“I’m here because I made too merry with two girls who were cousins of mine, and with two other sisters who weren’t mine; in short, I made so merry with all of them, and the merriment complicated my family relations so much, that not even the devil can straighten it out. The case was proved, nobody showed me favor, I had no money, I almost had my gullet in a noose, they sentenced me to six years in the galleys, and I agreed: it’s a punishment for my crime; I’m young; just let me stay alive, because where there’s life there’s hope. If your grace, Señor, has something to help these poor men, God will reward you in heaven, and here on earth we’ll be sure to ask God in our devotions that the life and well-being of your grace be as long-lasting and as fine as your meritorious person deserves.”
He was dressed as a student, and one of the guards said he was a great talker and clever in Latin.
Behind all of them came a man of about thirty who was very good-looking except that one eye tended to veer slightly toward the other. He was shackled differently from the rest, because around his foot was a chain so large it encircled his entire body, and there were two fetters around his neck, one attached to the chain and the other, the kind called a keeper or a brace,4 from which there hung two irons that reached to his waist, and on these were two manacles holding his hands and locked with a heavy padlock, so that he could not raise his hands to his mouth or lower his head to his hands. Don Quixote asked why that man wore so many more shackles than the others. The guard responded that it was because he alone had committed more crimes than all the rest combined, and was so daring and such a great villain that even though he was bound in this way, they still did not feel secure about him and were afraid he would escape.
“What crimes can they be,” said Don Quixote, “if they have deserved no greater punishment than his being sent to the galleys?”
“He’s going for ten years,” replied the guard, “which is like a civil death. All you need to know is that this is the famous Ginés de Pasamonte, also known as Ginesillo de Parapilla.”
“Señor Commissary,” the galley slave said, “just take it easy and let’s not go around dropping all kinds of names and surnames. My name is Ginés, not Ginesillo, and my family is from Pasamonte, not Parapilla, as you’ve said; and if each man looks to his own affairs, he’ll have plenty to tend to.”
“Keep a civil tongue,” replied the commissary, “you great thief, unless you want me to shut you up in a way you won’t like.”
“It certainly seems,” responded the galley slave, “that man proposes and God disposes, but one day somebody will know whether or not my name is Ginesillo de Parapilla.”
“Well, don’t they call you that, you liar?” said the guard.
“They do,” responded Ginés, “but I’ll make sure they don’t, or I’ll tear out their hair and they know where. Señor, if you have anything to give us, give it and go with God; your wanting to know so much about other people’s lives is becoming irritating, but if you want to know about mine, know that I’m Ginés de Pasamonte, whose life has been written by these very fingers.”5
“He’s telling the truth,” said the commissary. “He wrote his own history himself, as fine as you please, and he pawned the book for two hundred reales and left it in prison.”
“And I intend to redeem it,” said Ginés, “even for two hundred ducados.”
“Is it that good?” said Don Quixote.
“It’s so good,” responded Ginés, “that it’s too bad for Lazarillo de Tormes and all the other books of that genre that have been or will be written. What I can tell your grace is that it deals with truths, and they are truths so appealing and entertaining that no lies can equal them.”
“And what is the title of the book?” asked Don Quixote.
“The Life of Ginés de Pasamonte,” Ginés replied.
“And is it finished?” asked Don Quixote.
“How can it be finished,” he responded, “if my life isn’t finished yet? What I’ve written goes from my birth to the moment when they sentenced me to the galleys this last time.”
“Then you have been there before?” said Don Quixote.
“To serve God and the king, I’ve already spent four years on the galleys, and I know the taste of the hardtack and the overseer’s whip,” responded Ginés. “And I’m not too sorry to go there, because I’ll have time to finish my book, for I still have lots of things to say, and on the galleys of Spain there’s more leisure than I’ll need, though I don’t need much for what I have to write because I know it by heart.”
“You seem clever,” said Don Quixote.
“And unfortunate,” responded Ginés, “because misfortunes always pursue the talented.”
“They pursue villains,” said the commissary.
“I’ve already told you, Señor Commissary,” responded Pasamonte, “to take it easy; those gentlemen didn’t give you that staff of office for you to abuse us poor wretches but to lead and guide us to wherever His Majesty commands. If not, by the life of…Enough! One day those dark stains at the inn may come to light, so let’s all hold our tongues, and live well, and speak better, and keep walking; the joke’s gone on too long.”
The commissary raised his staff to strike Pasamonte in response to his threats, but Don Quixote placed himself between them and asked that he not abuse the prisoner, for it was not surprising that a man whose hands were so tightly bound would have a rather loose tongue. And turning to all those on the chain, he said:
“From everything you have said to me, dear brothers, I deduce that although you are being punished for your faults, the penalties you are about to suffer are not to your liking, and you go to them unwillingly and involuntarily; it might be that the lack of courage this one showed under torture, that one’s need of money, another’s lack of favor, and finally, the twisted judgment of the judge, have been the reason for your ruination, and for not having justice on your side. All of which is pictured in my mind, and is telling, persuading, and even compelling me to show to all of you the reason that heaven put me in the world and made me profess the order of chivalry, which I do profess, and take the vow I took to favor those in need and those oppressed by the powerful. But, because I know that one of the rules of prudence is that what can be done by good means should not be done by bad, I want to ask these gentlemen, the guards and the commissary, to be so good as to unchain you and let you go in peace; there will be no lack of other men to serve the king under better circumstances, for to me it seems harsh to make slaves of those whom God and nature made free. Furthermore, these poor wretches have done nothing against you gentlemen. Each man must bear his own sin; there is a God in heaven who does not fail to punish the wicked or reward the good, and it is not right for honorable men to persecute other men who have not harmed them. I ask this quietly and calmly because if you comply, I shall have reason to thank you, and if you do not comply willingly, this lance and this sword, and the valor of this my arm, will force you to comply against your will.”
“A fine piece of nonsense!” responded the commissary. “He’s finally come out with it! He wants us to let the king’s prisoners go, as if we had the authority to free them or he had the authority to order us to do so! Your grace, Señor, be on your way, and straighten that basin you’re wearing on your head, and don’t go around looking for a three-legged cat.”6
“You are the cat, the rat, and the scoundrel!” responded Don Quixote.
Speaking and acting were all one, and he charged so quickly that he did not give the commissary time to defend himself and knocked him to the ground, wounding him with a thrust of his lance, and it was fortunate for Don Quixote that he did, for this was the man holding the flint-lock. The other guards were stunned, overwhelmed by this unexpected turn of events, but they came to their senses, and those on horseback put their hands on their swords, and those on foot grasped their javelins, and they charged Don Quixote, who very calmly waited for them; matters undoubtedly would have gone badly for him if the galley slaves, seeing
the opportunity presented to them to obtain their freedom, had not attempted to achieve it by breaking the chain to which they were fettered. So great was the confusion that the guards, turning now to the galley slaves, who were breaking free, and now to Don Quixote, who was attacking them, did nothing of any use.
Sancho, for his part, helped to free Ginés de Pasamonte, who was the first to leap into the battle free and unencumbered, and, rushing at the fallen commissary, he took his sword and flintlock, and by pointing it at one and aiming it at another, without ever firing he cleared the field of guards because they all fled from Pasamonte’s flintlock and from the shower of stones that the galley slaves, who were free by now, were hurling at them.
This made Sancho very sad, because it seemed to him that those who were fleeing would inform the Holy Brotherhood, who would then come looking for the lawbreakers, sounding the alarm, and he told this to his master and begged that they leave immediately and hide in the mountains, which were not far away.
“That is all very well and good,” said Don Quixote, “but I know what must be done now.”
And calling to all the galley slaves, who were in a state of frenzy and had stripped the commissary down to his skin, they gathered round to see what he wanted of them, and he said:
“It is customary for wellborn people to give thanks for the benefits they receive, and one of the sins that most offends God is ingratitude. I say this, Señores, because you have already seen and had manifest proof of what you have received from me, and in payment it is my wish and desire that, bearing the chain which I removed from your necks, you immediately set out for the city of Toboso, and there appear before the lady Dulcinea of Toboso, and say that her knight, he of the Sorrowful Face, commends himself to her, and you will tell her, point by point, every detail of this famous adventure, up to the moment when you achieved your desired freedom; having done this, you may go wherever you wish, and may good fortune go with you.”
Ginés de Pasamonte responded for all of them, and he said:
“What your grace, our lord and liberator, orders us to do, is absolutely impossible for us to carry out, because we cannot travel the roads together but must go our separate ways, each man on his own, trying to burrow into the bowels of the earth so as not to be found by the Holy Brotherhood, who, beyond any doubt, will come looking for us. What your grace can do, and it is right and proper that you do so, is to change this service and tribute to the lady Dulcinea of Toboso into a certain number of Ave Marías and Credos, which we will say on your grace’s behalf, and this is something that can be done night or day, fleeing or at rest, at peace or at war; but to think that we will go back to our miseries in Egypt, I mean to say, that we will take up our chain and set out for Toboso, is to think that night has fallen now when it is not yet ten in the morning; asking that of us is like asking pears of an elm tree.”
“Well, then, I do swear,” said Don Quixote, his wrath rising, “Don Whoreson, Don Ginesillo de Paropillo, or whatever your name is, that you will go alone, your tail between your legs, and the entire chain on your back!”
Pasamonte was not a man of great forbearance; already aware that Don Quixote was not very sane, for he had done something so foolish as wanting to give them their freedom, and seeing himself spoken to in this way, he winked at his companions, and, moving a short distance away, they began to throw so many stones at Don Quixote that he could not even manage to protect himself with his shield, and poor Rocinante paid no more attention to his master’s spurs than if he had been made of bronze. Sancho hid behind his donkey, protecting himself in this way from the hailstorm of rocks pouring down on them. Don Quixote could not shield himself as well as Sancho, for so many stones found their mark on his body, and with so much force, that they knocked him to the ground; as soon as he had fallen, the student attacked him and took the basin from his head and struck him three or four blows with it on his shoulders and smashed it an equal number of times on the ground until he had shattered it. They took a doublet he wore over his armor and would have taken his hose if the greaves of his leg armor had not prevented them from doing so. From Sancho they took his coat, leaving him in shirtsleeves; then, after dividing among themselves the other spoils of battle, each went his separate way, more concerned with escaping the Brotherhood, which they feared, than with picking up the chain and carrying it to the lady Dulcinea of Toboso.
The donkey and Rocinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, were left alone; the donkey, pensive, with bowed head, twitching his ears from time to time, thinking that the tempest of stones had not yet ended and was still falling around his ears; Rocinante, lying beside his master, for he too had fallen to the ground in the shower of stones; Sancho, in his shirtsleeves and afraid of the Holy Brotherhood; Don Quixote, grief-stricken at seeing himself so injured by the very people for whom he had done so much good.
CHAPTER XXIII
Regarding what befell the famous Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena, which was one of the strangest adventures recounted in this true history
Seeing himself so injured, Don Quixote said to his squire:
“I have always heard, Sancho, that doing good to the lowborn is throwing water into the sea. If I had believed what you told me, I should have avoided this grief, but what is done is done, and so patience, and let it be a lesson for the future.”
“Your grace will learn the lesson,” responded Sancho, “the same way I’m a Turk; but since you say that if you had believed me this trouble could have been avoided, believe me now and avoid one even greater; I’m telling you that you can’t use chivalries with the Holy Brotherhood because they wouldn’t give two maravedís for all the knights errant in the world; you should also know that their arrows already seem to be buzzing past my ears.”
“You are naturally a coward, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but so that you will not say that I am stubborn and never do as you advise, on this occasion I want to take your advice and withdraw from the ferocity that frightens you so, but it must be on one condition: that never, in life or in death, are you to tell anyone that I withdrew and retreated from this danger out of fear, but only to satisfy your pleas, and if you say otherwise you will be lying, and from now until then, and then until now, I shall deny it and say that you lie, and will lie every time you think or say it. And do not reply, for merely thinking that I am withdrawing and retreating from any danger, especially this one, which seems to carry with it some small shadow of fear, is enough to make me want to remain and wait here alone, not only for the Holy Brotherhood which you have mentioned and fear so much, but for the brothers of the twelve tribes of Israel, and the seven Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux, and all the brothers and brotherhoods that there are in the world.”
“Señor,” responded Sancho, “withdrawing is not running away, and waiting is not sensible when danger outweighs hope, and wise men know to save something for tomorrow and not risk everything in a single day. And you should know that even though I’m rough and lowborn, I still know something about what people call proper behavior, and so don’t repent of taking my advice but mount Rocinante if you can, and if not I’ll help you, and follow me, because my brains tell me we need our feet now more than our hands.”
Don Quixote mounted, not saying another word, and with Sancho leading the way on his donkey, they entered a part of the Sierra Morena that was close by, it being Sancho’s intention to cross the entire range and come out at Viso, or Almodóvar del Campo, and hide for a few days in that rugged terrain and not be found if the Brotherhood came looking for them. He had been encouraged to do so when he saw that the provisions carried on his donkey had escaped the skirmish with the galley slaves, which he deemed a miracle considering everything else they had taken away.1
As soon as Don Quixote entered those mountains his heart filled with joy, for it was a landscape that seemed suited to the adventures he was seeking. What he recalled were the marvelous events that had befallen knights errant in similarly desolate and wild places. He rode along, thinking o
f these things, so enthralled and transported that he thought of nothing else. And Sancho’s only care—after deciding that the way was safe—was to satisfy his stomach with what remained of their clerical spoils; and so he rode behind his master, sitting sidesaddle on his donkey as he took things out of a sack and packed them away in his belly, and did not care at all about finding any greater fortune as long as he could go along in this fashion.
Then he looked up and saw that his master had stopped and with the tip of his lance was attempting to lift some kind of bundle lying on the ground, and therefore he hurried to offer his help, if necessary; he reached Don Quixote just as he lifted, with the tip of his lance, a saddle cushion with a traveling case attached to it, half rotting, or completely rotting and falling to pieces, but weighing so much that Sancho had to dismount and pick them up, and his master told him to see what was in the traveling case.
Sancho did so very quickly, and although the case was closed with a chain and padlock, it was so worn and rotten that he could see what was inside: four shirts of fine cambric and some other items of linen as curious as they were clean, and in a handkerchief he found a nice pile of gold escudos; and when he saw them, he said:
“Glory be to heaven for sending us a profitable adventure!”
And, searching further, he discovered a small diary that was richly decorated. Don Quixote asked for this but told him to keep the money for himself. Sancho kissed his hands in gratitude and emptied the case of its linen, which he packed away in the sack of provisions. All of this was observed by Don Quixote, who said:
“It seems to me, Sancho, and it cannot be otherwise, that some traveler lost his way in these mountains and was set upon by ruffians, who must have killed him and carried him to this remote spot to bury him.”
“That can’t be right,” responded Sancho, “because if they were thieves, they wouldn’t have left the money here.”
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