W HEN DON Quixote found himself locked up in a cage on a cart, he said: “I’ve read many grave histories of knights errant, but I’ve never read, seen, or heard of enchanted knights being carried off this way, or with the slowness of these lazy and sluggish beasts—it has always been that they’re whisked away in the air with extraordinary speed, shrouded in some dark cloud, or in a chariot of fire, or on a hippogriff or a similar animal. To think that they’re hauling me away on an oxcart! My God, it upsets me! But maybe knighthood and enchantments in our times follow a different road than they did in the old days. Since I’m a novice knight in the world, and the first one who has brought back to life the now forgotten order of knight errantry, perhaps they have invented new kinds of enchantments and other ways of carrying enchanted knights. What do you think of this, Sancho, my son?”
“I don’t know what to think,” responded Sancho, “because I’m not as well read as your grace is in writings-errant. Nevertheless, I’d venture to affirm and swear that these apparitions we see here and there are not at all catholic.”
“Catholic? What do you mean?” responded don Quixote. “How can they be Catholic if they’re all devils who have taken on ghostly bodies in order to come to do this, and put me in this situation. And if you want to prove this truth, go touch and feel them, and you’ll see that they have no bodies but are made of air, and they’re just apparitions.”
“By God, señor,” Sancho replied, “I’ve already touched them, and that devil who is walking over as nice as can be is a bit plump, and he has another characteristic very different from what I’ve heard devils have, because, as it’s said, they’re supposed to smell of sulphur and other bad odors—but this one smells of perfume half a league away.”
Sancho said this about don Fernando, who, as a gentleman, must have smelled the way he said.
“This is not surprising, Sancho, my friend,” responded don Quixote, “because I’ll have you know that devils are crafty, and although they do have odors with them, they themselves don’t smell, since they’re spirits; and if they do smell, they can’t smell good, but rather of bad and foul-smelling things, because they take hell with them no matter where they go, and have no relief from their suffering. Since sweet smells delight and comfort, it’s not possible for them to smell of anything good. And if you believe this devil smells of perfume, either you’re mistaken, or he wants to deceive you to make you think that he’s not a devil.”
As master and servant held this conversation, don Fernando and Cardenio were thinking all the while Sancho would discover their deception—and he already had it almost figured out—so they decided to cut their good-byes short. They called the innkeeper aside, and asked him to saddle Rocinante and put the packsaddle on the donkey, which he did quickly.
The priest, meanwhile, had arranged with the officers to go with them as far as their village, paying them so much per day. Cardenio hung the shield on the saddle from one side of the pommel, and from the other, the basin, and by signs had Sancho mount his donkey and take Rocinante’s reins. He stationed an officer on both sides of the cage, each one with a musket. But before the cart moved out, the innkeeper’s wife and daughter, and Maritornes, ran out to bid farewell to don Quixote, pretending to be crying over the grief of his misfortune, and don Quixote said to them: “Do not cry, my good ladies, for all these misfortunes are customary for those who profess what I profess, and if these calamities didn’t happen to me, I wouldn’t consider myself a famous knight errant, because knights of little renown and fame never suffer such things, and none of them is remembered in the world. The valiant ones, yes, they have caused many princes and other knights to envy them because of their virtue and valor. Nevertheless, virtue is so powerful that on its own—in spite of all the necromancy that its original inventor, Zoroaster, knew —it will triumph over every battle and will give light in the world as the sun does from the sky. Pardon me, beautiful ladies, if I’ve done you any wrong out of heedlessness, because I’ve never done so to anyone willingly or knowingly. Please pray to God to release me from this imprisonment into which some evil-intentioned enchanter has placed me, and if I get free, I’ll not forget the favors you’ve done for me in this castle, and will respond to, reward, and repay them as they deserve.”
While the ladies of the castle were thus engaged with don Quixote, the priest and barber said good-bye to don Fernando and his companions, and to the captain and his brother, and to all the happy women, especially Dorotea and Luscinda. Everyone embraced and agreed to send news of what happened. Don Fernando asked the priest to write him and tell him how don Quixote wound up, assuring him that nothing would give him greater pleasure to hear about, and he would equally send him word about everything he might like to know—about his marriage, as well as Zoraida’s baptism, what happened to don Luis, and Luscinda’s return home. The priest promised to do scrupulously everything he was asked. They embraced once again and once again renewed their promises.
The innkeeper now approached the priest and gave him a stack of papers, which he said he found in the lining of a suitcase where he found the novella of the «Ill-Advised Curiosity», and because its owner had never come back, he should take them all; and since he didn’t know how to read, he didn’t want them. The priest thanked him, and opened some papers at once, and saw that the beginning of the manuscript said it was the novella of «Rinconete and Cortadillo», from which he gathered that it was a story, and presumed that, since the «Ill-Advised Curiosity» had been good, that one would be too, since it might be that they were both by the same author. So he kept it, intending to read it as soon as he could.
He got on horseback, as did his friend the barber, with their masks, so they wouldn’t be recognized by don Quixote, and they started out behind the cart, and the order of the procession was as follows: the oxcart went first, driven by its owner; at the two sides were the officers, as has been said, with their muskets. Sancho Panza followed on his donkey, leading Rocinante by his reins. After this came the priest and barber on their powerful mules, their faces covered, as has been said, in a grave and serious manner, and at a speed no faster than that of the oxen. Don Quixote was seated inside the cage, his hands tied, his legs stretched out, and leaning against the bars, and so quiet and so patient, as if he weren’t a man of flesh and blood, but a statue of stone.
Slowly and silently they went almost two leagues, when they came to a valley where it seemed to the wagoner it was a comfortable place to rest and let his oxen graze. He communicated this to the priest, but the barber thought they should go on a bit more, because he knew that behind a nearby slope there was a valley with more and better grass than where they had wanted to stop. They took the advice of the barber, and moved on again.
The priest turned his head and saw coming from behind six or seven well-equipped men on mounts. And soon they were overtaken, because they were not traveling with the ease and leisure of oxen, but like men on canon’s mules, intent on spending the siesta at an inn, for they could see one less than a league away. As these faster people passed the slower ones, they greeted them courteously. One of them was a canon from Toledo and the master of the others who were accompanying them, who, seeing the orderly procession of the cart, the officers, Sancho, Rocinante, priest and barber, and most notably don Quixote in a cage and imprisoned, couldn’t help but ask what conducting that man that way meant. He concluded, seeing the badges of the officers, that he must be some wicked highwayman or some other delinquent, whose punishment was put in charge of the Holy Brotherhood. One of the officers, to whom he asked about the matter, responded: “Señor, let him tell you himself what all this means because we don’t know.”
Don Quixote heard this exchange and said: “By chance señores, are your graces versed and knowledgeable in the matter of knight errantry? Because if you are, I’ll tell you about my misfortunes, and if not, there is no reason to bother.”
By this time, the priest and barber, seeing that the travelers were engaged in conversation with don Quixote de La Mancha, came up to answer questions in such a way so that their stratagem would not be discovered. The canon, in response to what don Quixote said, replied: “In truth, brother, I know more about romances of chivalry than I do of the Súmulas of Villalpando. So, if that’s the only condition, you can tell me all you wish.”
“As God wishes,” replied don Quixote. “In that event, señor knight, I’d like you to know that I’m enchanted in this cage because of envy and deceit of evil enchanters—for virtue is more persecuted by evil than it is loved by good. I’m a knight errant, and not of those whose names Fame has never bothered to immortalize, but of those who, in spite of Envy itself, and of all the magicians ever born in Persia, the Brahmans of India, the gymnosophists of Ethiopia, manage to write their names in the temple of immortality, to serve as an example in future ages, so that knights errant can see the steps that they have to follow if they want to reach the summit of the art of arms.”
“Señor don Quixote de La Mancha is telling the truth,” the priest broke in at that point. “He’s traveling enchanted in this cart, not because it’s his fault or because of his sins, but rather owing to the evil intention of those whom virtue angers and bravery peeves. This, señor, is the Woebegone Knight, in case you never heard of him, for his brave feats and great deeds will be written on bronze tablets or carved into marble, no matter how much Envy endeavors to erase them or Evil tries to hide them.”
When the canon heard the imprisoned man and the free one speak in that way, he was on the point of crossing himself in wonder, and he couldn’t figure out what had happened to him, and all his companions were similarly amazed. At this point Sancho drew near to hear what was going on and, to clarify matters, said: “All right, señores, love me or hate me for what I’m about to say, but the thing is that my master don Quixote de La Mancha is about as enchanted as my mother is. He has all of his wits about him—he eats and drinks, and performs other necessary functions as everyone else does, and as he did yesterday before they put him in a cage. This being so, how do they expect me to believe he’s enchanted? I’ve heard many people say that those who are enchanted don’t eat, sleep, or speak, and my master, if you don’t stop him, will out-talk more than thirty lawyers.”
And turning to look at the priest, he went on saying: “Ah, señor priest, señor priest! Did you think I don’t recognize you? And do you think that I don’t understand and guess where these new enchantments are leading? I want you to know that I do recognize you, no matter how you disguise your face, and I want you to know that I know what you’re up to, no matter how you try to cover your schemes up. In short, «where envy reigns, virtue cannot thrive», and «where there is stinginess, generosity cannot live». The devil take it all, for if it weren’t for your reverence, my master would be married this very moment to the Princess Micomicona, and I’d be at least a count—you couldn’t expect anything less—as much through the goodness of my master, the Woebegone One, as through the worthiness of my services. But I now see that it’s true what they say, that «the wheel of fortune turns faster than a millstone», and «those who were prosperous yesterday are downtrodden today». I’m sorry for my wife and children, because, whereas they could and should have expected to see their father come home a governor or a viceroy of some ínsula or kingdom, he’ll come home a stable boy instead. All this I’ve said, señor priest, just to make you see the bad treatment my master is getting—and watch out that God doesn’t hold you responsible in the other world for making my master a prisoner, and for all the wrongs he could have righted all the time he was a prisoner.”
“I don’t believe it!” said the barber. “Sancho, do you belong to your master’s fraternity? By God, I’m thinking that you should keep him company in the cage, and you’ll be as enchanted as he is for what has rubbed off onto you from his mental state and chivalry. It was unfortunate when you impregnated yourself with his promises, and equally so when that ínsula you set your sight on got into your brain.”
“I’m not pregnant by anybody,” responded Sancho, “nor am I a man who would get pregnant, not even by the king himself, and even though I’m poor, I’m an Old Christian, and I don’t owe anything to anyone; and if I long for ínsulas, other people have yearned for much worse; and «everyone is the child of his works», and being a man, I can even get to be Pope, not to mention governor of an ínsula—and my master may win so many, he won’t have enough people to give them to. Your grace should watch what you say, señor barber, for there is more to life than shaving beards, and «not every Pedro is the same». I say that because we all know who we are, and «you can’t trick me with loaded dice». As for the enchantment of my master, God knows the truth, and let’s let it stand, because «stirring it up will only make it worse».”
The barber didn’t want to respond so Sancho wouldn’t reveal through his naïve talk what he and the priest were trying so hard to conceal. And with this same fear the priest had told the canon they should ride ahead a bit, and he would tell him the mystery of the caged man, and other things that would give him pleasure. The canon agreed, and went ahead with his servants, and listened attentively to everything about don Quixote’s disposition, life, crazy acts, and customs; and the priest told him briefly about the origin and cause of his delirium, and everything that had happened until they put him in the cage, and the plan they had to take him back home to see if there was some way to cure his madness. The canon and his servants were astonished afresh when they heard the unusual story of don Quixote, and when it was over, the canon said: “Truly, señor priest, I find these so-called romances of chivalry to be prejudicial to the republic. Although I’ve read—in idle moments, moved by an irrational desire—the beginning of the majority of those that have been printed, I could never read one all the way through, because it seems to me that they’re all more or less the same, and this one has no more than that, nor that one more than the next one. The way I look at it, this style of writing and composition fall under the category of Milesian tales, which are foolish fables designed only to entertain and not to instruct, unlike the apologue fables that entertain and instruct at the same time. Since the main purpose of these books is only to entertain, I don’t see how they can do even that, since they’re filled with so many enormous absurdities.
“Since intellectual pleasure should be made up of everything that is beautiful and harmonious, as seen or imagined, and anything that is ugly or disproportionate can’t give us any delight, what beauty or proportion can be presented in a book where a sixteen-year old youth stabs a giant as big as a tower, and cuts him in two as if he were made of almond paste? And when they go to describe a battle, after telling us that the enemy camp has a million combatants, and the hero of the story is fighting against them, yet as ridiculous as it seems, we’re given to understand that the knight won the battle all alone just by the might of his arm.
“And what should we say about the queen or empress who so readily puts herself in the arms of an unknown knight errant? What imagination—unless it’s one that is barbarian and uncultured—can be entertained reading that a huge tower filled with knights, sets sail as if it were a ship with a favorable wind stopping tonight in Lombardy, and at daybreak it’s in the land of Prester John of the Indies, or in some country not discovered by Ptolemy or seen by Marco Polo. And if you tell me that those books were written as fiction so their authors don’t have to pay strict attention to the fine points, or the way things really are, I’d respond that fiction is better the more it resembles the truth, and it’s more delightful the more it has of what is truthful and possible. Fictional tales must be wedded to the understanding of the reader, and written in such a way that impossible things seem possible, excesses are smoothed over, and the mind is kept in suspense, so that they astonish, stimulate, delight, and entertain us in such a way that admiration and pleasure move together; and the person who flees from credibility and imitation—of which perfection in what one writes consists—cannot accomplish this.
“I haven’t yet seen a book of chivalry where the plot agrees in all its parts, so the middle corresponds to the beginning, and the ending to the beginning and the middle. Instead, they’re written with so many unrelated members they seem more like they were intended to represent a chimera or a monster, than to form a proportioned whole. Aside from this, they’re wooden in their style, unbelievable in their deeds, lascivious in their loves, uncouth in their compliments, long in their battles, foolish in their conversations, outlandish in their travels, and finally, devoid of any artistic excellence, and they should be exiled from a Christian state in the same way vagabonds are.”
The priest was listening with rapt attention, and the canon seemed to him to be a man of fine intelligence, and was correct in everything he said. Thus he said to him that since he was of the same opinion and so disliked romances of chivalry, that he’d burned all of them belonging to don Quixote, and there were many. And he told him about the inquisition he had made of them, and those that he’d condemned to the fire and those he’d spared, causing no little laughter on the canon’s part. And the canon told him that, along with all the bad things he’d said about those books, he did find one good thing in them, which was the opportunity they gave an author with a lively intelligence to show off, for they offered a wide and spacious field through which he can let his pen run free, discovering shipwrecks; storms; a brave captain with all appropriate qualities, showing him to be prudent, divining the cunning of his enemies; an eloquent speaker, persuading or restraining his troops, mature in his advice, ready in his resolve, and as valiant in standing by as in attacking. He can describe a tragic and lamentable episode, then a happy and unexpected one; over there a beautiful woman, chaste, discreet, and modest; over here a Christian knight, valiant and courageous; yonder a rude and reckless barbarian; here a courteous prince, brave and respected, representing goodness and loyalty in vassals, and the greatness and generosity of lords. He can show himself to be an excellent astrologer or cosmographer; a musician; intelligent in matters of state; and on occasion he can play the role of necromancer if he wants. He can show the craftiness of Ulysses, the piety of Æneas, the bravery of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the treason of Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the generosity of Alexander, the courage of Cæsar, the clemency and truth of Trajan, the fidelity of Zopirus, the wisdom of Cato, and finally, all the things that go into making an illustrious man, either attributing them all to a single character, or dividing the traits among several.
“And if this is done with gentleness of style and with ingenious imagination, and if the author aims at the truth wherever possible, he’ll doubtless weave a cloth of various and beautiful threads, which, after it’s finished, will show such perfection and beauty, that it attains the goal that such writing aspires to, which is to teach and delight at the same time, as I’ve already said, because the freedom permitted by these books allows the author to be epic, lyrical, tragic, and comic, with all the qualities that are contained in the sweet and pleasant arts of poetry and oratory—for epic can be written in prose as well as in verse.”