FIRST CHAPTER

About the conversation the priest and barber had with don Quixote concerning his illness.

CIDE HAMETE Benengeli relates in the second part of this history, and third expedition of don Quixote, that the priest and barber refrained from visiting don Quixote for almost a month, so as not to remind him about and bring to his memory things from the past. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t visit the niece and housekeeper, urging them to pamper him and give him things to eat to fortify him, and that were also right for his heart and brain, from where issued—so it seemed—all of his bad fortune. They told him they were doing just that, and would continue to do so with good will and care, because they saw that their master at times seemed to be completely sane, which made the two men very happy, causing them to feel they were right to bring him home enchanted in the oxcart, as was related in the last chapter of the first part of this great and factual history.

So they finally decided to visit him and judge his recovery for themselves. They thought it was almost impossible that he would have gotten better, thus they agreed not to touch on anything related to knight-errantry, so as not to put him in danger of pulling out the stitches of his wounds, which were very precarious.

They visited him and found him seated on his bed, dressed in a green flannel jacket, and with a red Toledan night-cap. He was so dry that he looked like he was a mummy. They were well received by him, and they asked about his health. He told them very rationally and with elegant words how he was doing and the state of his health. During their conversation they happened to talk about politics and goings on in government, amending this abuse and condemning that one, reforming one custom and getting rid of another, each one of the three of them being transformed into a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus or a brand-new Solon. And they so refashioned the republic that it seemed that they had put one into a forge and taken out quite another. And don Quixote spoke so sensibly about everything that the two examiners believed without a doubt that he was completely cured and quite sane.

The niece and housekeeper were present during this conversation and they couldn’t thank God enough when they saw their master with such good sense. But the priest, changing his mind about not talking about matters of chivalry, wanted to try an experiment to see if don Quixote’s recovery was in appearance only, or if it was genuine. So he began to relate some news that had come from the capital, where it was thought to be certain that the Turkish army was approaching with a powerful armada, and they didn’t know what the Turks’ plan was, or where their storm would burst. Almost every year this fear sounded the alarm, and all of Christendom was constantly on the alert, and His Majesty had provided for the defense of Naples, Sicily, and the Island of Malta.

To this responded don Quixote: “His Majesty has acted like a very prudent warrior in protecting his dominions in advance so the enemy won’t find him unprepared, but if he’d take my advice, I’d tell him to try something that must be very far from his thoughts.”

Hardly had the priest heard this when he said to himself: “May God protect you, poor don Quixote, for it seems that you’re flinging yourself down from the height of your madness into the abyss of your simplicity.”

“Mine, señor shaver, wouldn’t be irrelevant, but quite to the point.”

“I don’t mean it that way,” said the barber, “only that experience has shown that all or most advice given to His Majesty is either impossible or foolish, or is damaging to the king or to the kingdom.”

“But mine,” responded don Quixote, “is neither impossible nor foolish, but rather the easiest, most just, and most feasible and direct that any advisor could formulate.”

“Your grace seems to be delaying in telling us what it is, señor don Quixote.”

“I wouldn’t want,” said don Quixote, “to tell you this here and now, and tomorrow morning have it in the ears of the king’s advisors, for which someone else would get the thanks and credit for my labor.”

“As for me,” said the barber, “I pledge my word in the presence of God, not to reveal to king or rook, or any other living man what your grace may say—an oath that I learned from the “Ballad of the Priest,” wherein during the introit to the mass the priest was able to reveal to the king about how a thief stole a hundred doubloons and his swift mule from him.”

“I don’t know those stories,” said don Quixote, “but I do know that your oath is good because I know that the señor barber is an honorable man.”

“And if he weren’t,” said the priest, “I’ll vouch for him, and he will say no more about the matter than a person who lacks the ability to speak, or he’ll have to pay any judgment against him.”

“And your grace, who will vouch for you?” said don Quixote.

“My profession,” responded the priest, “which is to keep secrets.”

“By God,” said don Quixote, “what else should His Majesty do but have a public crier summon all the knights errant roaming all over Spain to meet in the capital on a certain day? And even though only half a dozen of them come, there might be one of them who would be able to destroy the power of the Turk single-handedly. Listen carefully and follow along. By chance is it unheard of for a single knight errant to destroy an army of two-hundred-thousand men, as if they all had one single throat or if they were made of almond paste? Tell me, how many histories are filled with these wonders? It would be to my misfortune and no one else’s if the famous don Belianís de Grecia, or any other of the countless men from Amadís de Gaula’s innumerable lineage were living today! For if any one of these came and confronted the Turk, I swear I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. But God will look out for his people and will send one who, if not as fierce as the previous knights, at least won’t be inferior in his courage. God understands me and I say no more!”

“Ay!” said the niece at this point. “May they kill me if my master doesn’t want to be a knight errant once again!”

To which don Quixote said: “A knight errant I’ll die! Let the Turk come or go whenever he wants, and with whatever strength he can muster—once again I say that God understands me.”

At this point the barber said: “I beg your grace to permit me to tell a little story about something that happened in Seville, which I’d like to tell you because it seems most pertinent to this case.”

Don Quixote gave him permission, and the priest and the others lent an ear, and he began in this way: “In the nuthouse of Seville there was a man whose relatives had put him there because he was crazy. He was a graduate in canon law from the University of Osuna, but even if he’d been graduated by Salamanca, in the opinion of many, he still would have been crazy. This graduate, after some years in confinement, let it be known that he was sane and in his right mind, and with this thought he wrote to the archbishop, begging him earnestly, with well-chosen words, to be taken out of the misery in which he was living, since by the compassion of God he’d recovered his lost sanity; but his relatives, in order to hold onto and keep using his income, insisted that he stay there, and in spite of the truth, wanted him to stay crazy until he died.

“The archbishop, persuaded by the many coherent and sensible letters, sent one of his chaplains to find out from the superintendent of the crazy house if it was true what the licenciado had written, and also to speak with the crazy man. If it seemed to him he was sane, he could take him out and set him free. The chaplain went, and the superintendent maintained that he was still crazy. Although much of the time he spoke like a person with great intelligence, he finally would hurl a lot of nonsense that rivaled his previous good sense both in quality and quantity, as the chaplain could find out for himself by speaking with him. The chaplain wanted to, and the superintendent took him to the crazy man. The chaplain spoke with him for an hour or more, and in all that time the crazy man didn’t utter an odd or foolish word, but rather spoke so intelligently that the chaplain was forced to believe the crazy man was sane. Among other things the crazy man said to him was that the superintendent bore him a grudge so that he wouldn’t lose the gifts the crazy man’s relatives gave him, and that’s why he would keep on saying that he was crazy but with lucid intervals; and the biggest obstacle he had was his great income, since his enemies—in order to spend it—willfully misrepresented him and denied the favor that Our Lord had done by turning him from a beast back into a man.

“Finally, he spoke in such a way the chaplain began to wonder about the intentions of the superintendent. The crazy man made his relatives look covetous and soulless, and himself look so sensible that the chaplain decided to take him away, and let the archbishop himself determine the truth of the matter.

“In good faith, then, the chaplain asked the superintendent to have the clothing in which he’d entered the asylum returned to the licenciado. The superintendent once again said that he should be careful, because without any doubt the licenciado was still crazy, but despite his precautions and warnings, the chaplain still insisted on taking him away. The superintendent obeyed, seeing it was an order from the archbishop. They dressed the licenciado in his old clothing, which was new and decent, and when he saw himself dressed as a sane man and divested of his craziness, he asked the superintendent if he might bid farewell to his friends, the other crazy men. The chaplain said that he wanted to go along and see the crazy men who were in that asylum, so they and the others in their company went upstairs, and when the licenciado came to a cell of a raving crazy man, although at the moment he was calm and quiet, he said to him: ‘My brother, tell me if there’s anything I can do for you, because I’m going home. God, through His infinite goodness and mercy has been pleased, without my deserving it, to restore my sanity. I’m healthy and sane again, because where the power of God is concerned, nothing is impossible. Maintain your hope and confidence in Him, because if He returned me to the way I was, He can do the same for you, if you trust in Him. I’ll make sure to send you some good things to eat. Make sure you eat them, because I think—since I’ve been through all this—that much of our madness comes from having our stomachs empty and our minds filled with air. Take courage, take courage, I say, because despondency in misfortunes saps one’s health and leads to death.’

“Another crazy man who was in the cell across from the raving lunatic heard all these words said by the licenciado, and getting up off an old mat where he lay naked, asked in a loud voice who it was that was healthy and sane.

“The licenciado responded: ‘I’m the one, brother, who is going away. I don’t need to be here anymore, for which I give infinite thanks to heaven that has favored me so.’

“ ‘Watch what you’re saying, licenciado, don’t let the devil deceive you,’ replied the crazy man. ‘Don’t be so anxious to leave—stay here at your ease and you’ll save yourself a trip back.’

“ ‘I know I’m cured,’ replied the licenciado, ‘and there’ll be no reason to come back.’

“ ‘You, cured?’ said the crazy man. ‘All right, we’ll see about that—go with God, but I swear to Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that for just this one sin Seville is committing today by releasing you from this asylum and in saying that you’re sane, I’ll punish the city so harshly that its memory will last for all time, amen. Don’t you know, you miserable little licenciado, that I can do it, since, as I say, I AM THE THUNDERING JUPITER, and I have in my hands burning lightning bolts with which I can threaten and even destroy the world? But I’ll use just one punishment to chastise these ignorant people, and that is that I’ll withhold rain from the city and the whole area for three whole years, and this will start as soon as I pronounce this threat. You free, healthy, and sane?—and I crazy, sick, and bound up? I’ll feel like raining about as much as I’d consider hanging myself.’

“All those present were listening attentively to the shouts of the crazy man, but our licenciado, turning to face the chaplain and taking him by the hands, said: ‘Don’t worry, your grace, or pay attention to what that crazy man has said. For if he’s Jupiter and refuses to rain, I am Neptune, the father and god of the waters, and I’ll rain whenever I feel like it and wherever it’s needed.’

“To which the chaplain responded: ‘For all that, señor Neptune, it will not be a good idea to anger señor Jupiter. Stay here, your grace, in your house. On another day, when the time is right, we’ll come back for you.’

“The superintendent and all the others who were present laughed, and their laughter embarrassed the chaplain. They undressed the licenciado, and he remained in the asylum, and that’s the end of the story.”

“So, that’s your story, señor barber?” said don Quixote. “This is the one that was so much to the point that you just had to tell it? Ah, señor shaver, señor shaver, how blind can anyone be who can’t see through cheesecloth! Is it possible that your grace doesn’t know that comparisons that are made between one talent and another, one brave warrior and another, one beauty and another, or one family and another, are always odious and ill-received? I, señor, am not Neptune, the god of the waters, nor do I try to make others think I’m sane when I’m not. I only get tired of trying to convince the world of its error in not reviving the happy time when the order of knights errant flourished. Our depraved age is not worthy of enjoying the good fortune of those days when knights errant undertook squarely on their shoulders the defense of kingdoms, the protection of maidens, the rescuing of orphans, the punishment of the arrogant, and the reward of the humble. Nowadays, knights dress in damasks, brocades, and other rich fabrics instead of coats of mail. Nowadays there’s no knight who sleeps in the fields, exposed to the rigors of the elements, in armor from head to foot. Nowadays there’s no one who, without taking his feet from his stirrups, leans against his lance to get a bit of sleep, as the knights errant did. Nowadays no one leaves the forest and wanders through the mountains, and from there goes down to walk along a sterile and deserted beach by the tempestuous and angry sea, and finds at the shore a little vessel without oars, sail, mast, or rigging of any kind, and with an intrepid heart jumps headlong into it, at the mercy of the relentless waves of the deep sea, which throws him as high as the sky one minute and sinks him into the abyss the next, and he, heading into the invincible storm, when least he expects it, finds himself three thousand and more leagues distant from the place where he got on the boat. And going ashore in some remote and unknown territory, things happen to him that are worthy of being written, not on parchments, but etched in bronze.

“Nowadays sloth triumphs over industry, idleness over labor, vice over virtue, arrogance over valor, military theory over the practice of arms, which lived and shone only in the Golden Age of knights errant. Tell me, who was more chaste and braver than Amadís de Gaula? Who more discreet than Palmerín de Inglaterra? Who more easily pleased and milder than Tirante el Blanco? Who more gallant than Lisuarte de Grecia? Who slashed and got slashed more than don Belianís? Who more intrepid than Perión de Gaula? Who took on more dangers than Felixmarte de Hyrcania? Who was more sincere than Esplandián? Who bolder than Ceriongilio de Tracia? Who fiercer than Rodamonte? Who more prudent than King Sobrino? Who more daring than Reinaldos? Who more invincible than Roland? And who more gallant and courteous than Ruggiero, from whom the Dukes of Ferrara of today descend according to Turpin in his Cosmography?

“All these knights, and many others whom I could mention, señor priest, were knights errant, the light and glory of chivalry. I would want these, or men like them, to be on my side, because if they were, his Majesty would be well served and would spare an enormous expense, and the Turk would be tearing his beard out. So, I don’t want to remain at home, since there’s no chaplain to rescue me, and if Jupiter—as the barber has said—won’t rain, here I am, and I’ll rain whenever I feel like it. I say this so that señor basin will see that I understand him.”

“In truth, señor don Quixote,” said the barber, “I didn’t mean it that way; and so help me God, my intention was good, and your grace shouldn’t be offended.”

“If I’m offended or not,” responded don Quixote, “I’m the one to judge.”

To this the priest said: “Even though I’ve hardly uttered a word until now, I don’t want to be left with a slight reservation that has been gnawing at me, born of what señor don Quixote has said.”

“For this and other things,” responded don Quixote, “the señor priest is permitted to vent his reservations, because it’s not good to be troubled by doubts.”

“With this consent,” responded the priest, “my reservation is that I cannot persuade myself at all that the whole multitude of knights errant your grace, señor don Quixote, has mentioned, were really men of flesh and blood in the world. Rather I imagine that it’s all fiction, fable, falsehoods, and dreams related by men who are wide-awake, or better said, half-asleep.” “This is another mistake,” responded don Quixote, “that many who believe these knights never existed in the world have fallen into, and I have tried many times, with different people and on different occasions, to make them see the truth of this common error. Sometimes I haven’t succeeded and sometimes I have, supporting what I’ve said on the shoulders of Truth; and this Truth is so certain that I can almost say I’ve seen Amadís de Gaula with my own eyes—he was a tall fellow, light complected, with a nice beard, although black, neither stern nor gentle in his bearing, a man of few words, slow to anger, and quickly appeased. And the way I’ve pictured Amadís, I could, I think, describe all the knights errant in the world told about in the histories. Given my understanding of them through their histories, and by their deeds and characteristics, one can postulate, through sound reasoning, what their facial features, complexion, and stature were.”

“How tall does your grace, my señor don Quixote, think the giant Morgante was?” said the barber.

“In the matter of giants,” responded don Quixote, “there are different opinions as to whether or not they existed in the world. But Holy Scripture, which cannot stray an atom from the truth, tells us the history of that big Philistine Goliath, who was seven and a half cubits tall, which is an inordinate size. Also in the Island of Sicily they’ve found some shinbones and shoulder blades so big that it proves their owners were gigantic, as tall as towers—geometry takes away all doubt from this truth. But I can’t determine with certainty just how big Morgante was, although I have to conclude he wasn’t very tall. I give this opinion because in the history that makes particular mention of his deeds, it says he frequently slept under a roof, and if he could find a house to contain him, it’s clear he can’t have been inordinately large.”

“That’s right,” said the priest, who was enjoying hearing him say such foolish things that he asked him if he could describe the faces of Reinaldos de Montalbán and of don Roland, and the other Peers of France, since all of them had been knights errant.

“About Reinaldos,” responded don Quixote, “I venture to say that he had a wide, ruddy face, with twinkling—and rather protruding—eyes, excessively suspicious and wrathful, a friend of thieves and lost souls. Of Roland, or Rotolando or Orlando—for by these three names he was known in the histories—I’m of the opinion, in fact, I affirm that he was of medium height, wide in the shoulders, a bit bowlegged, dark-complected and with a red beard, his body hairy, and with a menacing appearance, of few words, but very courteous and well-behaved.”

“If Roland was no more handsome than your grace has stated,” replied the priest, “it’s no wonder that señora Angélica the Beautiful scorned him for the elegance, dash, and wit that the little soft-bearded Moor to whom she gave herself, must have had, and that she was wise in choosing to adore Medoro’s softness over the harshness of Roland.”

“That Angélica,” responded don Quixote, “señor priest, was a licentious gadabout, and somewhat capricious, and left the world filled as much with her indiscretions as with the fame of her beauty. She disdained a thousand lords, a thousand warriors, and a thousand discerning men, and satisfied herself with that little dandy with no income or any reputation except what he got through loyalty to his friend. The great singer of her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not daring or not caring to sing about what happened after her vile surrender—and it couldn’t have been anything overly wholesome—bade her farewell with these lines:

“And this without a doubt was like a prophecy, especially since poets are also known as VATES, or fortunetellers. One sees this evident truth because since then a famous Andalusian poet wept and sang of her tears, and another famous and unique Castilian poet praised her beauty.”

“Tell me, señor don Quixote,” said the barber, “hasn’t there been—among those who have praised her—some poet who has written a satire about that señora Angélica?”

“Maybe,” responded don Quixote, “for if Sacripante or Roland had been poets, they would have satirized the maiden, because it’s proper and natural for poets who are disdained and turned down by their ladies (imaginary or not), by those that they chose to be the mistresses of their hearts, to avenge themselves with satires and lampoons, a vengeance certainly unworthy of generous hearts. But up to now no discrediting verse has come to my notice against señora Angélica, who turned the world topsy-turvy.”

“That’s a miracle,” said the priest. And just then they heard the housekeeper and niece who had left during the conversation—shouting in the patio, and they all went to see what it was.