Chapter LIX

Where an extraordinary incident befell don Quixote, which can be regarded as an adventure.

A CLEAR and crystalline stream that don Quixote and Sancho found in a wooded area brought relief from the discourtesy of the bulls. The beaten master and man sat down on the banks of the stream and let Rocinante and the grey roam freely without headstall or bridle. Sancho went over to his saddlebags and took out what he commonly called «ordinary food». Don Quixote rinsed his mouth and washed his face, and the coolness restored his discouraged spirit somewhat. Don Quixote didn’t eat out of pure grief, and Sancho didn’t dare to touch the food he had in front of him out of pure courtesy, and he waited for his master to take the first bite. But seeing that his master was transported by his imagination, and was of no mind to put food into his mouth, Sancho, trampling over all table manners, began to stow away the bread and cheese that was spread out.

“Eat, Sancho, my friend,” said don Quixote, “sustain life, which means more to you than to me, and let me die by my own hands and thoughts and by the power of my misfortunes. I, Sancho, was born to live dying, and you to die eating, And so that you’ll see that I’m telling you the truth, consider that I’m printed in histories, famous in arms, courteous in my actions, respected by princes, and solicited by damsels. And just when I was expecting palms, triumphs, and crowns, earned by and deserved through my brave deeds, I find myself this very morning stepped on, trampled, and thrashed by the feet of filthy and vile animals. This thought blunts my incisors, dulls my molars, makes my hands numb, and removes completely any desire I might have to eat, so I plan to let myself die of hunger—the cruelest kind of death.”

“So,” said Sancho, without stopping his rapid chewing, “you won’t approve the proverb that says «let Martha die, but let her die full». I, at least, don’t plan to kill myself. I rather plan to do like the shoemaker, who stretches the leather with his teeth until he gets it to where he wants. I’ll pull on my life by eating until I get to the end determined by heaven, and I want you to know, señor, that there’s no greater folly than letting oneself despair, as you’re doing. Believe me, after you eat and have a nap on these mattresses made of green grass, you’ll feel a lot better when you wake up.”

Don Quixote planned to take Sancho’s advice, considering his words to be more those of a philosopher than an imbecile, and said to him: “If you, Sancho, would do for me what I’ll tell you now, my relief would be more certain and my suffering not as great, and that is while I’m sleeping—following your counsel—you should move a bit away from here and with Rocinante’s reins, raising your flesh into the air, give yourself three or four hundred lashes of the three-thousand-odd that you have to for the disenchantment of Dulcinea. It’s no little pity that the poor señora is enchanted through your carelessness and negligence.”

“There’s much to say on that subject,” said Sancho. “Let’s sleep for a while, the both of us, and afterwards God has said what will happen. I want your grace to know that this business of whipping oneself in cold blood is hard to bear, and more so on an ill-nourished and worse-fed body. When least you suspect it, you’ll see me turned into a sieve because of the lashes, and «where there’s life, there’s hope», I mean, I’m still alive, and I want to fulfill what I’ve promised.”

Don Quixote thanked him and ate a bit while Sancho ate a lot, and they both went to sleep, leaving the two friends and companions, Rocinante and the grey, to wander freely wherever they wanted on the abundant pasture that the meadow provided. They woke up a bit later, and got on their mounts and continued their journey, hurrying to get to an inn that, seemingly, was about a league away. I say that it was an inn because don Quixote called it that, different from his custom to call all inns castles.

So they arrived at the inn and asked the innkeeper if there was a place to stay. He answered that there was, and with all the comfort and opulence that could be found in Zaragoza. They dismounted, and Sancho took his larder to a room to which the innkeeper gave him a key. Sancho then took the animals to the stable and gave them feed, and then went to see what don Quixote—who was seated on a stone bench—wanted him to do, giving particular thanks to heaven that his master didn’t think that inn was a castle.

The dinner hour came, and they went to their rooms. Sancho asked the innkeeper what he had to give them for dinner. To which the innkeeper responded that he could ask for whatever he wanted—the inn was stocked with the little birds of the air, the larger birds that live on land, and fish from the sea.

“I don’t need all of that,” responded Sancho. “With a couple of chickens that you could roast for us we’ll have enough, because my master is delicate and doesn’t eat very much, and I’m not overly gluttonous.”

The innkeeper responded that he didn’t have any chickens because the kites had devastated them.

“Well then, señor innkeeper,” said Sancho, “have a tender pullet broiled.”

“Pullet? My father!” responded the innkeeper. “I truth, in truth, I sent more than fifty to town yesterday to be sold. Outside of pullets, ask for anything your grace might want.”

“In that case,” said Sancho, “there must be veal or kid.”

“Right now” responded the innkeeper, “there isn’t any in the place because our stock is exhausted. But next week, there’ll be plenty to spare.”

“A lot of good that’ll do,” responded Sancho. “I’ll bet that these deficiencies will be made up by bacon and eggs.”

“By God,” responded the innkeeper, “my guest seems to have a short memory, since I just told him there were no pullets or chickens, and he wants there to be eggs. Consider other delicacies, if you want, and stop asking for chickens.”

“Let’s get down to business, by golly, and tell me once and for all what you have, and let’s stop these discussions, señor innkeeper.” The innkeeper said: “What I really, truly have are two cows’ feet. They’re boiled with garbanzos, onions, and bacon, and right now are saying «Eat me, eat me!».”

“I claim them for myself this instant,” said Sancho, “and don’t let anyone else touch them. I’ll pay for them better than anyone else, because for me, I couldn’t want any thing else that would give me more pleasure, and it doesn’t make any difference if they’re feet or heels.”

“No one will touch them,” said the innkeeper, “because the other guests lodged here, being people of quality, have brought cooks, stewards, and stores with them.”

“As for people of quality,” said Sancho, “no one is more so than my master. But his profession doesn’t allow him to bring stores or provisions. There we are in the middle of a meadow, and we stuff ourselves with acorns or crab apples.”

This was the conversation that Sancho had with the innkeeper, and Sancho didn’t want to keep on answering his questions, becasuse he’d already asked Sancho what his master’s profession was.

Dinnertime came, then, and don Quixote was in his room when the innkeeper brought the stew, such as it was, and he sat down to eat it with great relish. It seems that in the room next door to don Quixote’s—there was no more than a slim partition between the two—don Quixote heard: “On your life, señor don Jeró­nimo, while they’re bringing dinner, let’s read another chapter from the Second Part of don Quixote de La Mancha.”

Hardly had don Quixote heard his name when he stood up and with a very alert ear listened to what they were saying about him, and he heard that already-mentioned don Jerónimo respond: “Why would your grace, señor don Juan, want us to read that foolishness, since anyone who’s read the first part of the history of don Quixote de La Mancha can’t get any pleasure from the second one.”

“Even so,” said don Juan, “it’ll be good to read it since there’s no book that’s so bad that it doesn’t have something good in it. What I like least about it is that it says that don Quixote is no longer in love with Dulcinea del Toboso.”

When don Quixote heard this, filled with wrath and dismay, raised his voice and said: “Whoever says that don Quixote de La Mancha has forgotten, or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I’ll make him understand with equal arms that he’s very far from the truth, because the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso cannot be forgotten, nor can don Quixote forget her. His glory is his constancy and his profession is keeping it with care and without any violence.”

“Who is speaking?” they said from the other room.

“Who should it be,” responded Sancho, “but don Quixote de La Mancha, who will make good on everything he has said and even on what he has yet to say, for «A good payer doesn’t worry about leaving a security pledge».”

As soon as Sancho said this, two gentlemen—for that’s what they appeared to be—came into their room, and one of them threw his arms around don Quixote’s neck and said to him: “Neither your presence can belie your name, nor can your name not confirm your presence. Without a doubt, you, señor, are the true don Quixote de La Mancha, north star of knight errantry, in spite of the one who wants to usurp your good name and negate your deeds, as the author of this book—which I have here to give you—has done.”

And putting the book that his companion had brought into don Quixote’s hands, don Quixote took it and, without saying a word, began to flip through the pages. After a while he gave it back, saying: “In the little bit I saw, I found three things worthy of reprimand. The first is some words I read in the prologue. The other is that the language is Aragonese because at times it’s written without articles. The third thing—and what confirms him as ignorant—is that he errs and goes astray from the truth in the most essential thing of the history, because he says here that the wife of Sancho Panza, my squire, is named Mari Gutiérrez, and that’s not what her name is—it’s Teresa Panza. And if he made such an enormous error in this important matter, he must also be mistaken in the other details of the history.”

To this Sancho said: “What a thing for a historian to do! Certainly he must really know our affairs well if he calls Teresa Panza, my wife, Mari Gutiérrez! Look at the book again, señor, and see if I’m mentioned there and if my name has been changed.”

“From what I’ve heard just now, my friend,” don Jerónimo said, “you doubtless must be Sancho Panza, the squire of señor don Quixote.”

“Yes, I am,” responded Sancho, “and proud of it.”

“So, it seems,” said the gentleman, “this modern author doesn’t treat you with the decency your person requires. He described you as a glutton and a fool, not at all witty, and quite different from the other Sancho described in the first part of the history of your master.”

“May God forgive him,” said Sancho. “He should have left me in my corner without remembering me at all because «he who knows how should play the song» and «Saint Peter is well off in Rome».”

The two gentlemen asked don Quixote to join them for dinner in their room because they well knew that there was nothing appropriate for him in that inn. Don Quixote, who was always courteous, accepted their invitation and ate with them. Sancho stayed back, with full power over the stew. He sat at the head of the table with the innkeeper, who was no less appreciative of cows’ feet.

During dinner don Juan asked don Quixote what news he had of señora Dulcinea del Toboso—if she’d gotten married, had given birth, or was pregnant, if her virginity was still intact, preserving her virtue and decorum—and aware of the loving thoughts of señor don Quixote.

To which don Quixote responded: “Dulcinea is a virgin, and my thoughts are firmer than ever. Our relationship is unfruitful as always. Her beauty has been transformed into a low peasant.”

And then he began to recount, point by point, the enchantment of señora Dulcinea, and what had happened in the Cave of Montesinos, with the order that Merlin had given as to how to disenchant her, which was by means of Sancho’s lashes.

Great was the pleasure the gentlemen got from hearing don Quixote relate the strange events of his history, and they were as astonished with his nonsense as they were with the elegant way he had of expressing himself. Sometimes they thought he was clever and other times he seemed to slip into being a numbskull, and they couldn’t tell how far he went in either direction.

When Sancho finished eating, he left the innkeeper drunk and went to the room where his master was; and when he went in he said: “May they kill me, señores, if the author of that book wants to get in my good graces. Now that he’s called me a glutton I wonder if he calls me a drunk as well.”

“Yes, he does,” said don Jerónimo. “I don’t remember exactly how, although I know that the words are offensive, and besides, they’re untrue, as I can easily see on the face of the good Sancho who is here present.”

“Believe me,” said Sancho, “the Sancho and the don Quixote in that history must be different from those who appear in the one by Cide Hamete Benengeli, which is us—my master brave, shrewd, and in love; and me, simple amusing, and neither a glutton nor a drunk.”

“That’s what I think,” said don Juan, “and it if were possible, it should be ordered that no one except Cide Hamete Benengeli, its first author, should dare to write about things pertaining to don Quixote, just as Alexander the Great would have no one paint his portrait except Apelles.”

“Anyone can paint me who wants to,” said don Quixote, “but let him treat me right. «Patience often stumbles when they load it with too many offenses».”

“There’s no offense,” said don Juan, “done to don Quixote that he cannot avenge, unless he wards it off on the shield of his patience, which, in my opinion, is strong and great.”

In these and other conversations they spent a large part of the night, and although don Juan wanted don Quixote to read more from the book, to see where there were discrepancies, they couldn’t convince him to do it, since he said that he considered it already read and confirmed it to be all nonsense. And he didn’t want the author—in case he heard that don Quixote had held the book in his hands—to flatter himself thinking that he’d read it, since our thoughts should be protected from obscene things, and from our eyes even more so.

They asked him where he was headed. He responded that he was going to Zaragoza to participate in some jousts held there every year and whose prize was a suit of armor. Don Juan told him that the new history related that don Quixote, whoever he was, had gone to Zaragoza to pierce the ring with his lance, an episode that was lacking in invention, poor in its vocabulary, and poorer still in style, although rich in foolishness.

“For that reason,” responded don Quixote, “I’ll never set foot in Zaragoza, and in this way I’ll expose to the world the lies of this modern historian, and people will be able to see that I’m not the don Quixote mentioned there.”

“That’s a good idea,” said don Jerónimo. “There are other jousts in Barcelona where señor don Quixote can show his valor.”

“That’s what I plan to do,” said don Quixote. “Permit me, for it’s late, to go to bed, and consider me among the number of your best friends and greatest servants.”

“Me, too,” said Sancho, “maybe I’ll be good for something.” With this they bade farewell, and don Quixote and Sancho retired to their room leaving don Juan and don Jerónimo astonished with the mixture of wisdom and nonsense they had seen in don Quixote, and they truly believed that these were the real don Quixote and Sancho, and not those described by the Aragonese author. Don Quixote got up early, and knocked on the partition of the other room to say good-bye to his friends. Sancho paid the innkeeper magnificently, and advised him either to praise his provisions less, or to be better stocked.