Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (45 page)

“Look, Sancho,” responded Don Quixote, “if your advice to marry is because I shall become king when I kill the giant and can easily grant you favors and give you what I have promised, you should know that without marrying I shall be able to satisfy your desire, because I shall request as my reward, before I go into battle, that when I emerge victorious, even though I do not marry I shall be given part of the kingdom and then may give it to whomever I wish, and when they have given it to me, to whom shall I give it but to you?”

“That’s clear enough,” responded Sancho, “but your grace should be sure to choose the part along the coast, because if I’m not happy with the life, I can put my black vassals on a ship and do with them the things I said I would do. Your grace shouldn’t take the time to see my lady Dulcinea now; you ought to go and kill the giant, and let’s finish up this business, because, by God, it seems to me there’s a lot of honor and profit in it.”

“I say to you, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that you are correct, and I shall take your advice with regard to going with the princess before I see Dulcinea. I warn you not to say anything to anyone, not even those who are with us, regarding what we have discussed and deliberated upon, for since Dulcinea is so modest and does not wish her thoughts to be known, it would not be right for me, or anyone speaking for me, to reveal them.”

“Well, if that’s true,” said Sancho, “why does your grace make all those vanquished by your arm present themselves before my lady Dulcinea, when that’s as sure as your signature that you love and serve her? And since they have to fall to their knees in her presence and say that they’ve been sent by your grace to be her servant, how can her thoughts or yours be hidden?”

“Oh, how foolish and simple you are,” said Don Quixote. “Do you not see, Sancho, that all of this redounds to her greater glory? Because you should know that in our style of chivalry, it is a great honor for a lady to have many knights errant who serve her, and whose thoughts go no further than to serve her simply because she is who she is, not hoping for any other reward for their many and virtuous desires but that she be willing to accept them as her knights.”

“That’s the way,” said Sancho, “I’ve heard it said in sermons, we should love Our Lord: for Himself alone, not because we hope for glory or are afraid of punishment. But I’d rather love and serve Him for what He can do.”

“Devil take you for a peasant!” said Don Quixote. “What intelligent things you say sometimes! One would think you had studied.”

“By my faith, I don’t know how to read,” responded Sancho.

At this point, Master Nicolás called to them to wait because the others wanted to stop and drink at a small spring. Don Quixote stopped, much to Sancho’s delight; he was tired of telling so many lies and feared that his master would catch him in one, for although he knew that Dulcinea was a peasant from Toboso, he had never seen her in his life.

Cardenio, in the meantime, had put on the clothes worn by Dorotea when they found her, and although they were not very good, they were much better than the ones he discarded. They dismounted beside the spring, and with the food the priest had acquired at the inn, they managed to satisfy to some extent the great hunger they all felt.

As they were eating, a boy traveling along the road happened to pass by, and he began to look very carefully at the people around the spring, and then he ran to Don Quixote, threw his arms around his legs, and burst into tears, saying:

“Oh, Señor! Doesn’t your grace know me? Look closely; I’m Andrés, the boy your grace freed from the oak tree where I was tied.”

Don Quixote recognized him, and grasping him by the hand, he turned to his companions and said:

“So that your graces may see how important it is that there be knights
errant in the world to right the wrongs and offenses committed by the insolent and evil men who live in it, your graces should know that some days ago, as I was passing through a wood, I heard shouts and very pitiful cries that seemed to come from a person in distress and in need; moved by my obligation, I immediately went to the place from which the heartrending cries seemed to come, and there I found this boy tied to an oak, and now you see him before you, which pleases my soul because he will be a witness who will not allow me to lie. I say that he was tied to the oak, naked from the waist up, and a peasant, who I learned later was his master, was beating him with the reins of his mare; as soon as I saw this I asked the reason for so savage a thrashing; the villain replied that he was beating him because he was his servant, and that certain of his careless acts were more a question of thievery than simplemindedness, to which this child said: ‘Señor, he’s only beating me because I asked for my wages.’ The master answered with all kinds of arguments and excuses, which I heard but did not believe. In short, I obliged the peasant to untie him and made him swear that he would take him back with him and pay him one
real
after another, even more than he owed. Is this not true, Andrés my son? Did you not notice how forcefully I commanded him, and how humbly he promised to do everything I ordered him and told him and wanted him to do? Respond; do not be shy or hesitant about anything; tell these gentlefolk what happened, so that they may see and consider the benefit, as I say, of having knights errant wandering the roads.”

“Everything that your grace has said is very true,” responded the boy, “but the matter ended in a way that was very different from what your grace imagines.”

“What do you mean, different?” replied Don Quixote. “Do you mean the peasant did not pay you?”

“He not only didn’t pay me,” responded the boy, “but as soon as your grace crossed the wood and we were alone, he tied me to the same oak tree again and gave me so many more lashes that I was flayed like St. Bartholomew, and with each lash he mocked you and made a joke about how he had fooled your grace, and if I hadn’t been feeling so much pain, I’d have laughed at what he said. But the fact is he raised so many welts that until now I’ve been in a hospital because of the harm that wicked peasant did to me. Your grace is to blame for everything, because if you had continued on your way and not come when nobody was calling you or mixed into other people’s business, my master would have been satis
fied with giving me one or two dozen lashes, and then he would have let me go and paid me what he owed me. But your grace dishonored him for no reason, and called him so many names that he lost his temper, and since he couldn’t take his revenge on your grace, when we were alone he vented his anger on me, so that it seems to me I won’t be the same man again for the rest of my life.”

“The mistake,” said Don Quixote, “was in my leaving, for I should not have gone until you were paid; I ought to have known, from long experience, that no peasant keeps his word if he sees that it is not to his advantage to do so. But remember, Andrés: I swore that if he did not pay you, I would go in search of him and find him even if he hid in the belly of the whale.”

“That’s true,” said Andrés, “but it didn’t do any good.”

“Now you will tell me if it does,” said Don Quixote.

And having said this, he stood up very quickly and ordered Sancho to put the bridle on Rocinante, who was grazing while they ate.

Dorotea asked what he intended to do. He responded that he wanted to find the peasant, and punish him for behaving so badly, and oblige him to pay Andrés down to the last
maravedí,
in spite of and despite all the peasants in the world. To which she responded that according to the boon he had promised, he could not become involved in any other enterprise until hers was concluded, and since he knew this better than anyone, he must hold his fury in check until he returned from her kingdom.

“That is true,” responded Don Quixote, “and it is necessary for Andrés to be patient until my return, as you, Señora, have said; to him I vow and promise again that I shall not rest until I see him avenged and paid.”

“I don’t believe those vows.” said Andrés. “I’d rather have enough to get to Sevilla than all the revenge in the world: if you can spare it, give me some food to take with me, and God bless your grace and all the other knights errant, and I hope they’re errant enough to find a punishment as good as the one I got.”

Sancho took a piece of bread and some cheese from his bag, and handing them to the boy, he said:

“Take this, brother Andrés, for all of us have a part in your misfortune.”

“Which part do you have?” asked Andrés.

“This part, the cheese and bread I’m giving you,” responded Sancho, “for God only knows if I’ll need it or not, because I’m telling you, my
friend, the squires of knights errant are subject to a good deal of hunger and misfortune, and even other things that are felt more easily than said.”

Andrés took the bread and cheese, and seeing that no one gave him anything else, he lowered his head and, as they say, seized the road with both hands. It is certainly true that when he left, he said to Don Quixote:

“For the love of God, Señor Knight Errant, if you ever run into me again, even if you see them chopping me to pieces, don’t help me and don’t come to my aid, but leave me alone with my misfortune; no matter how bad it is, it won’t be worse than what will happen to me when I’m helped by your grace, and may God curse you and all the knights errant ever born in this world.”

Don Quixote was about to get up to punish him, but Andrés began running so quickly that no one even attempted to follow him. Don Quixote was mortified by Andrés’s story, and it was necessary for the others to be very careful not to laugh so as not to mortify him completely.

CHAPTER XXXII

They finished their meal, saddled their mounts, and without anything worth relating happening to them, on the following day they reached the inn that was the terror and fear of Sancho Panza, but although he would have preferred not to go in, he could not avoid it. The innkeeper’s wife, the innkeeper, their daughter, and Maritornes saw Don Quixote and Sancho arriving, and they went out to receive them with displays of great joy; Don Quixote greeted them in a grave and solemn tone and told them to prepare a better bed for him than they had the last time, to which the innkeeper’s wife responded that if he paid better than he had the last time, she would provide him with a bed worthy of a prince. Don Quixote said he would, and therefore they prepared a reasonable one for him in the same attic where he had been previously, and he lay down immediately because he felt weakened and dejected.

No sooner had he closed the door than the innkeeper’s wife rushed at the barber, seized him by the beard, and said:

“Upon my soul, you can’t go on using my oxtail for a beard, and you have to give the tail back to me; it’s a shame to see that thing of my husband’s on the floor; I mean the comb that I always hung on my nice tail.”

The barber refused to give it to her, no matter how hard she pulled, until the licentiate told him to return it, for it was no longer necessary to use the disguise; he could show and reveal himself as he was and tell Don Quixote that when the thieving galley slaves robbed him, he had fled to this inn; if the knight should ask about the princess’s squire, they would say she had sent him ahead to inform the people of her kingdom that she was on her way and was bringing their liberator with her. When he heard this, the barber willingly returned the tail to the innkeeper’s wife, along with all the other articles they had borrowed for their rescue of Don Quixote. Everyone in the inn was astonished at the beauty of Dorotea and at the fine appearance of young Cardenio. The priest had them prepare whatever food was available at the inn, and the innkeeper, hoping for better payment, quickly prepared a reasonable meal; Don Quixote slept all this time, and they agreed not to wake him because, for the moment, he needed sleep more than food.

During the meal, in the presence of the innkeeper, his wife, their daughter, Maritornes, and the other travelers, they spoke of the strange madness of Don Quixote and the manner in which they had found him. The innkeeper’s wife recounted what had happened with him and the muledriver, and after looking around for Sancho, and not seeing him, she told them about his tossing in the blanket, which caused them no small amusement. When the priest said that the books of chivalry that Don Quixote read had made him lose his wits, the innkeeper said:

“I don’t know how that can be; the truth is, to my mind, there’s no better reading in the world; I have two or three of them, along with some other papers, and they really have put life into me, and not only me but other people, too. Because during the harvest, many of the harvesters gather here during their time off, and there’s always a few who know how to read, and one of them takes down one of those books, and more than thirty of us sit around him and listen to him read with so much pleasure that it saves us a thousand gray hairs; at least, as far as I’m concerned, I can tell you that when I hear about those furious, terrible blows struck by the knights, it makes me want to do the same, and I’d be happy to keep hearing about them for days and nights on end.”

“The same goes for me,” said the innkeeper’s wife, “because I never have any peace in my house except when you’re listening to somebody read; you get so caught up that you forget about arguing with me.”

“That’s true,” said Maritornes, “and by my faith, I really like to hear those things, too, they’re very pretty, especially when they tell about a lady under some orange trees in the arms of her knight, and a duenna’s their lookout, and she’s dying of envy and scared to death. I think all that’s as sweet as honey.”

“And you, young lady, what do you think of them?” asked the priest, speaking to the innkeeper’s daughter.

“Upon my soul, I don’t know, Señor,” she responded. “I listen, too, and the truth is that even if I don’t understand them, I like to hear them, but I don’t like all the fighting that my father likes; I like the laments of the knights when they’re absent from their ladies; the truth is that sometimes they make me cry, I feel so sorry for them.”