Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (34 page)

“It seems to me,” said Sancho, “that the knights who did these things were provoked and had a reason to do senseless things and penances; but what reason does your grace have for going crazy? What lady has scorned you, and what signs have you found to tell you that my lady Dulcinea of Toboso has done anything foolish with Moor or Christian?”

“Therein lies the virtue,” responded Don Quixote, “and the excellence of my enterprise, for a knight errant deserves neither glory nor thanks if he goes mad for a reason. The great achievement is to lose one’s reason for no reason, and to let my lady know that if I can do this without cause, what should I not do if there were cause? Moreover, I have more than enough reason because of my long absence from her who is forever my lady, Dulcinea of Toboso; as you heard the shepherd Ambrosio say, all ills are suffered and feared by one who is absent. And so, friend Sancho, do not waste time advising me to abandon so rare, so felicitous, so extraordinary an imitation. Mad I am and mad I shall remain until you return with the reply to a letter which I intend to send with you to my lady Dulcinea; if it is such as my fidelity warrants, my madness and my penance will come to an end; if it is not, I shall truly go mad and not feel anything. Therefore, no matter her reply, I shall emerge from the struggle and travail in which you leave me, taking pleasure as a sane man in the good news you bring, or, as a madman, not suffering on account of the bad news you bear. But tell me, Sancho, have you kept the helmet of Mambrino safe? For I saw you pick it up from the ground when that ingrate tried to shatter it. But he could not, and in this we can see how finely it is tempered.”

To which Sancho responded:

“By God, Señor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, but I lose my patience and can’t bear some of the things your grace says; because of them I even imagine that everything you tell me about chivalry, and winning kingdoms and empires, and giving me ínsulas and granting me other favors
and honors, as is the custom of knights errant, must be nothing but empty talk and lies, and all a hamburg or a humbug or whatever you call it. Because if anyone heard your grace calling a barber’s basin the helmet of Mambrino without realizing the error after more than four days, what could he think but that whoever says and claims such a thing must be out of his mind? I have the basin in the bag, all dented, and I’m taking it along so I can fix it when I get home, and use it to trim my beard, if someday, by the grace of God, I ever find myself with my wife and children again.”

“Well, Sancho, by the same oath you swore before, I swear to you,” said Don Quixote, “that you have the dimmest wits that any squire in the world has or ever had. Is it possible that in all the time you have traveled with me you have not yet noticed that all things having to do with knights errant appear to be chimerical, foolish, senseless, and turned inside out? And not because they really are, but because hordes of enchanters always walk among us and alter and change everything and turn things into whatever they please, according to whether they wish to favor us or destroy us; and so, what seems to you a barber’s basin seems to me the helmet of Mambrino, and will seem another thing to someone else. It was rare foresight on the part of the wise man who favors me to make what is really and truly the helmet of Mambrino seem a basin to everyone else, because it is held in such high esteem that everyone would pursue me in order to take it from me; but since they see it as only a barber’s basin, they do not attempt to obtain it, as was evident when that man tried to shatter it, then left it on the ground, not taking it away with him; by my faith, if he had recognized it for what it was he never would have left it behind. Keep it, my friend, since I have no need of it for the moment; rather, I must remove all this armor and be as naked as the day I was born, if I wish in my penance to follow Roland more than Amadís.”

As they were conversing, they came to the foot of a high mountain, which, almost like a peak carved out of the rock, stood alone among the many others that surrounded it. At its base there flowed a gentle stream, and all around it lay a meadow so green and luxuriant it brought joy to the eyes that gazed upon it. There were many woodland trees and plants and flowers, making it a peaceful spot. The Knight of the Sorrowful Face chose this place to carry out his penance, and so, as soon as he saw it, he began to say in a loud voice, as if he had lost his reason:

“This is the place I designate and choose, O heavens, to weep for the misfortune to which you have condemned me. This is the place where the humor of my eyes will increase the waters of this small stream, and my continual deep sighs will constantly move the leaves of these un-
tamed trees in testimony to and as proof of the grief that afflicts my troubled heart. And O you rustic gods, whoever you may be, who dwell in this desolate place, hear the laments of this unfortunate lover, brought by long absence and imagined jealousy to this harsh terrain to complain and weep over the unyielding nature of that ungrateful beauty, the culmination and perfection of all human comeliness. O you nymphs and dryads, who are wont to dwell in thickets and forests, loved, although in vain, by wanton and lustful satyrs, may they ne’er disturb your sweet tranquility and may you help me lament my misfortune, or at least not grow weary of hearing it! O Dulcinea of Toboso, day of my night, glory of my grief, guide of my travels, star of my good fortune, may heaven grant all that thou mayest request just as thou considereth the place and plight to which thy absence hath led me and respondeth with the favor merited by my faithfulness! O solitary trees that from this day forth will accompany my solitude, give a sign, with the gentle movement of your branches, that my presence doth not displease you! O thou, my squire, amiable companion of my favorable and adverse adventures, take note and fix in thy mind what thou wilt see me do here, so that thou mayest recount and relate it to the sole cause of all my actions!”

And having said this, he dismounted Rocinante and in an instant removed the bit and saddle, and slapping the horse on the rump, he said:

“Liberty is given to thee by him who hath none, O steed as great in thy deeds as thou art unfortunate in thy destiny! Goest thou whither thou wilt, for on thy forehead it is written that the Hippogryph of Astolfo was not thy equal in speed, nor the renowned Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear.”
⁶

Seeing this, Sancho said:

“Good luck to whoever spared us the trouble of unsaddling the gray;
⁷
by my faith, we would have plenty of little slaps to give that donkey, and plenty of things to say in his praise, but if he were here, I wouldn’t agree to anybody unsaddling him, because there’d be no reason to; he couldn’t be described as a lover or desperate, since his master, who was me so long as God was willing, wasn’t those things either. The truth is, Señor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, that if my leaving and your grace’s madness are serious, it would be a good idea to saddle Rocinante again and let him take the place of the gray, which would make my going and coming shorter; if I make the trip on foot, I don’t know when I’ll arrive or when I’ll get back, because, to make a long story short, I’m a very poor walker.”

“What I say, Sancho,” responded Don Quixote, “is that it will be as you wish, for your plan does not seem to be a bad one, and I also say that three days hence you will leave here, because in that time I want you to see what I do and say for her sake, so that you can recount it to her.”

“But what else do I have to see,” said Sancho, “besides what I’ve seen already?”

“How little you know!” responded Don Quixote. “Now I have to tear my clothes, toss aside my armor, and hit my head against these rocks, along with other things of that nature, all of which will astonish you.”

“For the love of God,” said Sancho, “your grace should be careful how you go around hitting your head, because you might come up against a boulder that’s so hard that with the first blow you put an end to the whole plan for this penance; in my opinion, if your grace believes that hitting your head is necessary and you can’t do this thing without it, you should be content, since it’s all make-believe and fake and a joke, with knocking your head on water or something else that’s soft, like cotton; leave the rest to me, and I’ll tell my lady that your grace was hitting your head against the sharp edge of a boulder that was harder than a diamond.”

“I thank you for your good intentions, friend Sancho,” responded Don Quixote, “but I want you to realize that all the things I am doing are not jokes but very real; otherwise, I would be contravening the rules of chivalry that command us never to lie, or else suffer the punishment of those who relapse into sin, and doing one thing instead of another is the same as lying. And so, my head hittings have to be real, solid, and true, with no sophistry or fantasy about them. And it will be necessary for you
to leave me some lint bandages to heal my wounds, since it was our misfortune to lose the balm.”

“Losing the donkey was more serious,” responded Sancho, “because when we lost him we lost the bandages and everything else. And I beg your grace to say no more about that cursed potion; just hearing its name turns my soul, not to mention my stomach. And I beg something else: just assume that the three days you gave me to see the mad things you do have already passed, because as far as I’m concerned, I’ve seen them, and judged them, and will tell wonderful things about them to my lady; so write the letter now and send me on my way, because I have a great desire to come back and take your grace out of this purgatory where I’m leaving you.”

“You call it purgatory, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. “You would do better to call it hell, and even worse, if anything can be worse.”

“Whoever’s in hell,” responded Sancho, “
nulla es retencio,
⁸
or so I’ve heard.”

“I do not understand what
retencio
means,” said Don Quixote.

“
Retencio
means,” responded Sancho, “that whoever’s in hell never gets out and can’t get out. Which is just the opposite of your grace, unless my feet go the wrong way when I use the spurs to liven up Rocinante; just put me once and for all in Toboso, before my lady Dulcinea, and I’ll tell her such wonders about the foolish things and the crazy things, because they amount to the same thing, that your grace has done and is still doing that she’ll become softer than a glove even if I find her harder than a cork tree; with her sweet and honeyed reply I’ll come flying back through the air, like a wizard, and I’ll take your grace out of this purgatory that seems like hell but isn’t, since there’s a hope of getting out, which, as I said before, the people in hell don’t have, and I don’t think your grace will say otherwise.”

“That is true,” said the Knight of the Sorrowful Face, “but what shall we use to write the letter?”

“And the order for the donkeys, too,”
⁹
added Sancho.

“Everything will be included,” said Don Quixote, “and it would be a good idea, since we have no paper, to write it, as the ancients did, on the leaves of trees, or on some wax tablets, although they would be as diffi
cult to find now as paper. But it occurs to me that it would be good, and even better than good, to write it in the notebook that belonged to Cardenio, and you will take care to have it transcribed onto paper, in a fine hand, in the first town you come to where there is a schoolmaster, or else some sacristan can transcribe it for you, but do not give it to any notary, for their writing is so difficult to read that not even Satan can understand it.”

“And what do we do about the signature?” said Sancho.

“The letters of Amadís were never signed,” responded Don Quixote.

“That’s fine,” responded Sancho, “but the order must be signed, and if it’s copied they’ll say the signature is false, and I won’t have my donkeys.”

“The order will be written in the same notebook, and it will be signed, and when my niece sees it, there will be no difficulty putting it into effect. As for the love letter, as a signature you will have them put: ‘Thine until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Face.’ And it will not matter if it is written in another’s hand, because, if I remember correctly, Dulcinea does not know how to read or write, and never in her life has she seen my writing or a letter of mine, because my love and her love have always been platonic, not going beyond a virtuous glance. And even this was so infrequent that I could truly swear that in the twelve years I have loved her more than the light of these eyes that will be consumed by the earth, I have not seen her more than four times; and it well may be that with regard to these four times, she might not have noticed the one time I looked at her; such is the retirement and seclusion in which her father, Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother, Aldonza Nogales, have reared her.”

“Well, well!” said Sancho. “Are you saying that Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter, also known as Aldonza Lorenzo, is the lady Dulcinea of Toboso?”

“She is,” said Don Quixote, “and she is worthy of being lady and mistress of the entire universe.”

“I know her very well,” said Sancho, “and I can say that she can throw a metal bar just as well as the brawniest lad in the village. Praise our Maker, she’s a fine girl in every way, sturdy as a horse, and just the one to pull any knight errant or about to be errant, who has her for his lady, right out of any mudhole he’s fallen into! Damn, but she’s strong! And what a voice she has! I can tell you that one day she stood on top of the village bell tower to call some shepherds who were in one of her fa
ther’s fields, and even though they were more than half a league away, they heard her just as if they were standing at the foot of the tower. And the best thing about her is that she’s not a prude. In fact, she’s something of a trollop: she jokes with everybody and laughs and makes fun of everything. Now I say, Señor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, that your grace not only can and should do crazy things for her, but with good cause you can be desperate and hang yourself; there won’t be anybody who knows about it who won’t say you did the right thing, even if the devil carries you off. And I’d like to be on my way, just for the chance to see her; I haven’t seen her for a long time, and she must be changed by now, because women’s faces become very worn when they’re always out in the fields, in the sun and wind. And I confess to your grace, Señor Don Quixote, that till now I lived in great ignorance because I really and truly thought the lady Dulcinea must be a princess your grace was in love with, or the kind of person who deserved the rich presents your grace sent to her, like the Basque and the galley slaves and probably many others, just as many as the victories your grace won in the days before I was your squire. But, thinking it over carefully, what good does it do Aldonza Lorenzo, I mean, the lady Dulcinea of Toboso, if all those vanquished by your grace are sent and will be sent to kneel before her? Because it might be that when they arrive she’s out raking flax, or on the threshing floor, and they’ll run away when they see her, and she’ll laugh and get angry at the present.”