Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (136 page)

“And with reason,” said Don Quixote, “unless your peerless beauty calls that into question. Do not weary yourselves, Señoras, in trying to detain me, because the obligatory demands of my profession do not allow me to rest very long in one place.”

Just then a brother of one of the shepherdesses came to the spot where the four of them were, and he too was dressed as a shepherd, as richly and elegantly as the two girls, who told him that the man with them was the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and the other was his squire, Sancho, both of whom he already knew about because he had read their history. The charming shepherd paid his compliments and asked the knight to accompany him to his tents, and Don Quixote finally had to agree.

At this point the beaters arrived, and the nets were filled with a variety of small birds that were deceived by the color of the nets and fell into the very danger they were fleeing. More than thirty people gathered in that place, all of them splendidly dressed as shepherds and shepherdesses, and in a moment all of them knew who Don Quixote and his squire were, which pleased them a great deal because they already knew about the two of them from their history. They went to the tents and found the tables richly, abundantly, and immaculately laid; they honored Don Quixote by seating him at the head, and everyone looked at him and was amazed to see him.

Finally, when the tables had been cleared, Don Quixote very calmly raised his voice and said:

“Although some may say pride is the greatest sin men commit, I say it is ingratitude, for I am guided by the adage that says hell is filled with the ungrateful. This sin is one I have attempted to flee, as much as it was possible for me to do so, since I first reached the age of reason; if I cannot repay the good deeds done for me with other deeds, in their place I put the desire I have to perform them, and if that is not enough, I proclaim those good deeds far and wide, because the person who tells about and proclaims the good deeds that have been performed on his behalf would also recompense them with other deeds if he could, because most of the time those who receive are subordinate to those who give: therefore God is above us all, because He gives to us all, and the gifts of man cannot be compared to those of God, for they are separated by an infinite distance; this paucity and dearth, in a certain sense, can be made up for by gratitude. And I, grateful for the kindness shown to me here, and not being able to correspond in kind, for I am restrained by the narrow limitations of my means, offer what little I
can and am able to do; and so I say that I shall maintain for two whole days, in the middle of the king’s highway to Zaragoza, that these damsels, the feigned shepherdesses here present, are the most beautiful and courteous maidens in the world, excepting only the peerless Dulcinea of Toboso, the sole lady of my thoughts, with no offense intended to all the gentlemen and ladies who hear me.”

Upon hearing this, Sancho, who had been listening very attentively, gave a great shout, saying:

“Is it possible that there are persons in the world who dare to say and swear that my master is crazy? Your graces, Señores Shepherds, tell me: is there a village priest, no matter how intelligent and educated, who can say what my master has said, or a knight errant, no matter how famous for courage, who can offer what my master has offered here?”

Don Quixote turned to Sancho, his face ablaze with anger, and said:

“Is it possible, O Sancho, that there is anyone in the whole wide world who can say you are not a dolt, lined with doltishness and trimmed with a certain wickedness and malice? Who has asked you to mind my business or determine if I am intelligent or a fool? Be quiet, and do not answer me, but saddle Rocinante if he is unsaddled, and let us go to put my offer into effect, for with the rightness of my cause, you can consider all who might wish to contradict it as already vanquished.”

And with great fury and signs of anger, he rose from his seat, leaving the onlookers perplexed, wondering if they should consider him as mad or sane. Finally, they attempted to persuade him not to issue the challenge, for they considered his gratitude well-known, and there was no need for further proofs of his valiant spirit since the ones alluded to in the history of his deeds were more than enough; yet despite all this, Don Quixote carried out his intention, and sitting on Rocinante, his shield on his arm and his lance in his hand, he placed himself in the middle of a king’s highway not far from the green meadow. Sancho followed him on his gray, along with all the people in the pastoral flock, for they wished to see how far his arrogant and unparalleled offer would go.

When Don Quixote was situated in the middle of the road—as I have already told you—he pierced the air with these words:

“O you travelers and wayfarers, knights and squires, those on foot and those on horseback who pass or will pass along this road during the next two days! Know that Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight errant, is here
to maintain that of all the beauty and courtesy in the world, none is greater than that found in the nymphs who inhabit these meadows and forests, putting to one side the lady of my soul, Dulcinea of Toboso. Therefore whoever holds a contrary opinion, let him come forward: I wait for him here.”

Twice he repeated these same words, and twice they were not heard by any seeker of adventures; but Fortune, who was directing his affairs from one success to another, ordained that in a little while there would appear on the road a crowd of men on horseback, many of them with lances in their hands, riding very close together, in some confusion and in great haste. As soon as those who were with Don Quixote saw them, they turned and moved a good distance from the road, knowing that if they waited, they could be in danger; only Don Quixote, with an intrepid heart, stayed where he was, and Sancho Panza took cover behind Rocinante’s hindquarters.

The troop of lancers approached, and one of them, who was riding at their head, began to shout at Don Quixote, saying:

“Move aside, you devil, or these bulls will trample you to death!”

“Hah, you rabble!” responded Don Quixote. “What do I care for bulls, even if they are the fiercest bred on the banks of the Jarama! Confess, you villains, that what I have proclaimed here is true, without knowing what it is, and if you do not, you will have to contend with me.”

The herder had no time to respond, and Don Quixote had no time to move away, even if he had wanted to, and the crowd of fierce bulls and tame lead oxen, and the multitude of herders and other people who were taking them to a town where they would fight the next day, passed over Don Quixote, and over Sancho, Rocinante, and the gray, knocking them all down and sending them rolling along the ground. Sancho was left bruised, Don Quixote stunned, the donkey battered, and Rocinante none too sound; but, finally, they all got to their feet, and Don Quixote, stumbling here and falling there, began to run as fast as he could after the herd of bulls, shouting:

“Stop, wait, you villainous rabble! A single knight awaits you, one who does not concur or agree with those who say that one should build a silver bridge for the enemy who flees!”

But not even this could stop the speeding runners, and they paid no more attention to his threats than to the clouds of yesteryear. Exhaustion stopped Don Quixote, and more vexed than avenged, he
sat down by the side of the road, waiting for Sancho, Rocinante, and the gray to reach him. They did, and master and servant remounted, and without returning to take their leave of the feigned or counterfeit Arcadia, and with more shame than pleasure, they continued on their way.

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.”