Where the wedding of Camacho the Rich is recounted together with what happened to poor Basilio.
HARDLY HAD the fair Aurora given sufficient time for the shining Phœbus to dry the liquid pearls from her hair with his warming rays when don Quixote, shaking off the stiffness from his limbs, stood up and called his squire Sancho, who was still snoring. When don Quixote saw him that way, before waking him up, he said: “Oh, most fortunate of all who live on the face of the earth, since without envying or being envied, you sleep with a calm spirit, and enchanters don’t pursue you, nor do enchantments overwhelm you! Sleep on, I say once again, and I’ll say it a hundred more times, without the jealousy of your lady keeping you constantly watchful, nor thoughts of debts to keep you awake, nor how you have to provide for your small and needy family tomorrow, nor does ambition disturb you, nor the pomp of the world bother you, since the limits of your desires go no further than feeding your donkey; and you have put on my shoulders the responsibility of providing for you, a weight and a charge that nature and custom have imposed on masters. The servant sleeps while the master stays awake, thinking how he has to sustain, better, and give him favors. The distress in seeing that the sky darkens and keeps needed dew from the earth doesn’t bother the servant, but rather the master, who has to support, in barren times and famine, the servant who served him in times of fertility and abundance.”
If Sancho answered nothing to all it was because he was sleeping, and he wouldn’t have woken up any time soon if don Quixote hadn’t roused him with the point of his lance. He finally woke up, sleepy and lethargic, and looking all around, said: “From that bower, if I’m not mistaken, is coming the aroma and smell more of roasted bacon than of rushes and thyme. Weddings that begin with such smells, by the sign of the cross, must be abundant and generous.”
“Stop, you glutton,” said don Quixote. “Come, let’s go see this marriage to find out what the disdained Basilio will do.”
“Let him do whatever he wants,” responded Sancho, “He can’t be poor and marry Quiteria. Imagine not having two bits and wanting to marry in the clouds. By my faith, señor, I’m of the opinion that the poor fellow ought to content himself with whatever he can find, and not «go around asking for delicacies in the middle of the sea». I’ll bet an arm that Camacho can smother Basilio with reales, and this being so, Quiteria would be foolish to throw away the jewels that Camacho has given her, and can keep on giving her, for all of Basilio’s hurling the bar and fencing. You can’t get a pint of wine in a tavern for a good throw of the bar or a subtle feint with the sword. Let Conde Dirlos have such skills and dexterity. But when such dexterity falls to a person who has lots of money, let my life be like his. «On a solid foundation you can erect a good building», and «the best foundation in the world is money».”
“In the name of God, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “finish your speech. I think that if you were allowed to keep on talking, you’d have no time left to eat or sleep, because you’d spend all your time talking.”
“If your grace has a good memory,” replied Sancho, “you would remember the provisions of our agreement before we left home the last time. One of them was that you had to let me say anything I wanted, provided it wasn’t to the detriment of anyone or your authority, and up to now I don’t think I’ve overstepped this provision.”
“I remember no such provision, Sancho,” responded don Quixote, “and even though there may be such a one, I want you to stop talking and come, for the instruments we heard last night are making the valleys rejoice, and doubtless the nuptials will take place in the cool of the morning and not in the heat of the afternoon.”
Sancho did what his master bid, and putting the saddle on Rocinante and the packsaddle on the donkey, the two mounted, and one step at a time they entered into the bower. The first thing that Sancho caught sight of was a whole young bull on a spit made of an elm tree, and on the fire where it was going to be roasted there burned a good sized mountain of firewood, while six pots surrounding the fire were not ordinary ones, since they were the size of wine vats, and each one contained a veritable slaughterhouse of meat, and they swallowed up whole sheep as if they were young pigeons. The skinned rabbits and plucked chickens hanging in the trees to be submerged into the pots were without number. Game birds of different types were infinite, hanging from trees so the air would cool them. Sancho counted more than sixty wineskins of more than six gallons apiece and all of them full, as it later appeared, of full-bodied wines. There were great piles of whitest bread, like mounds of wheat on the threshing room floor. Wheels of cheese, positioned in stacks like bricks, formed a wall, and two oil-filled cauldrons, larger than those in a dyer’s shop, served to fry the pastries. With two large shovels they took out the fried items and plunged them into another vat of prepared honey nearby. The cooks—both male and female—numbered more than fifty, all of them clean, all of them busy, and all of them happy. In the distended stomach of a bullock there were twelve tender and small suckling pigs sewn inside to give it flavor and make it tender. Spices of many kinds seemed to have been bought not by the pound, but by the bushel, and they were all on display in a large chest. Finally, the preparations for the wedding were rustic, but in such abundance that they could have fed an army.
Sancho saw it all and contemplated it all, and took a liking to it all. He was initially captivated by the stew pots, from which he would have willingly taken an average sized one. Then the wineskins started to appeal to him, and finally the contents of the frying pans, if that’s the right term for those cauldrons. And so, without being able to stand it any further, and not being able to help himself, he approached one of the diligent cooks, and with courteous and hungry words he begged him to be allowed to dip a crust of bread into one of those pots. To which the cook responded: “Brother, this is not one of those days when hunger rules, thanks to the rich Camacho. Dismount and see if there’s a ladle, and skim off a chicken or two, and bon appétit.”
“I don’t see any ladle,” responded Sancho.
“Wait,” said the cook. “Sinner than I am! How helpless you must be!” And saying this, he grabbed a pot, immersed it into one of the cauldrons, and scooped out three chickens and two geese, and said to Sancho: “Eat, my friend, and break your fast with these skimmings while you wait for dinner.”
“I don’t have anything to put it in,” responded Sancho.
“Well then, take everything,” said the cook, “the ladle and all, for the wealth and generosity of Camacho supplies everything.”
While this was going on with Sancho, don Quixote was watching twelve peasants on twelve beautiful mares in another part of the bower, with rich and flamboyant country trappings and with many jingle bells on their front straps, and all of them festively dressed. They ran in an orderly rush not once but many times through the meadow, and with an elated uproar shouted: “Long live Camacho and Quiteria. He’s as rich as she is beautiful, and she’s the most beautiful woman in the world!”
When don Quixote heard this he said to himself: “It’s clear that these fellows haven’t seen my Dulcinea del Toboso, for if they had, they would have been more moderate in their praise of this Quiteria.”
Right then, from several places in the bower there entered many different dancers, among which were about twenty-four sword dancers, young handsome men, all of them dressed in fine white linen, with their head-dresses embroidered with silk thread of different colors. One of the mare riders asked the leader of the sword dancers, a nimble lad, if any of the dancers ever got hurt.
“Up to now, thanks be to God, no one has been wounded—we’re all unhurt.” And then he joined his companions and they made so many turns with such skill that, although don Quixote was accustomed to seeing similar dances, none seemed to him as good as that one. Another dance appeared to be good to him, this one done by twelve very beautiful maidens—none was younger than fourteen nor older than eighteen—dressed in a fancy green material, with their hair partly in braids, and partly flowing, and all of them so blonde that they rivaled the rays of the sun. On their hair they were wearing garlands woven of jasmine, roses, amaranth, and honeysuckle. They were led by a venerable old man and an old matron, but stronger on their feet and more agile than their years would lead one to believe. They danced to the music of a Zamoran gaita, and with modesty in face and eyes, and nimbleness of feet, revealed themselves to be the best dancers in the world.
After this dance, another one—an artistic one they call a “spoken dance”—began. It was made up of eight nymphs in two rows. The first row was led by the god Cupid and the second by Wealth; the former was adorned with wings, quiver, and arrows, and the latter dressed in different colors of gold and silk. The nymphs lined up behind Love had their names written on their backs, on white parchment: POETRY was the title of the first one, the second was INTELLIGENCE, on the third GOOD LINEAGE, and the fourth VALOR. The same method was used with those following Wealth: it said GENEROSITY on the first one, BOUNTY on the second, TREASURE on the third, and on the fourth, PEACEFUL POSSESSION. In front of them was a castle made of wood pulled by four wild men, all of them dressed in ivy and burlap dyed green, looking so natural that Sancho was almost startled. In front of the castle and each of its four sides was written THE CASTLE OF MODESTY. Music was being made by four players of drum and flute. Cupid’s dance began with two figures, then he raised his eyes and aimed his arrow at a maiden who was between two battlements of the castle, to whom he recited this:
The little poem ended and he shot an arrow above the castle and went back to his place. Then Wealth came out and did his two figures. The drums ceased and he said:
Wealth retired, and Poetry came forward, and when she’d gone through her figures like the others, fixing her eyes on the maiden of the castle, she said:
Poetry withdrew, and from the side of Wealth, Generosity came forth, and after having gone through her figures, said:
In this way all of the dancers of the two sides came out and withdrew, and each one did her figures and recited her verses—some of the elegant and some ridiculous—but don Quixote only remembered those already mentioned, even though his memory was very good. And then they all came together, weaving in and out with grace and ease, and when Love passed in front of the castle he shot his arrows on high, but Wealth smashed clay spheres painted gold and filled with coins against it.
Finally, after he danced for quite a while, Wealth took out a large purse made of the skin of a large striped cat that seemed to be filled with coins, and threw it at the castle, and with the impact, the boards loosened and fell off, leaving the maiden inside exposed and helpless. Wealth approached her along with his companions and threw a golden chain around her neck, and they pretended to take, subdue, and capture her. When Love and his companions saw this, they went over to try to take her back, and everything they did was accompanied by the rhythm of drums and dancing in harmony. The wild men made peace, and then put the castle back together, and the maiden went back in, and with this the dance was over, to the enormous pleasure of those who witnessed it.
Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who had composed and put that show together. She answered that it was a priest in that town who was gifted in that type of production.
“I’ll bet,” said don Quixote, “that the bachelor or priest is more Camacho’s friend than Basilio’s and that he’s better at satire than saying vespers—juxtaposed well the skills of Basilio and the wealth of Camacho in his dance.”
Sancho Panza, who was listening to all of this, said: “«The king is my rooster» and I’ll stick to Camacho.”
“Indeed,” said don Quixote, “it looks like you’re one of those rustics who say «long live the winner».”
“I don’t know which group I favor,” responded Sancho, “but I know that from Basilio’s pots I’ll never get as elegant skimmings as these that I got from Camacho’s.”
And he showed him the pot filled with geese and chickens, and taking a chicken he began to eat with great spirit and zest, and said: “I could care less about Basilio’s skills. «You’re worth as much as you have», and «you have as much as you’re worth». «There are two lineages in the world», a grandmother of mine used to say: «the HAVES and the HAVE-NOTS», and she always stuck with the Haves. And today, señor mío don Quixote, they’d rather take the pulse of owning rather than knowing. «A donkey covered with gold seems better than a horse with a packsaddle». So, I say again, I’ll stick to Camacho, from whose pots we have skimmings that include geese and chickens, hares and rabbits, and those of Basilio will be, if it ever comes to hand, or even if it only comes to foot, dishwater.”
“Have you finished your speech, Sancho?” said don Quixote.
“I must have finished it,” responded Sancho, “since I see your grace is annoyed by it. If you hadn’t stopped me I’d have gone on for three days.”
“May it please God, Sancho,” responded don Quixote, “that I’ll see you speechless before I die.”
“The way we’re going,” responded Sancho, “before you die I’ll already be eating mud, and then I’ll be so speechless that I won’t say a word until the end of the world, or at least until Judgment Day.”
“Even if that happens, Sancho,” responded don Quixote, “your silence will never match how much you’ve spoken, speak, and will speak during your lifetime, and moreover, it’s very reasonable that the day of my death will precede yours, and thus I’ll never see you not talking, not even when you’re drinking or sleeping, which is the most I can say.”
“In truth, señor,” responded Sancho, “you don’t have to depend on the fleshless one, I mean Death, who eats lambs as well as sheep, and I’ve heard our priest say that she treads with equal foot in the high towers of kings as she does the humble huts of the poor. This lady has more of power than reluctance, and she’s not at all squeamish. She eats everything and fills her saddlebags with people of all ages and rank. She’s not a reaper who sleeps the siestas, because she reaps all the time, and she cuts dry grass as well as green, and it seems that she doesn’t chew, but just gorges and swallows everything placed before her, because she has the hunger of a dog, and they never stop eating. And though she has no stomach, she still swells up, and thirsts for the lives of all living creatures, just like a person would drink a jug of cold water.”
“No more, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “stand pat and don’t risk falling down, for in truth what you’ve said about death in your rustic terms is what a good preacher could have said. I tell you Sancho, that since you have a natural wit and discretion, you could take a pulpit in your hand and wander about the world preaching beautiful things.”
“«He who lives well, preaches well»,” responded Sancho, “and I know no other theology.”
“Nor do you need to,” said don Quixote, “but what I can’t fathom nor understand is that since the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, you—who are more afraid of a lizard than of Him—know so much.”
“Just judge your chivalry señor,” responded Sancho, “and don’t get involved in judging other people’s fears or bravery. I’m as fearful of God as the next fellow. Let me eat up these skimmings, because everything else that we’re liable to account for in the other world is idle banter.”
And saying this, he began to assault his pot once again with such energy that he inspired the same in don Quixote, who would have joined him if he hadn’t been prevented by what will be told later.
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