Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (24 page)

“Your grace would do better,” said Sancho, “as a preacher than as a knight errant.”

“Knights errant knew and must know about everything, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “because there were knights errant in past times who would stop to give a sermon or a talk in the middle of the field of battle just as if they were graduates of the University of Paris, from which one can infer that the lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.”

“Fine, whatever your grace says,” responded Sancho, “but let’s leave now and find a place to spend the night, and, God willing, there won’t be any blankets, or people who toss blankets, or phantoms, or enchanted Moors, and if there are, I’ll send the whole pack of them to the devil.”

“God’s will be done, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and lead the way, for this time I want you to select the place where we shall sleep. But first give me your hand, and feel with your finger, and see how many teeth and molars I am missing here on the right side of my upper jaw, for that is where I feel the pain.”

Sancho put his fingers in his master’s mouth, and as he was feeling inside, he said:

“How many molars did your grace have on this side?”

“Four,” responded Don Quixote, “and except for the wisdom tooth, all of them sound and healthy.”

“Señor, your grace should think carefully about what you’re saying,” Sancho responded.

“I say four, or perhaps five,” responded Don Quixote, “because never in my life have I had a tooth or molar pulled, nor has one ever fallen out, or been eaten by decay, or afflicted by any abscess.”

“Well, in this lower part,” said Sancho, “your grace has no more than two and a half molars, and in the upper part, none at all, not even a half; it’s all as smooth as the palm of your hand.”

“Woe is me!” said Don Quixote when he heard the sad news from his squire. “I should rather have lost an arm, as long as it was not the one that wields my sword. For I must tell you, Sancho, that a mouth without molars is like a mill without a millstone, and dentation is to be valued much more than diamonds. But we who profess the arduous order of chivalry are subject to all of this. Mount, my friend, and lead the way, for I shall follow you along any path you choose.”

Sancho did so and headed in the direction where he thought they might find lodging without leaving the king’s highway, which was very well traveled in that area.

They rode very slowly because the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws gave him no peace and did not allow him to go any faster; Sancho wanted to divert and distract him by talking to him, and among other things, he said what will be related in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XIX

“It seems to me, Señor, that all these misfortunes we’ve had recently are surely a punishment for the sin your grace committed against your order of chivalry, since you didn’t keep the vow you made not to eat bread from a tablecloth or to lie with the queen, and everything else that comes afterward and that your grace swore to fulfill, including taking that helmet of Malandrino
¹
or whatever the Moor’s name is, I don’t remember exactly.”

“You are certainly correct, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but to tell you the truth, it had slipped my mind; and you can also be sure your negligence in not reminding me of it in time is the reason you had the incident with the blanket, but I shall rectify that for you, for in the order of chivalry there are means to grant dispensations for everything.”

“But when did I ever swear to anything?” responded Sancho.

“It does not matter that you have not made a vow,” said Don Quixote. “It is enough for me to understand that you are not completely free of complicity, and so, just in case, it would be a good idea for us to settle on a remedy.”

“Well, if that’s true,” said Sancho, “your grace should be sure not to forget about it the way you forgot your vow; maybe the phantoms will feel like having fun with me again, or even with your grace, if they see you being so persistent.”

They were engaged in this and other conversations when night
found them still on the road, not having found a place to sleep; even worse, they were perishing of hunger, for the loss of the saddlebags meant the loss of all their provisions and supplies. And as a final confirmation of their misfortune, they had an adventure that, without any kind of contrivance, really did seem to be one. And so night fell, bringing some darkness with it, but despite this they continued on, for Sancho believed that since the road was the king’s highway, in one or two leagues it was likely they would find an inn.

They were riding along, then, the night dark, the squire hungry, and the master with a desire to eat, when they saw coming toward them, on the same road they were traveling, a great multitude of lights that looked like nothing so much as moving stars. Sancho was frightened when he saw them, and Don Quixote felt uneasy; one tugged on his donkey’s halter, and the other pulled at the reins of his skinny horse, and they came to a halt, looking carefully to see what those lights might be, and they saw them approaching, and the closer they came the bigger they seemed; seeing this, Sancho began to tremble like a jack-in-the-box, and the hairs on Don Quixote’s head stood on end; then, taking heart, he said:

“This, Sancho, is undoubtedly an exceedingly great and dangerous adventure, in which it will be necessary for me to demonstrate all my valor and courage.”

“Woe is me!” Sancho responded. “If this adventure has anything to do with phantoms, which is how it’s looking to me, who has the ribs that can stand it?”

“Whether they are phantoms or not,” said Don Quixote, “I shall not permit any of them to touch even a thread of your garments, for if they had their fun with you the last time, it was because I could not get over the wall of the corral, but now we are in open country, where I shall be able to wield my sword as I choose.”

“And if they enchant you and stop you from moving the way they did the last time,” said Sancho, “what difference will it make if you’re in open country or not?”

“Despite everything,” replied Don Quixote, “I beg you, Sancho, to have courage, for experience will allow you to understand the extent of mine.”

“I will, may it please God,” responded Sancho.

And the two of them moved to the side of the road and began again to look closely to see what those traveling lights might be, and it was not
long before they were able to make out a good number of shirted men,
²
and at that fearful sight Sancho completely lost his courage, and his teeth began to chatter as if he had quartain fever, and the clatter of his teeth grew louder when they could make out clearly what this was, because they saw some twenty shirted men, all of them mounted and carrying burning torches in their hands, and behind them came a litter covered in mourning, followed by another six mounted men draped in mourning down to the hooves of their mules, for the calm gait made it clear that these were not horses. The shirted men were talking quietly among themselves in low, sorrowful voices. This strange vision, at that hour and in so deserted a place, was more than enough to instill fear in Sancho’s heart, and even in his master’s, and if that was true for Don Quixote, then Sancho had already lost whatever courage he had. But the opposite happened to his master, for in his vivid imagination this appeared to be another adventure from his books.

It seemed to him that the litter was a bier carrying a gravely wounded or dead knight, and that it was reserved for him alone to take revenge on his behalf, and so, without another word, he couched his lance, positioned himself in the saddle, and with a gallant spirit and bearing stopped in the middle of the road along which the shirted men necessarily had to pass; when he saw that they were near, he raised his voice and said:

“Halt, O knights, or whomsoever you may be, and give an account of yourselves: from whence you come, whither you are going, and whom you carry on that bier; for by all indications either you have committed an offense or one has been committed against you, and it is needful and proper that I know of it, either to punish you for your evil deeds or to avenge the wrong that has been done to you.”

“We’re in a hurry,” responded one of the shirted men, “and the inn is far, and we can’t stop to give the accounting you ask for.”

And spurring his mule, he rode forward. Don Quixote took great offense at this reply, and seizing the mule’s bridle, he said:

“Halt, and be more courteous, and give the accounting for which I have asked; otherwise, all of you must do battle with me.”

The mule was skittish, and when his bridle was seized he became so frightened that he bucked and threw his rider to the ground. A servant who was on foot, seeing the shirted man fall, began to insult Don Quixote, who was angry by now, and without waiting to hear more, he couched his lance, attacked one of the mourners, wounded him, and
knocked him to the ground; when he turned to face the rest of them, it was wonderful to see how quickly he charged and routed them, for at that moment Rocinante moved with such speed and arrogance, it seemed as if he had sprouted wings.

All the shirted men were timorous and unarmed, and at the first opportunity they immediately left the fray and began to run across the fields, holding their burning torches, and they looked like nothing so much as the figures in masks who run about on nights of revels and celebrations. The men in mourning, caught up and swaddled in their soutanes and cassocks, could not move; and so, in complete safety, Don Quixote struck them all and drove them away against their will, for they all thought he was not a man but a devil from hell who had come to take the dead body they were carrying on the litter.

Sancho saw it all, amazed at his master’s boldness, and he said to himself:

“No doubt about it, this master of mine is as courageous and brave as he says.”

A torch was burning on the ground next to the first man who had been thrown by his mule, and in its light Don Quixote could see him; and coming over to him, he put the point of his lance to his face, telling him to yield; if not, he would kill him. To which the fallen man responded:

“I have yielded and then some; I can’t move because my leg is broken; I beg your grace, if you are a Christian gentleman, not to kill me, for you would commit a great sacrilege: I am a licentiate and have taken my first vows.”

“Then what the devil has brought you here,” said Don Quixote, “being a man of the Church?”

“What, Señor?” replied the fallen man. “My misfortune.”

“An even greater one awaits you,” said Don Quixote, “if you do not answer to my satisfaction everything I asked you earlier.”

“Your grace will easily have your satisfaction,” responded the licentiate, “and so your grace should know that even though I said before that I was a licentiate, I am only a bachelor, and my name is Alonso López; I’m a native of Alcobendas, and I have come from the city of Baeza, with eleven other priests, the men who fled with the torches; we are going to the city of Segovia, escorting the dead body that lies in that litter, a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was originally interred, and now, as I’ve said, we are carrying his bones to his grave in Segovia, his native city.”

“Who killed him?” asked Don Quixote.

“God, by means of a pestilential fever,” responded the bachelor.

“In that case,” said Don Quixote, “Our Lord has relieved me of the task which I was going to undertake to avenge his death, if anyone else had killed him; but since he was killed by the One who killed him, there is no other recourse but to be silent and shrug one’s shoulders, which is what I should do if He had killed me. And I want your reverence to know that I am a knight from La Mancha, named Don Quixote, and it is my occupation and profession to wander the world righting wrongs and rectifying injuries.”

“I don’t know how you can speak of righting wrongs,” said the bachelor, “for you have certainly wronged me and broken my leg, which won’t ever be right again; and in rectifying my injuries, you have injured me so much that I’ll go on being injured for the rest of my life; it was a great misadventure for me to run across a man who is seeking adventures.”

“Not all things,” responded Don Quixote, “happen in precisely the same way. The harm, Señor Bachelor Alonso López, lay in all of you coming as you did, at night, dressed in those surplices, holding burning torches, and praying, and draped in mourning, for you indeed appeared to be evil beings from the next world; as a consequence, I could not fail to fulfill my obligation and attack you, and I should have attacked even if I had known for a fact you were all demons from hell, which is what I deemed and considered you to be.”

“Since this is what fate had in store for me,” said the bachelor of arts, “I implore your grace, Señor Knight Errant (who has treated me with such errancy), to help me out from under this mule, for my leg is caught between the stirrup and the saddle.”

“I might have talked until morning!” said Don Quixote. “How long would you have waited to tell me of your plight?”

Then he called to Sancho Panza, who took no notice, because he was busy going through the provisions on a pack mule that belonged to those good gentlemen and was well-supplied with things to eat. Sancho made a sack out of his coat, gathered up as much as he could fit into that pouch, loaded it onto his donkey, and then responded to his master’s calls and helped to remove the weight of the mule from the bachelor. After placing him on the animal’s back, Sancho handed him his torch, and Don Quixote told him to follow after his companions and, on his behalf, to beg their pardon for the offense against them, which it had not been in his power to avoid committing. Sancho also said to him:

“If, by chance, those gentlemen would like to know who the valiant man is who offended them, your grace can say he is the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, also known as
The Knight of the Sorrowful Face.”

At this the bachelor rode off, and Don Quixote asked Sancho what had moved him to call him
The Knight of the Sorrowful Face
at that moment and at no other.