About the never-before-seen and unheard-of adventure accomplished by the brave don Quixote de La Mancha, with less danger than any ever accomplished by any other famous knight in the world.
“The presence of this grass, señor mío, indicates there has to be some spring or brook nearby that nourishes it, so it would be good for us to go on a bit, and we’ll soon come to where we can quench this terrible thirst tormenting us, because without a doubt, thirst is worse than hunger.”
Don Quixote considered this to be good advice, so he took Rocinante’s reins, and Sancho—after he loaded his donkey with the leftovers from dinner—took its halter, and they began to go up the meadow, feeling their way, because the blackness of the night prevented them from seeing anything. But they hadn’t gone two hundred paces when the roar of falling water—as if it were rushing over immense lofty cliffs—came to their ears. This sound made them extraordinarily happy, and when they stopped to try to distinguish exactly where it was coming from, they heard a most unexpected noise that diluted their joy at having discovered water, especially Sancho, who was by nature a coward and quite fainthearted. I mean, they heard what sounded like rhythmic clanking of iron and chains, which, when accompanied by the furious din of the water, would instill fear in any heart, other than that of don Quixote.
As has been said, the night was dark, and they happened to have penetrated into a forest of tall trees, whose leaves, stirred by the mild wind, made a frightening, but gentle noise, so that the solitude, the site, the darkness, the noise of the water, coupled with the rustling of the leaves, caused them dread and fright, and more so when they realized that the clanking wasn’t diminishing, nor the wind subsiding, nor was it getting light, and added to this, they didn’t know where they were.
But don Quixote, spurred on by his dauntless heart, leapt onto Rocinante, took his shield, leveled his lance, and said: “Sancho, my friend, I want you to know that I was born by the will of heaven in our Age of Iron to revive in it the Age of Gold, or the Golden Age, as it’s commonly known. I’m the one for whom dangers, great exploits, and valiant deeds are reserved. I am, I say again, the one who will revive the Knights of the Round Table, the Twelve Peers of France, the Nine Worthies; the one who will cast into oblivion all the Platires, the Tablantes, the Olivantes, and Tirantes, the Febos, and Belianises, along with the whole throng of famous knights errant of bygone days, accomplishing in this age in which I find myself such great deeds, unusual things, and feats of arms that will outshine the brightest ones that they all performed. You observe, my faithful squire, the darkness of this night, its odd silence, the quiet and indistinct rustling from these trees, the fearful noise of that water we came looking for, which seems to be falling headlong from the Mountains of the Moon, and that unceasing hammering that deafens our ears. All these things together, and each one on its own, are sufficient to instill fear in the heart of Mars himself, not to mention in him who is not accustomed to such events and adventures. Everything I’ve said incites me and awakens my soul, and makes my heart burst inside my chest with the desire it has to undertake this adventure, no matter how difficult it might be. So, tighten Rocinante’s cinches a bit, may God be with you, and wait for me no more than three days. If I don’t return by then, you can go back to our village, and from there, as a favor to me, and as a good deed, go to El Toboso where you’ll tell the incomparable lady of mine, Dulcinea, that her captive knight died doing a deed that would make him worthy to be called hers.”
When Sancho heard his master’s words, he began to weep tenderly and said: “I don’t know why your grace would want to take on this fearful adventure. It’s night now, no one can see us here, and we can easily turn away and avoid this danger, even though we may not drink for three days; and since no one can see us, no one will call us cowards. What’s more, I’ve heard the priest in our village—and your grace knows him very well—preach that he who seeks danger perishes in it. So, it’s not a good idea to tempt God by taking on such a foolhardy undertaking from which one cannot escape unless it’s by a miracle; and heaven has already given you plenty of miracles in sparing your grace from being blanketed (as I was), and in making you come out victorious and without a bruise from among so many enemies such as those who accompanied the dead body. And if all this won’t serve to soften your resolve, consider that as soon as you’ve left, I, out of pure fear, will yield my soul to whoever would take it. I left my village and my wife to come to serve you, thinking I’d be worth more and not less. But just as «greed bursts the sack», it has torn up my hopes, because just when I thought I was on the verge of getting that cursed and ill-fated ínsula that your grace has promised me many times, I see that instead, you want to leave me now in this place, so far from contact with mankind. In the name of the one true God, señor mío, don’t let such a detestable thing be done to me! If you’re determined not to give up this undertaking, put it off, at least until tomorrow, because—according to what I learned while I was a shepherd—sunrise must only be three hours away, since the Little Dipper is overhead, and it’s midnight when the handle stretches to the left.”
“How can you, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “see where that handle or where that dipper is since the night is so dark and you can’t see any stars at all?”
“That’s true,” said Sancho, “but fear has many eyes, and sees things buried in the earth—not to mention what’s in the sky—but if you think about it, it’s reasonable that dawn isn’t far off.”
“No matter how much time there may be before dawn,” responded don Quixote, “let it not be said of me, now, or at any time, that neither tears nor supplications dissuaded me from doing what I am compelled to do as a knight. So I beg you, Sancho, to keep still, for God, who has put the notion in my heart to take on this unheard-of and frightening adventure, will watch out for my well-being and will console your sadness. What you must do is tighten the cinches on Rocinante and stay here, for I’ll return soon, dead or alive.”
When Sancho saw the final resolve of his master and how little his tears, advice, and pleas were being heeded, he determined to use his ingenuity to make him wait until daybreak, if he could. So, while he was tightening the cinches on the horse, he neatly, and without being heard, hobbled Rocinante’s rear hooves, so when don Quixote wanted to ride away, he couldn’t, because the horse could move only by hops.
When Sancho Panza saw how well his trick had worked, he said: “You see, señor, heaven, having been moved by my tears and supplications, has made it so Rocinante can’t budge, and if you insist on spurring and whipping him, it will only enrage Fortune, and you’ll be «kicking against the pricks», as they say.”
Don Quixote despaired, and the more he spurred his horse, the less he would move. And without catching on to the hobbling, he thought it prudent to calm down and wait, either for the sun to rise, or for Rocinante to be able to move, believing that the impediment derived from something other than Sancho’s inventiveness, and so he said to him: “Well, since that’s the way it is, and Rocinante can’t stir, I’m happy to wait until the dawn smiles upon us, although I may cry about its delay in coming.”
“No reason to cry,” responded Sancho, “for I’ll entertain you, telling stories from now until daylight, unless you want to dismount and stretch out to sleep a bit on the green grass, as knights errant do, so you’ll be more rested when day comes, and be ready to take on this incomparable adventure that awaits you.”
“What do you mean ‘dismount and sleep’?” said don Quixote. “Am I by chance one of those knights who takes a rest when there’s danger ahead? You should sleep since you were born to sleep, or do whatever you want, and I’ll do what I see best fits my character.”
“Don’t get angry, señor mío,” responded Sancho. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
He approached his master and put one hand on the front pommel of his saddle, and the other on the other, so that he was tight against the left thigh of his master, and didn’t dare move back an inch, such was the fear he had of the unceasing rhythmic clanging.
Don Quixote told him to relate a story to pass the time, as he’d promised, and Sancho said that he would, if the fear caused by what he was hearing would allow him to.
“Even so, I’ll try to tell a story which, if I can, and no one interferes, is the best one ever. Pay attention, your grace, for I’m beginning now: Once upon a time—and may the good that’s coming be for everyone, and misfortune for those who go looking for it. And let me tell you, señor mío, that the way the ancients began their tales wasn’t just any old thing, but rather a maxim of Cato Zonzorino, the Roman, who says: ‘Misfortune for those who go looking for it,’ which «fits us like a ring on your finger», meaning that your grace should stay quiet and not go looking for trouble anywhere, but that we should slip away down another road, since no one is forcing us to stay on this one, where so many fears assault us.”
“Go on with your story, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “and leave the road we should take to my care.”
“So I say,” Sancho continued, “that in a village in Extremadura there was a goatherd, and this goatherd, as I say in my story, was called Lope Ruiz, and this Lope Ruiz was mad about a shepherdess who was called Torralba, and this shepherdess named Torralba was the daughter of a rich cattleman, and this rich cattleman…”
“If you tell stories that way, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “repeating everything you say, you won’t finish in two days. Tell it in a straightforward way like an intelligent man, or else don’t say anything.”
“Where I’m from,” responded Sancho, “everybody tells these tales the same way. I can’t tell them any other way, and it’s not right for you to ask me to do things in a different way.”
“Tell it however you like, then,” responded don Quixote, “since Fate insists that I have to listen to you. Go on.”
“So, señor mío,” Sancho continued, “as I’ve already said, this goatherd was in love with La Torralba, the shepherdess, who was a plump, wild girl who was a bit mannish because she had a little teeny mustache. I can almost see her now.”
“You knew her, then, did you?” said don Quixote.
“I didn’t know her,” responded Sancho, “but the person who told me this story said it was so factual and true that when I told it to someone else, I could affirm and even swear that I’d seen it all take place. So, as days came and went, the devil—who never sleeps and who confounds everything—arranged it so that the love that the goatherd had for the shepherdess turned into hatred and ill-will, and this was caused—as gossip has it—by a bit of jealousy that she stirred in him that was such that it overstepped the bounds of reason, and encroached on what is forbidden. And it was such that the goatherd came to hate her so much that from then on, so as not to see her, he was determined to leave that place and go where he would never set eyes on her again. La Torralba realized that Lope had scorned her, so immediately came to love him, although she never had before.”
“That’s the natural condition of women—” said don Quixote, “to scorn whoever loves them and to love whoever hates them. Continue along, Sancho.”
“It happened,” said Sancho, “that the goatherd put his decision into effect, and gathering his goats, he started off through the fields of Extremadura to go into the Kingdom of Portugal. La Torralba found out about it and followed him from a distance on foot and shoeless, with a staff in her hand and a knapsack hanging from her neck, and in it she had—at least this is what they say—a broken piece of a mirror and part of a comb, and some kind of canister of face makeup; but whatever it was she carried, I couldn’t care less for the moment. I’ll just say that they say that the goatherd arrived with his flock to cross the Guadiana River, and at that time the river was almost overflowing, and there was no boat to take him and his flock across. This distressed him to no end because he saw La Torralba was going to arrive soon and would give him a lot of trouble, what with her pleas and tears. But he looked around until he found a fisherman who had a small boat that could only hold one person and a single goat. He talked with the fisherman, who agreed to transport him and the three-hundred goats he had with him. The fisherman went into the boat and took one goat; he came back and took another; he came back again and took another. Now, your grace should keep a careful tally of the goats that the fisherman is taking across, because if you miss one, the story will end and it won’t be possible to say another word about it. I’ll continue, saying that the landing place on the other side of the river was full of mud and was slippery, and it took a long time to go and come back. Nevertheless, he came back for another goat, and another, and another…”
“Let’s just say that he finally got them all across,” said don Quixote, “and don’t keep coming and going like that, otherwise you won’t finish in a year.”
“How many have been taken across so far?” said Sancho.
“How the devil should I know?” responded don Quixote.
“Well, there you are! I told you to keep a tally, and you didn’t. So, by God, that’s the end of the story, and there’s no way to go on.”
“How can that be?” responded don Quixote. “Is it so important to the story to keep track of the goats that have been taken over, so that if one of them is not counted you can’t go on with the story?”
“That’s right, senor,” responded Sancho, “because as soon as I asked you to tell me how many goats had gone over and you said you didn’t know—at that very second, I instantly forgot what remained to be told of the story, and I swear there were worthwhile and amusing things in it.”
“So,” said don Quixote, “the story is finished?”
“It’s as finished as my mother is,” said Sancho.
“To tell you the truth,” responded don Quixote, “you’ve told one of the most original tales or stories that anyone in the world has ever contrived, and your way of telling it and cutting it short, has never been seen nor will ever be seen in a lifetime, although I expected no less from you. But I’m not surprised, since this eternal pounding must have confused your judgment.”
“Anything is possible,” responded Sancho, “but I know that there’s nothing of my story left since it ends where the error in the tally of the goats begins.”
“Let it end where you will,” said don Quixote, “and let’s see if Rocinante can stir.” He tried his luck with the spurs again, and Rocinante gave a few hops and then stopped, so well was he hobbled.
At this point it seems—whether it was the coolness of the morning, or that Sancho had eaten something that acted like a laxative, or that it was just something natural (and this is the most believable thing)—he suddenly felt like he needed to do what no one else could do for him. But there was so much fear in his heart he didn’t dare separate himself one millimeter from his master. To consider not doing what he needed to was also not possible. So what he did was to release his right hand from the rear pommel and with it he neatly and noiselessly untied the bowknot that held up his pants, without using his other hand, and when he untied it, his pants fell down and were like fetters. After this he raised his shirt as well as he could, and stuck out his rear end—which was far from small. This having been done, which was all he thought he needed to do in order to get out of that terrible bind and anguish, another thought came to him, greater than the first one, and that was that it seemed to him that he couldn’t relieve himself without making some kind of noise, and he clenched his teeth and squeezed his shoulders together, holding his breath as well as he could. But even with all these precautions, he was so unlucky that he made a bit of noise, very different from the one that had made him so afraid.
Don Quixote heard it and said: “What noise is that, Sancho?”
“I don’t know, señor,” he responded, “it must be something new. Adventures and misfortunes never begin for no reason.”
Again he tried his luck, and he had such success that, without any further noise or turmoil that had troubled him the previous time, he found himself free of the burden that had caused him so much discomfort. But since don Quixote had a sense of smell as keen as his sense of hearing, and Sancho was so close to him, the fumes rose practically straight up and it was impossible for them not reach his nose; and just after they arrived, he alleviated the problem by pinching his nose between two fingers and said with something of a twang: “It seems to me, Sancho, that you’re quite afraid.”
“Yes, I am,” responded Sancho, “but why would your grace say that at this particular moment?”
“Because you smell worse than ever, and not of perfume,” responded don Quixote.
“That may easily be,” said Sancho, “but I’m not to blame—you are, rather, since you bring me to these strange places at such odd hours.”
“Go back three or four paces, friend,” said don Quixote—still holding his nose—“and from now on be more careful with your person and show me more respect. I fear that all my dealings with you have bred contempt.”
“I’ll bet,” replied Sancho, “that your grace thinks that I’ve done something I shouldn’t have.”
“The less said, the better,” responded don Quixote.
In this and other similar conversations, master and servant spent the night. But when Sancho saw how soon morning was going to arrive, he quickly unhobbled Rocinante and fastened his pants. As soon as Rocinante felt he was free, even though he was not normally very spirited, it seems he felt better, and began to paw the ground since bucking (begging his pardon) he couldn’t do. Seeing that Rocinante was moving about, don Quixote took it as a good omen and thought it was a sign that he should take on that fearful adventure. Just then daybreak arrived and things suddenly looked different. Don Quixote saw that he was among some tall trees, and that they were chestnuts that gave a very dark shade. He also was aware that the pounding hadn’t stopped, but couldn’t see what was causing it. And without further delay he made Rocinante feel his spurs, and bidding farewell to Sancho once again, he told him to wait three days at the longest, as he’d already told him, and at the end of that time, if he didn’t return, Sancho could be sure that it had pleased God that his days should end in that dangerous adventure. He mentioned the message that he was to take to his lady Dulcinea; and insofar as getting paid for his services, he shouldn’t worry because he’d made his will before he left their village, where his salary was set down, to be prorated for his length of service. But if God would guide him through that peril unscathed he could be more than certain that the promised ínsula would be his.
Once again Sancho shed tears, hearing the doleful words of his good master, and he resolved not to leave his side until the very end of the event at hand.
From Sancho’s such honorable tears and determination, the author of this history concludes that he must have been well born, or at least an Old Christian, and his feelings moved his master somewhat, but not enough so he might show any weakness. On the contrary, hiding his feelings as well as he could, he began to ride toward where it seemed to him the noise of the water and the pounding were coming from. Sancho followed on foot, holding, as was his custom, the halter of his donkey, his constant companion in his good and bad times. And having gone a good distance among those chestnuts and other shady trees, they came upon a meadow that was at the foot of a towering cliff from where a mighty torrent of water plunged. At the foot of the cliff were some shacks that seemed to be more ruins than edifices, from where the noise and clatter of that pounding—which still was not letting up—was clearly coming.
Rocinante became very excited with the noise of the water and the pounding. Don Quixote calmed him down and slowly approached the shacks, commending himself with all his heart to his lady, begging her favor in that fearful expedition and undertaking, and along the way he also commended himself to God, asking not to be forgotten by Him. Sancho never left his side, and with an outstretched neck peered between Rocinante’s legs to see if he could find out what held him so much in suspense and made him so fearful.
They went another hundred paces and rounded a promontory where they saw right in front of them the unmistakable cause (it couldn’t have been anything else) of that terrifying, and for them frightful noise that had them so much in suspense and frightened all night. And it was—if you won’t consider it, dear reader, too irritating or maddening—six fulling mills, that caused all that clatter with their rhythmic pounding.
When don Quixote saw what it was, he became silent and was utterly abashed. Sancho saw that his head was bowed over his chest, showing that he was quite mortified. Don Quixote also looked at Sancho, and he saw that his cheeks were puffed out and his mouth was full of laughter, almost to the point of bursting. His melancholy was not so great that at the sight of his squire he couldn’t help but laugh himself. And since Sancho saw that his master had begun to laugh, he released the dam of his laughter in such a way that he had to hold his sides so he wouldn’t split. Four times he was able to compose himself, and another four times his fit of laughter returned with the same intensity as the first, and all of this made don Quixote angry, and more so when he heard Sancho say in jest: “I want you to know, Sancho, my friend, that I was born by the will of heaven in our Age of Iron to resuscitate in it the Age of Gold, or Golden Age. I’m the one for whom are reserved the dangers, the great deeds, the brave acts…” and he continued repeating all or most of the words that don Quixote had said when they first heard that terrible pounding.
Don Quixote, seeing that Sancho was making fun of him, was quite offended, and he became so angry that he raised his lance and whacked him twice, and if those blows had been on his head instead of his back, he would have been freed from paying his salary, unless it was to his heirs. When Sancho saw what little benefit there was in his joke, and fearing his master might take it further, he said with great humility: “Calm down, your grace, because, as God is my witness, I was just joking.”
“Well, if you were joking, I am not,” responded don Quixote. “Come here, my merry friend. Do you think that if these fulling mills had been some other dangerous adventure, I wouldn’t have shown the same courage necessary to take it on and see it to its end? I’m a knight, and am I by chance supposed to be able to distinguish sounds and know which are from a fulling mill and which aren’t? What’s more it might be—and it is true—that I haven’t seen any such mills in my whole life, unlike you—like the vile rustic you are—who must have seen them, since you were raised and born among them. Why, just change these six fulling mills into six giants, and toss them into my beard singly or all at once, and if I don’t kill them all, you can make as much fun as you want to of me.”
“No more, señor mío,” replied Sancho. “I confess I’ve been smiling a bit too much. But tell me your grace, now that we’ve made peace—and may God see you through all future adventures as safe and sound as he’s seen you through this one—wasn’t it really something laughable? And isn’t the great fear that we had something that should be told about? At least I was afraid—I know that your grace doesn’t have any notion of what fear or dread is.”
“I don’t deny that what happened to us is something worthy of laughter; but it’s not worthy of telling others about, since not everyone is astute enough to put these points in perspective.”
“At least,” responded Sancho, “your grace put the point of your lance in perspective, aiming it at my head and thwacking me on my back, and I thank God I was able to veer away. But, come on, «everything will come out in the wash», for I’ve heard it told that «the one who loves you the most will make you cry», and what’s more, I know that great men, after saying a harsh word to a servant, give him a pair of pants, but I don’t know what they give them after they whack them a couple of times; unless it is that knights errant give their squires ínsulas or kingdoms on terra firma after they whack them.”
“That’s the way the dice may fall,” said don Quixote. “Everything you said may come true, and pardon me for what happened. Since you’re a sharp fellow, I hope you realize that first impulses are not controllable. And let me tell you—from now on you should abstain and refrain from talking too much with me because in all the romances of chivalry that I’ve read—and they’re infinite—I’ve never read that any squire spoke so much with his master as you do with yours. And in truth, I consider it a great defect—both yours and mine: yours, in that you have so little respect for me; and mine, because I don’t command greater respect. In fact, Gandalín, Amadís de Gaula’s squire, was Count of Ínsula Firme. You read about him that he always spoke to his master with his cap in his hand, his head bowed, and his body bent double more turquesco. And what can we say of Gasabal, squire of don Galaor, who was so reserved, that to show you the excellence of his wonderful silence, he’s mentioned only one time in that so great and true history? From all of this, you can infer, Sancho, that it’s necessary to show a difference between master and servant, and between knight and squire. So, from now on we should treat each other with more respect, with no joking around, because if I should get angry with you, «it’ll be bad for the pitcher». The favors and benefits I’ve promised you will come in due time. And if they don’t come, your salary at least won’t be lost, as I’ve told you.”
“Everything your grace has said is all right,” said Sancho, “but I’d like to know, in case these favors don’t come in due time and it becomes necessary to resort to a salary, just how much did a squire of a knight errant earn in those days, and if they were paid by the month, or on a daily basis, like hod-carriers.”
“I don’t believe,” responded don Quixote, “that such squires were ever salaried, rather they worked for favors. And if I’ve named you in my sealed will that I left at home, it was because of what may happen, since I don’t know yet how chivalry will fare in these such calamitous times of ours, and I don’t want my soul to agonize in the other world because of trifles. I want you to know, Sancho, that there is in the world no more dangerous a profession than that of knights.”
“That’s the truth,” said Sancho, “since all it takes is the noise of fulling mills to upset and disturb the heart of such a brave knight adventurer as your grace is. But you can be sure, from now on, I’ll not open my mouth to make a joke about anything dealing with you, but rather to honor you as my natural lord.”
“In that way,” replied don Quixote, “you’ll live in peace on the face of the earth; because after one’s own parents, one should respect one’s master as if he were a parent.”