Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (16 page)

“It is called an
eclipse,
my friend, not a
clips,
when those two great heavenly bodies darken,” said Don Quixote.

But Pedro, paying little attention to such trifles, continued with his story, saying:

“And he also could tell when the land would produce and when it would be bairn.”

“You mean
barren,
my friend,” said Don Quixote.

“
Barren
or
bairn,
” responded Pedro, “it’s all the same in the end. And what I’m saying is that because of what he told them, his father and his friends, who believed him, became very rich because they listened when he said: ‘This year plant barley, not wheat; and this year you can plant chickpeas and not barley; next year there’ll be a good olive oil harvest, but for the next three you won’t get a drop.’”

“This science is called astrology,” said Don Quixote.

“I don’t know what it’s called,” Pedro replied, “but I do know he knew all that, and even more. Finally, not many months after he came home from Salamanca, he suddenly appeared one day dressed like a shepherd, with a staff and sheepskin jacket instead of the long gown he wore as a scholar, and a close friend of his named Ambrosio, who had studied with him in Salamanca, dressed up like a shepherd, too. I forgot to say that Grisóstomo, the dead man, was a great one for writing verses; in fact, he wrote the carols for the night of Our Lord’s Birth, and the plays for Corpus Christi that the lads from our village put on, and everybody said they were wonderful. When the people in the village saw the
two scholars suddenly dressed like shepherds, they were really surprised and couldn’t guess the reason why they’d made so odd a change. At about this time his father died, and Grisóstomo inherited a big estate, goods as well as lands, no small amount of livestock both large and small, and a large amount of money; the boy became lord and master of all of this, and the truth is he deserved it all, for he was a very good companion and a charitable man and a friend of good people, and his face was like a blessing. Later on, people began to understand that the change in the way he dressed had been for no other reason than to go wandering through these wild places, following after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned before, because our poor dead Grisóstomo had fallen in love with her. And I want to tell you now who this girl is, because you ought to know; maybe, and maybe there’s no maybe about it, you won’t hear anything like it in all your born days, even if you live to be as old as my mouth sores.”

“You mean
Methuselah,
” replied Don Quixote, unable to tolerate the goatherd’s confusion of words.

“My mouth sores last a good long time,” Pedro responded, “and if, Señor, you keep correcting every word I say, we won’t finish in a year.”

“Forgive me, my friend,” said Don Quixote. “I mentioned it only because there is such a great difference between
my mouth sores
and
Methuselah;
but you answered very well, since
my mouth sores
live longer than
Methuselah;
go on with your story, and I shall not contradict you again in anything.”

“Well, Señor, as I was saying,” said the goatherd, “in our village there was a farmer even richer than Grisóstomo’s father, and his name was Guillermo, and God gave him not only great wealth but also a daughter, whose mother died giving birth to her, and her mother was the most respected woman in this whole district. It seems to me I can see her now, with that face of hers shining like the sun on one side and the moon on the other; more than anything else, she was a hardworking friend to the poor, and for this reason I believe that right this minute her spirit is enjoying God in the next world. Her husband, Guillermo, died of grief at the death of such a good woman, and their daughter, Marcela, was left a very rich girl, in the care of an uncle who was a priest, the vicar of our village. The girl grew, and her beauty reminded us of her mother’s, which was very great, though people thought the daughter’s would be even greater. And it was, for when she reached the age of fourteen or fifteen, no man could look at her and not bless God for making her so beautiful,
and most fell madly in love with her. Her uncle kept her carefully and modestly secluded, but even so, word of her great beauty spread so that for her own sake, and because of her great fortune, not only the men of our village but those for many miles around, the best among them, asked, begged, and implored her uncle for her hand in marriage. But he, a good and honest Christian, though he wanted to arrange her marriage as soon as she was of age, didn’t want to do it without her consent, and didn’t even care about the profit and gain from the girl’s estate that he would enjoy if he delayed her marriage. And by my faith, there was many a gossip in the village who said this in praise of the good priest. For I want you to know, Señor Knight, that in these small hamlets people talk and gossip about everything, and you can be sure, as I am, that a priest must be better than good if his parishioners have to speak well of him, especially in a village.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “and please continue; the story is very good, and you, my good Pedro, tell it with a good deal of grace.”

“May God’s grace be with me, that’s the one that matters. As for the rest, you should know that even though the uncle suggested names to his niece, and told her the qualities of each of the many suitors begging for her hand, and asked her to choose and marry a man she liked, she never said anything except that she didn’t want to marry just then, and since she was so young she didn’t feel able to bear the burdens of matrimony. Hearing these excuses, which seemed so reasonable, the uncle stopped asking and waited for her to get a little older, when she would be able to choose a husband she liked. Because he said, and rightly so, that parents shouldn’t force their children into marriage against their will.

But then one day, to everybody’s surprise, the finicky Marcela appeared dressed like a shepherdess, and paying no attention to her uncle or to all the villagers, who warned her not to do it, she started to go out to the countryside with the other shepherdesses and to watch over her own flock. And as soon as she appeared in public and her beauty was seen in the open, I can’t tell you how many rich young men, noblemen and farmers, began to dress up like Grisóstomo and to court her in these fields. One of them, as I’ve said, was our dead man, who, people said, had stopped loving her and begun to worship her. And don’t think that just because Marcela took on the liberty of a life that’s so free, with so little seclusion, or none at all, she gave any sign or suggestion that would damage her modesty and virtue; instead, she watches over her honor with so much vigilance that of all the men who woo and court her, not one has
boasted or could truthfully claim that she’s given him any hope of achieving his desire. For though she doesn’t run from or avoid the company and conversation of the shepherds, and treats them with courtesy and friendship, if any of them reveals his desire to her, even one as honest and holy as matrimony, she hurls it away from her like a stone in a catapult. And by living this way, she does more harm in this land than the plague, because her affability and beauty attract the hearts of those who try to woo her and love her, but her disdain and reproaches drive them to despair so that they don’t know what to say about her except to call her cruel and ungrateful and other names that plainly show the nature of her disposition. And if you spent one day here, Señor, you’d hear these mountains and valleys echoing with the lamentations of the disappointed men who follow her.

Not very far from here is a place where there are almost two dozen tall beech trees, and there’s not one that doesn’t have the name of Marcela carved and written on its smooth bark, and at the top of some there’s a crown carved into the tree, as if the lover were saying even more clearly that Marcela wears and deserves the crown more than any other human beauty. Here a shepherd sighs, there another moans, over yonder amorous songs are heard, and farther on desperate lamentations. One spends all the hours of the night sitting at the foot of an oak tree or a rocky crag, not closing his weeping eyes, and the sun finds him in the morning absorbed and lost in his thoughts; another gives no respite or rest to his sighs, and in the middle of the burning heat of the fiercest summer afternoon, lying on the burning sand, he sends his complaints up to merciful heaven. And over this one, that one, and all of them, the beautiful Marcela, free and self-assured, triumphs, and those of us who know her are waiting to see where her haughtiness will end and who will be the fortunate man to conquer so difficult a nature and enjoy such extreme beauty.

Since everything I’ve told you is the absolute truth, I take it for granted that what our lad said about what people were saying about the reason for Gristóstomo’s death is also true. And so my advice, Señor, is that tomorrow you be sure to attend his burial, which will be something worth seeing, because Grisóstomo has a lot of friends, and it’s no more than half a league from here to the place where he wanted to be buried.”

“I shall be certain to,” said Don Quixote, “and I thank you for the pleasure you have given me with the narration of so delightful a story.”

“Oh!” replied the goatherd. “I still don’t know the half of what’s hap
pened to the lovers of Marcela, but it may be that tomorrow we’ll meet some shepherd on the way who’ll tell us about them. For now, it would be a good idea if you slept under a roof, because the night air might hurt your wound, though the medicine you’ve put on it is so good there’s no reason to fear any trouble.”

Sancho Panza, who by this time was cursing the goatherd’s endless talk, also asked his master to go into Pedro’s hut to sleep. He did so, and spent the rest of the night thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of Marcela’s lovers. Sancho Panza settled down between Rocinante and his donkey and slept, not like a scorned lover, but like a man who had been kicked and bruised.

CHAPTER XIII

But no sooner had day begun to appear on the balconies of the east than five of the six goatherds got up and went to wake Don Quixote and tell him that if he was still of a mind to go to see the famous burial of Grisóstomo, they would accompany him. Don Quixote, who desired nothing else, got up and ordered Sancho to saddle and prepare the mounts immediately, which he did very promptly, and just as promptly they all set out. And they had gone less than a quarter of a league when, at an intersection with another path, they saw coming toward them approximately six shepherds, dressed in black sheepskin jackets, their heads crowned with wreaths of cypress and bitter oleander. Each carried a heavy staff of holly in his hand. With them rode two gentlemen on horseback, very well equipped for traveling and accompanied by three servants on foot. As the two groups drew close they exchanged courteous greetings, asked where the other was going, discovered they were all heading for the burial site, and so began to travel together.

One of the men on horseback, speaking to his companion, said:

“It seems to me, Señor Vivaldo, that we must consider our lingering to see this extraordinary funeral as time well spent, for it most certainly
will be extraordinary, according to the strange tales these shepherds have told us not only about the dead shepherd, but about the murderous shepherdess.”

“I think so, too,” responded Vivaldo. “And I would have been willing to linger not merely one day but four in order to see it.”

Don Quixote asked what they had heard about Marcela and Grisóstomo. The traveler replied that early that morning they had encountered the shepherds and, seeing them in such mournful dress, had asked the reason for their going about in that manner, and one of them had recounted the strange behavior and beauty of a shepherdess named Marcela, and the love so many suitors had for her, and the death of Grisóstomo, to whose burial they were going. In short, he related everything that Pedro had told Don Quixote.

This conversation ended and another began when the traveler called Vivaldo asked Don Quixote the reason for his going about armed in that manner when the land was so peaceful. To which Don Quixote replied:

“The exercise of my profession does not allow or permit me to go about in any other manner. Tranquility, luxury, and repose were invented for pampered courtiers, but travail, tribulation, and arms were invented and created only for those whom the world calls knights errant, and I, although unworthy, am the least of that number.”

As soon as they heard this, they considered him mad, and to learn more and see what sort of madness this was, Vivaldo asked him the meaning of knights errant.

“Have your graces not read,” responded Don Quixote, “the annals and histories of England, in which are recounted the famous deeds of King Arthur, whom, in our Castilian ballads, we continuously call King Artús? According to an ancient and widespread tradition throughout the kingdom of Great Britain, this king did not die but, through the art of enchantment, was turned into a crow and in time will return to rule and recover his kingdom and scepter; for this reason, it can be demonstrated that no Englishman has ever killed a crow from that time to this. Well, it was in the days of this good king that the famous chivalric order of the Knights of the Round Table was instituted, and, in these same chronicles, in the minutest detail, there is also a recounting of the love between Sir Lancelot of the Lake and Queen Guinevere, their intermediary and confidante being the highly honored Duenna Quintañona, and here was born that well-known ballad, so praised in our Spain:

followed by the sweet and gentle tale of his feats of love and of valor. Since that time, from one generation to the next, the order of chivalry has extended and spread through many different parts of the world, and among its members, famous and known for their great deeds, were the valiant Amadís of Gaul and all his sons and grandsons unto the fifth generation, and the valorous Felixmarte of Hyrcania, and the never-sufficiently-praised Tirant lo Blanc, and in our own time we have almost seen and communicated with and heard the invincible and valiant knight Don Belianís of Greece. This, then, gentlemen, is what it means to be a knight errant, and the order of chivalry is just as I have said, and in it, as I have also said, I, though a sinner, have taken my vows, professing exactly what was professed by the knights I have mentioned. And therefore I wander these solitary and desolate places in search of adventures, determined to bring my arm and my person to the most dangerous that fortune may offer, in defense of the weak and helpless.”