Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (141 page)

“You know who you are.”

“I’m not asking you that,” responded the gentleman, “I’m asking you to tell me if you know me.”

“Yes, I know you,” was the response. “You are Don Pedro Noriz.”

“I don’t want to know more, for this is enough for me to realize, O head, that you know everything.”

When he moved away, the other friend approached and asked:

“Tell me, head, what does my son and heir desire?”

“I have already said,” came the response, “that I do not consider desires, but despite this, I can tell you that what your son desires is to bury you.”

“That’s right,” said the gentleman. “What I see with my eyes I can touch with my finger.”

And he asked nothing more. Don Antonio’s wife came up and said:

“Head, I don’t know what to ask you; I only wanted to know if I’ll enjoy many more years with my good husband.”

And the response was:

“You will, because his health and temperate living promise many years of life, which many people tend to cut short by their intemperance.”

Then Don Quixote approached and said:

“Tell me, you who respond: was my account of what happened to me in the Cave of Montesinos the truth or a dream? Will the lashes of my squire Sancho be completed? Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea take place?”

“As for the cave,” was the response, “there is much to say, for it has something of both: Sancho’s lashes will go slowly, and the disenchantment of Dulcinea will be duly effected.”

“I do not wish to know more,” said Don Quixote, “for when I see Dulcinea disenchanted, I shall think that all the good fortune I could wish for has come all at once.”

The final questioner was Sancho, and what he asked was:

“By any chance, head, will I have another governorship? Will I ever escape a squire’s poverty? Will I see my wife and children again?”

The response was:

“You will govern in your house, and if you return there, you will see your wife and children, and when you stop serving, you will stop being a squire.”

“By God, that’s good!” said Sancho Panza. “I could have told myself that: the prophet Old Chestnut couldn’t have said more.”

“Animal,” said Don Quixote, “what response do you want? Is it not enough that this head has given answers that correspond to what is asked of it?”

“Yes, it’s enough,” responded Sancho, “but I’d like it to declare more and tell me more.”

With this the questions and answers came to an end, but not the amazement felt by everyone except the two friends of Don Antonio, who were privy to the secret. Cide Hamete Benengeli wished to explain the matter immediately in order to curb the astonishment of those who might think that some magical and extraordinary mystery was contained in the head, and so he tells us that Don Antonio Moreno, in imitation of another head he had seen in Madrid, which had been fabricated by an engraver, had this one made in his own house for his own entertainment and to astound the ignorant; it was constructed in this fashion: the tabletop was of wood painted and varnished to look like jasper, and the base on which it rested was made of the same material, with four eagle’s talons projecting from it for greater stability. The head, which resembled a carved portrait bust of a Roman emperor cast in bronze, was completely hollow, as was the tabletop into which it fit so perfectly that there was no sign of their joining. The base of the table was also hollow, corresponding to the throat and chest of the head, and all this connected to another chamber beneath the room where the head was located. Through the entire hollow of the base, tabletop, throat, and chest of the portrait bust ran a tube of tinplate that was very precisely fitted and could not be seen by anyone. Posted in the corresponding chamber below was the man who would respond, his mouth up against the tube, so that, as if the tube were an ear trumpet, one voice would travel down and the other would travel up in clear, well-articulated words, and in this way it was not possible to discover the deception. Don Antonio’s nephew, an astute and clever student, was the responder; having been told by his uncle
who would come into the room with him to question the head that day, it was easy for him to respond quickly and accurately to the first question; he responded to the others by conjecture and, since he was clever, with cleverness.

Cide Hamete goes on to say that this marvelous device lasted ten or twelve days, but word spread throughout the city that Don Antonio had an enchanted head in his house that would answer every question asked of it, and fearing that the rumors would reach the ears of the alert guardians of our Faith, he informed the inquisitors of the matter and was ordered to dismantle it and not to use it in the future lest it cause turmoil among the ignorant common people; but in the opinion of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, the head was still enchanted and responsive, more to the satisfaction of Don Quixote than of Sancho.

The gentlemen of the city, in order to please Don Antonio and to entertain Don Quixote and give him the opportunity to reveal his madness, arranged to hold a tilting of the ring in six days’ time, but it did not take place because of an accident that will be recounted later. Don Quixote wanted to go out into the city in a simple manner, and on foot, fearing that if he went on horseback, he would be pursued by boys, and so he and Sancho, and two servants offered to him by Don Antonio, went out for a walk.

As he was going down a street, Don Quixote happened to look up, and over a door he saw written, in very large letters:
Books Printed Here,
⁵
which made him very happy because he had never visited a print shop, and he wished to know what it was like. He went in with his entourage, and he saw them printing in one place, correcting in another, typesetting here, revising there, in short, all of the procedures that can be seen in large printing houses. Don Quixote approached one section and asked what they were doing there; the workmen told him, he marveled, and moved on. He went up to another workman and asked him what he was doing. He responded:

“Señor, this gentleman here”—and he pointed to a rather serious man of fine appearance and figure—“has translated a Tuscan book into our Castilian language, and I’m setting the type so that it can be printed.”

“What is the title of the book?” asked Don Quixote.

To which the translator replied:

“Señor, in Tuscan the book is called
Le Bagatele.
”
⁶

“And what does
le bagatele
mean in our Castilian?” asked Don Quixote.

“Le bagatele,”
said the translator, “would be like our saying
the playthings,
and though this book has a humble name, it contains and includes very good and substantive things.”

“I,” said Don Quixote, “know a little Tuscan, and take pride in singing some stanzas by Ariosto. But tell me, Señor—and I do not say this because I wish to test your grace’s abilities but simply out of curiosity—in your translating, has your grace ever come across the word
pignata?”

“Yes, many times,” responded the translator.

“And how does your grace translate it into Castilian?” asked Don Quixote.

“How would I translate it,” replied the translator, “except by saying
stew pot?”

“By God,” said Don Quixote, “how well your grace knows the Tuscan language! I would wager a good sum that where the Tuscan says
piace,
your grace says
please
in Castilian, and where it says
piu,
you say
more,
and
su
you render as
above,
and
giu
as
below.
”

“Yes, I do, certainly,” said the translator, “because those are the corresponding words.”

“And I shall be so bold as to swear,” said Don Quixote, “that your grace is not well-known in the world, which is always unwilling to reward rare talents and praiseworthy efforts. What abilities are lost there! What talents ignored! What virtues scorned! But despite all this, it seems to me that translating from one language to another, unless it is from Greek and Latin, the queens of all languages, is like looking at Flemish tapestries from the wrong side, for although the figures are visible, they are covered by threads that obscure them, and cannot be seen with the smoothness and color of the right side; translating easy languages does not argue for either talent or eloquence, just as transcribing or copying from one paper to another does not argue for those qualities. And I do not wish to infer from this that the practice of translating is not
deserving of praise, because a man might engage in worse things that bring him even less benefit. From this reckoning I except two famous translators: one is Dr. Cristóbal de Figueroa, for his
Pastor Fido,
and the other is Don Juan de Jáurigui, for his
Aminta,
⁷
where they happily bring into question which is the translation and which the original. But tell me, your grace: is this book being printed at your expense or have the rights already been sold to a bookseller?”

“I am printing it at my own expense,” responded the translator, “and expect to earn at least a thousand
ducados
with this first printing, which will consist of two thousand copies that can easily be sold for six
reales
each.”

“Your grace is certainly good at calculations!” responded Don Quixote. “But it seems you do not know how printers collude or the favors they do for one another. I promise that when you find yourself burdened with two thousand copies of the book, your body will be so exhausted it will disconcert you, especially if the book is slightly out of the ordinary and not at all risqué.”

“And?” said the translator. “Would your grace prefer that I give it to a bookseller, who’ll pay me three
maravedís
for the rights and think he’s doing me a favor? I don’t print my books to achieve fame in the world, because I’m already well-known for my work; I want profit: without it, fame isn’t worth a thing.”

“God grant your grace good fortune,” responded Don Quixote.

And he moved to another section, where he saw that they were correcting sheets from a book entitled
Light of the Soul,
⁸
and when he saw it he said:

“These are the kinds of books, although there are a good number of them, which ought to be printed, because there are countless sinners, and infinite illumination is needed for so many who are unenlightened.”

He moved on and saw that they were also correcting another book, and when he asked its title, they responded that it was called the
Second Part of the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha,
written by somebody from Tordesillas.
⁹

“I have already heard of this book,” said Don Quixote, “and by my conscience, the truth is I thought it had already been burned and turned to ashes for its insolence; but its day of reckoning will come, as it does to every pig,
¹⁰
for feigned histories are good and enjoyable the closer they are to the truth or the appearance of truth, and as for true ones, the truer they are, the better.”

And having said this, and showing some signs of displeasure, he left the printing house. And that same day, Don Antonio arranged for him to be taken to see the galleys along the coast, which made Sancho very happy because he had never seen any before. Don Antonio informed the
cuatralbo
¹¹
that he would be bringing his famous guest, Don Quixote of La Mancha, about whom the
cuatralbo
and all the residents of the city had heard, to see the galleys that afternoon; and what happened to him on board will be recounted in the following chapter.

CHAPTER LXIII

Don Quixote meditated at length on the response of the enchanted head, never realizing the deception, and always concluding with the promise, which he regarded as certain, of Dulcinea’s disenchantment. He returned to it again and again and rejoiced, believing he would soon see the promise fulfilled; and Sancho, although he had despised being governor, as has already been said, still wished to give orders and be obeyed, for command, even mock command, brings this misfortune with it.

In short, that afternoon their host, Don Antonio Moreno, and his two friends, along with Don Quixote and Sancho, went to see the galleys. The
cuatralbo
had been advised of their most welcome visit, since it meant seeing the famous pair, Don Quixote and Sancho, and as soon as they reached the harbor all the galleys took down their canopies, and fla
geolets began to sound; then a skiff covered with rich tapestries and pillows of scarlet velvet was lowered into the water, and as soon as Don Quixote set foot in it the flagship fired its midship cannon, and the other galleys did the same, and when Don Quixote climbed the starboard ladder, the oarsmen and the entire crew cheered him, as was customary when a distinguished person boarded a galley, repeating, “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!” three times. The admiral general, which is what we shall call him, for he was a distinguished gentleman from Valencia, gave him his hand, then embraced Don Quixote, saying:

“I shall mark this day with a white stone because it is one of the best I think I shall ever have in my life, for on it I have seen Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, who demonstrates that all the valor of knight errantry is epitomized and exemplified in his person.”

Don Quixote responded with words no less courteous, delighted beyond measure to find himself treated so nobly. They all went to the stern, which was beautifully adorned, and they sat on the side benches; the boatswain passed along the midship gangway and signaled on his whistle for the oarsmen to strip to the waist,
¹
which they did instantly. Sancho was stunned to see so many people undressed, especially when he saw the canopy lowered so quickly it seemed to him that all the devils were working there, but this was mere child’s play compared to what I shall tell you now. Sancho was sitting on the pole that held the canopy, next to the stern rower
²
on the starboard side, who had already received his instructions, and he seized Sancho and lifted him up in his arms, while all the oarsmen stood ready, and beginning on the starboard side, the arms of the rowers passed him and tossed him from bench to bench with so much speed that poor Sancho’s eyes could no longer see, and he undoubtedly thought the demons were carrying him off, and the oarsmen did not stop until they had returned him along the port side back to the stern. The poor man was bruised, breathless, perspiring, and unable to imagine what had happened to him.