Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (109 page)

And without saying another word or eating another mouthful, he left, and the pleas of the duke and duchess did nothing to stop him, although the duke was prevented from saying very much by the laughter the ecclesiastic’s importunate anger had caused in him. When he finished laughing, he said to Don Quixote:

“Señor Knight of the Lions, your grace has responded so nobly on your own behalf that there is no other satisfaction required, for although this appears to be an insult, it in no way is, because just as women cannot offer an insult, neither can ecclesiastics, as your grace knows better than I.”

“That is true,” responded Don Quixote, “and the reason is that one who cannot be insulted cannot insult anyone else. Women, children, and ecclesiastics, since they cannot defend themselves even if they have been offended, cannot receive an affront. Because the difference between an insult and an affront, as Your Excellency knows better than I, is that an affront comes from one who can commit it, and does so, and sustains it; an insult can come from anywhere, without being an affront. For example: a man is standing idly in the street; ten men arrive with weapons in their hands and strike him, and he draws his sword to perform his duty, but the number of his adversaries hinders this and does not allow him to carry out his intention, which is to take his revenge; this
man has been insulted but not affronted. And another example will con-firm the same thing: a man’s back is turned, another comes up and strikes him, and having struck him, he flees and does not wait, and the other pursues but cannot overtake him; the one who was struck received an insult but not an affront, because an affront must be sustained. If the one who struck him, even if he did so surreptitiously, had drawn his sword and stood firm, facing his enemy, the man who was struck would be both insulted and affronted: insulted, because he was struck covertly; affronted, because the one who struck him sustained what he had done, not turning his back and standing firm. And so, according to the laws of this accursed dueling, I can be insulted but not affronted, because children are not aware of what they do, and women cannot flee, nor can they be expected to, and the same is true of those who hold positions in holy religion, because these three kinds of people lack both offensive and defensive weapons; consequently, although they naturally may be obliged to defend themselves, they are not capable of offending anyone. And although I said a little while ago that I could be insulted, now I say no, not in any manner, because one who cannot receive an affront is even less capable of committing one; for these reasons I should not be aggrieved, and I am not, by what that good man said to me; I wish only that he had stayed so that I could have convinced him of his error in thinking and saying that there were no knights errant in the world, and that there are none now, for if Amadís or any of his infinite descendants had heard him, I know it would not have gone well for his grace.”

“I’ll swear to that,” said Sancho. “They would have slashed him open from top to bottom like a pomegranate or a very ripe melon. They were the right ones to put up with jokes like that! By my faith, I’m sure if Reinaldos de Montalbán had heard that little man saying those things, he would have slapped him so hard across the mouth he wouldn’t have said another word for three years. He should have tried it with them and seen if they’d let him get away!”

The duchess was weak with laughter when she heard Sancho speak, and in her opinion he was more amusing and even crazier than his master, an opinion held by many at the time. Don Quixote at last became calm, and the meal was concluded, and as the table was being cleared, four maidens came in, the first bearing a silver basin, the second a pitcher, also of silver, the third, carrying two very white, very thick towels on her shoulder, and the fourth, with her forearms bared, holding in her white hands—for they undoubtedly were white—a round cake of Neapolitan soap. The one with the basin approached and with charming
grace and assurance placed the basin beneath Don Quixote’s beard, and he, not saying a word, marveled at such a ceremony but believed that in this land it must be the custom to wash one’s beard rather than one’s hands, and so he extended his as much as he could, and at that moment the pitcher began to pour, and the maiden with the soap began to rub his beard very quickly, raising flakes of snow no less white than the lather, not only on his beard but all over the face and eyes of the obedient knight, who was obliged to close them.

The duke and duchess, who knew nothing about this, waited to see how so extraordinary a washing would end. The beard-washing maiden, when she had covered him with lather to the depth of a span, pretended there was no more water, and she told the one with the pitcher to go for some because Señor Don Quixote would be waiting. She did so, and Don Quixote was left there, the strangest and most laughable figure that anyone could imagine.

All those present, and there were many, were watching him, and when they saw that he had a neck half a
vara
long, and a complexion more than moderately dark, and closed eyes, and a beard full of soap, it was truly astonishing and a sign of great astuteness that they could hide their laughter; the trickster maidens kept their eyes lowered, not daring to look at their master and mistress, who were torn between anger and laughter and did not know how to respond: to punish the girls for their boldness or reward them for the pleasure they had received at seeing Don Quixote in that condition.

Finally the maiden with the pitcher returned, and they finished washing Don Quixote, and then the girl with the towels very calmly wiped and dried him; then all four of them curtsied, and made obeisance to him at the same time, and attempted to leave, but the duke, to keep Don Quixote from realizing it was a joke, called to the maiden with the basin, saying:

“Come and wash me, and be careful you don’t run out of water.”

The girl, who was shrewd and diligent, approached and placed the basin beneath the duke’s beard as she had with Don Quixote, and they quickly washed and soaped him thoroughly, and having wiped and dried him, they curtsied and left. Later it was learned that the duke had sworn that if they did not wash him as they had Don Quixote, he would punish their daring, but they cleverly changed his mind by soaping him so well.

Sancho paid careful attention to the ceremonies of the washing and said to himself:

“God save me! Can it be the custom in this land to wash the beards
of squires as well as knights? Because by my soul I could use it, and even if they shaved me with a razor, I’d think it was a good thing.”

“What are you saying, Sancho?” asked the duchess.

“I’m saying, Señora,” he responded, “that in the courts of other princes I’ve always heard that when the tables are cleared they pour water over your hands, but not lather on your beard; and that’s why it’s good to live a long time, because then you see a lot; though they also say that if you have a long life, you go through a lot of bad times, though going through one of these washings is more pleasure than trouble.”

“Don’t worry, Sancho my friend,” said the duchess. “I’ll have my maidens wash you, and even put you in the tub, if necessary.”

“Just my beard will satisfy me,” responded Sancho, “at least for now; later on, God’s will be done.”

“Butler,” said the duchess, “see to whatever our good Sancho wants, and obey his wishes to the letter.”

The butler responded that Señor Sancho would be served in everything, and having said this, he left to eat and took Sancho with him, while the duke and duchess and Don Quixote remained at the table, speaking of many different matters, but all of them touching on the practice of arms and on knight errantry.

The duchess asked Don Quixote to depict and describe, for he seemed to have an excellent memory, the beauty and features of Señora Dulcinea of Toboso, so famous for her beauty that the duchess understood she must be the most beautiful creature in the world, and even in all of La Mancha. Don Quixote sighed when he heard what the duchess had commanded, and he said:

“If I could take out my heart and place it before the eyes of your highness, here on this table, on a plate, it would spare my tongue the effort of saying what can barely be thought, because in it Your Excellency would see her portrayed in detail; but why should I begin now to depict and describe, point by point and part by part, the beauty of the peerless Dulcinea? That is a burden worthy of shoulders other than mine, an enterprise that should be undertaken by the brushes of Parrhasius, Timanthus, and Appelles and the chisels of Lysippus
¹
to paint and engrave her on tablets, marble, and bronze, and by Ciceronian and Demosthenian rhetoric to praise her.”

“What does
Demosthenian
mean, Señor Don Quixote?” asked the duchess. “That is a word I have never heard before in all my days.”

“Demosthenian rhetoric,”
responded Don Quixote, “is the same as saying the
rhetoric of Demosthenes,
as
Ciceronian
means
of Cicero,
and they were the two greatest rhetoricians in the world.”

“That is true,” said the duke, “and you must have been confused when you asked the question. But, even so, Señor Don Quixote would give us great pleasure if he would depict her for us, and I am certain that even in the broad strokes of a sketch, she will appear in such a fashion that even the most beautiful women will be envious of her.”

“I would do so, most certainly,” responded Don Quixote, “if my image of her had not been blurred by the misfortune that befell her recently, one so great that I am better prepared to weep for her than to describe her; because your highnesses must know that not long ago, when I was going to kiss her hands and receive her blessing, approval, and permission for this third sally, I found a person different from the one I was seeking: I found her enchanted, transformed from a princess into a peasant, from beautiful to ugly, from an angel into a devil, from fragrant into foul-smelling, from well-spoken into a rustic, from serene into skittish, from light into darkness, and, finally, from Dulcinea of Toboso into a lowborn farmgirl from Sayago.”

“Lord save me!” the duke exclaimed in a loud voice. “Who could have done so much harm to the world? Who has removed from it the beauty that brought it joy, the grace that brought it delight, the virtue that brought it honor?”

“Who?” responded Don Quixote. “Who can it be but some malevolent enchanter, one of the many envious ones who pursue me? An accursed race, born into the world to darken and crush the feats of good men, to shed light on and raise up the deeds of the wicked. Enchanters have pursued me, enchanters pursue me now, and enchanters will pursue me until they throw me and my high chivalric exploits into the profound abyss of oblivion; they harm and wound me in the part where they can see I feel it most, for taking away his lady from a knight errant is taking away the eyes with which he sees, and the sun that shines down on him, and the sustenance that maintains him. I have said it many times before, and now I say it again: the knight errant without a lady is like a tree without leaves, a building without a foundation, a shadow without a body to cast it.”

“There is nothing more to say,” said the duchess, “but if, despite this, we are to believe the history of Señor Don Quixote that only recently has come into the world to the general applause of all people, we infer from that, if I remember correctly, that your grace has never seen Señora
Dulcinea, and that she does not exist in the world but is an imaginary lady, and that your grace engendered and gave birth to her in your mind, and depicted her with all the graces and perfections that you desired.”

“There is much to say about that,” responded Don Quixote. “God knows if Dulcinea exists in the world or not, or if she is imaginary or not imaginary; these are not the kinds of things whose verification can be carried through to the end. I neither engendered nor gave birth to my lady, although I contemplate her in the manner proper to a lady who possesses the qualities that can make her famous throughout the world, to wit: she is beautiful without blemish, serious without arrogance, amorous but modest, grateful because she is courteous, courteous because she is well-bred, and, finally, noble because of her lineage, for when coupled with good blood, beauty shines and excels to a greater degree of perfection than in beautiful women of humble birth.”

“That is so,” said the duke. “But Señor Don Quixote must give me permission to say what I am obliged to say because of the history of his deeds which I have read, and from which one infers that even if it is conceded that Dulcinea exists, in Toboso or outside it, and that she is as exceptionally beautiful as your grace depicts her for us, in the matter of noble lineage she cannot compare with the Orianas, Alastrajareas, Madásimas, or other ladies of that kind who fill the histories which your grace knows so well.”

“To that I can say,” responded Don Quixote, “that Dulcinea is the child of her actions, and that virtues strengthen the blood, and that a virtuous person of humble birth is to be more highly esteemed and valued than a vice-ridden noble, especially since Dulcinea possesses a quality
²
that can make her a queen with a crown and scepter; for the merits of a beautiful and virtuous woman extend to performing even greater miracles, and in her she carries, virtually if not formally, even greater good fortune.”

“Señor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, “I say that in everything your grace says you proceed with great caution and, as they say, with the sounding line in your hand; from now on I shall believe, and make my entire household believe, and even my lord the duke, if necessary, that Dulcinea exists in Toboso, and that she lives in our day, and is beautiful, and nobly born, and worthy of having a knight like Señor Don Quixote
serving her, which is the highest praise I can give, and the highest I know of. But I cannot help having one scruple, and feeling a certain animosity toward Sancho Panza: the scruple is that the aforementioned history says that Sancho Panza found the lady Dulcinea, when he brought her a missive on behalf of your grace, sifting a sack of grain, and, apparently, that it was buckwheat, which makes me doubt the nobility of her lineage.”