About the response don Quixote gave his reprimander, with other grave and amusing events.
DON QUIXOTE stood up, trembling from head to foot, and with a rapid-fire and irritated voice, said: “The place where I stand, in whose presence I find myself, and the respect I’ve always had and continue to have for your grace’s profession, hold and tie the hands of my just anger. So, because of what I’ve said, and since everyone knows that the weapons of gown wearers are the same as those of a woman, which is the tongue, that’s what I’ll use to enter into fair battle with your grace, from whom I should have expected good counsel instead of vile reproaches. Pious and good-intentioned reprimands require diferent circumstances and demand grounds other than these. The least thing I can say is that, having been reprehended in public, and so harshly, has gone beyond all limits of fair reprimand, since initial reproofs should be based on gentleness rather than on harshness, and it’s certainly not a good idea for you, if you don’t know what the sin in question is, to call the sinner an idiot and a fool.
“So, tell me, your grace, which idiotic acts have you seen me perform for which you condemn and censure me, and thus command me to return home and take care of it, and of my wife and children, without knowing if I have a wife or children? Is it that all you have to do is enter willy-nilly into someone else’s house and govern its masters; and after having been raised in the spartan fare of a university boarding house, without having seen more of the world than what is found within twenty or thirty leagues of the area, you would rashly dare to give laws to knighthood and judge knights errant? By chance is it a waste of time to wander through the world, not seeking its comfort, but rather the austerity through which good people rise to the seat of immortality?
“If knights, grandees, nobles, or honorable, magnanimous people, thought I was a moron, it would be an irreparable affront. But if students who never entered into or traveled along the paths of knighthood think that I’m foolish, I couldn’t care less. I’m a knight and I’ll die a knight, if it pleases God.
“Some travel the broad field of arrogant ambition, others use base and groveling adulation, still others use deceitful hypocrisy, and others use the path of true religion. But I, led by my star, have taken the narrow path of knighthood, and in doing so I scorn wealth, but not honor. I’ve satisfied grievances, righted wrongs, punished impudence, conquered giants, and trampled monsters. I’m in love, only because it’s required for knights errant to be in love; and although I’m in love, I’m not one of those depraved lovers, but rather of the Platonic kind. My intentions are always directed toward meritorious ends, to do good to all and ill to none. If the person who understands this in this way and labors toward these goals, if the person who does this deserves to be called a fool, let your highnesses, the duke and duchess, declare me to be one.”
“Good, by God,” said Sancho, “say no more in your behalf your grace, señor and master of mine, because there’s nothing more to say, to think about, or insist on. And what’s more, since this man denies that there ever were and that there are now knights errant, I’ll bet he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“By chance, brother” said the ecclesiastic, “are you that Sancho Panza they talk about, to whom your master has promised an ínsula?”
“Yes, I am,” responded Sancho, “and I deserve it as much as the next fellow. I’m one who says «stay near the good folk and you’ll be one of them» and of those who say «not with whom you’re bred but with whom you’re fed» and of those that say «he who leans against a good tree is protected by good shade», I’ve been leaning against my master, and it’s been many months since I’ve been in his company, and I’m going to be just like him, God willing. And if he lives and if I live, there won’t fail to be empires for him to rule, nor ínsulas for me to govern.”
“Certainly not, Sancho my friend,” interrupted the duke, “because I, in the name of don Quixote, grant you the government of one I happen to have, and that’s not of poor quality.” “Kneel down, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “and kiss his excellency’s feet for the favor he has done you.”
Sancho obeyed, but the ecclesiastic, stood up from the table inordinately angry, saying: “By the habit I wear, I’m about to say that your excellency is as foolish as these sinners. No wonder they’re crazy if the sane bolster their insanity. Your excellency can stay with them, and while they’re in this house I’ll be in mine, and I’ll reprehend no further something I cannot remedy.”
And without saying another word, or eating anything else, he went out, despite the entreaties of the duke and duchess, although the duke couldn’t say much since he was prevented by the laughter that the cleric’s obnoxious anger had caused him. He finished laughing and said to don Quixote: “Señor Knight of the Lions has defended himself so well that there’s nothing else to say, for although it appears to be an insult, it really isn’t, because just as women cannot insult anyone, ecclesiastics cannot either, as your grace well knows.”
“That’s true,” responded don Quixote, “and the reason is that he who cannot be insulted, cannot insult anyone else. Women, children, and ecclesiastics, since they cannot defend themselves, even though they may be offended, can’t be insulted, because between an offense and an insult there’s this difference, as your excellency knows. An insult comes from someone who can give it, and when he gives it he can maintain it. An offense can come from anywhere without any insult. Here’s an example—a man is in the street minding his own business, and ten armed men come and beat him up. He grabs his sword and does what he has to. But his many opponents prevent him and he can’t do what he intends, which is to avenge himself. This man is offended but not insulted, and the same thing will be confirmed by another example. A man has his back turned and another one comes up and gives him a punch then runs away and doesn’t wait, and the other runs after him but can’t catch him. This man who was punched receives an offense but not an insult, because an insult has to be maintained. If the man who punched him, even if it was on the sly, should put his hand on his sword and stay there, the one punched would be offended as well as insulted—offended because he was punched treacherously, and insulted because his attacker maintained it and didn’t run away. So, according to the laws of the cursed duel, I consider myself offended but not insulted, because just as children don’t feel offended, and women cannot either flee or stand their ground, the same thing with those ordained to our holy religion, because these three types of people lack offensive and defensive weapons, and so, although they’re obliged by nature to defend themselves, they cannot insult anyone. A moment ago I said I could be offended—now I say not, in no way, because he who cannot receive any offense cannot give one. And for these reasons I shouldn’t, and don’t resent what this good fellow has said. I only wish he’d stayed a bit longer so that I could make him see the error he committed in thinking and saying that there have never been knights errant in the world. Why, if Amadís were to hear that, or any one of the infinite men of his lineage, I know it wouldn’t go well with his grace.”
“I can vouch for that,” said Sancho. “They would have given him a slash that would have opened him up from top to bottom like a pomegranate or a very ripe cantaloupe. They wouldn’t stand for nonsense like that! By my faith, I’m positive that if Reinaldos de Montalbán had heard these words from this little fellow, he would have given him such a punch in the mouth that he wouldn’t have been able to speak for three years. Let him take them on and he’ll see he won’t escape from their hands!”
The duchess was dying of laughter hearing Sancho speak, and in her opinion she thought he was more amusing and crazier than his master, and many at that time were of the same opinion. Finally, don Quixote calmed down and they finished their dinner, and the tablecloth was taken away. Then four maidens came, one of them with a silver basin, and the other with a pitcher of water, the next one with two very white, thick towels on her shoulder, and the fourth had her arms bared to her elbows, and in her white hands—because certainly they were white—a round cake of Neapolitan soap. The one carrying the basin approached, and with gentle grace and brazen self-confidence placed the basin beneath don Quixote’s beard, who, without saying anything, and astonished at such a ceremony, believed it to be a custom in those parts to wash the beard instead of the hands. So he extended his beard as far forward as he could, and at the same moment the girl began to pour from the pitcher and the one with the soap scrubbed his beard very vigorously, creating snowflakes (because the lather was no less white) not only on his beard but all over the obedient knight’s face and eyes, so that he was forced to close his eyes tight.
The duke and duchess hadn’t been privy to any of this and were waiting to see how this extraordinary washing ceremony would end. The maiden in charge of the beard, when she had his face covered with a very thick lather, pretended that her water had run out and told the girl with the pitcher to fetch some more. While she was doing that, don Quixote sat there, the strangest and most laughable sight anyone could imagine. All those present, and there were many, when they saw his stretched-out and tanned neck, more than half a yard long, his eyes closed and his beard covered with soap, it was very hard, and required immense self-control, to hide their laughter. The girls who organized the prank kept their eyes turned down and didn’t dare look at their masters. The latter thought they should be angry and at the same time had to repress their laughter, and they didn’t know what to do—to punish the boldness of the girls or reward them for the pleasure they got seeing don Quixote in that state.
Finally, the maiden with the pitcher came back and they finished washing don Quixote’s beard, then the one with the towels wiped and dried him carefully, and then the four of them curtsied in an aristocratic way all together and were on their way out, when the duke—so don Quixote wouldn’t realize that it had been a jest—called the maiden with the basin and said to her: “Come here and wash my beard, too, and make sure you don’t run out of water.”
The girl, who was quick-witted and knew what to do, went over and put the basin under his beard as they had done with don Quixote, and the four of them washed and lathered him quickly, and leaving him clean and dried off, and curtsying once again, they went away. Afterwards it was learned that the duke had sworn that if they hadn’t washed him as they had done with don Quixote, he would have punished their brazenness, which they discreetely avoided by washing his beard.
Sancho was a witness to this washing ritual and said to himself: “By God, I wonder if it’s customary in this region to wash the beards of the squires of knights errant, because God knows, and I know in my heart that I have great need of it myself, and even if they shaved it completely off, I would like it better.”
“What are you saying, Sancho?” asked the duchess.
“I’m saying, señora,” he responded, “that in the courts of other princes I’ve always heard that when the tablecloths were taken away, water was brought out to wash one’s hands, and not soap for one’s beard. And for that reason, it’s nice to live a long time to see many things, although they also say that «the person who lives a long life undergoes much suffering», but having one’s beard washed seems more like a pleasure than pain.”
“Don’t worry, friend Sancho,” said the duchess, “I’ll have the maidens wash your beard, and even put you in the wash, if need be.” “The beard will be enough,” responded Sancho, “for now, at least, and with the passage of time, God has ordained what will take place.”
“See to it, steward,” said the duchess, “and do what the good Sancho asks to the letter.”
The steward answered that señor Sancho would be attended to in everything, and with this he went off to eat and took Sancho with him, leaving the duke, duchess, and don Quixote at the table, talking about many different things, but all dealing with the practice of arms and of knight errantry. The duchess begged don Quixote to outline and describe—since he seemed to have happy memories—the beauty and features of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who, according to the fame circulating about her beauty, must be the most beautiful creature in the world, and even in all of La Mancha.
Don Quixote sighed hearing what the duchess asked him to do and said: “If I could only pluck my heart out and place it here on a plate on this table in front of your greatness, it would spare my tongue the travail of having to say what can hardly be imagined, because your excellency would be able to see her in all of her beauty. But, why should I try to outline and describe her beauty feature by feature and part by part, since it would be a task worthy of shoulders other than my own, work that should be done by the brushes of Parahassius, Timanthes, Apelles and the chisels of Lysippus, to paint and carve her on tablets, marble, and bronze, and Ciceronian and Demosthenian rhetoric to praise her.”
“What does Demosthenian refer to, señor don Quixote?” asked the duchess. “It’s a word that I’ve never heard in all my life.”
Demosthenian rhetoric,” responded don Quixote, “is the same as saying the rhetoric of Desmothenes, as Ciceronian is of Cicero, and they were the two best rhetoricians in the world.”
“That’s right,” said the duke, “and you’ve shown your ignorance through such a question. But even so, it would give us great pleasure if señor don Quixote would describe her for us. I’ll bet that even if it’s just a rough sketch and an outline, she’ll be such that the most beautiful women will envy her.”
“I would willingly do it,” responded don Quixote, “if the recent misfortune that happened to her hadn’t erased her from my mind, I’m more ready to cry over her than describe her, because I want you both to know that a few days ago when I was on the road to kiss her hands and receive her blessing, approval, and permission to do this third expedition, I found her quite different from the way I expected. I found her enchanted and changed from a princess into a peasant, from a beautiful woman to an ugly one, from an angel to a devil, from sweet-smelling to noxious, from well-spoken to a rustic, from a woman of peaceful leisure to one who goes leaping about, from light to darkness, and finally, from Dulcinea del Toboso to a country girl from Sayago.”
“God help me,” interrupted the duke with a shout. “Who could have done such a bad thing to the world? Who has snatched from it the beauty that gave it joy, the grace that soothed it, the virtue that was a credit to it.”
“Who?” responded don Quixote. “Who else can it be other than one of the wicked enchanters who persecute me? This cursed race, born in the world to obscure and spoil the deeds of good people and to bring forth and heighten the deeds of the bad. Enchanters have persecuted me, enchanters still persecute me, and enchanters will persecute me until they finally sink me and my high chivalric deeds into the abyss of oblivion. And they do me the most harm and wound me where they see I’ll feel it the most, because to take his lady away from a knight errant is to take the eyes away with which he sees, the sun that gives him light, and the nutrition that sustains him. I’ve said this many other times, and I’ll repeat it now, that a knight without a lady is like a tree without leaves, a building without a foundation, and a shadow without the body that casts it.”
“There’s nothing more to be said,” said the duchess, “but if we’re to believe the history about señor don Quixote that came out a few days ago, meeting with general applause by everyone, one deduces from it, if I’m not mistaken, that your grace has never seen the lady Dulcinea, and that this lady really doesn’t exist in the world, but is rather an invented lady that you engendered in your imagination and described her with all the charms and perfections you wanted.”
“There’s much to be said about this,” responded don Quixote. “God knows if there’s a Dulcinea in the world or not, or if she’s imagined or not. And this is not the type of thing that can be fully verified. I neither engendered nor gave birth to my lady, although I contemplate her as a lady who has all those qualities that can make her famous throughout the world, which are: beauty without blemish, being distinguished but without pride, loving yet modest, gracious through courtesy, courteous through good breeding, and finally, noble of lineage, since beauty shines and flourishes most perfectly because of good breeding than beauty that’s humbly born.”
“That’s right,” said the duke, “but señor don Quixote must allow me to say what the history of your deeds that I read forces me to suggest, and that is that one infers, although one concedes that there’s a Dulcinea in El Toboso (or outside of that town), and that her beauty is at the high level that your grace has described, insofar as her lineage goes, it doesn’t compare with that of the Orianas, the Alastrajareas, and the Madásimas, nor with others like them with which abound in the histories that your grace knows about.”
“To this I can say,” responded don Quixote, “that Dulcinea is the daughter of her works, and that virtue makes up for blood, and that a humble but virtuous person is more to be esteemed than a depraved noble person. What’s more, Dulcinea has within her a quality that can make her a queen with a crown and scepter, since the worth of a beautiful and virtuous woman allows her to work great miracles, and she has the potential within herself for greater fortune.”
“I’ll say, señor don Quixote,” said the duchess, “that in everything your grace says he’s very circumspect, and as they say, prudent, and that I, from now on, will believe and will tell everyone else in this household to believe, and even the duke, my lord, if it were to be necessary, that there is a Dulcinea del Toboso and that she lives today, and she is beautiful and well-born and deserving a knight such as señor don Quixote serve her, which is the greatest thing I can say of her. But I can’t help forming a qualm and a grudge against Sancho Panza. The qualm is that the history says that Sancho Panza found Dulcinea, when he was sent to her by your grace with a letter, winnowing a sack of wheat, and seemingly it was red wheat, which makes me doubt the nobility of her lineage.”
To which he responded: “Señora mía, you must know that everything, or most everything that happens to me, falls beyond the usual experience of other knights errant, being so directed by the inscrutable will of the fates or by the malice of some envious enchanter, and since it’s a proven fact that all or most famous knights errant have particular powers—one of them cannot be enchanted, another has impenetrable skin that will prevent his being wounded—such as the famous Roland, one of the Twelve Peers of France, of whom it was said he couldn’t be wounded except through the sole of his left foot, and this had to be only with a large straight pin and not with any other weapon. So when Bernardo del Carpio killed him at Roncesvalles, seeing that he couldn’t injure him with a weapon, he took him up between his arms and throttled him, remembering the death that Hercules gave Antæus, that ferocious giant who is the son of the Earth.
“I want to infer by what I said that it might be that I had one of the powers that I mentioned, but it can’t be the one of being invulnerable to wounds because experience has shown me many times that my flesh is soft and not at all impenetrable, nor that of not being susceptible to enchantment, for I’ve seen myself put in a cage, where—if I hadn’t been enchanted—there would be no force on earth capable of locking me up otherwise. But since I freed myself from that enchantment, I’d like to think that no other one can stop me, so I see that these enchanters who can’t use their power against me anymore are taking their vengeance on what I love the most, and they try to take away my life by mistreating Dulcinea, for whom I live. And so, I believe that when my squire took her my message, they changed her into a country girl busying herself with so low an activity as winnowing wheat. But I’ve already said that that wheat wasn’t red or even wheat at all, but rather grains of oriental pearls. And to prove this truth I want to say to your excellencies that as we were going a while ago to El Toboso, I couldn’t find Dulcinea’s palaces. And the next day, after Sancho, my squire, saw her the way she really looks, which is the most beautiful woman in the world, she seemed to me to be an ill-bred peasant, ugly, and not at all well-spoken, whereas she’s really the most circumspect person in the world. And since I’m not enchanted, nor can I be, the way it looks, she’s the enchanted, the offended, and the transformed one—transformed and changed again—and on her my enemies have avenged themselves, and for her I’ll live in perpetual tears until I see her in her pristine state again.
“I’ve said all this so that no one will take seriously what Sancho said about Dulcinea’s sifting and winnowing. Since they changed her on me, it’s no wonder that they would change her on him as well. Dulcinea is noble and well-born and is among the lineages of the hidalgos that there are in El Toboso, and they are many, ancient, and very fine, but certainly none can compare with the peerless Dulcinea, for whom her village will be famous and celebrated in future centuries, as Troy has been for Helen, and Spain for La Cava, although her rank and fame will be greater. On the other hand, I want you to understand that Sancho Panza is one of the most amusing squires that ever served a knight errant. At times his naïveté is so sharp that it’s curious to wonder if he’s a simpleton or keen-witted. He does mischievous things that condemn him as a rascal, and has an absentmindedness that confirms him as a fool. He doubts everything and he believes everything.
“Just when I think he’s going to topple into something foolish, he comes up with something wise that raises him to the heavens. Finally, I wouldn’t trade him for any other squire, even though they might throw in a city to boot. So, I wonder if it would be a good idea to send him to the government that your grace has awarded him, although I see in him a certain aptitude for the business of governing, and if you smooth out his intellect a bit, he’ll do as well in any government as the king does with managing his taxes. And we know through long experience that one doesn’t need much ability or education to be a governor, because there are a hundred out there who can hardly read, and they govern very well, indeed.
“The important thing is that they have good intentions and want to succeed in everything; and there will never be a lack of people to advise him and put him on the right track, just like other uneducated men who pass judgment with the help of a legal adviser. I would counsel him not to take bribes, or surrender the law, and other little things lying in my stomach; I’ll bring these things to light at the right moment for Sancho’s use and for the benefit of the ínsula he’ll govern.”
At this point in the conversation among the duke, duchess and don Quixote, they heard shouts and voices of the palace help, and all of a sudden Sancho came dashing into the room, looking quite apprehensive, with a heavy cloth as a bib, and behind him many young men—or better said, kitchen boys and other riffraff. One of them came with a basin of water, which—through its color and unclean look—appeared to be dishwater. The fellow with the basin pursued him, and was trying to put it under his beard and another boy was trying to wash it.
“What is going on, brothers?” asked the duchess. “What is this? What are you doing to this man? Don’t you know he has been chosen to be a governor?”
To which one of the kitchen boys answered: “This fellow won’t let us wash his beard as is the custom, and as was done with the duke, my master, and with his master.”
“Yes, I do want it,” responded Sancho angrily, “but I would like for it to be done with cleaner towels, clearer soapy water, and with hands that are not so dirty. There’s not so much difference between my master and myself so that they wash him with perfumed water and me with the devil’s dishwater. Customs of countries and palaces are only good if they aren’t unpleasant. But the washing custom that’s practiced here is worse than whipping penitents. My beard is clean enough, and I don’t need such grooming, and if anyone comes over to wash or even touch a hair on my head, I mean, on my beard—speaking with due respect—I’ll punch him so hard that I’ll leave my fist inside his head. Such cirimonies and soapings seem more to be practical jokes than graceful reception of guests.”
The duchess was dying of laughter seeing Sancho’s anger and hearing his words. But it didn’t please don Quixote very much to see him in the stained towel and surrounded by so many pranksters from the kitchen, and, giving a deep bow to the duke and duchess, with a calm voice he said to the rabble: “Hey! señores knights! Your graces should release this young man and go back where you came from, or anywhere else you please. My squire is as clean as the next man, and those basins are nothing more than a practical joke to him. Take my advice and let him go, because neither he nor I put up with jokes.”
Sancho saw where don Quixote was going and he continued, saying: “Just let’em try to put one over on this unsuspecting fellow, and I’ll put up with it as much as it’s night right now. Bring a comb or whatever you want, and curry my beard, and if you find anything that appears unclean, let ’em shear the whole thing off.”
Without stopping her laughter, the duchess then said: “Sancho Panza is perfectly right in everything he has said, and he always will be in whatever he says. He’s clean, and as he says, he has no need to wash his beard, and if our custom offends him, let him do what he wants, especially since you, ministers of cleanliness, have been too remiss and careless, not to mention impudent, to bring to such a personage with such a beard—instead of basins and pitchers of pure gold and imported towels—basins and troughs made of wood and dishrags. You are bad and low-born, and you cannot help—like the brigands you are—showing the grudge you hold against squires of knights errant.”
The mischievous servants, and even the steward who came with them, thought that the duchess was speaking in earnest, and so they removed the cloth from Sancho’s chest, and quite perplexed and almost ashamed, they went away and left him. Sancho, seeing himself liberated from that great danger, went over to kneel before the duchess, and said: “From great women great favors are expected. The one your grace has done me today cannot be repaid except with the desire to see myself dubbed a knight errant so I can spend all my days in serving such a noble lady. But I’m a peasant, I’m called Sancho Panza, I’m married, have children, and serve as a squire. If I can serve your greatness in any of these capacities, I’ll obey quicker than you can command.”
“It’s quite obvious,” responded the duchess, “that you’ve learned to be courteous in the school of courtesy itself. It’s quite evident, I mean, that you’ve been nurtured at the side of don Quixote, who doubtless is the cream of politeness and the flower of ceremonies, or «cirimonies» as you say. Blessings on such a master and such a servant—the one, because he’s the pole-star of knight errantry, and the other, because he’s the star of squirely faithfulness. Stand up, Sancho, my friend, in return for your courtesy, I’ll make sure that the duke, my lord, bestows the favor of a government on you as soon as he can.”
With this, the conversation ended, and don Quixote retired for his siesta, and the duchess asked Sancho, if he didn’t feel very much like sleeping, to come to spend the afternoon with her and with her maidens in a very cool room. Sancho responded that, although it was true that he customarily had a siesta of four or five hours during the summer, to serve her goodness, he would try with all his might to do without any, that he would be obedient to her command, and he went along with her. The duke gave new orders as to how don Quixote should be treated as a knight errant, without straying from the way it’s said that they treated knights errant of old.