Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (74 page)

“Brother demon, for it is not possible that you are anything else since you have had sufficient power and strength to overcome mine, I implore you, let us call a truce for no more than an hour, because it seems to me that the dolorous sound of the trumpet reaching our ears summons me to a new adventure.”

The goatherd, who by this time was weary of hitting and being hit, released him immediately, and Don Quixote rose to his feet as he turned toward the sound and suddenly saw many men dressed in white, in the manner of penitents, coming down a slope.

In fact, that year the clouds had denied the earth their moisture, and in every village and hamlet in the region there were processions, rogations, and public penances, asking God to open the hands of his mercy and allow it to rain; to this end, the people from a nearby village were coming in procession to a holy hermitage located on one of the hills that formed the valley.

Don Quixote saw the strange dress of the penitents, and not recalling the countless times he must have seen them in the past, he imagined that this was the start of an adventure, and since he was a knight errant, he alone could undertake it, and this idea was confirmed for him when he thought that an image draped in mourning that they were carrying was actually a noble lady carried away against her will by those cowardly and lowborn villains; no sooner had this thought passed through his mind than he rushed over to Rocinante, who was grazing, removed the bridle and shield from the forebow of his saddle, and had the bridle on him in a moment; he asked Sancho for his sword, mounted Rocinante, grasped his shield, and called in a loud voice to all those present:

“Now, my valiant companions, you will see how important it is that there be knights in the world who profess the order of knight errantry; now I say that you will see, in the liberty of that good lady held captive there, how knights errant are to be esteemed.”

As he said this, he pressed Rocinante with his thighs because he had
no spurs, and at a brisk canter, for nowhere in this true history do we read that Rocinante ran at a full gallop, he rode out to his encounter with the penitents, although the priest, the canon, and the barber did what they could to stop him, to no avail, nor was he stopped by the shouts of Sancho, who cried:

“Where are you going, Señor Don Quixote? What demons in your heart incite you to attack our Catholic faith? Oh, look, devil take me, and see that it’s a procession of penitents, and the lady they’re carrying on the platform is the holy image of the Blessed Virgin; think, Señor, about what you’re doing, because this time it really isn’t what you think.”

Sancho’s efforts were all in vain, because his master was so determined to reach the figures in sheets and to free the lady in mourning that he did not hear a word, and if he had, he would not have turned back, even if the king had ordered him to. And so he reached the procession and reined in Rocinante, who already wanted to rest for a while, and in a hoarse, angry voice he cried:

“O you who keep your faces covered, perhaps because you are evil, attend, and hear what I wish to say to you.”

The first to stop were those carrying the image, and one of the four clerics intoning the litanies saw the strange appearance of Don Quixote, the skinniness of Rocinante, and other comic features that he noticed and discovered about the knight, and responded by saying:

“Good brother, if you want to say something, say it quickly, because these brethren are disciplining their flesh and we cannot listen to anything, nor is it right for us to do so, unless it is so brief that it can be said in two words.”

“I shall say it in one,” replied Don Quixote, “and it is this: you must immediately release that beauteous lady whose tears and melancholy countenance are clear signs that you take her against her will, and have done her some notable wrong, and I, who was born into the world to right such iniquities, shall not consent to your taking another step forward until you give her the freedom she desires and deserves.”

When they heard these words, they all realized that Don Quixote had to be a madman, and they began to laugh very heartily; this laughter was like gunpowder thrown into the flames of Don Quixote’s wrath, because without saying another word, he drew his sword and charged the procession. One of the men who was carrying the platform let his companions bear his share of the weight and came out to meet Don Quixote, brandishing the forked pole or staff that he used to support the platform
while he was resting; Don Quixote struck it a great blow with his sword that broke it in two, leaving the man with the third part in his hand, and with that part he hit Don Quixote so hard on the shoulder, on the same side as his sword, that the knight could not hold up his shield to protect himself from the peasantish attack, and poor Don Quixote fell to the ground in a very sorry state.

Sancho Panza, who came panting close behind him, saw him fall, and he shouted at Don Quixote’s attacker not to hit him again because he was a poor enchanted knight who had never harmed anyone in all the days of his life. But what stopped the peasant was not the shouting of Sancho but his seeing that Don Quixote lay without moving hand or foot, and believing that he had killed him, he quickly tucked his penitent’s robe up into his belt and fled across the countryside like a deer.

By now all of Don Quixote’s companions had reached the spot where he lay; those in the procession who saw them, along with the officers holding their crossbows, running toward them, feared trouble and made a circle around the image; with their pointed hoods
¹
raised and their scourges in hand, and the priests clutching their candlesticks, they awaited the assault, determined to defend themselves against their attackers and even go on the offensive if they could. But Fortune arranged matters better than they had expected, because the only thing Sancho did was to throw himself on the body of his master in the belief that he was dead and break into the most woeful and laughable lament in the world.

The priest was recognized by another priest in the procession, and this calmed the fears of both parties. The first priest quickly gave the second a brief accounting of who Don Quixote was, and the second priest, along with the entire crowd of penitents, went to see if the poor knight was dead, and they heard Sancho Panza, with tears in his eyes, saying:

“O flower of chivalry, a single blow with a club has brought your well-spent years to an end! O honor of your lineage, honor and glory of all La Mancha, even of all the world, which, with you absent, will be overrun by evildoers unafraid of being punished for their evil doings! O liberal above all Alexanders, for after a mere eight months of service
²
you have given me the best ínsula ever surrounded and encircled by the sea! O
humble with the proud and arrogant with the humble, attacker of dangers, endurer of insults, enamored without cause, imitator of the good, scourge of the wicked, enemy of the villainous, in short, O knight errant, which is the finest thing one can say.”

Sancho’s cries and sobs revived Don Quixote, and the first words he said were:

“He who liveth absent from thee, O dulcet Dulcinea, is subject to greater miseries than these. Help me, friend Sancho, to climb into the enchanted cart; I canst no longer sit in Rocinante’s saddle, for my shoulder is shattered.”

“I’ll do that gladly, Señor,” responded Sancho, “and let’s return to my village in the company of these gentlefolk, who wish you well, and there we’ll arrange to make another sally that will bring us more profit and greater fame.”

“Well said, Sancho,” responded Don Quixote, “and it will be an act of great prudence to allow the present evil influence of the stars to pass.”

The canon and the priest and the barber told Don Quixote that what he intended to do was very wise, and so, having been greatly amused by the simplicities of Sancho Panza, they placed Don Quixote in the cart, just as he had been before. The procession formed once again and continued on its way; the goatherd took his leave of everyone; the officers did not wish to go any farther, and the priest paid them what he owed them. The canon asked the priest to inform him of what happened to Don Quixote, if he was cured of his madness or continued to suffer from it, and with this he excused himself and continued his journey. In short, they parted and went their separate ways, and those remaining were the priest, the barber, Don Quixote, Panza, and the good Rocinante, who endured everything he saw with as much patience as his master.

The driver yoked his oxen and settled Don Quixote on a bundle of hay, and with his customary deliberateness followed the route indicated by the priest, and in six days they reached Don Quixote’s village, which they entered in the middle of the day, which happened to be Sunday, when everyone was in the square, and the cart carrying Don Quixote drove right through the middle of it. Everyone hurried to see what was in the cart, and when they recognized their neighbor they were astounded, and a boy ran to give the news to the housekeeper and niece that their uncle and master had arrived, skinny and yellow and lying on a pile of hay in an oxcart. It was a pitiful thing to hear the cries of the two good women, to see how they slapped themselves and cursed once again the
accursed books of chivalry, all of which started all over again when they saw Don Quixote come through the door.

At the news of Don Quixote’s arrival, Sancho Panza’s wife came running, for she had already learned that her husband had gone away with him to serve as his squire, and as soon as she saw Sancho, the first thing she asked was if the donkey was all right. Sancho responded that he was better than his master.

“Thanks be to God,” she replied, “for all His mercies; but now tell me, my friend, what have you earned after all your squiring? Have you brought me a new overskirt? Did you bring nice shoes for your children?”

“I didn’t bring anything like that, dear wife,” said Sancho, “though I do have other things that are more valuable and worthwhile.”

“That makes me very happy,” she responded. “Show me those things that are more valuable and worthwhile, my friend; I want to see them and gladden this heart of mine, which has been so sad and unhappy during all the centuries of your absence.”

“I’ll show them to you at home,” said Panza, “and for now be happy, because if it’s God’s will that we go out again in search of adventures, in no time you’ll see me made a count, or the governor of an ínsula, and not any of the ones around here, but the best that can be found.”

“May it please God, my husband, because we surely need it. But tell me, what’s all this about ínsulas? I don’t understand.”

“Honey’s not for the donkey’s mouth,” responded Sancho. “In time you will, dear wife, and even be amazed to hear yourself called ladyship by all your vassals.”

“What are you saying, Sancho, about ladyships, ínsulas, and vassals?” responded Juana Panza, which was the name of Sancho’s wife; they were not kin, but in La Mancha wives usually take their husbands’ family name.
³

“Don’t be in such a hurry, Juana, to learn everything all at once; it’s enough that I’m telling you the truth, so sew up your mouth. I’ll just tell you this, in passing: there’s nothing nicer in the world for a man than being the honored squire of a knight errant seeking adventures. Even though it’s true that most don’t turn out as well as the man would like, because out of a hundred that you find, ninety-nine tend to turn out wrong and twisted. I know this from experience, because in some I’ve been tossed in a blanket, and in others I’ve been beaten, but even so, it’s a fine thing to be out looking for things to happen, crossing moun
tains, searching forests, climbing peaks, visiting castles, and staying in inns whenever you please and not paying a devil’s
maravedí
for anything.”

While Sancho Panza and Juana Panza, his wife, were having this conversation, Don Quixote’s housekeeper and niece welcomed him, and undressed him, and put him in his old bed. He stared at them, his eyes transfixed, and did not understand where he was. The priest instructed the niece to look after her uncle with great care and to be very sure she did not allow him to escape again, telling her all that they had been obliged to do to bring him home. At this the two women began to cry out to heaven again, and to renew their curses of books of chivalry, and to ask heaven to throw the authors of so many lies and so much foolishness into the bottomless pit. In short, they were distraught and fearful that they would again find themselves without a master and an uncle at the very moment he showed some improvement, and in fact, it turned out just as they imagined.

But the author of this history, although he has investigated with curiosity and diligence the feats performed by Don Quixote on his third sally, has found no account of them, at least not in authenticated documents; their fame has been maintained only in the memories of La Mancha, which tell us that the third time Don Quixote left home he went to Zaragoza and took part in some famous tourneys held in that city, and there things happened to him worthy of his valor and fine intelligence. Nor could he find or learn anything about Don Quixote’s final end, and never would have, if good fortune had not presented him with an ancient physician who had in his possession a leaden box that he claimed to have found in the ruined foundations of an old hermitage that was being renovated; in this box he discovered some parchments on which, in Gothic script, Castilian verses celebrated many of the knight’s exploits and described the beauty of Dulcinea of Toboso, the figure of Rocinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza, and the tomb of Don Quixote, with various epitaphs and eulogies to his life and customs.

Those that were legible and could be transcribed are the ones that the trustworthy author of this new and unparalleled history has set down here. This author does not ask compensation from his readers for the immense labor required to investigate and search all the Manchegan archives in order to bring this history to light; he asks only that they afford it the same credit that judicious readers give to the books of chivalry that are esteemed so highly in the world; with this he will consider himself well-paid and satisfied, and encouraged to seek and publish other
histories, if not as true, then at least as inventive and entertaining as this one.