Volume II (1615)

CHAPTER XXIV

In which a thousand trifles are recounted, as irrelevant as they are necessary to a true understanding of this great history

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The man who translated this great history from the original composed by its first author, Cide Hamete Benengeli, says that when he reached the chapter concerning the adventure of the Cave of Montesinos, he found in the margin, written in Hamete’s own hand, these precise words:

‘I cannot believe, nor can I persuade myself, that everything written in the preceding chapter actually happened in its entirety to the valiant Don Quixote: the reason is that all the adventures up to this point have been possible and plausible, but with regard to this one in the cave, I can find no way to consider it true since it goes so far beyond the limits of reason. But it is not possible for me to think that Don Quixote, the truest and most noble knight of his day, would lie, for he would not tell a lie even if he were shot with arrows. Moreover, he recounted and told it in all its circumstances and details, and in so short a time he could not fabricate so enormous a quantity of nonsense; if this adventure seems apocryphal, the fault is not mine, and so, without affirming either its falsity or its truth, I write it down. You, reader, since you are a discerning person, must judge it according to your own lights, for I must not and cannot do more; yet it is considered true that at the time of Don Quixote’s passing and death, he is said to have retracted it, saying he had invented it because he thought it was consonant and compatible with the adventures he had read in his histories.’

And then he continues, saying:

The cousin was astounded both by Sancho Panza’s boldness and his master’s patience, and he assumed that his joy at seeing his lady Dulcinea of Toboso, even though she was enchanted, gave rise to the mildness of disposition he displayed then, for otherwise Sancho’s words and phrases would have merited a beating; the cousin, who really thought Sancho had been insolent to his master, said:

“Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, I consider the journey I have made with your grace very worthwhile, because I have derived four things from it. The first, having met your grace, which I consider a great joy. The second, having learned what is inside the Cave of Montesinos, along with the mutations of Guadiana and the Lakes of Ruidera, which will be of great use to me in the Spanish Ovid that I have in hand. The third, having realized the antiquity of cards, which were in use during the time of the Emperor Charlemagne, as one can deduce from the words your grace says Durandarte said when, after that long period of time when Montesinos was talking to him, he awoke and said: ‘Have patience and shuffle the deck.’ And these words and manner of speaking he could not have learned while he was enchanted but when he was not, in France and at the time of the aforementioned Emperor Charlemagne. And this discovery is just right for another book that I am writing, which is A Supplement to Virgilio Polidoro, on the Inventions of Antiquity: I believe that in his book he did not remember to put in the invention of cards, which I shall now include, and it will be of great importance, particularly quoting an authority as serious and reliable as Señor Durandarte. The fourth is having learned the truth regarding the origins of the Guadiana River, unknown to anyone until now.”

“Your grace is correct,” said Don Quixote, “but I should like to know, if God grants that you receive a license to print your books, which I doubt, to whom you intend to dedicate them.”

“There are nobles and grandees in Spain to whom they can be dedicated,” said the cousin.

“Not many,” responded Don Quixote, “and not because they are not worthy of dedications, but because they do not wish to accept them in order not to be obliged to provide the rewards that the work and courtesy of the authors seem to deserve. I know a prince418 who can make up for all the others, and with so many advantages that if I dared mention them, I might perhaps awaken envy in more than one generous bosom; but let us put this aside until a more suitable time and find a place where we can spend the night.”

“Not far from here,” responded the cousin, “is a hermitage where a hermit lives, and people say he once was a soldier, and he is reputed to be a good Christian, and very intelligent, and charitable as well. Beside the hermitage is a small house that he built at his own expense, and although it is little, it can receive guests.”

“Does this hermit have chickens, by any chance?” asked Sancho.

“There are few hermits who do not,” responded Don Quixote, “because the ones today are not like those in the deserts of Egypt, who dressed in palm leaves and ate roots. And you should not think that because I speak well of earlier hermits, I speak ill of modern ones; I mean to say only that the penances of modern hermits are not as harsh and rigorous as the older ones, but all of them are still good; at least, I judge them to be good; in the worst of circumstances, the hypocrite who pretends to be good does less harm than the public sinner.”

While they were conversing, they saw a man coming toward them, walking quickly and using a stick to prod a mule that was loaded down with lances and halberds. When he reached them, he greeted them and passed by. Don Quixote said:

“Stop, my good man, for it seems you are traveling faster than that mule would like.”

“I can’t stop, Señor,” the man responded, “because the weapons you see me carrying must be used tomorrow, and I can’t possibly stop, and so go with God. But if you want to know why I’m carrying them, I plan to spend the night at the inn that’s past the hermitage, and if you’re traveling the same way, you’ll find me there, and then I’ll tell you some wonderful things. And so again, go with God.”

And he prodded his mule so much that Don Quixote did not have the opportunity to ask him what wonderful things he planned to tell them; and since he was rather curious and was always filled with the desire to learn new things, he said that they should leave immediately and go to spend the night at the inn, not stopping at the hermitage where the cousin wanted them to stay.

And so they mounted their animals and all three followed the road that led directly to the inn, where they arrived shortly before nightfall. On the way, the cousin said to Don Quixote that they should stop at the hermitage for something to drink. As soon as Sancho Panza heard this he turned his donkey toward the hermitage, and Don Quixote and the cousin did the same, but as Sancho’s bad luck would have it, the hermit was not at home, which is what they were told by an assistant hermit whom they found in the hermitage. They asked for some good wine, and he responded that his master did not have any, but if they wanted some cheap water, he would gladly give it to them.

“If I had a thirst for water,” responded Sancho, “there are wells along the road where I could quench it. O wedding of Camacho, O plenty in the house of Don Diego, I miss you so often!”

They left the hermitage and spurred their mounts on to the inn, and in a little while they came upon a boy who was walking, not very quickly, in front of them, and they soon overtook him. He was carrying a sword over his shoulder, and on it there was a bundle or pack, apparently of his clothes, which appeared to be breeches or pantaloons, and a short cape, and a shirt or two, because he was wearing a velvet doublet, with some glimmers of satin, and a shirt hanging out, and his hose was of silk, and his shoes square-toed, in the fashion of the court; he must have been eighteen or nineteen years old, with a joyful face and, it seemed, an agile body. As he walked he sang seguidillas 419 to relieve the tedium of the road. When they reached him he had just finished singing one that the cousin committed to memory, and it is said that it said:

I’m forced to go to the war

because I’m so poor;

if I had money, believe

me I wouldn’t leave.

The first to speak to him was Don Quixote, who said:

“Your grace travels very lightly, gallant Señor. Where are you going? Let us know, if you care to tell us.”

To which the boy responded:

“My traveling so lightly is because of the heat and poverty; and I am going to war.”

“Why poverty?” asked Don Quixote. “The heat is enough of a reason.”

“Señor,” replied the lad, “in this bundle I’m carrying some velvet pantaloons, companions to this doublet; if I wear them out on the road, I won’t be able to honor myself with them in the city, and I don’t have the money to buy others; for this reason, and to cool myself, I’ll travel this way until I reach the infantry companies that are no more than twelve leagues away, and there I’ll enlist, and there will be plenty of wagons that I can ride until we reach the port of embarcation, which they say will be in Cartagena. And I’d rather have the king as my lord and master, and serve him in war, than some fool at court.”

“And does your grace have a bonus, by any chance?” asked the cousin.

“If I had served some grandee of Spain, or some distinguished nobleman,” the boy responded, “I’d certainly have one, which is what you get when you serve good masters; you leave the servants’ table and become an ensign or a captain, or get a good allowance, but I, sad to say, always served office-seekers and upstarts, whose income and revenue were so miserable and sparse that they spent half of it when they paid for the starch in a collar; it would be considered a miracle if a venturesome page were to have any kind of good fortune.”

“And tell me, friend, on your life,” asked Don Quixote, “is it possible that during the years you served you haven’t been able to obtain some livery?”

“I was given two liveries,” responded the page, “but like somebody who leaves the church before he takes his vows, and they take away his habit and give him back his clothes, my masters gave me back my own clothes when their business at court was finished, and they went home and took back the liveries they had given just for show.”

“That is a noteworthy spilorceria, 420 as they say in Italian,” said Don Quixote, “but even so, you should consider it good fortune to have left the court with such good intentions, because there is nothing on earth more honorable or beneficial than serving God, first of all, and then your king and natural lord, especially in the practice of arms, by means of which one achieves, if not more wealth, at least more honor than through letters, as I have said so often; although letters have founded more estates than arms, those who pursue arms have I do not know precisely what kind of advantage over those who pursue letters, but I do know what kind of splendor places them above all others. And what I wish to tell you now you should keep in your memory, for it will be of great benefit and consolation to you in your hardships: you must put out of your mind the adversities that may befall you, for the worst of them is death, and if it is a good death, then dying is the best thing that can happen to you. Julius Caesar, that valiant Roman emperor, was asked what was the best death, and he responded the one that was unexpected, sudden, and unforeseen; and although he responded as a heathen who did not have knowledge of the true God, yet he was correct in view of human feeling, for what does it matter if you are killed in the first battle or skirmish, or are shot by artillery, or blown up by a mine? It is all dying, and the end of the story, and according to Terence, the soldier killed in battle looks better than the one who is safe and sound in flight; and the good soldier achieves as much fame as his obedience to his captains and to those who can command him. And remember, son, that the soldier prefers the smell of gunpowder to the scent of musk, and if old age overtakes you in this honorable profession, even if you are full of wounds, and maimed or crippled, at least when it overtakes you, you will not be without honor, an honor that not even poverty can diminish; furthermore, laws are now being enacted that will protect and assist old and crippled soldiers, because it is not right that they be treated the way blacks are treated who are emancipated and freed when they are old and can no longer serve, and are thrown out of the house and called free men, making them slaves to hunger from which only death can liberate them. And for now I do not wish to say more, except that you should ride behind me on my horse until we reach the inn, and there you will have supper with me, and in the morning you will continue on your way, and may God make it as smooth for you as your desires deserve.”

The page did not accept the invitation to ride behind, though he did say yes to eating supper with him in the inn, and at this moment it is said that Sancho said to himself:

“Lord save my master! Is it possible that a man who knows how to say all the many good things that he’s said here can say he’s seen the impossible foolishness that he says he saw in the Cave of Montesinos? Well now, time will tell.”

At this point they reached the inn just as night was falling, and much to Sancho’s delight, he saw that his master judged it to be a real inn and not a castle, as he usually did. As soon as they had entered, Don Quixote asked the innkeeper about the man with the lances and halberds, and he responded that the man was in the stable tending to his mule. The cousin and Sancho did the same for their donkeys, giving Rocinante the best manger and stall in the stable.

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