WITH JOY, happiness, and vanity that have been mentioned, don Quixote continued his journey, thinking his recent victory was over the most valiant knight errant the world had at that time. He considered all the adventures that might befall him from then on as happily concluded. He cared little about enchantments or enchanters, and he forgot the infinite thwacks laid on him during the course of his chivalric career, as well as the hailstorm of stones that knocked out half his teeth, and the ungratefulness of the galley slaves, and even the Yangüesans and their shower of stakes. Finally, he said to himself that if he could find a method, way, or means to disenchant Dulcinea, he wouldn’t envy the greatest adventure that the bravest knight errant of ancient times ever performed.
He was engrossed in these thoughts when Sancho said to him: “Isn’t it something, señor—I still can see before my eyes the enormous and strange nose of my pal Tomé Cecial?”
“And do you think, Sancho, by chance, that the Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Sansón Carrasco, and his squire Tomé Cecial, your friend?”
“I don’t know what to say about that,” responded Sancho, “I only know that what he told me about his house, wife, and children, no one else could have told me except him, and his face, once his nose was taken off, was the same as Tomé Cecial’s, just like I frequently saw it in my town, since he lives next door to my own house; and the tone of his voice was the same.”
“Let’s be logical,” replied don Quixote. “How can it be that the bachelor Sansón Carrasco would come dressed as a knight errant with offensive and defensive arms, to fight me? Have I been his enemy by chance? Have I ever given him rise to bear me a grudge? Am I his rival, or has he taken up arms out of envy of the fame that I’ve won through my own arms?”
“What can we say, señor,” responded Sancho, “about the appearance of that knight, whoever he was, which jibed perfectly with that of the bachelor Sansón Carrasco, and that of his squire, my pal Tomé Cecial? And if its enchantment at work, as your grace has said, weren’t there two others in the world they might look like?”
“It’s all artifice and tricks,” responded don Quixote, “of the perverse magicians that pursue me. Foreseeing that I would be victorious in the fray, they arranged for the vanquished knight to have the face of my friend the bachelor, so that the friendship I have for him would get between the point of my sword and the severity of my arm, and moderate the righteous ire in my heart, and in this way I spared the life of him who wanted to take mine through deceit and fraud. For proof of all this, Sancho, you know by experience that will not allow you to lie or deceive, how easy it is for enchanters to change faces of others, turning a beautiful one into an ugly one, since just two days ago you saw with your own eyes the beauty and fine appearance of Dulcinea in their entire and natural form, and I saw only an ugly, low, and coarse peasant girl, with cataracts over her eyes, and with a bad smell in her mouth. So, if there’s an enchanter so perverse as to perform such a bad transformation, it’s no wonder that he has produced those with Sansón Carrasco and your friend in order to snatch the glory of the victory from my hands. But there’s consolation in any case, because no matter what form he was in, I still vanquished my foe.”
“God knows the truth about everything,” responded Sancho.
Since the transformation of Dulcinea had been his own trick and deception the wild ideas of his master didn’t convince him. But he couldn’t answer back, so his hoax wouldn’t be discovered.
They were in the midst of this conversation when a man who was behind them on the same road passed by riding a grey mare, dressed in an overcoat made of fine green material, with appliqués of tan triangles made of velvet, and with a cap of the same velvet. The trappings of the mare were for country riding, with a short-stirruped saddle, likewise of purple and green. He wore a short curved Moorish sword suspended from a wide green and gold strap. His spurs were not golden, but coated with a green lacquer, so shiny and burnished, that when they were taken with his outfit as a whole, they seemed better than if they had been made of purest gold. When the traveler drew up to them, he greeted them courteously, and spurring his mare on, passed them by. But don Quixote called to him: “Señor, if it happens that you’re taking the same road we are, and you’re not in a hurry, I would be pleased if we could travel together.”
“In truth,” responded he of the mare, “I wouldn’t have sped by if I weren’t afraid that the company of my mare would excite your horse.”
“You can,” responded Sancho, “rein in your mare, señor, because our horse is the most chaste and best behaved one in the world. On similar occasions he has never done any vile deed, and the one time he behaved badly, my master and I paid sevenfold for it. I say once again that you can join us, if you want, for even if your mare were given to him on a silver platter, he wouldn’t look at her.”
The traveler pulled on his reins, astonished at the appearance and face of don Quixote, who was traveling without a helmet, since Sancho had placed it over the pommel of his donkey’s packsaddle, and if the man in green studied don Quixote, much more did don Quixote study the man in green, seeming to him to be a man of good sense. He looked about fifty years old, with few grey hairs and an aquiline face, his expression somewhere between merry and grave. Finally, in his dress and appearance he gave the impression of being a man of worth.
What the man in green thought about don Quixote of La Mancha was that he’d never before seen a man of that type and appearance. He marveled at the length of his horse, the size of his body, the leanness and sallow aspect of his face, his armor, his gestures and demeanor—a person whose appearance hadn’t been seen in that area for a very long time. Don Quixote noticed the way the traveler was inspecting him, and since he could tell what he wanted to know by means of the man’s astonishment, and since he was so courteous and fond of pleasing everyone, before the man asked him anything, he anticipated it by saying: “I don’t wonder that you’re surprised at the way I look since my appearance is so different from what one ordinarily sees. But you won’t be surprised any longer when I tell you, as I’m doing now, that I’m a knight
“I departed from my house, pawned my estate, left the comforts of home, and turned myself over to the arms of Fortune so they could take me wherever they pleased. I tried to resuscitate the now dead order of knight errantry, and for many days now, stumbling here, tripping there, falling headlong over here, but getting up over there, I’ve fulfilled most of my wishes, rescuing widows, protecting maidens, and sheltering married women and orphans—which is the natural occupation of knights errant. Owing to my brave, numerous, and Christian deeds I’ve been rewarded by being in print in almost all or most of the nations of the world. Thirty thousand copies have been printed of my history, and thirty thousand times a thousand more are on their way to being printed, if heaven doesn’t put a stop to it. To summarize it in a few words, or in just one, I say that I’m don Quixote de La Mancha, also called the Woebegone Knight. Although «he who praises himself spatters himself» I’m forced to do it at times, such as when no one else is present who can do it for me. So, señor, neither this horse, this lance, nor this shield, nor squire, nor all of my armor, nor the sallowness of my face, nor my lean figure need surprise you anymore, having learned who I am and the profession I follow.”
Don Quixote remained silent after he said this, and the man in green, since he took so long in answering, seemed unable to respond. But after a while he said: “You were exactly right in figuring out by my astonishment what I wanted to know. But you haven’t been able to mitigate the wonder caused in me just by seeing you. Since, as you say, señor, by finding out who you are should have eradicated my wonder, it hasn’t been that way at all, since now that I know who you are, my fascination and amazement are only increased. How is it possible that there are knights errant in the world today, and that there are histories published about real chivalric deeds? I cannot persuade myself that there are people today who help widows, protect maidens, honor married women, or rescue orphans, and I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw it with my own eyes. Thank heaven, because with this history your grace says has been published dealing with your high and true chivalric deeds, the innumerable ones about fictional knights errant—which the world was filled with and which have so corrupted good manners and have so deprecated the true histories—can now be cast into oblivion.”
“There’s much to be said,” responded don Quixote, “as to whether or not the histories of knights errant are fictional or not.”
“Well, is there anybody who doubts” said the Green one, “that those histories are not false?”
“I doubt it,” responded don Quixote, “and let’s leave it at that for the moment. If our journey lasts, I hope to make your grace see that you haven’t done well in going along with the stream of those who maintain they’re not true.”
From this last remark by don Quixote the traveler began to suspect that don Quixote must be some half-wit, and he expected other remarks to confirm it. But before they engaged in other conversations, don Quixote begged him to say who he was, since he himself had already revealed who he was and told something of his own life. To which he of the Green Coat responded: “I, señor Woebegone Knight, am an hidalgo from a village where we will eat lunch today, if God is pleased. I’m more than moderately rich and my name is don Diego de Miranda. I live with my wife and my children. My pastimes are those of hunting and fishing. I don’t have either a hawk or any greyhounds, but rather a tame partridge and a daring ferret. I have as many as six dozen books, some in Spanish and some in Latin, mostly dealing with history, but some are devotional. Those about chivalry have not come over the threshold of my door. I turn pages more in the secular books than the devout ones, as long as they’re appropriate entertainment, which delight with their language and their invention maintains one’s interest, although of these there are very few in Spain. I eat sometimes with my neighbors and friends, and I frequently invite them to dine. My banquets are neat and well-stocked, I don’t like to gossip, nor do I allow anyone to gossip in front of me. I don’t meddle in the lives of others, nor do I spy on other men’s actions. I go to mass daily and share my wealth with the poor, without making too much of my charitable works, so as not to allow hypocrisy or boastfulness to enter my heart, for they are enemies that can subtly take possession of the most modest heart. I try to reconcile those who are at odds with each other. I’m a devotee of Our Lady and trust in the infinite mercy of Our Lord.”
Sancho was listening very carefully to the life and pastimes of the hidalgo, and they seemed to him good and holy, and that whoever lived such a life must be able to work miracles, so he threw himself from his donkey with great speed and went to grasp his right stirrup and with a devout heart and almost in tears he kissed his feet again and again. When the hidalgo saw what was going on, he asked Sancho: “What are you doing, brother? Why all those kisses?”
“Let me keep kissing,” responded Sancho, “because it seems to me that your grace is the first saint on horseback that I’ve seen in all the days of my life.”
“I’m not a saint,” responded the hidalgo, “but a great sinner. You certainly, brother, must be good, as your simplicity demonstrates.”
Sancho went back to his mount, having brought out a laugh from the profound melancholy of his master, and caused fresh astonishment in don Diego.
Don Quixote asked him how many children he had, and went on to say that one of the things that the philosophers of old—who lacked the true knowledge of God—considered very important was in the area of possessing the gifts of nature, in those of Fortune, in having many good friends, and in having many and good children.
“I, señor don Quixote,” responded the hidalgo, “have one son, and if I didn’t have him, I might consider myself more fortunate than I am, and not because he’s bad, but because he isn’t turning out quite as good as I had wished. He’s about eighteen years old, and for six has been in Salamanca, learning the Greek and Latin languages, and when I wanted him to go on to study other sciences, I found that he was so engrossed in poetry—if you can call that a science—it wasn’t possible to persuade him to take up the study of law, or the queen of them all, theology. I would like him to be an honor to his family, since we’re living at a time when the crown prizes a good and virtuous education—because an education without virtue is pearls on a dung heap. He spends all day trying to find out if Homer succeeded or not in a certain verse of the Iliad, if Martial was indecent or not in a particular epigram, or how you have to understand certain verses of Virgil. In short, his life is devoted to the books of those poets I mentioned, and those of Horace, Persius, Juvenal, and Tibullus. He holds the people who write in Spanish in little esteem, and even though he seems to dislike poetry in Spanish, he’s now wracking his brain trying to gloss four verses they sent him from Salamanca —I think it’s some kind of literary joust.”
To all this don Quixote responded: “Children señor, are part and parcel of the bowels of their parents, thus they are to be loved, no matter how good or bad they are, as much as we love our life-giving souls. The job of parents is to guide them from when they’re small, along the path of virtue, good upbringing, and good Christian customs, so that when they grow up, they can be a comfort to the old age of their parents and a glory to their descendants. And insofar as forcing them to study this or that science, I don’t believe it’s a good idea, although trying to persuade them seems harmless enough. And if they don’t study with an aim to pane lucrando, when the student is lucky enough for heaven to have given him parents who will permit it, I’d be of the opinion that they should allow him to study anything that they see he’s most inclined to, and although poetry is less useful than pleasure-giving, it isn’t among those pursuits that will dishonor the person who possesses them.
“Poetry, señor hidalgo, in my opinion, is like a tender young maiden who is beautiful beyond all measure, and whom other maidens are trying to enrich, polish, and beautify. These maidens are the other sciences, and she’s served by them all and they all find their worth through her. But this maiden doesn’t want to be handled or dragged through the streets, nor paraded about in the corners of the plaza or into the corners of palaces. She’s made of the alchemy of strength that he who knows how to do it can turn her into purest gold of inestimable price. But he who possesses her must keep her within bounds, not allowing her to get into clumsy satires or in soulless sonnets. Nor should she be sold, unless it’s in heroic poems, in moving tragedies, or in merry, well-crafted plays. She shouldn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of buffoons or the ignorant masses, who are not capable of understanding or appreciating the treasures she encompasses. And don’t think, señor, that I mean that only the masses are ignorant—for anyone who is ignorant, even though he be a lord or a prince, can and should be counted among them. So, if the poet possesses requirements that I’ve mentioned, he’ll be famous and appreciated in all civilized nations of the world.
“Insofar as what you say, señor, about your son not appreciating poetry written in Spanish, I don’t think he’s right, and this is the reason: the great Homer didn’t write in Latin because he was Greek, nor did Virgil write in Greek because he was a Roman. So, all the ancient poets wrote in the language they were born into, and they didn’t seek foreign languages in which to declare their lofty conceits. And this being so, it’s reasonable that all nations should rightly follow this custom; the German poet should not be thought less of because he writes in his own language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Basque who writes in his.
“But your son, señor, the way I see it, isn’t so much at odds with Spanish verse as he is with poets who just know Spanish, without knowing other languages or other branches of knowledge to embellish, awaken, and nurture their natural inspiration. Even in this he may be wrong, because—if it’s true as they say—«the poet is born». That is, the natural poet is born a poet out of his mother’s womb. And with this propensity that heaven gave him, without further study or discipline, he writes things that prove what the man said: Est deus in nobis,” I also say that the natural poet who makes use of art will be better than and will surpass the poet who strives to be one through art alone. The reason is that art doesn’t surpass nature, it just perfects it, and when nature is combined with art, and art with nature, they will bring out the most perfect poet.
“Let this be the conclusion of my speech, señor—your grace should allow your son to travel the road on which his star leads him, and since he’s as good a student as he should be, and having risen happily to the first step of the essential disciplines, which is that of languages, with them he shall rise to the height of humane letters, which greatly complement a secular knight, and adorn, honor, and extol him, as miters do bishops, or as robes do learned judges. Scold your son if he writes satires that damage other people’s honor—punish him and tear them up. But if he writes discourses in the style of Horace, where he reprehends vices in general, which Horace did so well, praise him, because the poet is allowed to write against envy and to speak ill of the envious in his verses, and the same with the other vices, provided that he not single out any individual. But there are poets who risk—just to say one spiteful thing—being exiled to the islands of Pontus. If a poet is virtuous in his way of life, he also will be in his verses. The pen is the tongue of the soul—and if his conceits are engendered with virtue in his soul, his writings will reflect that virtue. And when kings and princes discover the miraculous art of poetry in wise, earnest, and good citizens, they will honor, appreciate, and make them rich, and will crown them with leaves of the tree that lightning never strikes, as if to show that people with such crowns adorning their heads are to be respected.”
The Man in the Green Coat was amazed at the discourse of don Quixote—so much so that he was losing the opinion that he formed that the other was a half-wit. But in the middle of this speech, Sancho—since he found it a bit tedious—had gotten off the road to get a little milk from some shepherds who were milking sheep nearby. Just as the hidalgo was getting ready to continue the conversation, extremely satisfied with don Quixote’s intelligence and reasoning, don Quixote looked up and saw coming along the road toward them, a cart flying royal pennants. And thinking that it must be some new adventure, he shouted to Sancho to come and give him his helmet. Sancho, hearing himself being called, left the shepherds, and as quickly as he could, returned to his master, to whom a frightening and reckless adventure happened.
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