin and Greek, and when I wanted him to go on to the study of other areas of knowledge, I found him so enthralled with poetry, if that can be called knowledge, that I can’t make him show any enthusiasm for law, which I would like him to study, or for the queen of all study, which is theology. I would like him to be the crown of his line-age, for we live in a time when our kings richly reward good, virtuous letters, for letters without virtue are pearls in the dungheap. He spends the whole day determining if Homer wrote well or badly in a particular line of the Iliad; if Martial was indecent in a certain epigram; if specific lines of Virgil are to be understood in this manner or another. In short, all his conversations are about the books of these poets and of Horace, Persius, Juvenal, and Tibullus; he does not think very highly of modern writers, and despite the antipathy he displays toward poetry in the vernacular, his thoughts are now entirely turned to writing a gloss on four lines sent to him from Salamanca, I think for a literary competition.”

To which Don Quixote responded:

“Children, Señor, are the very apple of their parents’ eyes, and whether they are good or bad, they are loved as we love the souls that give us life; from the time they are little, it is the obligation of parents to guide them along the paths of virtue, good breeding, and good Christian customs, so that when they are grown they will be a support in the old age of their parents and the glory of their posterity; I do not think it is wise to force them to study one thing or another, although persuading them to do so would not be harmful; and when there is no need to study pane lucrando, 372 if the student is so fortunate that heaven has endowed him with parents who can spare him that, it would be my opinion that they should allow him to pursue the area of knowledge to which they can see he is inclined; although poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is not one of those that dishonors the one who knows it. Poetry, Señor, in my opinion, is like an innocent young maiden who is extremely beautiful, and whom many other maidens, who are the other fields of knowledge, are careful to enrich, polish, and adorn, and she must be served by all of them, and all of them must encourage her, but this maiden does not wish to be pawed or dragged through the streets or proclaimed at the corners of the squares or in the corners of palaces. Her alchemy is such that the person who knows how to treat her will turn her into purest gold of inestimable value; the man who has her must keep her within bounds and not allow her to turn to indecent satires or cruel sonnets; she should never be in the marketplace except in heroic poems, heartfelt tragedies, or joyful, witty comedies; she should not be allowed in the company of scoundrels or the ignorant mob incapable of knowing or appreciating the treasures that lie within her. And do not think, Señor, that when I say mob I mean only humble, plebeian people; for anyone who is ignorant, even a lord and prince, can and should be counted as one of the mob. And so the man who uses and treats poetry in the requisite ways that I have mentioned will be famous, and his name esteemed, in all the civilized nations of the world.

And as for what you have said, Señor, regarding your son’s lack of esteem for poetry in the modern languages, it is my understanding that he is mistaken, for this reason: the great Homer did not write in Latin because he was Greek, and Virgil did not write in Greek because he was Latin. In short, all the ancient poets wrote in their mother tongues, and they did not look for foreign languages in order to declare the nobility of their ideas. And this being true, it is reasonable to extend this custom to all nations, and not to despise the German poet because he writes in his own language, or the Castilian, or even the Basque, for writing in his. But I imagine, Señor, that your son does not condemn vernacular poetry but poets who are merely vernacular and do not know other languages or other fields of knowledge, which adorn and awaken and assist their natural impulse; even in this he may be mistaken, because, according to reliable opinion, a poet is born: that is to say, the natural poet is a poet when he comes from his mother’s womb, and with that inclination granted to him by heaven, with no further study or artifice he composes things that prove the truthfulness of the man who said: Est Deus in nobis… 373 I also say that the natural poet who makes use of art will be a much better and more accomplished poet than the one who knows only the art and wishes to be a poet; the reason is that art does not surpass nature but perfects it; therefore, when nature is mixed with art, and art with nature, the result is a perfect poet.

Let me conclude by saying, Señor, that you should allow your son to walk the path to which his star calls him; if he is the good student he should be, and if he has already successfully climbed the first essential step, which is languages, with them he will, on his own, mount to the summit of human letters, which are so admirable in a gentleman with his cape and sword, and adorn, honor, and ennoble him, as mitres do bishops, or robes the learned jurists. Your grace should reprimand your son if he writes satires that damage other people’s honor; you should punish him and tear up the poems; but if he composes admonitory sermons in the manner of Horace,374 in which vices in general are elegantly reproved, then praise him, because it is licit for the poet to write against envy, and to criticize the envious in his verses, and to do the same with the other vices, as long as he does not point out a specific person; but there are poets who, for the sake of saying something malicious, would run the risk of being exiled to the Islands of Pontus.375 If the poet is chaste in his habits, he will be chaste in his verses as well; the pen is the tongue of the soul: his writings will be like the concepts engendered there; when kings and princes see the miraculous art of poetry in prudent, virtuous, and serious subjects, they honor, esteem, and enrich them, and even crown them with the leaves of the tree that lightning never strikes,376 as a sign that those whose temples are honored and adorned by such crowns are not to be assaulted by anyone.”

The Gentleman in the Green Coat was so amazed at Don Quixote’s words that he began to change his mind about his having to be a simpleton. But because it was not very much to his liking, in the middle of this speech Sancho had turned off the road to request a little milk from some shepherds who were milking their sheep nearby, and in the meantime, just as the gentleman was about to resume the conversation, satisfied in the extreme as to Don Quixote’s intelligence and good sense, Don Quixote looked up and saw that coming down the road where they had been traveling was a wagon bearing royal banners, and believing that this must be some new adventure, he called to Sancho to bring him his helmet. And Sancho, hearing his shouts, left the shepherds, and spurred his donkey, and rushed to his master, who was about to engage in a terrifying and reckless adventure.

image


  1. EG uses 'knight', but this person is a 'hidalgo', like Don Quixote, and not a knight

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