Where a thousand trifles, as irrelevant as they are necessary to the true understanding of this great history, are recounted.
THE PERSON WHO TRANSLATED this great history from the original that its first author, Cide Hamete Benengeli, wrote, says that when he got to the chapter about the adventure of the Cave of Montesinos, he found in the margin and in Hamete’s own handwriting, these words:
I cannot convince or persuade myself that what the previous chapter relates about what happened to the brave don Quixote really happened exactly as written. The reason is that all the other adventures met with so far have been possible and credible; but I can find no way I can accept this one about the cave as true because it’s so far beyond the bounds of reason. But to think that don Quixote would lie, being the most truthful hidalgo and the noblest knight of his time, is not possible, even if they were shooting him with arrows. On the other hand, I consider that having related and told it with all those details, he couldn’t make such a mass of nonsense up in so short a time. If this adventure seems apocryphal, I’m not to blame, so I write it without confirming it as either true or false. You, reader, since you’re discerning, can judge for yourself, for I shouldn’t try to and can’t do more, although it’s held as certain that at the time of his end and death, they say that he retracted it and said that he’d invented it all since it seemed to him that it was appropriate and fit in well with the adventures that he’d read in his histories.
The cousin was amazed both at Sancho’s boldness and with the forbearance of his master, and he judged that his contentment at seeing his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, although she was enchanted, was responsible for his good temper that he displayed then, otherwise the words that Sancho said would have earned him a beating, because it really seemed to him that Sancho had been quite impudent with his master, and the cousin said to him: “I, señor don Quixote de La Mancha, consider the trip I’ve made with your grace as time well spent, for I’ve gained four things. The first is that I’ve met your grace, which makes me very happy. The second is having learned what is in the Cave of Montesinos, with the transformations of Guadiana and the Lagunas de Ruidera, which will be useful for my Spanish Ovid that I’m working on now. The third is having learned how old playing cards are since they were already used in the times of Charlemagne in France, from what one can deduce from the words that you relate that Durandarte said, when at the end of Montesinos’ long speech, he awakened and said: ‘Patience and shuffle the cards,’ and he couldn’t have learned this expression while he was enchanted, but rather when he wasn’t, during the time of the already-mentioned Charlemagne, and this discovery goes perfectly into the other book I’m writing, which is the Supplement to Polidore Vergil, on the Invention of Antiquities. and I believe in his own book he didn’t remember to put in anything about playing cards, as I’ll now do, and it’ll be of considerable importance, especially since I can quote an authority as serious and truthful as is señor Durandarte. The fourth is having learned with certainty where the Guadiana River originates, something people have not known until now.”
“Your grace is right,” said don Quixote, “but I’d like to know, if God grants that they allow you to print those books of yours—which I doubt—to whom will you dedicate them?”
“There are lords and grandees in Spain to whom they can be dedicated,” said the cousin.
“Not many,” responded don Quixote, “not because they don’t deserve the renown, but rather because they don’t want to be bound by the debt of gratitude due the author so that they won’t not be obliged to reward him for his labors and courtesy. I know a prince who can make up for the lack of the others in such good measure that if I dare say what they are, it would awaken envy in more than four generous hearts. But let’s put this off for a better time, and let’s look for a place where we can spend the night.”
“Not far from here,” responded the cousin, “is a hermitage where a hermit makes his abode, and they say he was a soldier and is held to be a good Christian, and is very shrewd and charitable besides. Next to the hermitage, he has a little house that he built at his own expense, and that, although it’s small, can still lodge guests.”
“Does this hermit have chickens?” asked Sancho.
“Few hermits are without them,” responded don Quixote, “because the ones nowadays are not like the ones from the deserts of Egypt, who dressed in palm leaves and ate roots from the ground. And don’t think that because I speak well of the latter, I disparage the former, but rather I mean that the penance endured by the modern hermits does not come close to the severity and poverty suffered by those of Egypt. But not on this account do they all cease to be good men—at least, I judge them to be good—and if worse comes to worst, the hypocrite who pretends to be good does less harm than the shameless sinner.”
While they were saying these things, they saw a man on foot coming toward them, walking quickly and whipping a mule carrying lances and halberds. When he reached them, he greeted them and kept going. Don Quixote said to him: “Good fellow, slow down! It looks like you’re going faster than that mule can stand.”
“I can’t stop now, senor,” responded the man, “because the weapons that I have must be used tomorrow, so it’s imperative for me not to stop. Good-bye. But if you want to know why I have them, the inn that’s a bit beyond the little hermitage is where I plan to spend the night, and if you’re going along this same road, you’ll find me there, where I’ll tell you amazing things, and good-bye again.”
He pricked his mule, and so don Quixote had no chance to ask him what the amazing things were that he was going to tell them, and since he was somewhat curious and always eager to learn new things, he had his party leave and go to spend the night at the inn, without stopping at the hermitage where the cousin had wanted to spend the night.
So they all mounted and went along the quickest road to the inn where they arrived a little before nightfall. The cousin said to don Quixote that they should go there to drink a swallow of wine. As soon as Sancho heard this, he turned his donkey toward the hermitage, and don Quixote and the cousin did the same. But to Sancho’s bad luck it seems that the hermit was not at home, as the female sub-hermit that they found at the hermitage told them. They asked her for some good wine, and she responded that her master had none, but if they wanted some cheap water, she would be happy to provide some.
“If I wanted to drink water,” responded Sancho, “there are wells along the way where I could have quenched my thirst. Ah, Camacho’s wedding and the abundance at don Diego’s house, how often I miss you!” So they left the hermitage and spurred on to the inn, and after a while they came across a young man who was walking rather slowly in front of them and so they overtook him. He was carrying on his shoulder a sword from which was dangling a bundle, seemingly containing his clothing, which must have been some pants or breeches, a cape, and a shirt. He was wearing a jacket made of velvet with worn areas that made them look like satin, and his shirt was untucked; his stockings were of silk and his shoes square-toed like they wear at Court. He must have been eighteen or nineteen years old, with a pleasant face, and was light on his feet. He was singing a seguidillas to pass the tedium of the journey. When they got to him he’d just finished singing one that the cousin memorized, and they say it said:
The first to speak to him was don Quixote who said: “Your grace is traveling very lightly, young man. Where are you going? We’d like to know, if you would be willing to tell us.”
To which the young man responded: “Traveling lightly is due to the heat and poverty, and where I’m going is off to war.”
“How due to poverty?” asked don Quixote. “The heat is easy to understand.”
“Señor,” replied the young man, “I’m carrying in this bundle some pants made of velvet that go with this doublet. If I wear them on the road, I won’t be able to wear them in the city, and I have nothing to buy other ones with. So, as if to air myself, I’m traveling this way until I get to some infantry companies that are not quite twelve leagues from here, where I’ll begin my military service, and there’ll be no lack of pack-horses to take me from there to the port, which they say should be Cartagena. I’d prefer to have the king as my master and serve him in the war rather than some worthless person at court.”
“And does your grace have some bonus pay for entering the service, by chance?” asked the cousin.
“If I had served some grandee of Spain or some titled person,” responded the young man, “I certainly would have that bonus, for that comes from serving good people, because that’s how lieutenants and captains, or people rise from servants’ tables to have a good pension. But I, unfortunately, always served worthless people and upstarts of such miserable and lean income, that when they paid for their collar to be starched, it used up half their income, and it would be a miracle if a page-adventurer could ever come by reasonably good luck from that.”
“And tell me on your life, friend,” asked don Quixote, “is it possible that in the years you served you never wore a livery?”
“I had two,” said the page, “but just like when you leave a religious order before being ordained, they take away your habit and return your old clothes, my masters returned mine to me, when, having finished their business at court, they returned home and took back the liveries, which they used only for show.”
“A notable spilorceria, as they say in Italian,” said don Quixote, “but even so, you should consider it good luck that you left court with such a worthy quest, because there’s nothing on earth of greater honor or of greater value that to serve God first, and next to serve your king and natural lord, especially in the profession of arms, by means of which you acquire, if not riches, at least greater honor than you would have through letters, as I’ve said many times. Although letters have created more great lineages than arms, still, the lineages created by arms have a certain edge over those created by letters since they have a special splendor with which nothing else compares.
“And what I want to tell you now, learn it well, for it will be of great use and comfort to you in your travails, and it is that you should put out of your mind the adversities that may befall you. The worst of these is death, and if it’s a good one, it’s the luckiest of all. They asked Julius Cæsar, that brave Roman emperor, what the best death was, and he answered that it was the unexpected one, one that came suddenly and not foreseen, and although he answered like a pagan and without knowledge of the true God, he spoke well, as far as sparing human suffering goes. Though they may kill you in the first battle and fray, or with an artillery shot, or if you’re blown up by a mine, what difference does it make? It’s all dying, and it’s over and done with. And according to Terence, a soldier seems better dead in battle than alive and safe in flight. The good soldier achieves fame insofar as he’s obedient to his captains and those who can give him orders. And be aware, my son, that it’s better to smell of gunpowder than civet, and if old age finds you in this honorable profession, even though you may have many wounds and you’re crippled or lame, at least it won’t find you without honor that poverty will not be able to diminish. Right now thy’re making laws that old and crippled soldiers be given care and relief, because it’s not good that they be treated like slaves, who are freed when they’re old and can no longer work, and they’re released and are told they’re free, making them slaves to hunger, from which only death will liberate them. For the moment I have nothing more to tell you except I’d like you to ride on the crupper of my horse as far as the inn, and there you will dine with me. Tomorrow you’ll continue your journey, and may God make it as successful as your worthy desires deserve.”
The page didn’t accept the invitation to ride, but he did agree to eat dinner at the inn, and they say Sancho said to himself right then: “May God bless you as a master! And is it possible that a man who can say so many and such good things as he has said, should also say that he has seen the foolish and impossible things that he related about the Cave of Montesinos? Well then, time will tell…”
At this point they arrived at the inn, just when night was falling, and not without Sancho’s pleasure since he saw that his master judged it to be a real inn and not a castle, as was his custom. They had just entered when don Quixote asked the innkeeper about the man with the lances and halberds, and he responded that he was in the stable attending to his mule. The nephew and Sancho also went to the stable, giving Rocinante the best manger and the best stall.