CHAPTER XXXII

Don Quixote, then, rose to his feet, and trembling from head to toe like quicksilver, he spoke quickly and with great agitation, saying:

“The place where I am now, and the presence in which I find myself, and the respect I always have had, and have now, for the vocation your grace professes, bind and restrain the censure of my righteous anger; and for the reasons I have said, and because I know that everyone knows that the weapons of men in cassocks are the same as those of women, which is to say, their tongues, I shall with mine enter into equal combat with your grace, from whom one ought to have expected good counsel rather than base vituperation. Holy and well-intentioned rebukes require different circumstances and demand different occasions: at least, your having rebuked me in public, and so harshly, has gone beyond all the bounds of legitimate reproof, which is based more on gentleness than on asperity, nor is it just, having no knowledge of the sin that is being rebuked, so thoughtlessly to call the sinner a simpleton and a fool. Otherwise tell me, your grace: for which of the inanities that you have seen in me do you condemn and revile me, and order me to return to my house and tend to it and my wife and my children, not knowing if I have one or the other? Or is it enough for clerics simply to enter other people’s houses willy-nilly to guide the owners, even though some have been brought up in the narrow confines of a boarding school and never have seen more of the world than the twenty or thirty leagues of their district, and then suddenly decide to dictate laws to chivalry and make judgments concerning knights errant? Is it by chance frivolous, or is the time wasted that is spent wandering the world, not seeking its rewards but the asperities by which the virtuous rise to the seat of immortality?

If knights, and the great, the generous, and the highborn considered me a fool, I would take it as an irreparable affront; but that I am thought a simpleton by students who never walked or followed the paths of chivalry does not concern me in the least: a knight I am, and a knight I shall die, if it pleases the Almighty. Some men walk the broad fields of haughty ambition, or base and servile adulation, or deceptive hypocrisy, and some take the road of true religion; but I, influenced by my star, follow the narrow path of knight errantry, and because I profess it I despise wealth but not honor. I have redressed grievances, righted wrongs, punished insolence, vanquished giants, and trampled monsters; I am in love, simply because it is obligatory for knights errant to be so; and being so, I am not a dissolute lover, but one who is chaste and platonic. I always direct my intentions to virtuous ends, which are to do good to all and evil to none; if the man who understands this, and acts on this, and desires this, deserves to be called a fool, then your highnesses, most excellent Duke and Duchess, should say so.”

“By God, that’s wonderful!” said Sancho. “My lord and master, your grace should say no more on your own behalf, because there’s nothing more to say, or to think, or to insist on in this world. Besides, since this gentleman is denying, and has denied, that there ever were knights errant in the world, or that there are any now, is it any wonder he doesn’t know any of the things he’s talked about?”

“By any chance, brother,” said the ecclesiastic, “are you the Sancho Panza to whom, they say, your master has promised an ínsula?”

“I am,” responded Sancho, “and I’m the one who deserves it as much as anybody else; I’m a ‘Stay close to good men and become one’; and I’m a ‘Birds of a feather flock together’; and a ‘Lean against a sturdy trunk if you want good shade.’ I have leaned against a good master, and traveled with him for many months, and I’ll become just like him, God willing; long life to him and to me, and there’ll be no lack of empires for him to rule or ínsulas for me to govern.”

“No, certainly not, Sancho my friend,” said the duke, “for I, in the name of Señor Don Quixote, promise you the governorship of a spare one that I own, which is of no small quality.”

“Down on your knees, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and kiss the feet of His Excellency for the great favor he has done you.”

Sancho did so, and when the ecclesiastic saw this he rose from the table in a fury, saying:

“By the habit I wear, I must say that Your Excellency is as much a simpleton as these sinners. Consider that of course they must be mad, since the sane applaud their madness! Stay with them, Your Excellency, and for as long as they are in this house, I shall be in mine, and I exempt myself from reproving what I cannot remedy.”

And without saying another word or eating another mouthful, he left, and the pleas of the duke and duchess did nothing to stop him, although the duke was prevented from saying very much by the laughter the ecclesiastic’s importunate anger had caused in him. When he finished laughing, he said to Don Quixote:

“Señor Knight of the Lions, your grace has responded so nobly on your own behalf that there is no other satisfaction required, for although this appears to be an insult, it in no way is, because just as women cannot offer an insult, neither can ecclesiastics, as your grace knows better than I.”

“That is true,” responded Don Quixote, “and the reason is that one who cannot be insulted cannot insult anyone else. Women, children, and ecclesiastics, since they cannot defend themselves even if they have been offended, cannot receive an affront. Because the difference between an insult and an affront, as Your Excellency knows better than I, is that an affront comes from one who can commit it, and does so, and sustains it; an insult can come from anywhere, without being an affront. For example: a man is standing idly in the street; ten men arrive with weapons in their hands and strike him, and he draws his sword to perform his duty, but the number of his adversaries hinders this and does not allow him to carry out his intention, which is to take his revenge; this man has been insulted but not affronted. And another example will con-firm the same thing: a man’s back is turned, another comes up and strikes him, and having struck him, he flees and does not wait, and the other pursues but cannot overtake him; the one who was struck received an insult but not an affront, because an affront must be sustained. If the one who struck him, even if he did so surreptitiously, had drawn his sword and stood firm, facing his enemy, the man who was struck would be both insulted and affronted: insulted, because he was struck covertly; affronted, because the one who struck him sustained what he had done, not turning his back and standing firm. And so, according to the laws of this accursed dueling, I can be insulted but not affronted, because children are not aware of what they do, and women cannot flee, nor can they be expected to, and the same is true of those who hold positions in holy religion, because these three kinds of people lack both offensive and defensive weapons; consequently, although they naturally may be obliged to defend themselves, they are not capable of offending anyone. And although I said a little while ago that I could be insulted, now I say no, not in any manner, because one who cannot receive an affront is even less capable of committing one; for these reasons I should not be aggrieved, and I am not, by what that good man said to me; I wish only that he had stayed so that I could have convinced him of his error in thinking and saying that there were no knights errant in the world, and that there are none now, for if Amadís or any of his infinite descendants had heard him, I know it would not have gone well for his grace.”

“I’ll swear to that,” said Sancho. “They would have slashed him open from top to bottom like a pomegranate or a very ripe melon. They were the right ones to put up with jokes like that! By my faith, I’m sure if Reinaldos de Montalbán had heard that little man saying those things, he would have slapped him so hard across the mouth he wouldn’t have said another word for three years. He should have tried it with them and seen if they’d let him get away!”

The duchess was weak with laughter when she heard Sancho speak, and in her opinion he was more amusing and even crazier than his master, an opinion held by many at the time. Don Quixote at last became calm, and the meal was concluded, and as the table was being cleared, four maidens came in, the first bearing a silver basin, the second a pitcher, also of silver, the third, carrying two very white, very thick towels on her shoulder, and the fourth, with her forearms bared, holding in her white hands—for they undoubtedly were white—a round cake of Neapolitan soap. The one with the basin approached and with charming grace and assurance placed the basin beneath Don Quixote’s beard, and he, not saying a word, marveled at such a ceremony but believed that in this land it must be the custom to wash one’s beard rather than one’s hands, and so he extended his as much as he could, and at that moment the pitcher began to pour, and the maiden with the soap began to rub his beard very quickly, raising flakes of snow no less white than the lather, not only on his beard but all over the face and eyes of the obedient knight, who was obliged to close them.

The duke and duchess, who knew nothing about this, waited to see how so extraordinary a washing would end. The beard-washing maiden, when she had covered him with lather to the depth of a span, pretended there was no more water, and she told the one with the pitcher to go for some because Señor Don Quixote would be waiting. She did so, and Don Quixote was left there, the strangest and most laughable figure that anyone could imagine.

All those present, and there were many, were watching him, and when they saw that he had a neck half a vara long, and a complexion more than moderately dark, and closed eyes, and a beard full of soap, it was truly astonishing and a sign of great astuteness that they could hide their laughter; the trickster maidens kept their eyes lowered, not daring to look at their master and mistress, who were torn between anger and laughter and did not know how to respond: to punish the girls for their boldness or reward them for the pleasure they had received at seeing Don Quixote in that condition.

Finally the maiden with the pitcher returned, and they finished washing Don Quixote, and then the girl with the towels very calmly wiped and dried him; then all four of them curtsied, and made obeisance to him at the same time, and attempted to leave, but the duke, to keep Don Quixote from realizing it was a joke, called to the maiden with the basin, saying:

“Come and wash me, and be careful you don’t run out of water.”

The girl, who was shrewd and diligent, approached and placed the basin beneath the duke’s beard as she had with Don Quixote, and they quickly washed and soaped him thoroughly, and having wiped and dried him, they curtsied and left. Later it was learned that the duke had sworn that if they did not wash him as they had Don Quixote, he would punish their daring, but they cleverly changed his mind by soaping him so well.

Sancho paid careful attention to the ceremonies of the washing and said to himself:

“God save me! Can it be the custom in this land to wash the beards of squires as well as knights? Because by my soul I could use it, and even if they shaved me with a razor, I’d think it was a good thing.”

“What are you saying, Sancho?” asked the duchess.

“I’m saying, Señora,” he responded, “that in the courts of other princes I’ve always heard that when the tables are cleared they pour water over your hands, but not lather on your beard; and that’s why it’s good to live a long time, because then you see a lot; though they also say that if you have a long life, you go through a lot of bad times, though going through one of these washings is more pleasure than trouble.”

“Don’t worry, Sancho my friend,” said the duchess. “I’ll have my maidens wash you, and even put you in the tub, if necessary.”

“Just my beard will satisfy me,” responded Sancho, “at least for now; later on, God’s will be done.”

“Butler,” said the duchess, “see to whatever our good Sancho wants, and obey his wishes to the letter.”

The butler responded that Señor Sancho would be served in everything, and having said this, he left to eat and took Sancho with him, while the duke and duchess and Don Quixote remained at the table, speaking of many different matters, but all of them touching on the practice of arms and on knight errantry.

The duchess asked Don Quixote to depict and describe, for he seemed to have an excellent memory, the beauty and features of Señora Dulcinea of Toboso, so famous for her beauty that the duchess understood she must be the most beautiful creature in the world, and even in all of La Mancha. Don Quixote sighed when he heard what the duchess had commanded, and he said:

“If I could take out my heart and place it before the eyes of your highness, here on this table, on a plate, it would spare my tongue the effort of saying what can barely be thought, because in it Your Excellency would see her portrayed in detail; but why should I begin now to depict and describe, point by point and part by part, the beauty of the peerless Dulcinea? That is a burden worthy of shoulders other than mine, an enterprise that should be undertaken by the brushes of Parrhasius, Timanthus, and Appelles and the chisels of Lysippus⁴⁵¹ to paint and engrave her on tablets, marble, and bronze, and by Ciceronian and Demosthenian rhetoric to praise her.”

“What does Demosthenian mean, Señor Don Quixote?” asked the duchess. “That is a word I have never heard before in all my days.”

“Demosthenian rhetoric,” responded Don Quixote, “is the same as saying the rhetoric of Demosthenes, as Ciceronian means of Cicero, and they were the two greatest rhetoricians in the world.”

“That is true,” said the duke, “and you must have been confused when you asked the question. But, even so, Señor Don Quixote would give us great pleasure if he would depict her for us, and I am certain that even in the broad strokes of a sketch, she will appear in such a fashion that even the most beautiful women will be envious of her.”

“I would do so, most certainly,” responded Don Quixote, “if my image of her had not been blurred by the misfortune that befell her recently, one so great that I am better prepared to weep for her than to describe her; because your highnesses must know that not long ago, when I was going to kiss her hands and receive her blessing, approval, and permission for this third sally, I found a person different from the one I was seeking: I found her enchanted, transformed from a princess into a peasant, from beautiful to ugly, from an angel into a devil, from fragrant into foul-smelling, from well-spoken into a rustic, from serene into skittish, from light into darkness, and, finally, from Dulcinea of Toboso into a lowborn farmgirl from Sayago.”

“Lord save me!” the duke exclaimed in a loud voice. “Who could have done so much harm to the world? Who has removed from it the beauty that brought it joy, the grace that brought it delight, the virtue that brought it honor?”

“Who?” responded Don Quixote. “Who can it be but some malevolent enchanter, one of the many envious ones who pursue me? An accursed race, born into the world to darken and crush the feats of good men, to shed light on and raise up the deeds of the wicked. Enchanters have pursued me, enchanters pursue me now, and enchanters will pursue me until they throw me and my high chivalric exploits into the profound abyss of oblivion; they harm and wound me in the part where they can see I feel it most, for taking away his lady from a knight errant is taking away the eyes with which he sees, and the sun that shines down on him, and the sustenance that maintains him. I have said it many times before, and now I say it again: the knight errant without a lady is like a tree without leaves, a building without a foundation, a shadow without a body to cast it.”

“There is nothing more to say,” said the duchess, “but if, despite this, we are to believe the history of Señor Don Quixote that only recently has come into the world to the general applause of all people, we infer from that, if I remember correctly, that your grace has never seen Señora Dulcinea, and that she does not exist in the world but is an imaginary lady, and that your grace engendered and gave birth to her in your mind, and depicted her with all the graces and perfections that you desired.”

“There is much to say about that,” responded Don Quixote. “God knows if Dulcinea exists in the world or not, or if she is imaginary or not imaginary; these are not the kinds of things whose verification can be carried through to the end. I neither engendered nor gave birth to my lady, although I contemplate her in the manner proper to a lady who possesses the qualities that can make her famous throughout the world, to wit: she is beautiful without blemish, serious without arrogance, amorous but modest, grateful because she is courteous, courteous because she is well-bred, and, finally, noble because of her lineage, for when coupled with good blood, beauty shines and excels to a greater degree of perfection than in beautiful women of humble birth.”

“That is so,” said the duke. “But Señor Don Quixote must give me permission to say what I am obliged to say because of the history of his deeds which I have read, and from which one infers that even if it is conceded that Dulcinea exists, in Toboso or outside it, and that she is as exceptionally beautiful as your grace depicts her for us, in the matter of noble lineage she cannot compare with the Orianas, Alastrajareas, Madásimas, or other ladies of that kind who fill the histories which your grace knows so well.”

“To that I can say,” responded Don Quixote, “that Dulcinea is the child of her actions, and that virtues strengthen the blood, and that a virtuous person of humble birth is to be more highly esteemed and valued than a vice-ridden noble, especially since Dulcinea possesses a quality⁴⁵² that can make her a queen with a crown and scepter; for the merits of a beautiful and virtuous woman extend to performing even greater miracles, and in her she carries, virtually if not formally, even greater good fortune.”

“Señor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, “I say that in everything your grace says you proceed with great caution and, as they say, with the sounding line in your hand; from now on I shall believe, and make my entire household believe, and even my lord the duke, if necessary, that Dulcinea exists in Toboso, and that she lives in our day, and is beautiful, and nobly born, and worthy of having a knight like Señor Don Quixote serving her, which is the highest praise I can give, and the highest I know of. But I cannot help having one scruple, and feeling a certain animosity toward Sancho Panza: the scruple is that the aforementioned history says that Sancho Panza found the lady Dulcinea, when he brought her a missive on behalf of your grace, sifting a sack of grain, and, apparently, that it was buckwheat, which makes me doubt the nobility of her lineage.”

To which Don Quixote responded:

“Señora, your highness must know that all or almost all the things that befall me go beyond the ordinary scope of things that happen to other knights errant, whether they are directed by the inscrutable will of fate or by the malevolence of some envious enchanter; and since it is well-known about all or almost all the famous knights errant that one has the ability never to be enchanted, and another has impenetrable flesh and cannot be wounded, such as the famous Roland, one of the Twelve Peers of France, of whom it is said that he could not be wounded except on the sole of his left foot, and only with the point of a large pin and not with any other kind of weapon; and so, when Bernardo del Carpio killed him at Roncesvalles, seeing that he could not wound him with his blade, he lifted him off the ground and strangled him, for he had recalled how Hercules killed Antaeus, the fierce giant they say was the child of Earth. I wish to infer from what I have said that I may have one of these abilities; but not the one that keeps me from being wounded, for experience has often shown me that my flesh is weak and not at all impenetrable; and not the one that keeps me from being enchanted, for I have found myself locked in a cage, although the entire world would not have had the strength to put me in there if it were not for enchantments. And since I freed myself from that enchantment, I should like to believe there will not be any other that can harm me; and so these enchanters, seeing that they cannot use their evil craft against my person, wreak their vengeance on the things I love most, and wish to take my life by mistreating Dulcinea, by whose grace I live. And therefore I believe that when my squire carried my message to her, they transformed her into a peasant engaged in labor so menial as sifting grain; but I have already said that the grain was neither buckwheat nor wheat but Oriental pearls; and as proof of this truth I want to tell your highnesses that not long ago, when I was passing through Toboso, I could not find the palaces of Dulcinea, and the next day, Sancho, my squire, saw her real form, which is the most beautiful on earth, but to me she seemed a crude and ugly peas-ant girl, and in no way well-spoken, although she is the epitome of discernment in the world. And since I am not enchanted, and cannot be, according to sound reasoning, she is the enchanted one, the offended one, the one who is altered, changed, and transformed; through her my enemies have taken their revenge on me, and for her sake I shall live in perpetual tears until I see her restored to her pristine state. I have said this so that no one will pay heed to what Sancho said about Dulcinea’s sifting or winnowing; since they altered her for me, it is no wonder they changed her for him. Dulcinea is illustrious and wellborn; of the noble lineages in Toboso, which are numerous, ancient, and very good, the peerless Dulcinea surely possesses more than a small portion, and for her sake the town will be famous and renowned in times to come, as Troy has been for Helen, and Spain for La Cava,⁴⁵³ although for better reasons and with better fame.

On the other hand, I want your lordship and ladyship to understand that Sancho Panza is one of the most amusing squires who ever served a knight errant; at times his simpleness is so clever that deciding if he is simple or clever is a cause of no small pleasure; his slyness condemns him for a rogue, and his thoughtlessness confirms him as a simpleton; he doubts everything, and he believes everything; when I think that he is about to plunge headlong into foolishness, he comes out with perceptions that raise him to the skies. In short, I would not trade him for any other squire even if I were given a city to do so; consequently, I have some doubt regarding whether sending him to the governorship with which your highness has favored him is the right thing to do, although I see in him a certain aptitude for governing; with just a little refinement of his understanding, he would be as successful with any governorship as the king is with his duties and taxes; moreover, by dint of long experience, we know that neither great ability nor great learning is needed to be a governor, for there are in the world at least a hundred who barely know how to read, and who govern in a grand manner; the essential point is that they have good intentions and the desire always to do the right thing, for they will never lack someone to guide and counsel them in what they must do, like those knightly, unlettered governors who pass judgments with an adviser at their side. I would caution him not to accept bribes, and not to lose sight of the law, and a few other trifles that I shall not mention now but will come out in due course, to the benefit of Sancho and the advantage of the ínsula which he will govern.”

The duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote had reached this point in their conversation when they heard many voices and a clamor of people in the palace, and suddenly a frightened Sancho burst into the room wearing a piece of coarse burlap as a bib, and behind him came a number of young men, that is to say scullery boys and other menials, and one was carrying a tub of water whose color and lack of cleanliness indicated that it was dishwater, and the boy with the tub was following and pursuing Sancho and attempting with all solicitude to place it and put it under his beard, which another rogue showed signs of wanting to wash.

“What is this, my friends?” asked the duchess. “What is this? What do you want from this good man? Haven’t you considered that he has been selected governor?”

To which the roguish barber responded:

“This gentleman won’t let himself be washed, though that’s the custom, in the way the duke my lord was washed, and his own master.”

“I will let myself,” responded Sancho in a fury, “but I want it to be with cleaner towels, and clearer water, and hands that aren’t so dirty, for there’s not so much difference between me and my master that they should wash him with angel water and me with the devil’s bleach. The customs of different lands and the palaces of princes are good as long as they don’t cause any pain, but the custom of washing that they have here is worse than being flagellated. My beard is clean and I don’t need any freshening up like this; whoever tries to wash me or touch a hair on my head, I mean, of my beard, with all due respect, I’ll hit him so hard that I’ll leave my fist embedded in his skull; ceremonies and soapings like these seem more like mockery than hospitality for guests.”

The duchess was convulsed with laughter when she saw the anger and heard the words of Sancho, but Don Quixote was not very pleased to see him so badly adorned with the streaked and spotted towel, and so surrounded by so many kitchen scullions; and after making a deep bow to the duke and duchess, as if asking their permission to speak, he spoke to the mob in a tranquil voice, saying:

“Hello, Señores! Your graces must leave the young man alone and return to the place from which you came, or anywhere else you like; my squire is as clean as any other, and those little bowls are for him small and narrow-mouthed vessels. Take my advice and leave him alone, for neither he nor I have any fondness for mockery.”

Sancho caught his words as they left his mouth and continued, saying:

“No, let them come and mock the bumpkin, and I’ll put up with that the way it’s nighttime now! Bring a comb here, or whatever you want, and curry this beard, and if you find anything there that offends cleanliness, then you can shear me willy-nilly.”

At this point, the duchess, who was still laughing, said:

“Sancho Panza is correct in everything he has said, and everything he will say: he is clean and, as he says, he has no need of washing; if our custom does not please him, that should be the end of it, especially since you, ministers of cleanliness, have been far too remiss and negligent, and perhaps I should say insolent, in bringing to such a person and such a beard, not basins and pitchers of pure gold, and damask towels, but wooden bowls and pans and cleaning rags. But, after all, you are wicked and base and, like the scoundrels you are, cannot help showing the ill will you bear toward the squires of knights errant.”

The roguish ministrants, and even the butler who had come in with them, believed that the duchess was speaking seriously, and so they removed the burlap from Sancho’s chest, and disconcerted, and almost embarrassed, they went away and left him alone; and he, seeing himself free of what had seemed to him an extreme danger, went to kneel before the duchess and said:

“From great ladies, great favors are expected; the one your grace has granted me today cannot be repaid unless it is with my desire to see myself dubbed a knight errant so that I can spend all the days of my life serving so high a lady. I am a peasant, my name is Sancho Panza, I am married, I have children, and I serve as a squire; if with any of these things I can be of service to your highness, I will take less time to obey than your ladyship will to command.”

“It certainly seems, Sancho,” responded the duchess, “that you have learned to be courteous in the school of courtesy itself; it certainly seems, I mean to say, that you have been nurtured in the bosom of Señor Don Quixote, who must be the cream of courtesy and the flower of ceremonies, or cirimonies, as you call them. Good fortune to such a master and such a servant, the one for being the polestar of knight errantry, the other for being the star of squirely fidelity. Arise, Sancho my friend, and I shall repay your courtesies by having the duke my lord, as quickly as he can, fulfill the promised favor of a governorship for you.”

With this their conversation ended, and Don Quixote went to take his siesta, and the duchess requested that if Sancho had no great desire to sleep, he should come and spend the afternoon with her and her maidens in a room that was cool and pleasant. Sancho replied that although it was true that he was in the habit of taking four-or five-hour siestas in the summer, to respond to her great kindness he would attempt with all his might not to sleep even one that day and would obey her command, and then he left. The duke issued new orders that Don Quixote was to be treated as a knight errant, without deviating in the slightest from the manner in which it has been recounted that knights of old were treated.