A TEI Project

Chapter XIII

Where the adventure of the Knight of the Forest is continued, with the discreet, novel, and delicious conversation that took place between the two squires.

THE KNIGHTS and squires were now separated, the former telling about their loves and the latter about their lives. But the history first tells of the conversation between the servants and then moves on to that of the masters, and so it says that, separating themselves a bit from their masters, the one of the Forest said to Sancho: “It’s a difficult life we lead and live, señor mío, those of us who are squires of knights errant. In truth we eat bread by the sweat of our brows, which is one of the curses God laid on our original parents.”

“You can also say,” added Sancho, “that we eat it in the chill of our bodies, because who suffers more heat and more cold than those wretched squires of knight errantry? And it wouldn’t be as bad if we ate well, since «sorrows grow less when accompanied by food». As it stands, we sometimes go a day or two without eating anything, unless it’s the wind that blows.”

“All that can be put up with,” said the one of the Forest, “in the expectation we have of getting the reward, because if the knight errant who the squire serves is not too unfortunate, at least, after a while, he will be rewarded with a nice government of an ínsula, or with a pretty good county.”

“I,” replied Sancho, “have already told my master that I’ll be happy with the government of an ínsula, and he’s so noble and liberal that he has promised it to me many times.”

“I,” said he of the Forest, “I will be satisfied with a canonry in exchange for my services, and my master has already promised it to me, and such a one it is, too!”

“It must be,” said Sancho, “that your grace’s master is an ecclesiastical knight and can offer these favors to his good squire, but mine is just a lay knight, although I remember when certain wise—but I thought ill-intentioned—people wanted to advise him to try to be an archbishop. He only wanted to be an emperor, but it made me nervous at the time, because if he felt like going into the Church, I wasn’t up to having an ecclesiastical job. I’ll tell your grace that although I look like a man, I’m a beast as far as a job in the Church is concerned.”

“But in truth your grace is mistaken,” said the one of the Forest, “because insular governments aren’t all they’re touted to be. Some of them are corrupt, some poor, some bittersweet, and finally, the proudest and healthiest one carries with it the ponderous weight of woes and lack of comfort, which the unfortunate person to whose lot it falls must bear on his shoulders. Much better would be for those of us who profess this cursed servitude to go to our homes and there tend to lighter duties, such as hunting or fishing. I mean, what squire in the world is so poor that he doesn’t have a horse, a couple of greyhounds, and a fishing pole to pass the time of day in his town?”

“As for me, I lack none of those items,” responded Sancho. “The truth is I don’t have a horse, but I have a donkey worth twice as much as my master’s horse. And I’ll tell you the truth—I’d never switch my mount for his, even if they gave me six bushels of wheat to boot. Your grace may think that the value I place on my silver-grey—that’s his color—is a joke. As for greyhounds, they abound in my town. And what’s more, hunting is more fun when it’s done at someone else’s expense.”

“Really and truly,” responded the one of the Forest, “señor squire, I’m determined to leave the absurdities of these knights and retire to my home to raise my little children—I have three and they’re just like oriental pearls.”

“Two is how many I have,” said Sancho, “and they can be presented to the Pope in person, especially the girl, who I’m training to be a countess, if God is so pleased, in spite of her mother.”

“And how old is this lady being trained to be a countess?” asked he of the Forest.

“Fifteen, two more or less,” responded Sancho, “but she’s as tall as a lance, and fresh as an April morn, and she’s as strong as a porter.”

“Those are qualities,” responded he of the Forest, “that not only can make her a countess but the nymph of the green forest. What a whore daughter of a whore, how strong that one must be!”

To which Sancho responded, somewhat annoyed: “She’s no whore, nor was her mother before her, and neither ever will be, God willing, while I’m alive. Speak more courteously. Since your grace was trained by knights errant—who are courtesy personified—your words don’t seem very well chosen.”

“Oh, how little your grace understands,” replied he of the Forest, “about the nature of praise, señor squire! How is it you don’t know that when a knight gives a good thrust with his lance in the bullring, or when someone does something really good, the common folk typically say: ‘Son of a bitch! How well he did that!’ and what might at first seem to be a rebuke in that circumstance turns out to be particular praise? You should disown, señor, any children who don’t do deeds that deserve that kind of praise from their parents.”

“Yes, I’ll disown them,” responded Sancho, “and in that way for that same reason, your grace can heap upon me, my children, and my wife any of those indecent expressions, because everything they do and say are worth such praise in the extreme. And so I can return home to see them again, I pray to God to save me from mortal sin, which is just the same as saving me from this profession, into which I’ve fallen a second time, baited and enticed by a purse with a hundred ducados I found one day in the heart of the Sierra Morena. The devil puts a sack of doubloons before my eyes, here, there, everywhere—not quite within reach, but way over there, and it seems that I can touch it with my hand and embrace it at every step, and hug it and take it home, and invest it, set up an income and live like a prince. And while I’m thinking about this, it makes tolerable all the travails that I endure with this imbecile master of mine—who I know is more of a crazy man than a knight.”

“That’s why they say,” responded he of the Forest, “«greed bursts the bag», but if you’re talking about crazy men, there’s no greater one in the world than my master—he’s of those about whom it’s said: «other people’s cares killed the donkey», because so that another person might recover his lost sanity, he himself has turned into a crazy man and he’s seeking something that, when he finds it, is liable to blow up in his face.”

“And is he in love by chance?”

“Yes,” said he of the Forest, “with a certain Casildea de Vandalia, the rawest and the most roasted woman that can be found in the whole world. But her cruelty is not bothering him right now—he’s got other schemes growling inside him as will be seen in a few hours.”

“«There’s no road so flat,” replied Sancho, “that it doesn’t have bumps and obstacles». «In other houses they boil beans, but in mine they boil by the cauldronful». Craziness doubtless has more followers and servants than wisdom. But if it’s true what they commonly say, that «it brings relief to share your troubles», with your grace I can be consoled, since you serve a master as crazy as mine.”

“Crazy, but brave,” responded he of the Forest, “and more of a scallywag than crazy and brave.”

“Mine’s not that way,” responded Sancho. “I mean, there’s nothing of the rogue about him. He’s as kind as can be. He doesn’t know how to harm anybody, but does good to all. A child can make him believe that it’s night at noontime, and because of this simplicity I love him with all my heart and I can’t leave him, no matter how many foolish things he does.”

“But, brother and señor,” said he of the Forest, «if the blind lead the blind, both run the risk of falling into the pit.» It’s better for us to return soon to our homes, for those who seek adventures don’t always find good ones.”

Sancho was spitting frequently with a type of viscous and somewhat dry saliva, which was seen and noted by the charitable squire of the forest, who said: “It seems to me that we have spoken so much, our tongues are sticking to the roofs of our mouths. But I have an unsticker hanging from the pommel of my horse, and it’s really good.”

He got up and came back a moment later with a large wineskin and a meat pie half a yard wide (and this is no exaggeration, because there was a white rabbit inside that Sancho, when he felt it, thought was a goat, and not just a kid), and when he saw it he said: “Is this the kind of thing your grace takes along, señor?”

“What do you think?” said the other. “Am I by chance one of those poor-relative squires? I have better provisions on the haunches of my horse than a general takes with him when he goes on a campaign.”

Sancho ate without any urging and he drank wine in the darkness in large gulps, and said: “Your grace is certainly a faithful, loyal, and perfect, magnificent, and great squire, as can be seen by this banquet, which if it didn’t come here by enchantment, at least it seems like it. And unlike me, wretched and unfortunate that I am—all I have is some cheese hard enough to brain a giant, together with four dozen carob beans and as many hazelnuts and walnuts, thanks to the stinginess of my master. It’s his opinion, and the rule he keeps, that knights errant have to feed and sustain themselves only with nuts and herbs from the fields.”

“On my faith, brother,” replied the one of the Forest, “my stomach wasn’t made for thistles or wild pears, nor for roots from the forest. Let our masters keep their rules and laws of chivalry, and eat whatever they want. I have lunch baskets and this wineskin hanging from the pommel of my saddle, just in case. I’m so devoted to it, and I love it so much that few moments pass without my giving it a thousand kisses and hugs.”

And saying this, he put it in the hands of Sancho, who, raising it to his mouth, sat there looking at the stars for a quarter of an hour, and when he finished drinking, he cocked his head to one side and gave a great sigh, and said: “Oh, the son-of-a-bitch rascal, how good it is.”

“You see,” said he of the Forest when he heard Sancho say SON OF A BITCH, “how you’ve praised that wine by calling it a son of a bitch.”

“I confess,” responded Sancho, “that I realize that it’s not an insult to call anyone a son of a bitch when it’s intended to praise him. But tell me, señor, on your mother’s life, isn’t this wine from Ciudad Real?”

“What a winetaster!” responded he of the Forest. “In truth it’s from nowhere else, and it has been aging a few years.”

“No need to tell me,” said Sancho. “Don’t think that it’s beyond me to recognize that wine. It’s not odd, señor squire, that I have such a good and natural instinct in matters of knowing wines, because just by the bouquet I can tell you the origin, type, flavor, vintage, and how it was decanted, with all of the other circumstances of the wine. But it’s no wonder since I had on my father’s side of the family two of the best winetasters La Mancha has had in a long time. To prove it, here’s something that happened to them one day. They gave both of them some wine to taste from a barrel, asking their opinion of the condition, characteristics, and goodness or badness of the wine. One of them put a drop of it on the tip of his tongue, and the other did no more than smell it. The first one said that it tasted of iron and the second said that it tasted more of Cordovan leather. The master said that the barrel was clean and that the wine had no added flavor at all that would have given it the flavor of iron or of leather. Even so, the two famous winetasters maintained what they had said. As time went by, the wine was sold, and when the barrel was cleaned they found a small key attached to a strap of leather inside. And that’ll show your grace if someone from that lineage can give his opinion about such things.”

“That’s why I say,” said he of the Forest, “we should stop wandering about seeking adventures. «We have loaves, let’s not look for cake». Let’s go home, and that’s where God will find us, if He wants.”

“I’ll serve my master until he goes to Zaragoza, then we’ll see.”

Finally, the two squires spoke and drank so much that sleep had to come to tie their tongues and moderate their thirst—eliminating it would have been impossible. And the two of them, still holding on to the almost empty wineskin, with partially chewed food still in their mouths, went to sleep, and that’s how we’ll leave them for the time being so we can relate what the Knight of the Forest said to don Quixote.

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Date: June 1, 2009
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