Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (20 page)

“They didn’t give me a chance,” Sancho responded, “to look at them so carefully, because as soon I put my hand on my sword they made the sign of the cross on my shoulders with their pinewood, so that they took the sight from my eyes and the strength from my feet, knocking me down where I’m lying now, where it doesn’t hurt at all to think about whether the beating they gave me with their staffs was an offense or not, unlike the pain of the beating, which will make as much of an impression on my memory as it has on my back.”

“Even so, I want you to know, brother Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that there is no memory that time does not erase, no pain not ended by death.”

“Well, what misfortune can be greater,” replied Panza, “than waiting for time to end it and death to erase it? If this misfortune of ours was the kind that could be cured with a couple of poultices, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I can see that all the poultices in a hospital won’t be enough to set us straight again.”

“Stop that now and find strength in weakness, Sancho,” Don Quixote responded, “and I shall do the same, and let us see how Rocinante is, because it seems to me the poor animal may have gotten the worst of this misfortune.”

“There’s no reason to be surprised at that,” Sancho responded, “since he’s such a good knight errant; what does surprise me is that my donkey walked away without any costs while we were left without any ribs.”
³

“Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity so that it can be remedied,” said Don Quixote. “I say this because the beast can make up for the lack of Rocinante and carry me from here to some castle where
my wounds may be cured. Further, I shall not consider such a mount a dishonor, because I remember reading that when Silenus, the good old tutor and teacher of the merry god of laughter,
⁴
entered the city of one hundred gates,
⁵
he rode very happily mounted on a beautiful jackass.”

“It may be true that he rode mounted, as your grace says,” Sancho responded, “but there’s a big difference between riding mounted and riding slung across the animal’s back like a sack of trash.”

To which Don Quixote replied:

“The wounds received in battles bestow honor, they do not take it away; and so, Panza my friend, do not answer me any further, but as I have already told you, stand the best you can and put me any way you choose on the back of your donkey, and let us leave before night falls upon us in this deserted place.”

“I’ve heard your grace say,” said Panza, “that it’s very common for knights errant to sleep in deserted places and wastelands most of the year, and that they consider it good fortune.”

“That is so,” said Don Quixote, “when it cannot be helped or when they are in love; and this is so true that there have been knights who stayed on a rocky crag, in sun and in shadow and in all kinds of weather, for two years, and their ladies never learned of it. One of these was Amadís when, calling himself Beltenebros, he lived on Peña Pobre, I do not know if it was for eight years or eight months: I am not absolutely certain regarding the length of time; it is enough to know that he was there doing penance for some sorrow or other that his lady Oriana had caused him. But let us talk no more of this, Sancho, and hurry, before the donkey suffers a misfortune like the one that befell Rocinante.”

“That would be the devil’s work, too,” said Sancho.

And emitting thirty groans and sixty sighs, and hurling a hundred twenty curses and blasphemies at the one who had brought him there, Sancho struggled to his feet, remaining bent double like a Turkish arch when he was halfway up, unable to stand straight; with great difficulty he saddled his donkey, who with that day’s excessive liberty had also become somewhat inattentive. Then he helped Rocinante to his feet, and if the horse had had a tongue with which to complain, he certainly would not have been outdone by Sancho and his master.

In short, Sancho settled Don Quixote on the back of the donkey and
tied Rocinante behind, in single file, and leading the jackass by the halter, he walked more or less in the direction of where he thought the king’s highway might be. And luck, going from good to better, guided his steps, and in less than a league it led him to the highway, where he discovered an inn that, to his sorrow and Don Quixote’s joy, had to be a castle. Sancho insisted it was an inn, and his master said no, it was a castle, and the dispute lasted so long that before it was settled they had come to the inn, which Sancho and his retinue entered without further inquiry.

CHAPTER XVI

The innkeeper, who saw Don Quixote lying across the donkey, asked Sancho what was wrong with him. Sancho responded that it was not serious, that he had fallen off a crag and bruised his ribs slightly. The innkeeper’s wife was a woman whose disposition was unlike the one usually found in those of her trade, for she was naturally charitable and took pity on the calamities of others, and so she hurried to tend Don Quixote and had her daughter, a very pretty young girl, help her care for her guest. Working as a servant in the inn was an Asturian girl with a broad face, a back of the head that was flat, a nose that was snubbed, and one eye that was blind, while the other was not in very good condition. The truth is that the charm of her body made up for her other faults: she measured less than seven spans
¹
from her feet to the top of her head, and her back, which weighed somewhat heavily on her, forced her to look down at the ground more than she would have wished. This engaging creature helped the innkeeper’s daughter, and the two of them made up a very uncomfortable bed for Don Quixote in an attic that gave clear signs of having been a hayloft for a long time, many years ago. Also staying at the inn was a muledriver whose bed was just past the bed of Don
Quixote. And though it was composed of his mules’ packsaddles and blankets, it was far superior to Don Quixote’s, which consisted only of four rough boards laid across two benches of not very equal height, and a pallet so thin it resembled a bedspread and was filled with lumps that felt like pebbles to the touch, though some holes revealed they were merely tufts of wool; there were two sheets made of shield leather, and a blanket so worn that every thread could be counted without missing a single one.

Don Quixote lay down on this wretched bed, and the innkeeper’s wife and her daughter applied poultices from head to toe, while Maritornes, which was the Asturian girl’s name, held a light for them, and as she applied the plasters, the innkeeper’s wife saw Don Quixote so bruised and black and blue in so many parts that she said it looked more like a beating than a fall.

“It wasn’t a beating,” said Sancho, “it’s just that the rock had lots of sharp points and edges, and each one left its bruise.” He also said: “Señora, see if your grace can arrange to have a few pieces of cloth left over, since there’s somebody else who’ll need them; my ribs are hurting a little, too.”

“So that means,” responded the innkeeper’s wife, “you must have fallen, too.”

“I didn’t fall,” said Sancho Panza, “but it gave me a great start to see my master fall, and because of that my body hurts so much it feels as if somebody beat me a thousand times with a stick.”

“That well could be,” said the daughter. “It’s often happened to me that I dream I’m falling off a tower but never reach the ground, and when I wake up from the dream I find myself as bruised and sore as if I really had fallen.”

“That’s my point, Señora,” Sancho Panza responded. “I didn’t dream anything, but was as wide awake as I am now, and I have almost as many bruises as my master, Don Quixote.”

“What’s this gentleman’s name?” asked Maritornes the Asturian.

“Don Quixote of La Mancha,” replied Sancho Panza, “and he is an adventuring knight, and one of the best and strongest the world has seen in a long time.”

“What’s an adventuring knight?” the servant asked.

“Are you so new to the world that you don’t know?” replied Sancho Panza. “Well, let me tell you, my sister, in just a few words, that an adventuring knight is someone who’s beaten and then finds himself emperor. Today he’s the most unfortunate creature in the world, and the
poorest, and tomorrow he’ll have the crowns of two or three kingdoms to give to his squire.”

“How is it, then, since you serve so good a master,” said the innkeeper’s wife, “that you, or so it seems, don’t even have a countship yet?”

“It’s still early,” Sancho responded, “because it’s only been a month
²
that we’ve been seeking adventures, and so far we haven’t come across anything that even resembles one. Maybe you go looking for one thing and find another. The truth is that if my master, Don Quixote, is healed of his wounds, or his fall, and I’m not crippled by mine, I wouldn’t trade my hopes for the best title in Spain.”

Don Quixote had been listening very attentively to this entire conversation, and sitting up the best he could in his bed, and grasping the hand of the innkeeper’s wife, he said:

“Believe me, beauteous lady, thou canst call thyself fortunate for having welcomed into this thy castle my person, which I do not praise because, as it is said, self-praise is self-debasement, but my squire wilt tell thee who I am. I say only that I shall keep eternally written in my memory the service that thou hast rendered me, so that I may thank thee for it as long as I shall live; and if it were not the will of heaven that love held me captive and subject to its laws and to the eyes of that thankless beauty whose name I murmur before battle, then those of this fair damsel would surely be the masters of my liberty.”

The innkeeper’s wife, and her daughter, and the good Maritornes were perplexed when they heard the words of the wandering knight, for they understood no more of them than if he had been speaking Greek, although they did realize that all were intended as compliments and flattery; because they were unaccustomed to such language, they looked at him in astonishment, and he seemed to them a different kind of man from the ones they were used to, and, after thanking him in their own innlike words for his compliments, they left him, and Maritornes the Asturian tended to Sancho, who had no less need of healing than his master.

The muledriver had arranged with Maritornes that they would take their pleasure that night, and she had given her word that when all the guests were quiet and her master and mistress asleep, she would come to him and satisfy his desire in any way he asked. It was said of this good ser
vant that she never gave her word without keeping it, even if she gave it on a mountain with no witnesses, for she prided herself on being very wellborn and did not consider it an affront to be a servant in the inn because, she said, misfortunes and bad luck had brought her to that state.

The hard, narrow, cramped, and precarious bed of Don Quixote was the first in line in that starlit stall, and then next to it Sancho made his, which consisted only of a rush mat and a blanket that was more coarse burlap than wool. Past these two beds was that of the muledriver, made, as we have said, of the packsaddles and all the trappings of the two best mules in his train, although there were twelve of them, shiny, fat, and famous, because he was one of the wealthy muledrivers of Arévalo, according to the author of this history, who makes particular mention of this muledriver because he knew him very well; there are even some who say he was a distant relation.
³
In any case, Cide Hamete Benengeli was a very careful historian, and very accurate in all things, as can be clearly seen in the details he relates to us, for although they are trivial and inconsequential, he does not attempt to pass over them in silence; his example could be followed by solemn historians who recount actions so briefly and succinctly that we can barely taste them, and leave behind in the inkwell, through carelessness, malice, or ignorance, the most substantive part of the work. A thousand blessings on the author of
Tablante de Ricamonte
⁴
and on the author of that other book that tells of the deeds of Count Tomillas,
⁵
for they describe everything in minute detail!

Well then, after the muledriver had seen to his train of mules and given them their second ration of feed, he lay down on the packsaddles to wait for the punctual Maritornes. Sancho was already poulticed and in his bed, and although he tried to sleep, the pain in his ribs would not allow it, and Don Quixote’s ribs hurt so much that his eyes were as wide open as a hare’s. The entire inn was quiet, and the only light came from a lamp hanging in the middle of the main entrance.

This wondrous silence, and the thoughts of our knight, which always were turned to the events constantly recounted in the books responsible for his misfortune, brought to his mind as strange a bit of madness as anyone could imagine, and it was that he thought he had come to a famous castle—for, as has been said, it seemed to him that all the inns where he
stayed were castles—and that the innkeeper’s daughter was the daughter of the lord of the castle, and that she, conquered by his gentle bearing, had fallen in love with him and had promised to steal away from her parents that night and come and lie with him for a time; and since he considered this entire fantasy, which he had invented, as solid and true, he became distressed as he began to think of the dangerous predicament in which his virtue would find itself, and he resolved in his heart not to betray his lady Dulcinea of Toboso even if Queen Guinevere herself, along with her duenna Quintañona, were to appear before him.

As he was thinking about this foolishness, the time and hour arrived—and for Don Quixote it was an unfortunate one—when the Asturian was to come in, and wearing her chemise, with bare feet and her hair tied back in a cotton snood, with silent, cautious steps she entered the room where the three men were lying, looking for the muledriver. But as soon as she walked through the door, Don Quixote heard her, and sitting up in his bed, despite the poultices and the pain in his ribs, he extended his arms to welcome his fair damsel. The Asturian, who, tentatively and quietly, was holding her hands out in front of her and looking for her beloved, collided with Don Quixote’s arms; he seized her by the wrist and, pulling her to him, while she did not dare to say a word, forced her to sit on the bed. Then he touched her chemise, and though it was made of burlap, to him it seemed the finest and sheerest silk. On her wrists she wore glass beads, but he imagined them to be precious pearls of the Orient. Her tresses, which were rather like a horse’s mane, he deemed strands of shining Arabian gold whose brilliance made the sun seem dim. And her breath, which undoubtedly smelled of yesterday’s stale salad, seemed to him a soft, aromatic scent wafting from her mouth; in short, he depicted her in his imagination as having the form and appearance of another princess he had read about in his books who, overcome by love and endowed with all the charms stated here, came to see the badly wounded knight. And the blind illusions of the poor gentleman were so great that neither her touch, nor her breath, nor any other of the good maiden’s attributes could discourage him, though they were enough to make any man who was not a muledriver vomit; on the contrary, it seemed to him that he clasped in his arms the goddess of beauty. And holding her close, in a low, amorous voice he began to say: