About the strange adventure that happened to the brave knight don Quixote with the brave Knight of the Mirrors.
DON QUIXOTE and his squire spent the night that followed the day of the encounter with Death under some tall, shady trees, and Sancho persuaded don Quixote to eat some of what was in the donkey’s saddlebags. During dinner, Sancho said to his master: “Señor, I would have been a fool to have chosen the spoils of the first adventure that your grace had instead of the colts of the three mares. It’s really true that a «bird in the hand is worth two in the bush».”
“Still,” responded don Quixote, “if you, Sancho, had let me attack as I wanted to, you would have at least gotten the empress’s crown of gold, and Cupid’s painted wings, which I would have taken against their will and placed into your hands.”
“Crowns and scepters of actors,” responded Sancho Panza, “never were of real gold but rather of foil and tin.”
“That’s true,” replied don Quixote, “because paraphernalia of plays shouldn’t be real, but pretend and make-believe, just like the play itself, toward which I would like you, Sancho, to be well disposed; and by the same token toward those who perform and write them, because all of them are instruments of great good to the republic, placing a mirror before us at every step, where we see a live representation of human life, and there’s nothing that portrays so vividly what we are and what we should strive to be than plays and their actors do. Tell me, haven’t you been at plays where you see kings, emperors, and popes; knights, ladies, and other diverse characters? One plays the ruffian, another the trickster, this one the merchant, that one the soldier, and another the discreet fool, and another the enamored fool. And when the play is over and the actors take off their costumes, they’re all equal.”
“Yes, I’ve seen them,” said Sancho.
“Well, the same thing,” said don Quixote, “that happens in plays happens in life—some are emperors, others popes, and all the characters that there are in a play. But when the end comes, which is when life ends, Death takes away all the clothing that differentiates them and they become equal in the grave.”
“A fine comparison,” said Sancho, “although not so new that I haven’t heard it many, many times, like the business of the game of chess—while it’s being played, each piece has its particular function, and when the game is over, they’re all mixed up and jumbled together, and they’re put into a bag, which is like finishing one’s life in the grave.”
“Every day, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “you’re becoming wiser and less of a dolt.”
‘Yes, for something of your grace’s wisdom has rubbed off,” responded Sancho. “Land is barren and dry by itself, but by spreading manure on it and cultivating it, it gives good fruit. I mean that my conversations with you have been the manure that has fallen on the dry soil of my barren intellect. The cultivation of this land is the time that I’ve been serving and talking with you, and I hope all this will bear fruit that will not be unworthy and will not slip off the path of good breeding on which your grace has been guiding my infertile understanding.”
Don Quixote laughed when he heard Sancho’s affected words, but what he said about his improvement seemed true enough because once in a while Sancho spoke in a way that amazed him, although most of the time when Sancho wanted to talk in a learnèd or in a courtly way, his speech wound up by tumbling from the mountain of his simplicity to the abyss of his ignorance. Where he was most elegant and retentive was in bringing in proverbs, whether or not they were to the point, as will have been seen and noticed throughout the course of this history.
In these and other conversations they spent most of the night, and Sancho felt like closing the floodgates of his eyes, as he used to say when he wanted to go to sleep. After he took the packsaddle off the donkey, he let him graze freely on the abundant pasture. He didn’t take the saddle off Rocinante since he was expressly told by his master not to remove it when they were roaming the countryside or not sleeping under a roof—an ancient custom established and kept by knights errant. It was all right to take the bridle and hang it from the pommel, but take the horse’s saddle off—never! And that’s what Sancho did, and gave him the same freedom as the donkey, whose friendship with Rocinante was so unique and strong that tradition from father to son says that the author of this true history devoted particular chapters to it, but that, in order to maintain the dignity and decorum such a heroic history deserves, he didn’t include them, although once in a while he strayed from this resolve, and writes when the two animals were together they scratched one another, and after they were finished scratching each other and were satisfied, Rocinante would cross his neck half a yard beyond the neck of the donkey, and the two of them would look attentively at the ground, and would stay that way for three days, at least, except when hunger made them look for something to eat.
I say that they say that the author had written that he’d compared them with the friendship between Nisus and Euryalus, and Pylades and Orestes, and if this is true, one can notice—for universal wonder—how solid the friendship of these two peaceful animals was, to the shame of men who know so little about keeping friends. For this reason, it has been said:
And don’t think that the author went far astray in comparing the friendship of these animals with that of men, because from the beasts men have gotten many lessons and have learned several important things, as, for example: from storks the enema; from dogs, vomiting and gratitude; from cranes, vigilance; from ants, foresight; from elephants, chastity; and loyalty from the horse. Finally, Sancho went to sleep at the foot of a cork tree and don Quixote dozed next to a robust oak.
But little time had gone by when he was wakened by a noise he heard behind him. He got up with a start and began to look and listen in the direction of where the noise came from, and saw there were two men on horseback. One of them, as he got off his horse, said to the other: “Dismount, my friend, and take the bridles from the horses, for I think this site abounds in grass for them; and in silence and solitude, which my amorous thoughts require.”
He said this at the same time he stretched out on the ground, and when he lay down, his armor clanked, a sure sign that revealed to don Quixote that he must be a knight errant. He approached Sancho, who was sleeping, took his arm, and with no little struggle roused him, and with a quiet voice said: “Brother Sancho, we’ve got an adventure.”
“May God grant that it be a good one,” responded Sancho, “and where is, señor mío, her grace, this señora adventure?”
“Where, Sancho?” replied don Quixote. “Turn your eyes and look over there, and you’ll see a knight errant stretched out. The way it looks to me, he must not be too happy because I saw him slide off his horse and stretch out on the ground with some show of despair, and when he went to the ground, his armor clanked.”
“So, how can your grace tell,” said Sancho, “this is an adventure?”
“I don’t mean it’s an adventure at all, but the beginning of one—all adventures begin this way. But listen—it looks like he’s tuning a lute or a vihuela, and the way he’s spitting and clearing his throat, he must be getting ready to sing something.”
“I’ll bet that’s what he’s going to do, all right,” responded Sancho, “and he must be a knight in love.”
“There are no knights who aren’t in love,” said don Quixote. “Let’s listen to him, because if he sings, we’ll get a clue to his thoughts, for the tongue speaks from the outpouring of the heart.”
Sancho was of a mind to reply, but the voice of the Knight of the Forest, which was neither good nor bad, prevented him, and the two of them were astonished as they heard him sing this sonnet:
With an AY! yanked, seemingly, from the deepest part of his heart, the Knight of the Forest finished his song, and a moment later, with a doleful and lamenting voice, said: “Oh, you most beautiful and ungrateful woman in the world! How can it be, most serene Casildea de Vandalia, that you allow your captive knight to be consumed, and persist in continual wanderings and in harsh and difficult travails? Isn’t it enough that I’ve made all of the knights of Navarre, all the Leonese, all the Tartessian, all the Castilian, and finally, all the Manchegan knights confess that you’re the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“That can’t be,” said don Quixote. “I’m from La Mancha and I never confessed anything like that, nor could nor should I confess something so prejudicial to the beauty of my lady. That knight is talking nonsense, as you see, Sancho. But let’s listen—maybe he’ll say something else.”
But that didn’t happen because the Knight of the Forest, having overheard them, without continuing his lamentation, stood up and said in a loud but courteous voice: “Who goes there? Is it perhaps one of the happy or one of the distressed?”
“One of the distressed,” responded don Quixote.
“Well, come here,” responded he of the Forest, “but understand that you’re approaching sadness and distress personified.”
Don Quixote, who saw that he was answered so kindly and courteously, drew near, as did Sancho as well. The mournful knight took don Quixote by the arm, saying: “Sit here, señor knight, it’s enough for me to have found you in this desolate place, with only the solitude and night breeze to keep you company, to prove to me that you’re among the distressed and among those who profess knight errantry.”
To which don Quixote responded: “A knight I am, and of the profession you mention, but even though sadness and misfortune properly dwell in my soul, the compassion I have for other people’s misfortunes has not been banished from it. From what you sang a moment ago I gather that your misfortune derives from love; I mean, the love of that beautiful ingrate you mentioned in your lamentations.”
And while the two were talking, they were sitting next to each other on the hard ground in good peace and fellowship, and not at all as if when day broke, they weren’t going to have to crack each other’s heads open.
“By chance, señor knight,” asked he of the Forest to don Quixote, “are you in love?”
“By misfortune I am,” responded don Quixote, “although loss that’s born of good intentions should rather be held as favors rather than misfortunes.”
“That’s the truth,” replied he of the Forest, “if disdain didn’t upset our reason and understanding; but too much disdain smacks of vengeance.”
“I was never disdained by my lady,” responded don Quixote.
“No, certainly not,” said Sancho, who was sitting nearby, “because she’s like a tame lamb, and is softer than butter.”
“Is this your squire?” asked he of the Forest.
“Yes, he is,” responded don Quixote.
“I’ve never seen a squire,” replied he of the Forest, “who dares to speak when his master is talking. At least, there’s mine, and he’s as tall as his father, yet no one can prove that he has ever opened his mouth when I’m speaking.”
“Well, I swear,” said Sancho, “that I’ve spoken and can speak before another such… and let it drop, because it’ll be worse to stir it up.”
The Squire of the Forest took Sancho by the arm, saying to him: “Let’s go the two of us where we can speak as squires as much as we want, and let’s leave these two masters of ours to quarrel about the stories of their loves. I’m pretty sure they won’t have finished by sunup.”
“All right,” said Sancho, “and I’ll tell your grace who I am so that you’ll see if I can join the most talkative squires.”
With this, they went away, and had as amusing a conversation as the one their masters had was serious.
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