Chapter VII

Where what happened to don Quixote on the way to see his lady, Dulcinea del Toboso, is recounted.

“BLESSED BE the powerful Allah!” says Cide Hamete Benengeli at the beginning of this eighth chapter, “Blessed be Allah” he repeats three times and says that he offers this thanksgiving because he sees don Quixote and Sancho on the road, and that the readers of this pleasant history can rest assured that at this point the deeds and drolleries of don Quixote and his squire will begin. He urges his readers to forget the ingenious hidalgo’s past acts of chivalry and to turn their eyes toward those that are to come, since they’re beginning now, on the road to El Toboso, on the Plains of Montiel; and it’s not much to ask, considering what he promises. He begins this way, saying:

Don Quixote and Sancho were alone, and hardly had Sansón gone back when Rocinante began to neigh and the donkey to break wind, and all this was held as a very fine sign and a good omen by knight and squire, although if the truth be told, the donkey broke more wind and brayed more than the nag neighed, from which Sancho deduced that his good fortune would surpass that of his master, based on I don’t know what astrological prediction he knew, but the history doesn’t clarify. He was only heard to say that when he tripped or fell, he would prefer not to have left home, because all he got from tripping or falling was a ripped shoe or broken ribs, and even though he was unlettered, on this point he wasn’t far off the mark.

Don Quixote said to him: “Sancho, my friend, night is falling fast and it’s getting darker than we want if we are to reach El Toboso by morning; and I’m determined to go there to get the blessing and gracious leave of the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso before starting any adventure. With that license I plan to—in fact I’m certain I will—take on and emerge victorious from every dangerous adventure, because nothing in this life makes knights errant more valiant than to see themselves favored by their ladies.”

“I believe that, too,” responded Sancho, “but I think it will be hard for your grace to speak with her, or see her alone, at least in a place where you can get her blessing, unless she tosses it to you over the walls of the corral where I saw her the first time, when I took her the letter that had the news of the follies and crazy acts you were doing in the heart of the Sierra Morena.”

“You thought those were the walls of a corral, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “where you saw that never-sufficiently-praised gentle breeding and beauty? Weren’t they galleries, corridors, or porticoes—or whatever they’re called—of a rich and royal palace?”

“Anything is possible,” responded Sancho, “but they looked like corral walls to me, if memory serves.”

“In any case, let’s go there, Sancho,” replied don Quixote, “as long as I see her, it’s all the same to me if it’s over walls or through windows, or even through chinks or garden grates—any ray of the sun of her beauty that comes to my eyes will enlighten my understanding and fortify my heart so that I’ll be unique and without equal in sagacity and in valor.”

“But in truth, señor,” responded Sancho, “when I saw this sun of Dulcinea del Toboso, it wasn’t bright enough to emit rays at all, and it must have been because her grace was winnowing the wheat I mentioned, and the wheat dust that was flying around gathered like a cloud around her face and obscured it.”

“You still insist, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “in saying, thinking, and arguing that my lady Dulcinea was winnowing wheat, when that’s a task at variance with what persons of quality are supposed to do, born and bred as they are for other activities and pastimes that show their high birth from a crossbow shot away? Did you forget, Sancho, those verses by our poet where he describes the handwork that four nymphs were doing in their crystal houses? They rose from their beloved Tajo River, and in the green meadow they embroidered that rich material our ingenious poet describes for us, everything made of gold, silk, and pearls, all woven together. And this is what my lady must have been doing when you saw her, but the envy some evil enchanter harbors toward me corrupts everything that would give me pleasure and changes its appearance, and that’s why I fear in that history they say is circulating about my deeds, if by chance the author was an enchanter who is my enemy, he may have written one thing for another, mixing one truth with a thousand lies, and amusing himself by telling idle tales that are not related to the truth of the history. Oh, envy, root of infinite wickedness and destroyer of virtue! All vices, Sancho, take along with them a bit of pleasure, but envy brings only disgust, animosity, and rage.”

“That’s what I say, too,” responded Sancho, “and I think that this legend or history that the bachelor Sansón Carrasco has seen, must have dragged my honor through the dirt, like they say, from pillar to post, here and there, sweeping the streets with it. But on the faith of an honest person, I’ve said nothing ill about any enchanter, nor do I have so much wealth that they can envy me for. It’s true that I’m a bit mischievous and that I have traces of rascally qualities, but it’s all concealed under the cape of my simplicity, always natural and never affected. If for nothing else other than I believe, firmly and truly, in God, and in everything that the Holy Roman Catholic Church holds and teaches, and that I’m a mortal enemy of the Jews, the historian should have shown mercy on me and treated me well in his writings. But say what they will, «naked I was born and I’m still naked—I neither lose nor gain». But since I see myself in books and traveling throughout the world from hand to hand, I couldn’t care less—let ’em say what they want about me.”

“That reminds me, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “of what happened to a famous poet of these times who, having written a malicious satire about all the courtesans of the court except one, since he didn’t know if she was one or not. And she, when she saw that she wasn’t on the list with the others, complained to the poet, asking him what he’d seen in her that caused him not to include her among the others, and that he should add to his satire and put her in the appendix. If not, he should beware of the consequences. The poet did as she asked, and described her in a way that even a duenna wouldn’t repeat, and she was quite satisfied to see herself famous, even though she was now infamous. And this brings to mind what they say about the shepherd who set fire to and burned down the famous temple of Diana, hailed as one of the seven wonders of the world, only because he wanted his name to stay alive in future centuries. And although it was ordered that no one should utter or write his name, so that he wouldn’t get the fame he wanted, it was still known that he was called Herostratus.

“This reminds me, too, of what happened to the great Emperor Carlos V with a gentleman in Rome. The emperor wanted to see the famous Temple of the Rotunda, which in ancient times was known as the Pantheon, and nowadays, with a Catholic name, as All Saints. It’s the best-preserved building erected by the pagans in Rome, and the one that conserves best the grandeur and magnificence of its founders. It has the shape of half an orange and is extremely large and well-lit, its only illumination coming from a window, or better said, a round skylight in the top, from which the emperor was looking down into the building, and at his side was a Roman gentleman who was telling him about the fine points and subtleties of that great building and its memorable architecture. Once they had left the skylight, the man said to the emperor: ‘Holy Majesty, I was tempted a thousand times to hold on to you and hurl myself through that skylight to achieve eternal fame throughout the world.’

“ ‘I thank you,’ responded the emperor, ‘for not having succumbed to such a wicked impulse, and from now on I won’t give you the opportunity to put your loyalty to the test, and so I forbid you to speak to me or appear in my presence ever again,’ and after he said that, he gave him a nice gift.

“I mean, Sancho, that the desire to be famous is a powerful incentive: what was it that made Horatius throw himself from the bridge, in full armor, into the depths of the Tiber? What is it that caused Mucius to burn his arm and hand? What was it that caused Curtius to throw himself in the deep burning pit that appeared in the middle of Rome? What was it that, contrary to all the omens shown to him, made Cæsar cross the Rubicon? And with some modern examples, what was it that caused the very courteous Cortés to scuttle his ships and strand and isolate his brave Spaniards in the New World? All these and other great and different deeds are, were, and will be monuments that mortal men desire as a reward and part of the immortality that their actions merit, although Christians, Catholics, and knights errant should rather aim for future glory in heaven than to the vanity of fame attained in this transitory life—this fame, no matter how long it lasts, will come to an end when the world ends at its appointed time. So, Sancho, our deeds will not pass beyond the limit imposed by the Christian religion we profess. We will kill pride when we slay giants; envy, through generosity and goodness of heart; anger, through a calm and quiet mind; gluttony and drowsiness, by eating little and through long vigils; lust and lasciviousness, through faithfulness to those we have made mistresses of our thoughts; sloth, by wandering through all parts of the world seeking opportunities that will make us, in addition to being Christians, into famous knights. Can you see, Sancho, that these are the means by which we can win the highest praise that fame will allow?

“Everything your grace has said up to now,” said Sancho, “I’ve understood very well, but even so, I would like you to revolve a doubt that has come to mind just now.”

“Resolve, you mean, Sancho,” said don Quixote. “Tell me, and I’ll respond as well as I know how.”

“Tell me, señor,” Sancho went on, “those Julys or Augusts, and all those industrious knights that you’ve mentioned who are now dead, where are they now?”

“The pagans,” responded don Quixote, “are doubtless in hell. The Christians, if they were good ones, are either in purgatory or in heaven.”

“That’s fine,” said Sancho, “but let’s see now—those sepulchers where those bigshots lie, do they have silver lamps in front of them, or are the walls of their chapels decorated with crutches, shrouds, locks of hair, or legs and eyes made of wax? And if this isn’t so, what are they decorated with?”

To which don Quixote responded: “The sepulchers of gentiles were usually sumptuous temples. The ashes from the body of Julius Cæsar were put in a pyramid of stone of inordinate size in Rome, which they call ST. PETER’S NEEDLE. A castle as large as a small town, which they called MOLES HADRIANI, served as the sepulcher for the Emperor Hadrian, and is now called Castel Sant’Angelo in Rome. Queen Artemesia entombed her husband Mausolus in a sepulcher that was one of the seven wonders of the world—but none of these sepulchers, nor any other of the many used by pagans, was decorated with shrouds or other offerings and tokens to show that those buried there are saints.”

“I’m coming to that,” replied Sancho, “tell me now which is greater, to bring a dead person back to life or to kill a giant?” “The answer is obvious,” responded don Quixote, “it’s greater to bring a dead person back to life.”

“I’ve got you there,” said Sancho, “so the fame of the person who brings the dead back to life, gives sight to the blind, makes the cripple whole, and restores health to the sick, and in front of whose sepulchers lamps burn, and their chapels are full of devout people who adore their relics on their knees—their fame will be better both for this world and the next than what was achieved by all the pagan emperors and knights errant who have ever lived.”

“I confess that’s the truth as well,” responded don Quixote.

“So, this fame, these favors, these prerogatives, or whatever you call them,” responded Sancho, “pertain to the bodies and relics of the saints, which, with the approval of the Holy Mother Church, have lamps, candles, shrouds, crutches, paintings, locks of hair, eyes, and legs, which increase their devotion and enhance their Christian fame. Kings carry the bodies of saints or their relics on their shoulders, they kiss fragments of their bones, they adorn and enrich their oratories and most prized altars…”

“And what should I be getting out of all you’ve said?” said don Quixote.

“What I’m getting at,” said Sancho, “is that we should try to become saints and we’ll get the fame we’re after much sooner. Did your grace know, señor, that just yesterday or the day before—it was such a short time ago it seems like yesterday—they canonized or beatified two barefoot friars, and now it’s considered great good luck just to be able to kiss or touch the chains of iron with which they had been bound and tortured, and those chains are more venerated, the way I said, than Roland’s sword in the armory of the king our lord, who may God protect? So, señor, it’s better to be a humble friar of any order whatsoever, than to be a valiant knight errant. Two dozen whiplashes go further with God than two thousand lance thrusts, whether to giants or monsters or dragons.”

“All that is so,” responded don Quixote, “but not everybody can be a friar, and there are many roads by which God leads his own to heaven. Chivalry is a religion, and there are knightly saints in heaven.”

“Yes,” responded Sancho, “but I’ve heard that there are more friars in heaven than knights errant.”

“That’s right,” responded don Quixote, “because there’s a greater number of those of the religious vocation than there is of knights.”

“There are many adventurers,” said Sancho.

“Many,” responded don Quixote, “but few are those who deserve to be called knights.”

In these and other similar conversations they spent the whole night and the following day, without anything worthy of being reported happening to them, which disturbed don Quixote not a little. Finally, the next day at nightfall, they saw the great city of El Toboso, which gladdened the spirits of don Quixote and saddened Sancho, because he didn’t know where Dulcinea’s house was, nor had he ever seen it in his whole life, and neither had his master. Both were excited, the one because he was eager to see her and the other because he’d never seen her, and Sancho had no idea what he was going to do when his master sent him into El Toboso. Finally, don Quixote said they would enter the town at nightfall, and during that time, they waited among some oak trees near El Toboso. And at the proper time they entered the city, where important things happened to them.