Which deals with the amusing inventiveness and the happy method hit upon for releasing our enamored knight from his very harsh self-imposed penance.
T HE PRIEST had hardly finished when Sancho said: “On my faith, señor licenciado, that deed was done by my master, and it wasn’t because I had told and advised him beforehand to be careful what he was doing, and that it was a sin to set them free, since they all were being sent away because they were great rascals.”
“Blockhead,” chimed in don Quixote, “it’s no affair of knights errant to find out whether the afflicted, chained together, and oppressed people that we encounter on the road in such a plight are that way because of vices or virtues. The only important thing is to help them because they’re people in distress, heeding their sufferings and not their mischief. I found a rosary of unfortunate malcontents strung together and I did what my religion demands. The rest is none of my business, and whoever thinks ill of it, saving the sacred dignity of the señor licenciado, the honored person of our friend the priest, I say knows little of chivalry, and lies like a whoreson dog, and I’ll make him understand it to the full extent with my sword.”
He said this bracing himself in his stirrups and closed his helmet because the barber’s basin—which he thought was Mambrino’s helmet—was hanging from his front pommel until he could repair the damage done by the hands of the galley slaves.
Dorotea, being a clever and witty person—since she already knew about don Quixote’s diminished capacity, and that everyone made fun of him except Sancho Panza—didn’t want to be left out, and seeing him so angry said: “Señor knight, remember the boon that your grace has promised me, and bear in mind that you cannot undertake another adventure, no matter how urgent it might be. Calm your heart, for if the señor licenciado had known that it was your never-conquered arm that freed the galley slaves, he would have sewn his mouth closed before saying anything disrespectful of your grace.”
“I’ll swear to that,” said the priest, “and what’s more, I’d have cut off half my mustache.”
“I’ll be silent, señora mía,” said don Quixote, “and I’ll repress the just rage that has risen in my heart; and I’ll be calm and peaceful until I accomplish your promised boon. To reward me for my good will, please tell me, if it doesn’t trouble you, what is distressing you, and how many, who, and what kind of persons on whom I must exact deserved and entire vengeance.”
“I’ll be pleased to,” responded Dorotea, “if it won’t weary you to hear about lamentations and misfortunes.”
“It will not, señora mía,” responded don Quixote.
To which Dorotea replied: “All right, then, your worships, be attentive.”
Just as she said this, Cardenio and the barber drew up to her side, eager to see how the discreet Dorotea would make up her story. Likewise Sancho, who was as deceived about her as was his master. And she, after straightening herself up in her saddle, and prepared by giving a little cough and doing other preliminaries, began in this lively way: “First of all, I want your graces, señores míos, to know that my name is…”
And she stopped at this point because she’d forgotten the name that the priest had given her. But he rescued her when he recognized why she was hesitating, and said: “It’s not strange, señora, that your highness is confused and a bit reluctant to tell of your misfortunes, because they always are of such a nature that they frequently deprive persons of their memory to the point that sometimes they can’t even recall their own names, as has been the case with your ladyship, who has forgotten that you are the Princess Micomicona, lawful heiress to the great Kingdom of Micomicón. And with this reminder you can easily bring to your suffering mind all that you wish to tell us.”
“This is the truth,” responded the maiden, “and from now on I believe it won’t be necessary to prompt me in anything, for I’ll reach a safe port with my true story, and here it is: my father was called Tinacrio the Wise, and was well-versed in what they call the art of magic. He learned through his science that my mother, who was called Queen Jaramilla, was to die before he would, and that a short time later he would also pass from this life and I would be an orphan, with neither father nor mother. But he said that this didn’t bother him as much as his knowledge that a towering giant, lord of a large island that almost borders on our kingdom, who is known as Pandafilando of the Sour Look—it’s well known that although he has his eyes in the proper place he always looks in two different directions, as if he were cross-eyed, and he does this out of perversity to instill fear in those he looks at. So, my father learned that this giant, when he found out that I’d be an orphan, would overrun my kingdom with a powerful army and claim it for himself, and wouldn’t even leave me the smallest hamlet as a refuge. But I could avoid all this ruin and disgrace if I would marry him. He thought that it would never occur to me to enter into such an unequal marriage, and in this he was right, because I never considered marrying that giant, nor any other giant, as big and as huge as he might be.
“My father also said that after he was dead and I saw that Pandafilando was coming to overrun my country, I shouldn’t try to put up any defense; he urged me rather to leave the country undefended if I wanted to save the lives of my good and loyal vassals, because it would be impossible to defend against the bedeviled force of the giant. But what I should immediately do, with a few of my people, was to go to Spain where I would find the remedy to my troubles when I found a certain knight errant, whose fame by that time would have extended throughout the country, and who would be named, if I remember correctly, don Azote or don Gigote.”
“He must have said QUIXOTE, señora,” interrupted Sancho Panza,” or, by another name, the Woebegone Knight.”
“That’s the one,” said Dorotea. “And he said even more—that he was tall in stature, lean in the face, and that on his right side, beneath his left shoulder, or right nearby, he had a mole, with hairs like bristles.”
When don Quixote heard this, he said to his squire: “Come, Sancho my son, help me strip—I want to see if I’m that knight that the wise king prophesied.”
“Why would you grace want to strip?” said Dorotea.
“I want to see if I have that mole your father mentioned,” responded don Quixote.
“No need to strip,” said Sancho. “I know that your worship has such a mole in the middle of your spine, and that’s a sure sign of strong man.” “Proof enough,” said Dorotea. “Among friends one can overlook trifles, and whether it’s on your shoulder or on your spine matters little. It’s enough that there’s a mole there, and no matter where it is, it’s all the same flesh. My father doubtless was correct in everything, and I’ve done right in commending myself to don Quixote, who is the one that my father described, since his face fits the description of the one whose fame is widely known, not only in Spain, but also in all of La Mancha, because hardly had I disembarked in Osuna when I started hearing about so many of his deeds that my heart told me that this was the one I’d come looking for.”
“How could your grace have disembarked in Osuna, señora mía,” don Quixote asked, “since it isn’t on the sea?”
But before Dorotea could respond, the priest lent a hand and said: “The señora princess must have meant to say that after she disembarked in Málaga, the first place she heard news of your worship was in Osuna.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Dorotea.
“And this makes sense,” said the priest. “Continue, your majesty.”
“There’s no more to tell,” responded Dorotea, “except that finally my luck has been so good in finding señor don Quixote that I consider that I’m already queen and mistress of my realm, since he—out of his courtesy and generosity—has promised to go with me wherever I might lead him, which will be nowhere else than directly in front of Pandafilando of the Sour Look, so that he can slay him and restore to me what has been so unjustly taken from me; and all of this will take place just for the asking, because it had been foretold by Tinacrio the Wise, my good father, who also left written in Chaldean or Greek script that I cannot read myself, that if this knight in the prophecy, after having beheaded the giant, would want to marry me, I should at once offer myself to him as his lawful wife and give him possession of my kingdom as well as of my body.”
“What do you think of that, friend Sancho,” said don Quixote at this point. “Don’t you hear what is being said? Didn’t I tell you? Look, we have a kingdom to rule and a queen to marry!”
“I believe you,” said Sancho. “You should get married the instant you open señor Pandahilado’s windpipe! Well, the queen isn’t so bad—I wish the fleas in my bed were as good as she is.”
And after he said this he cut a couple of capers in the air and seemed extraordinarily happy. Then he went to take the reins of Dorotea’s mule, and forced her to stop so he could kneel before her, begging her to give him her hands to kiss, as a sign that he acknowledged her as his queen and mistress. And who among those present, seeing the madness of the master and the simplicity of the servant, could refrain from laughing? So Dorotea gave him her hands and promised to make him a great lord in her kingdom when heaven pleased to restore it to her possession. Sancho thanked her with words that renewed the laugher of all.
“This, señores,” said Dorotea, “is my story. The only thing left to say is that of all the people who came with me from my kingdom, only this bearded squire remains, for the others drowned in a storm that overtook us just when we were in sight of the port. He and I were washed ashore miraculously on two planks. And so, you see, the whole of my life is a miracle and a mystery. And if in telling it I’ve exaggerated a bit in some places, and have not been as accurate as I could have been in others, blame it on what the señor licenciado said at the beginning of my story, that continual extraordinary travails weaken the memory of those who endure them.”
“No matter how many travails I undergo in your service, no matter how great and unheard of they may be, they won’t take away my memory, noble and brave señora,” said don Quixote. “So once again I confirm the boon that I promised you and I swear to go with you to the end of the earth until I meet your fierce enemy, whose arrogant head, with the help of God and of my arm, I intend to cut off with the sharp edges of this—and I can’t say ‘good sword,’ thanks to Ginés de Pasamonte who stole mine,” he said under his breath, and went on, “and after having cut it off and placed you in peaceful possession of your estate, you’re free to do as you would like. Because while my memory is absorbed, my will is enslaved, and my mind is possessed by that woman… and I say no more… it isn’t possible for me to contemplate marriage, not even for an instant, even if it were to the Phœnix.”
This decision of his master not to marry so provoked Sancho, that he raised his voice in great anger, and said, “I swear, señor don Quixote, your worship is not in your right mind! How is it possible for you to hesitate to marry such a noble princess as this one? Do you think that Fortune offers such a chance under every rock? Is my señora Dulcinea more beautiful? No, certainly not—far from it, not by half, and I’m about ready to say that she doesn’t even come up to the shoe of the one standing before us. How will I ever get the county I so want if you go around «looking for delicacies to eat in the middle of the ocean»? Get married, get married right now, in the devil’s name, and take the kingdom that has come de vobis, vobis into your hands, and once you’re king, make me a marquis or a governor right away, and may the devil take it all.”
Don Quixote, who heard these blasphemies against his lady Dulcinea, couldn’t stand it, and raising his lance, without speaking a word to Sancho, gave him two whacks that brought him to the ground, and if Dorotea hadn’t called to him to stop, he would have doubtless taken his life.
“Do you think,” he said to him after a while, “you vile rustic, that you can keep showing me such disrespect, and that I’ll always pardon your blunders? Well, don’t think it for a moment, you excommunicated scoundrel—that’s what you are, since you’ve spoken ill of the peerless Dulcinea! Don’t you know, you rustic hod-carrying bum, that if it weren’t for the strength she instills into my arm, I wouldn’t be strong enough to kill a flea. Tell me, you viper-tongued jokester, who do you think has won this kingdom, decapitated this giant, and made you a marquis—because I consider all of this as good as already accomplished—if it isn’t the strength of Dulcinea, using my arm as a tool for her deeds? She fights through me and conquers through me, and I live and breathe through her. Oh, you whoreson scoundrel, look how ungrateful you are—you see yourself risen from the dust of the earth to be a lord with a title, and in return you speak ill of the person who brought it all about.”
Sancho wasn’t in such bad shape that he didn’t hear everything his master said to him, and scrambling up quickly and hiding behind Dorotea’s palfrey, he said to his master from there: “Tell me, señor, if your grace is determined not to marry this great princess, it’s obvious that the kingdom will not be yours, and if it’s not yours, what favors can you do for me? That’s what I’m complaining about. Get married once and for all to this queen—now that we have her as if she rained down upon us—and afterwards you can go back to my señora Dulcinea, for there must have been kings in the world who kept mistresses. Insofar as beauty goes, I won’t get involved since, in truth, I’ve never seen señora Dulcinea.”
“What do you mean ‘you’ve never seen her,’ you blaspheming traitor?” said don Quixote. “Didn’t you just bring me a message from her?”
“What I mean is that I didn’t see her long enough to have studied her beauty in all its details, but on the whole, she seemed fine.”
“I forgive you now,” said don Quixote, “and pardon me for the injury I did you, for first impulses are not in the hands of man.”
“I can understand that,” responded Sancho, “because with me the first impulse is always to talk, and I can’t prevent myself from talking once the notion gets to my tongue.”
“Even so,” said don Quixote, “be careful what you say, Sancho, because «the pitcher can go to the well only so often…,» and I say no more.”
“All right,” responded Sancho, “God is in His heaven and he sees our tricks and he’ll be the judge of who does worse: I, in not speaking well, or your grace, in not acting any better.”
“No more of this,” said Dorotea. “Run, Sancho, and kiss your master’s hand and beg his pardon, and from now on be more attentive—both to your praise and your reproaches—and don’t speak ill of the señora Tobosa, whom I don’t know, except to serve, and have confidence in God, for you’ll not lack an estate where you can live like a prince.”
Sancho went with hanging head to ask for the hand of his master, who gave it to him calmly, and after Sancho kissed it, don Quixote added his blessing and told Sancho that they should go ahead of the rest because he had important things to ask and tell him. When they were alone, don Quixote told him: “Since your return, I haven’t had a chance to ask you any details of the message you took and the answer you brought, but now that Fortune has given us time and opportunity, don’t deny me the pleasure you can give me of hearing good news.”
“Ask whatever you want,” responded Sancho, “and to everything I’ll find the way out as easily as I found the way in. But I beg you, señor mío, not to be so vindictive from now on.”
“Why do you say that?” said don Quixote.
“I say it,” he responded, “because these blows you just gave me were more for the quarrel that the devil stirred up between us the other night than for anything I said against my lady Dulcinea, whom I love and revere as if she were a relic—although there is nothing of that about her—just because she belongs to you.”
“No more of this, Sancho, on your life,” said don Quixote, “for I find it offensive. I pardoned you then, and you know very well what they say: «new sin, fresh penance».”
While the two of them were conversing, the priest said to Dorotea that she’d been very discreet both in the telling of her story and in its brevity and its resemblance to those in the romances of chivalry. She said that she’d often entertained herself by reading them, but she didn’t know where the provinces and seaports were, and that’s why she made that haphazard choice of Osuna as her landing point.
“That’s what I thought,” said the priest, “and that’s why I broke in as I did, to set things right. But isn’t it strange to see how easily this unfortunate hidalgo believes all of our inventions and lies, only because they’re in the style of the nonsense of his books.”
“Yes, it is,” said Cardenio, “and it’s such a strange and unheard-of thing, that I don’t know if anyone could be so keen-witted that he could try to make up such nonsense.”
“There is something else,” said the priest, “and that’s when this good hidalgo isn’t talking about matters affected by his madness, if you talk with him about other things, he speaks very rationally and shows himself to have a clear understanding about everything, so that, as long as you shy away from chivalry, nobody would think anything except that he was a man of sound mind.”
While they were engaged in this conversation, don Quixote continued his, and said to Sancho: “As far as our quarrels go, Panza, let’s let bygones be bygones, and tell me now, without thought of grudge or grievance, where, how, and when did you find Dulcinea? What was she doing? What did you tell her? What did her face look like when she was reading my letter? Who copied it for you? Tell me everything else you think is worthy to be known, asked, and answered about all this, not adding or distorting anything to give me pleasure, nor shortening it, which would deprive me of some of it.”
“Señor,” responded Sancho, “if the truth be told, no one copied the letter for me because I didn’t have any letter with me at all.”
“That’s right, just as you say,” said don Quixote, “because two days after your departure I found the diary where I’d written it in my possession, and this caused me great concern, not knowing what you would do when you discovered you didn’t have it… I thought you’d come back for it as soon as you found it was missing.”
“That would have been the case,” responded Sancho, “if I hadn’t memorized it exactly as your grace read it, so I could recite it to a sexton who copied it from my memory so accurately that he said that in all the days of his life—although he’d copied many letters of excommunication—he’d never read as beautiful a letter as that one.”
“And is it still in your memory, Sancho?” said don Quixote.
“No, señor,” responded Sancho, “because as soon as I repeated it, since I saw that I’d no longer need it, I immediately forgot it. If I remember anything it’s that business of «slobbering», I mean «sovereign señora», and the ending «yours until death, the Woebegone Knight». And in between those two items, I put in more than three hundred «souls», and «lives», and «my eyes».”