Which deals with the strange things that happened to the valiant Knight of La Mancha in the Sierra Morena and about the imitation that he did of the penance of Beltenebros.
D ON QUIXOTE bade farewell to the goatherd, and mounting Rocinante once again, he ordered Sancho to follow him, and he did this on his donkey most unwillingly. They entered cautiously into the most desolate part of the mountain. Sancho was dying to talk with his master, but wanted him to start the conversation so as not to contravene what he’d been ordered, but finally he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, and said: “Señor don Quixote, give me your grace’s blessing, and permit me to return home to my wife and children, with whom at least I can talk all I want, because your wanting me to go with you through these desolate places day and night, without being able to talk with you when I feel like it, is burying me alive. If Fortune would have it so that animals could talk, as they did in the time of Æsop, it wouldn’t be so bad, because I could talk with my donkey whenever I felt like it, and in this way I could tolerate my turns of Fortune. It’s hard to bear—it’s something that can’t be borne patiently, this business of going around seeking adventures one’s whole life, and not finding anything except kicks and blanketings, flying brickbats and punches, and through it all, we have to sew our mouths closed, as if we were mute.”
“I understand you, Sancho,” responded don Quixote, “you’re dying for me to lift the interdiction I imposed on your tongue. Consider it lifted and say what you will, on the condition that you understand that this revocation will only last as long as we’re wandering in this sierra.”
“All right,” said Sancho, “let me speak now, and God knows what’ll happen later. And I’ll begin to take advantage of this permission by asking what led your grace to stand up for that Queen Magimasa, or whatever her name is? What difference did it make if that abbot was her boyfriend or not? If your grace had let it slide, since you’re not her judge, I really think the crazy fellow would have gone on with his story, and you could have been spared being hit with the stone and even more than half a dozen punches.”
“By my faith, Sancho,” responded don Quixote, “if you knew, as I do, what an honorable and prominent lady Queen Madásima was, I know that you would say that I showed enormous restraint since I didn’t smash the mouth that uttered such blasphemies. Because it is a great blasphemy either to say or think that a queen would cohabit with a surgeon. The truth is that maestro Elisabad, whom the crazy fellow mentioned, was a very prudent man who gave very good advice, and served as governor and doctor to the queen. But to think that she was his girl friend is nonsense, worthy of severe punishment. And so that you can see that Cardenio didn’t know what he was saying, you have to realize that he said it when he was out of his wits.”
“That’s what I’m saying—” said Sancho, “that your grace shouldn’t pay attention to the words of a crazy man, because if good luck hadn’t favored you, and the stone, instead of hitting you on the chest, had hit you on the head, we’d have been in fine shape for your having stood up for my lady, and may God confound her. And by golly, Cardenio would be set free for being crazy!”
“Against crazy men and sane ones, every knight errant is obliged to stand up for the honor of women, no matter who they are. And more so for queens of the station and dignity of Madásima, for whom I have particular affection because of her excellent qualities. She was not only beautiful, but possessed wisdom and fortitude in her misfortunes. And the friendship and advice of maestro Elisabad were of great aid and comfort to her, so that she could withstand her travails with reason and patience. And because of this, the ignorant and low-minded public took the opportunity to say and think that she was his mistress. And anyone who thinks or says anything else lies, I say again.”
“I don’t say it or think it.” responded Sancho. “It’s their affair, and «let ’em eat it with their bread». If they were living together or not, they’ll have to give God an accounting. «I’m coming from my vineyards and I don’t know anything». I don’t like to meddle in anyone else’s business, and «the person who buys and lies, in his purse he’ll feel it». «Naked I was born, and naked I am: I don’t win or lose». But even if they were living together, what’s it to me? And «many think that there is bacon, and there are no stakes». And «who can put up doors in the countryside?» And, what’s more, «they even spoke ill of God».”
“My God,” said don Quixote, “what absurdities you’re stringing together. What do the proverbs you’re linking together have to do with what we were talking about? Sancho, stop talking, and from now just spur your donkey and don’t meddle in what doesn’t concern you. And try to understand with all your five senses that everything I’ve done, do, and may do, is well founded on reason, and very much in conformity with the rules of chivalry, and I know them better than any other knight in the world who professed them.”
“Señor,” responded Sancho, “are there rules of chivalry that say we’re supposed to run around these mountains, without a path or a road, looking for a crazy man, who, after we find him maybe will feel like finishing what he started—not his story, but rather your grace’s head and my ribs—by thrashing us completely?”
“Keep quiet, I tell you again, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “because I’ll have you know I’m here not only to find the crazy man, but also because I plan to do a deed that will make me eternally famous throughout the known world, and because of it, I’ll put the seal on everything that can make a knight errant famous and perfect.”
“And is this deed very dangerous?” asked Sancho.
“No,” responded the Woebegone One, “although we may get an unlucky throw of the dice instead of a lucky one. But everything depends on your diligence.”
“On my diligence?” said Sancho.
“Yes,” said don Quixote, “because if you come back quickly from where I plan to send you, my grief will come to an end immediately, and my glory will begin. So you won’t be in suspense any longer, wondering where my words are leading, I want you to know, Sancho, that the famous Amadís de Gaula was one of the most perfect knights. That’s not what I mean—he was the one and only, the first, the lord of all knights throughout the world who lived in his time. Too bad for don Belianís, and anyone who says that he equaled Amadís in anything, because he’s mistaken, I swear. I also say that when some painter wants to become famous in his art, he tries to imitate the works of the greatest known painters. And this same rule goes for all—or most—professions or crafts of importance that make republics better. Thus he who would become famous for being prudent and long-suffering imitates Ulysses, in whose person Homer paints us a living portrait of those qualities; just as Virgil, in the person of Æneas, showed the goodness of a pious son and the sagacity of a brave and masterly captain. Those poets didn’t paint or reveal them as they were, but rather as they should have been, so that those who came after them could emulate their virtues. In this same way, Amadís was the north star, the evening star, and the sun of brave and enamored knights, whom all those of us who go to war under the standard of love should imitate. Being this as it is, I find, Sancho my friend, that the knight errant who imitates him the best will be closest to reaching perfection in knighthood. And one of the things in which this knight showed his prudence, worth, bravery, long suffering, constancy, and love, was when he went off, after he was spurned by the lady Oriana, to do penance at Peña Pobre, changing his name to Beltenebros, a name that was certainly meaningful and appropriate for the life he’d chosen of his free will. Thus it’s easier for me to imitate him in this than in cleaving giants, decapitating serpents, slaying dragons, putting armies to flight, scattering fleets, and undoing enchantments. And since places like these are so suitable for such purposes, there’s no reason to let this Opportunity get by, since he now offers me so conveniently his forelock.”
“So,” said Sancho, “what is it your grace wants to do in this desolate place?”
“Didn’t I tell you already?” responded don Quixote. “I want to imitate Amadís, playing the role of the desperate, wild, raving person, and I want to imitate the valiant don Roland as well, when he found evidence next to a fountain that Angélica the Beautiful had committed a vile act with Medoro, and the grief that it caused him made him go crazy. He uprooted trees, muddied the waters of the transparent streams, slew shepherds, destroyed their flocks, burned their huts, leveled houses, dragged mares behind him, and did a hundred thousand other infamies worthy of record and eternal fame. And although I don’t intend to imitate Roland, Orlando, or Rotolando—for he was known by these three names—item by item, in all the mad acts that he performed, said, and thought, I’ll at least do a rough sketch of what seems to me to be the most essential things as well as I can. And it may be that I’ll be content imitating only Amadís, who achieved as much fame as the best of them by weeping and showing his feelings instead of doing crazy acts that can be harmful.”
“It seems to me, señor,” said Sancho, “that those knights were motivated and had reasons to perform these foolish acts and penances, but what reason does your grace have to go crazy? What lady rejected you? What evidence did you find that proves that your lady Dulcinea del Toboso has committed some childish nonsense with a Moor or a Christian?”
“That’s the point,” responded don Quixote, “and that’s the beauty of my plan. If a knight goes crazy for a reason, there is no thanks or value attached to it. The thing is to go crazy without a reason, and to make my lady understand that if I do this when dry, what will I do when drenched? Moreover, I already have sufficient reason, owing to my long absence from the always-mine Dulcinea del Toboso, and, as you remember what that shepherd of bygone days, Ambrosio, said: ‘He who is absent has all ills and fears.’ Thus, Sancho, my friend, don’t waste time in counseling me not to do such a rare, such a happy, and such an unheard-of imitation. I’m mad, and mad I’ll stay until you come back with an answer to a letter that I plan to send with you to my lady Dulcinea. And if it’s as my devotion deserves, my madness and penance will come to an end. And if it’s not, I’ll be mad in earnest, and being in that state I’ll feel nothing. So, no matter how she responds, I’ll be freed from the conflict and travail in which you leave me—either enjoying the good fortune that you’ll bring me as a sane man, or not feeling the bad fortune that you’ll bring me as a crazy man. But tell me, Sancho, have you been protecting Mambrino’s helmet? I saw you pick it up off the ground when that ungrateful fellow tried to smash it to pieces. But he couldn’t do it, and that proves how finely tempered it is.”
To which Sancho responded: “By God, señor Woebegone Knight, I can’t tolerate some of the things you say. And because of them, I’m beginning to wonder if everything you’ve been saying about chivalry, and winning kingdoms and empires, of giving ínsulas, and doing other favors and great things, as is the custom of knights errant, is nothing but hot air and falsehoods, and just fables. Because anyone who hears you say that a barber’s basin is Mambrino’s helmet—and that you don’t realize your mistake for more than four days running—must think that a person who says such a thing and sticks to it must be vacant in the area of sanity. I have the basin in my saddlebag, all dented up, and I’m taking it back home to repair and use when I shave, if God gives me the grace one day to be again with my wife and children.”
“Look, Sancho, by the same God to whom you swore, I also swear,” said don Quixote, “that you have the dullest understanding that any squire in the world has or ever had. How is it possible that all the time you’ve been riding with me you haven’t realized that everything dealing with knights errant seems implausible, foolish, and bewildering, and that everything seems the opposite of what it is? And not because it really is that way, but because there is always a multitude of enchanters who accompany us and who change things any way they want to, whether to favor or destroy us, and so, what seems to you to be a barber’s basin, to me seems like Mambrino’s helmet, and to someone else it will seem like something different. And it was just providential on the part of the enchanter who favors me to make what really and truly is Mambrino’s helmet appear to be a basin, because since it’s so sought after, everybody would pursue me for it; but since they see that it appears to be nothing more than a barber’s basin, they don’t try to snatch it away. You could tell this when that fellow tried to smash it to bits and left it on the ground, because, if he’d recognized what it was, he never would have left it behind. Keep it, my friend—for the moment I have no need of it because I must first take off all my armor and get as naked as when I was born; that is, if I want to follow Roland more than Amadís in my penance.”
They arrived at the foot of a high mountain, almost like a cliff, which stood alone among others that surrounded it. At one side, a slow moving stream ran by, and all around there was a verdant and lush meadow, enchanting to the eye. There was a forest nearby, and other plants and flowers that made the place very pleasant. The Woebegone Knight chose this site to do his penance, and thus, when he saw it, he began to say in a loud voice, as if he were crazy: “This is the place, oh, heavens! that I designate and choose to cry away the misfortune in which you’ve placed me. This is the site where the liquid from my eyes will increase the waters of this stream, and my unceasing and deep sighs will continually rustle the leaves of these wild trees, as a testimony to the grief of my persecuted heart. Oh, you rustic gods, whoever you may be, who have made your home in this uninhabitable place, hear the complaints of this spurned lover whom long absence and imagined jealousy have brought to this rugged area to lament the cruel nature of that fair ingrate, the summit and quintessence of human beauty! Oh, you wood nymphs and dryads, who typically live in the densest parts of these forests, with wanton and lascivious satyrs by whom you are loved in vain, don’t let them disturb your sweet repose, so that you can help me lament my misfortune, or at least not weary of hearing it! Oh, Dulcinea del Toboso, day of my night, glory of my grief, Polaris of my travels, star of my fortune—may heaven grant all that you seek from it—consider the place and condition to which your absence has brought me, and be moved to some favor commensurate with my deserving loyalty! Oh, solitary trees, who from today on will keep me company in my loneliness—show me by gently moving your boughs that my presence doesn’t displease you! Oh, you, my squire, welcome comrade in prosperous and even adverse fortune, remember well what you see me do, so that you can relate and report it to its cause.”
And, saying this, he got off Rocinante, and in a flash removed his bridle and saddle, and slapping him on the rump, said to him: “Liberty is yours, given to you by him who has none, oh, you steed, as consummate in deeds as you are plagued by your ill-luck! Wander where you will, for on your forehead is written that neither the hippogriff of Astolfo, nor the renowned Frontino, which cost Bradamante so dear, can equal you in swiftness.”
When Sancho saw this, he said: “Good luck to the person who has saved us the trouble of taking the packsaddle off the donkey. There would have been plenty of little pats to give him and things to say in his praise. But if he were here, I wouldn’t let anyone take off his packsaddle, since there is no reason to, since matters of love and despair don’t apply to him because they didn’t apply to his master, who was me, while it pleased God. And in truth, señor Woebegone Knight, if my departure and your insanity are really going to take place, it’d be a good idea to resaddle Rocinante in the absence of my donkey so that we can save time on my trip, because if I do it on foot, I don’t know when I’ll get there nor when I’ll come back. When all is said and done, I don’t take very much to walking.”
“All right, Sancho,” responded don Quixote, “do what you want. Your idea seems good. Stay here three days before you leave, because I want you to see what I do and say on her account, so that you can tell her about it.”
“Well, what more do I have to see,” responded Sancho, “other than what I’ve already seen?”
“How much more do you need to see?” responded don Quixote. “I need to rip up my clothes, scatter my armor, bash my head against these boulders, and other things like these that will amaze you.”
“For the love of God,” said Sancho, “your grace should be careful how you bash your head, because you may just bash it against a certain boulder in a certain spot, so that the first blow may be the end of your penance. I’m of the opinion that since you consider these bashings to be essential and that you can’t do this feat without them, that you content yourself—since all this is pretend and bogus anyway—by bashing your head in the water or on something soft like cotton, and leave the rest to me, because I’ll tell my lady that you bashed it on the edge of a rock harder than a diamond.”
“I appreciate your good intentions, friend Sancho,” responded don Quixote, “but I want you to know that nothing of what I do is done in jest, but very seriously, because any other way would contravene the order of chivalry, which commands us never to lie; otherwise I’d have to suffer the punishment of apostasy, and doing one thing instead of another is the same as lying. So, my head bashing must be genuine, hard, and worthy, with nothing fallacious or imaginary about it. You’ll have to leave me bandages to dress my wounds, since bad luck has seen to it that we don’t have the balm that we lost.”
“It was worse luck to lose the donkey,” responded Sancho, “because when we lost him we lost the bandages and everything, and I beg your grace not to remind me of that damned brew, because in just hearing it mentioned turns my whole insides, not to mention just my stomach. And I ask you one thing more—let’s just say that the three days for me to see the mad things you want to do have now gone by, because I consider them all seen and done irrevocably, and without possibility of appeal. And I’ll tell wondrous things to my lady. Write the letter and send me off right away because I’m anxious to take you out of this purgatory where I’m leaving you.”
“You call it purgatory, Sancho?” said don Quixote. “Wouldn’t it be better to call it hell, or even worse, if there is something worse than hell?”
“Whoever is in hell” responded Sancho, “«nulla es retencio», according to what I’ve heard tell.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by retencio,” said don Quixote.
“Retencio is,” responded Sancho, “when someone is in hell, he never leaves it, nor can he. And this is just the opposite in our case, if I’ll have spurs to encourage Rocinante, let me get to El Toboso at once, and when I’m before my lady Dulcinea, I’ll tell her such things about the follies and frenzies—for they’re both the same—that your grace has done and is doing, and I’ll make her softer than a glove even though I find her harder than a cork tree; and I’ll return through the air with her sweet and honeyed response like a sorcerer, and I’ll take your grace out of this purgatory—which seems like hell but isn’t, since there is hope of getting out, and there is no hope of escape, as I said, for those in hell, and I don’t think your grace will disagree with me.”
“That’s the truth,” said the Woebegone One, “but just how will we write the letter?”
“And the bill of exchange for the donkeys, too,” added Sancho. “Everything will be there,” said don Quixote, “and it would be good, since there is no paper, to write it, as the ancients did, on leaves from trees or on wax tablets, although these would he as hard to find as paper… But now I remember that it will be good, and even more than good, to write it in Cardenio’s diary. You’ll make sure to have it copied onto regular paper, in nice handwriting, in the first village where there is a school teacher or some sexton can copy it—but don’t give it to a notary, since they never remove the pen from the paper when they write, and Satan himself can’t understand that style of writing.”
“But what about the signature?” said Sancho.
“Amadís’ letters are never signed,” responded don Quixote. “That’s fine,” responded Sancho, “but the bill of exchange must be signed, and if it’s copied, they’ll say the signature is forged, and I won’t get the donkeys.”
“The bill of exchange will be signed in the diary, and when my niece sees it, she’ll do what it says. And regarding the love letter, you’ll have it signed YOURS UNTIL DEATH, THE WOEBEGONE KNIGHT. And it won’t make much difference if it’s in someone else’s handwriting, because as far as I remember, Dulcinea can’t read or write, and she’s never seen my handwriting nor any letter of mine in her whole life, because my love and her love have always been Platonic, no more than a modest glance. And this, so seldom, that I’ll swear in truth that in the twelve years that I’ve been loving her more than the light of these eyes, which one day the earth will devour, I haven’t seen her more than four times, and it may also be that of those four times she didn’t notice once that I was looking at her—such is the modesty and seclusion with which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo and her mother Aldonza Nogales have raised her.”
“Aha!” said Sancho. “So the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo is the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, also known as Aldonza Lorenzo?”
“That’s the one,” said don Quixote, “and she deserves to be mistress of the whole universe.”
“I know her well,” said Sancho, “and I can tell you that she’s as good a man as the strongest lad in the village. By God, she has plenty of good sense, is strong as an ox, with hair on her chest, and can get any knight errant—present or future—who would have her as his lady, out of any bind. Oh, son of a bitch, what strength she has, and what a voice! I can tell you that one day she went up to the bell tower of the village to call some of her fathers’ field hands, and even though they were more than half a league away, they heard her as if they’d been at the foot of the tower. And the best thing is that she’s not at all prudish because she’s been around the block, and she smiles at everyone and jokes with everybody. I now say, señor Woebegone Knight, that not only can you and should you do these crazy acts in her honor, but you have every right to despair and hang yourself on her account, and anyone who hears about it will say you did the right thing, even though the devil carries you off. And I’d like to get on the road right now just to see her because I haven’t seen her for many days; and she must have changed a bit, since being in the fields and in the sun and wind always spoils a woman’s complexion. And I confess, señor don Quixote, until now I’ve been in the dark, and thought all the while that the lady Dulcinea must be some princess who you were in love with, or some person who deserved the rich presents that your grace has sent her, such as the Basque and the galley slaves, and many others, because you must have had many victories before I came to be your squire. But upon consideration, what good can it do the lady Aldonza Lorenzo—I mean, the lady Dulcinea del Toboso—when those conquered people who you send and will send kneel before her? Because it might be that just when they arrive, she might be combing flax, or threshing in the barn, and they’ll be mortified, and she’ll just laugh or lose her temper.”
“I’ve told you many times, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “that you’re a great babbler, and although you have a dull wit, you sometimes show smatterings of sharpness. But so you’ll see what a fool you are and how shrewd I am, I want you to listen to a little story: a beautiful widow—young, unattached, rich, and above all carefree—fell in love with a young lay brother, plump and corpulent. His superior found out about it, and one day told the good widow, as kind of a friendly reprehension: ‘I’m amazed, señora, and not without cause, that a woman of your rank, so beautiful, and so rich, has fallen in love with a man who is so coarse, so low, and so stupid as is So-and-So, since there are so many teachers in this community, so many divinity students, and so many theologians that you could choose from as if they were pears, and say: “I’d like this one and not that one.” ’ But she responded with great grace and ease: ‘Your grace, señor mío, is very mistaken and behind the times if you think that I’ve chosen poorly in So-and-So, as stupid as he looks, because what I want him for, he knows as much and maybe more philosophy than Aristotle.’ Thus, Sancho, what I want Dulcinea del Toboso for, she’s worth as much as the greatest princess in the world. It’s true that not all poets who praise ladies under fictitious names, actually have these women as loves. Do you think that the Amaryllises, the Phyllises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the Alidas, and others that fill books, ballads, barbershops, and theaters, were really women of flesh and blood and really belonged to those who praise and praised them? No, certainly not, for most of them are fictional, and serve only to give a subject for their poems, and so that they themselves might be taken for lovers, and worthy to be so. So, it’s enough for me to think and believe that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and chaste; her lineage matters little since no one is going to investigate her background to give her an honorary degree—the only thing that matters is that I believe she’s the greatest princess in the world. I want you to know, Sancho, if you don’t know it already, that there are only two things that stimulate love more than anything else: great beauty and a good reputation, and these two things are conspicuously exemplified in Dulcinea, because in beauty, no one can rival her, and in good reputation few can. To sum up, I make myself believe that everything I say about her is the absolute truth, neither more nor less, and I portray her in my imagination as I like her, so that in beauty and rank, Helen cannot match her, nor can Lucretia come near, nor any other of the famous women of ages past: Greek, barbarian, or Roman. Let anyone say what he wants—if uninformed people reprehend me, I’ll not be condemned by those who are discerning.”
“I say that your grace is very right in all this,” responded Sancho, “and that I’m a donkey. But I don’t know why I’d mention «donkey», since «you should never mention rope in the house of the hanged man». So give me the letter, good-bye, and I’m on my way.”
Don Quixote took out the diary, and going off to one side, he began to write calmly, and when he finished, he called Sancho and said to him that he wanted to read it aloud so that he could memorize it, just in case he lost it along the way, because with his misfortunes, anything could happen. To which Sancho responded: “Write it, your grace, two or three times in the book and give it to me, and I’ll take good care of it, but to think I can memorize it’s foolish. My memory is so bad, sometimes I can’t remember my own name. But in any case, recite it to me since I’m bound to take pleasure in it, and it ought to be just the ticket.”
“Listen—here’s what it says,” said don Quixote:
LETTER FROM DON QUIXOTE TO DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO
“On the life of my father,” said Sancho when he heard what the letter said, “this is the loftiest thing I ever heard. I’ll be damned! How well your grace says everything exactly as you want, and how neatly you tuck in your signature, THE WOEBEGONE KNIGHT! I’m speaking the truth when I say you’re the devil himself, and there’s nothing you don’t know.”
“One needs to know everything,” responded don Quixote, “in my profession.”
“All right,” said Sancho, “now put the order for the three donkeys on the other side, and sign it clearly so that they’ll recognize it when they see it.”
“That I will,” said don Quixote.
And once it was written, he read it to him, and it went like this:
Your grace, señora niece, will deliver to Sancho Panza by means of this order, three of the five young donkeys that I left in your care. These three donkeys shall be delivered and have been paid for by an appropriate amount that I received from him here and is on account, and by means of this letter and his receipt they can be delivered. Given in the depths of the Sierra Morena this twenty second of August in this current year.
“Good,” said Sancho, “now sign it, your grace.”
“I don’t need to sign it,” said don Quixote, “I just have to use my flourish, which is the same as a signature, and for three donkeys, and even for three hundred, it will suffice.”
“I’ll trust you on this,” responded Sancho, “and now let me put the saddle on Rocinante, and get ready to give me your blessing, because I plan to leave without seeing the crazy things that your grace plans to do—I’ll tell her I saw so many that she’ll have her fill.”
“At least, Sancho, since it’s really essential, I want you to see me naked doing a dozen or two crazy acts. It’ll only take half an hour, and then having seen some with your own eyes, you can safely swear to having seen any that you want to add. And I can assure you that you won’t be able to describe as many as I plan to do.”
“For the love of God, señor mío, don’t force me see your grace naked! It’ll make me sad and I won’t be able to stop crying. I did so much crying over the loss of my donkey that I’m in no shape for more. If you want me to see you do some crazy acts, do them fully-dressed, don’t draw them out, and just do the best ones. What’s more, for me none of this is required, and as I said, without them it would save time on the road and hasten my return, which will be with the news that your grace wants and deserves. And if the news isn’t good, señora Dulcinea better watch out, because I ‘m making a solemn vow to you-know-who that I’ll get the right answer out of her stomach by kicks and punches. I mean, how can it be that a knight errant as famous as your grace has to go crazy without a reason, for a…? Let the lady not force me to say it, because, by God, I’m liable to say everything that comes to mind, not caring about the consequences! That’s the way I am! She doesn’t know me very well, because if she did, she’d have respect for me.”
“Upon my soul, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “It looks like you’re no saner than I am.”
“I’m not crazy,” responded Sancho, “but I am angry. But, this aside, what is your grace going to eat while I’m away? Are you going to jump out into the road and rob shepherds?”
“Don’t worry about that,” responded don Quixote, “because, even if I had other things to eat, I would only eat the herbs and fruits of this meadow and from these trees. The beauty of this is in fasting and undergoing other similar hardships.”
“Good-bye, then; but I’m afraid that I won’t be able to find my way back to this place, since it’s so hidden.”
“Take your bearings well, and I’ll try not to leave this area,” said don Quixote, “and I’ll even try to climb onto those highest cliffs to see if I can spot you when you return. What I think would even be better, so you won’t make a mistake and get lost, is for you to cut off some broom branches of the many that there are around here, and drop them at intervals until you get out into the open. They will serve as landmarks and signs, so you can find me when you come back, imitating the cord that Perseus used in the labyrinth.”
“That’s what I’ll do,” responded Sancho, and after cutting off some broom branches, he asked for his master’s blessing, and not without many tears on both sides, he bade farewell to his master. When he mounted Rocinante— whom don Quixote put in Sancho’s care and told him to look out for his horse as he would himself—Sancho set out for the plain, dropping broom branches once in a while as his master had advised. And so he went away, his master still begging him to witness if only two crazy acts. He hadn’t traveled more than a hundred paces when he said: “All right, señor, your grace is right. So that I can swear that I’ve seen you cavorting about, without nagging my conscience, it would be good for me to see just one, although I’ve seen a very crazy act just in your staying here.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” said don Quixote, “Wait a second, Sancho. In the time it takes to say a credo I’ll do one.”
Don Quixote took off his pants and was naked in shirttails, and then, without further ado, cut two capers in the air and did two somersaults, revealing things that—so that he wouldn’t have to see them a second time—Sancho turned Rocinante around, quite satisfied that he could swear that his master was crazy. Thus we’ll let him go his way until his return, and it was soon.