And in this fashion he named many knights from the two hosts, which he was imagining, and for all of them he improvised armor, colors, legends, and devices, carried along by the imagination of his unheard-of madness, and without pausing he continued, saying:
“This host facing us is made up and composed of people from diverse nations: here are those who drink the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus;6 the mountain folk who tread the Massilian plain; those who sift fine gold nuggets in Arabia Felix; those who enjoy the famous cool shores of the crystalline Thermodon; those who drain by many diverse means the golden Pactolus; and Numidians, untrustworthy in their promises; Persians, those notable archers; Parthians and Medes, who fight as they flee; Arabians, with movable houses; Scythians, as cruel as they are white-skinned; Ethiopians, with pierced lips; and an infinite number of other nations, whose faces I recognize and see, although I do not recall their names. In this other host come those who drink the crystalline currents of the olive-bearing Betis; those who shine and burnish their faces with the liquid of the forever rich and golden Tajo; those who enjoy the beneficial waters of the divine Genil; those who tread Tartessian fields, with their abundant pastures; those who take pleasure in the Elysian meadows of Jerez; Manchegans, rich and crowned with yellow spikes of wheat; those clad in iron, ancient relics of Gothic blood; those who bathe in the Pisuerga, famous for the gentleness of its current; those who graze their cattle on the extensive pasturelands of the sinuous Guadiana, celebrated for its hidden currents; those who tremble in the cold of the wooded Pyrenees and the white peaks of the high Apennines; in short, all those contained and sheltered in the entirety of Europe.”
Lord save me! What a number of provinces he mentioned and nations he named, attributing to each one, with marvelous celerity, the characteristics that belonged to it, so absorbed and immersed was he in his lying books!
Sancho Panza hung on his words but said none of his own, and from time to time he turned his head to see if he could see the knights and giants his master was naming; since he could not make out any of them, he said:
“Señor, may the devil take me, but no man, giant, or knight of all those your grace has mentioned can be seen anywhere around here; at least, I don’t see them; maybe it’s all enchantment, like last night’s phantoms.”
“How can you say that?” responded Don Quixote. “Do you not hear the neighing of the horses, the call of the clarions, the sound of the drums?”
“I don’t hear anything,” responded Sancho, “except the bleating of lots of sheep.”
And this was the truth, because the two flocks were drawing near.
“It is your fear, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that keeps you from seeing or hearing properly, because one of the effects of fear is to cloud the senses and make things appear other than they are; if you are so frightened, withdraw somewhere and leave me alone; alone I suffice to give victory to the army to whom I shall proffer my assistance.”
And having said this, he spurred Rocinante, fixed his lance in its socket, and rode down the side of the hill like a flash of lightning. Sancho called to him, saying:
“Your grace, come back, Señor Don Quixote, I swear to God you’re charging sheep! Come back, by the wretched father who sired me! What madness is this? Look and see that there are no giants or knights, no cats or armor or shields either parted or whole, no blue vairs or bedeviled ones, either. Poor sinner that I am in the sight of God, what are you doing?”
But none of this made Don Quixote turn back; instead, in a loud voice, he cried:
“Come, you knights who follow and serve under the banners of the valiant Emperor Pentapolín of the Tucked-up Sleeve, follow me, all of you, and you will see how easily I give you revenge upon your enemy Alifanfarón of Trapobane!”
Saying this, he rode into the midst of the host of sheep and began to run at them with his lance as fearlessly and courageously as if he really were attacking his mortal enemies. The shepherds and herdsmen guarding the flock came running, shouting for him to stop, but seeing that this had no effect, they unhooked their slings and began to greet his ears with stones as big as fists. Don Quixote took no notice of the stones; instead, he rode back and forth, crying:
“Where art thou, haughty Alifanfarón? Come here to me, for I am only one knight who wishes, in single combat, to try thy strength and take thy life as forfeit for the wrong thou hast done to the valiant Pentapolín Garamanta.”
At that moment, a small round pebble7 came flying and hit him in the side, entombing two ribs inside his body. Seeing himself so battered, he undoubtedly believed he was dead or gravely wounded, and remembering his potion, he took out the cruet, put it to his mouth, and began to pour the potion into his stomach, but before he had finished swallowing what seemed to him a sufficient quantity, another almond came flying and hit his hand, striking the cruet so squarely that it broke into pieces, taking along three or four teeth and molars from his mouth and smashing two of his fingers.
The first blow was so hard, as well as the second, that the poor knight could not help falling from his horse. The shepherds came running and thought they had killed him, and so they hurriedly gathered their flocks together, picked up the dead animals, which numbered more than seven, and left without further inquiry.
All this time Sancho was on the hill, watching the lunatic actions of his master, and he tore at his beard, cursing the hour and the moment when fortune had allowed him to make his acquaintance. When he saw that Don Quixote was lying on the ground and that the shepherds had gone, he came down the slope and went over to his master and found him in a very bad way, although he had not lost consciousness, and he said to him:
“Didn’t I tell you, Señor Don Quixote, to come back, that it wasn’t armies you were attacking but flocks of sheep?”
“This is how that thieving wise man, who is my enemy, can make things disappear and seem to be what they are not. You should know, Sancho, that it is very easy for those like him to make us see whatever they wish, and this villain who pursues me, envious of the glory that he saw I would achieve in this battle, has turned the contending armies into flocks of sheep. And if you do not believe me, by my life you can do something, Sancho, to be undeceived and see the truth of what I am telling you: mount your donkey and follow them, with some cunning, and you will see how, when they have moved a certain distance away, they resume their original form and are no longer sheep but real, complete men, just as I first described them to you…. But do not go now, for I have need of your help and assistance; come here and see how many molars and teeth I have lost, because it seems to me I do not have a single one left in my mouth.”
Sancho came so close that his eyes were almost in his master’s mouth; by this time the balm had taken effect in Don Quixote’s stomach, and just as Sancho looked into his mouth, he threw up, more vigorously than if he were firing a musket, everything he had inside, and all of it hit the compassionate squire in the face.
“Mother of God!” said Sancho. “What’s happened? Surely this poor sinner is mortally wounded, for he’s vomiting blood from his mouth.”
But looking a little more closely, he realized by the color, taste, and smell that it was not blood but the balm from the cruet, which he had seen him drink, and he was so disgusted by this that his stomach turned over and he vomited his innards all over his master, and the two of them were left as splendid as pearls. Sancho went to his donkey to find something in the saddlebags with which to clean himself and heal his master, and when he did not see the saddlebags he almost lost his mind. He cursed his fate again and resolved in his heart to leave his master and return home even if he lost his wages for the time he had worked, along with his hopes for the governorship of the promised ínsula.
Then Don Quixote rose to his feet, placed his left hand over his mouth so that no more teeth would fall out, and grasped Rocinante’s reins with the other, for the horse had not moved from his master’s side—that is how loyal and well-disposed he was—and walked to where h
is squire was standing, leaning against his donkey and resting his cheek in his hand, in the manner of a man deep in thought. And seeing him like this, showing signs of so much sadness, Don Quixote said:
“You should know, Sancho, that a man is not worth more than any other if he does not do more than any other. All these squalls to which we have been subjected are signs that the weather will soon improve and things will go well for us, because it is not possible for the bad or the good to endure forever; from this it follows that since the bad has lasted so long a time, the good is close at hand. Therefore you must not grieve for the misfortunes that befall me, for you have no part in them.”
“What do you mean, no part?” responded Sancho. “By some chance was the man tossed in a blanket yesterday anybody but my father’s son? And the saddlebags that are missing today, along with all my valuable goods, do they belong to anybody else but me?”
“Did you say that the saddlebags are missing, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“Yes, they’re missing,” responded Sancho.
“Then we have nothing to eat today,” replied Don Quixote.
“That would be true,” responded Sancho, “if these fields didn’t have the wild plants your grace says you know about, the ones that unfortunate knights errant such as your grace use to make up for shortages like this one.”
“Despite that,” Don Quixote responded, “now I would rather have a ration of bread or a large loaf and a couple of sardine heads than all the plants described by Dioscorides or commented on by Dr. Laguna.8 But be that as it may, mount your donkey, my good Sancho, and follow me, for God, who provides all things, will not fail us, especially since we are so much in His service, when He does not fail the gnats in the air, or the grubs in the earth, or the tadpoles in the water; He is so merciful that He makes His sun to shine on the good and the evil and His rain to fall on the unjust and the just.”
“Your grace would do better,” said Sancho, “as a preacher than as a knight errant.”
“Knights errant knew and must know about everything, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “because there were knights errant in past times who would stop to give a sermon or a talk in the middle of the field of battle just as if they were graduates of the University of Paris, from which one can infer that the lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.”
“Fine, whatever your grace says,” responded Sancho, “but let’s leave now and find a place to spend the night, and, God willing, there won’t be any blankets, or people who toss blankets, or phantoms, or enchanted Moors, and if there are, I’ll send the whole pack of them to the devil.”
“God’s will be done, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and lead the way, for this time I want you to select the place where we shall sleep. But first give me your hand, and feel with your finger, and see how many teeth and molars I am missing here on the right side of my upper jaw, for that is where I feel the pain.”
Sancho put his fingers in his master’s mouth, and as he was feeling inside, he said:
“How many molars did your grace have on this side?”
“Four,” responded Don Quixote, “and except for the wisdom tooth, all of them sound and healthy.”
“Señor, your grace should think carefully about what you’re saying,” Sancho responded.
“I say four, or perhaps five,” responded Don Quixote, “because never in my life have I had a tooth or molar pulled, nor has one ever fallen out, or been eaten by decay, or afflicted by any abscess.”
“Well, in this lower part,” said Sancho, “your grace has no more than two and a half molars, and in the upper part, none at all, not even a half; it’s all as smooth as the palm of your hand.”
“Woe is me!” said Don Quixote when he heard the sad news from his squire. “I should rather have lost an arm, as long as it was not the one that wields my sword. For I must tell you, Sancho, that a mouth without molars is like a mill without a millstone, and dentation is to be valued much more than diamonds. But we who profess the arduous order of chivalry are subject to all of this. Mount, my friend, and lead the way, for I shall follow you along any path you choose.”
Sancho did so and headed in the direction where he thought they might find lodging without leaving the king’s highway, which was very well traveled in that area.
They rode very slowly because the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws gave him no peace and did not allow him to go any faster; Sancho wanted to divert and distract him by talking to him, and among other things, he said what will be related in the next chapter.
CHAPTER XIX
Regarding the discerning words that Sancho exchanged with his master, and the adventure he had with a dead body, as well as other famous events
“It seems to me, Señor, that all these misfortunes we’ve had recently are surely a punishment for the sin your grace committed against your order of chivalry, since you didn’t keep the vow you made not to eat bread from a tablecloth or to lie with the queen, and everything else that comes afterward and that your grace swore to fulfill, including taking that helmet of Malandrino1 or whatever the Moor’s name is, I don’t remember exactly.”
“You are certainly correct, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but to tell you the truth, it had slipped my mind; and you can also be sure your negligence in not reminding me of it in time is the reason you had the incident with the blanket, but I shall rectify that for you, for in the order of chivalry there are means to grant dispensations for everything.”
“But when did I ever swear to anything?” responded Sancho.
“It does not matter that you have not made a vow,” said Don Quixote. “It is enough for me to understand that you are not completely free of complicity, and so, just in case, it would be a good idea for us to settle on a remedy.”
“Well, if that’s true,” said Sancho, “your grace should be sure not to forget about it the way you forgot your vow; maybe the phantoms will feel like having fun with me again, or even with your grace, if they see you being so persistent.”
They were engaged in this and other conversations when night found them still on the road, not having found a place to sleep; even worse, they were perishing of hunger, for the loss of the saddlebags meant the loss of all their provisions and supplies. And as a final confirmation of their misfortune, they had an adventure that, without any kind of contrivance, really did seem to be one. And so night fell, bringing some darkness with it, but despite this they continued on, for Sancho believed that since the road was the king’s highway, in one or two leagues it was likely they would find an inn.
They were riding along, then, the night dark, the squire hungry, and the master with a desire to eat, when they saw coming toward them, on the same road they were traveling, a great multitude of lights that looked like nothing so much as moving stars. Sancho was frightened when he saw them, and Don Quixote felt uneasy; one tugged on his donkey’s halter, and the other pulled at the reins of his skinny horse, and they came to a halt, looking carefully to see what those lights might be, and they saw them approaching, and the closer they came the bigger they seemed; seeing this, Sancho began to tremble like a jack-in-the-box, and the hairs on Don Quixote’s head stood on end; then, taking heart, he said:
“This, Sancho, is undoubtedly an exceedingly great and dangerous adventure, in which it will be necessary for me to demonstrate all my valor and courage.”
“Woe is me!” Sancho responded. “If this adventure has anything to do with phantoms, which is how it’s looking to me, who has the ribs that can stand it?”
“Whether they are phantoms or not,” said Don Quixote, “I shall not permit any of them to touch even a thread of your garments, for if they had their fun with you the last time, it was because I could not get over the wall of the corral, but now we are in open country, where I shall be able to wield my sword as I choose.”
“And if they enchant you and stop you from moving the way they did the last time,” said Sancho, “what difference will it make if you’re in open country
or not?”
“Despite everything,” replied Don Quixote, “I beg you, Sancho, to have courage, for experience will allow you to understand the extent of mine.”
“I will, may it please God,” responded Sancho.
And the two of them moved to the side of the road and began again to look closely to see what those traveling lights might be, and it was not long before they were able to make out a good number of shirted men,2 and at that fearful sight Sancho completely lost his courage, and his teeth began to chatter as if he had quartain fever, and the clatter of his teeth grew louder when they could make out clearly what this was, because they saw some twenty shirted men, all of them mounted and carrying burning torches in their hands, and behind them came a litter covered in mourning, followed by another six mounted men draped in mourning down to the hooves of their mules, for the calm gait made it clear that these were not horses. The shirted men were talking quietly among themselves in low, sorrowful voices. This strange vision, at that hour and in so deserted a place, was more than enough to instill fear in Sancho’s heart, and even in his master’s, and if that was true for Don Quixote, then Sancho had already lost whatever courage he had. But the opposite happened to his master, for in his vivid imagination this appeared to be another adventure from his books.
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