Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (67 page)

Don Quixote laughed when he heard these words and said very calmly:

“Come, lowborn and filthy creatures, you call it highway robbery to free those in chains, to give liberty to the imprisoned, to assist the wretched, raise up the fallen, succor the needy? Ah, vile rabble, your low and base intelligence does not deserve to have heaven communicate to you the great worth of knight errantry, or allow you to understand the sin and ignorance into which you have fallen when you do not reverence the shadow, let alone the actual presence, of any knight errant. Come, you brotherhood of thieves, you highway robbers sanctioned by the Holy Brotherhood, come and tell me who was the fool who signed an arrest warrant against such a knight as I? Who was the dolt who did not know that knights errant are exempt from all jurisdictional authority, or was unaware that their law is their sword, their edicts their courage, their statutes their will? Who was the imbecile, I say, who did not know that there is no patent of nobility with as many privileges and immunities as those acquired by a knight errant on the day he is dubbed a knight and dedicates himself to the rigorous practice of chivalry? What knight errant ever paid a tax, a duty, a queen’s levy, a tribute, a tariff, or a toll? What tailor ever received payment from him for the clothes he sewed? What castellan welcomed him to his castle and then asked him to pay the cost? What king has not sat him at his table? What damsel has not loved him and given herself over to his will and desire? And, finally, what knight errant ever was, is, or will be in the world who does not have the courage to single-handedly deliver four hundred blows to four hundred Brotherhoods if they presume to oppose him?”

CHAPTER XLVI

As Don Quixote was saying this, the priest was attempting to persuade the officers that Don Quixote was not in his right mind, as they could see by his actions and his words, and that they had no need to proceed with the matter, for even if they arrested him and took him away, they would have to release him immediately because he was a madman, to which the officer with the warrant replied that it was not up to him to judge the madness of Don Quixote, but only to do what his commanding officer ordered him to do, and once Don Quixote had been arrested, it was all the same to him if they let him go three hundred times over.

“Even so,” said the priest, “this one time you should not take him, and as far as I can tell, he will not allow himself to be taken.”

In fact, the priest was so persuasive, and Don Quixote did so many mad things, that the officers would have been crazier than he if they had not recognized Don Quixote’s affliction, and so they thought it best not to proceed, and even to intervene and make peace between the barber and Sancho Panza, who still persisted with great rancor in their dispute. In short, as officers of the law, they mediated and arbitrated the matter in a manner that left both parties, if not completely happy, at least somewhat satisfied, because they exchanged saddles but not cinches and headstalls; as for the helmet of Mambrino, the priest secretly, and without Don Quixote’s knowing anything about it, paid eight
reales
for the basin, and the barber gave him a receipt promising not to sue for fraud then or forever after, amen.

Having settled these two disputes, which were the most important and most pressing, it remained only for Don Luis’s servants to agree that
three would return home while one stayed behind to accompany him wherever Don Fernando wished to take him; since good luck had begun to intervene in favor of the lovers and the valiant people at the inn, overcoming all difficulties, a better fortune wished to bring everything to a happy conclusion, and his servants acceded to Don Luis’s wishes, which so delighted Doña Clara that no one could look at her face and not know the joy in her heart.

Zoraida, although she did not completely understand all the events she had seen, became sad or happy by turns, depending on what she saw and observed on the faces of other people, especially her Spaniard, on whom her eyes were fixed and her heart and soul depended. The innkeeper, who had not failed to notice the compensatory gift given to the barber by the priest, demanded payment from Don Quixote, including damages to his wineskins and the loss of his wine, swearing that neither Rocinante nor Sancho’s donkey
¹
would leave the inn unless he was first paid down to the last
ardite.
The priest settled the matter, and Don Fernando paid the bill, although the judge had very willingly offered to pay as well, and everything was so peaceful and serene that the inn no longer resembled the discord in Agramante’s camp, as Don Quixote had said, but seemed the very peace and tranquility of the time of Octavian; it was the generally held opinion that thanks for this were owed to the good intentions and great eloquence of the priest and the incomparable liberality of Don Fernando.

When Don Quixote found himself free and clear of so many disputes, his squire’s as well as his own, it seemed to him that it would be a good idea to continue the journey he had begun and conclude the great adventure to which he had been called and for which he had been chosen; and so, with resolute determination, he went to kneel before Dorotea, who would not permit him to say a word until he stood, and he, in obedience to her, rose to his feet, and said:

“’Tis a common proverb, O beauteous lady, that diligence is the mother of good fortune, and in many grave and serious matters experience hath shown that solicitude canst bring a doubtful matter to a successful conclusion, but nowhere is this truth clearer than in questions of war, in which celerity and speed canst disrupt the enemy’s plans and achieve victory ere the adversary prepareth his defenses. This I say, most high and exalted lady, because it seemeth that our stay in this castle no
longer profiteth us and might even prove harmful, as we may discover one day, for who knoweth if by means of hidden and diligent spies thy enemy the giant hath not learned that I am going to destroy him, and hath taken advantage of our sojourn here to fortify himself in some impregnable castle or bastion against which all my efforts and the might of my tireless arm may be of no avail? And so, Señora, let us, I say, disrupt his designs with our diligence and depart immediately, whilst fortune favoreth us, for to keep it with us, as your highness wisheth, we must delay no longer my encounter with thy adversary.”

Don Quixote fell silent and said no more, and waited very calmly for the reply of the beauteous princess, who, with noble bearing, and adapting to the style used by Don Quixote, responded in this fashion:

“I thanketh thee, Señor Knight, for the desire thou hast shown to favor me in my great distress, like a true knight whose profession and preoccupation is to favor orphans and those in need; may heaven grant that thy desire and mine are achieved so that thou mayest see that there are grateful women in the world. As for my departure, let it be immediate, for I have no will other than thine: thou mayest dispose of me as thou pleaseth and chooseth, for she who hath once entrusted to thee the defense of her person and placed in thy hands the restoration of her domains ought not go against what thy prudence ordaineth.”

“May it be God’s will,” said Don Quixote, “for when a lady humbleth herself before me, I do not wish to lose the opportunity to raise her and restore her to her rightful throne. Let us depart now, for the ancient saying that danger lieth in delay spurreth my desire to be on our way. And since heaven hath not created, nor hell seen, any that canst daunt or frighten me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and harness thy donkey and the palfrey of the queen, and let us bid farewell to the castellan and these gentlefolk and leave at once.”

Sancho, who had been present for this entire exchange, shook his head and said:

“Oh, Señor, Señor, there’s more wickedness in the village than they tell you about, begging the pardon of honorable ladies who let themselves be touched.”

“What wickedness can there be in any village, or in all the cities of the world, that can discredit me, oh, lowborn knave?”

“If your grace gets angry,” responded Sancho, “I’ll be quiet and won’t say what I’m obliged to say as a good squire, and what a good Christian is obliged to tell his master.”

“Say whatever you wish,” replied Don Quixote, “as long as your words are not intended to instill fear in me, for if you are afraid, then you are true to the person you are, and if I am not, then I am true to mine.”

“That’s not it, sinner that I am in the sight of God!” responded Sancho. “It’s just that I’m absolutely certain and positive that this lady who says she’s the queen of the great kingdom of Micomicón is no more a queen than my mother, because if she was who she says she is, she wouldn’t go around hugging and kissing one of the men here at the inn, behind every door and every chance she gets.”

Dorotea turned bright red at Sancho’s words, because it was true that her husband, Don Fernando, had, on occasion, taken with his lips part of the prize his love had won, which Sancho had witnessed, and such boldness had seemed to him more appropriate to a courtesan than to the queen of so great a kingdom; she could not or would not say a word in response to Sancho, but allowed him to continue, and he did, saying:

“I’m saying this, Señor, because if after having traveled so many highways and byways, and gone through so many bad nights and worse days, the fruit of our labors is being plucked by someone taking his ease in this inn, then there’s no reason for me to hurry and saddle Rocinante, and harness the donkey, and prepare the palfrey, because we’d be better off sitting still and doing nothing: let each whore tend to her spinning, and we’ll eat.”

Oh, Lord save me, but what a rage overcame Don Quixote when he heard his squire’s discourteous words! It was so great, I say, that with precipitate voice and stumbling tongue and fire blazing from his eyes, he said:

“Oh, base, lowborn, wretched, rude, ignorant, foul-mouthed, ill-spoken, slanderous, insolent varlet! You have dared to speak such words in my presence and in the presence of these distinguished ladies, dared to fill your befuddled imagination with such vileness and effrontery? Leave my presence, unholy monster, repository of lies, stronghold of falsehoods, storehouse of deceits, inventor of iniquities, promulgator of insolence, enemy of the decorum owed to these royal persons. Go, do not appear before me under pain of my wrath!”

And saying this he scowled, puffed out his cheeks, looked all around him, and stamped his right foot very hard on the ground, all signs of the great anger raging in his heart. These words and furious gestures so frightened and terrified Sancho that he would have been overjoyed if the earth had opened up and swallowed him. And he did not know what
to do except to turn and leave the enraged presence of his master. But the perceptive Dorotea, who by this time understood Don Quixote’s madness very well, said, in order to pacify his rage:

“Do not be indignant, Señor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, at the foolish things your good squire has said, because it may be that he does not say them without reason, nor can we suspect that his good understanding and Christian conscience allow him to bear false witness against anyone, and so we must believe, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that since, as you have said, Señor Knight, all things in this castle happen and occur through enchantment, it might be, as I say, that Sancho saw, by diabolical means, what he says he saw, which so offends my good name.”

“By Almighty God,” said Don Quixote, “I swear that your highness has hit the mark, and that some evil illusion appeared before this sinner Sancho, making him see what it would have been impossible to see except by way of enchantment, for I know the goodness and innocence of this unfortunate man too well to think he would bear false witness against anyone.”

“That is certainly the case,” said Don Fernando, “and therefore, Señor Don Quixote, you ought to pardon him and receive him once more into the bosom of thy grace,
²
sicut erat in principio,
before these visions affected his judgment.”

Don Quixote responded that he would pardon his squire, and the priest went to find Sancho, who came in very humbly, fell to his knees, and begged his master for his hand; Don Quixote gave it to him, allowed him to kiss it, gave him his blessing, and said:

“Now you will know with certainty, Sancho my son, that what I have so often told you is true: everything in this castle occurs by means of enchantment.”

“I do believe that,” said Sancho, “except for what happened with the blanket, because that really happened by ordinary means.”

“Do not believe it,” responded Don Quixote, “because if that were true, I would have avenged you then, and even now; but I could not, then or now, and did not see anyone upon whom to wreak my vengeance for the affront to you.”

Everyone wanted to know what had happened with the blanket, and the innkeeper told them, in full detail, about Sancho Panza flying
through the air, which was cause for no small laughter, and Sancho would have been embarrassed to no less a degree if his master had not reassured him again that it had been enchantment; Sancho’s foolishness, however, never was so great that he did not believe it was the pure and absolute truth, with no admixture of deception, that he had been tossed in a blanket by flesh-and-blood people, not dreamed or imagined phantoms, as his master believed and affirmed.

The illustrious company had already spent two days at the inn, and thinking it was time to leave, they devised a scheme that would spare Dorotea and Don Fernando the trouble of returning with Don Quixote to his village under the guise of restoring Queen Micomicona to the throne and would allow the priest and barber to take him back with them, as they desired, and treat his madness at home. Their scheme was to arrange with an ox driver who happened to be passing by that he would carry Don Quixote home in this manner: they prepared something like a cage with crisscrossed bars, large enough to hold Don Quixote comfortably, and then Don Fernando and his companions, the servants of Don Luis, the officers of the Brotherhood, and the innkeeper, all of them under the direction and guidance of the priest, covered their faces and disguised themselves in a variety of ways so that Don Quixote would not think they were the people he had seen in the castle.