Don Quixote

by Miguel de Cervantes

  And then he held his nose and began to bray so enthusiastically that all the nearby valleys resonated with the sound. But one of the men who was near him, thinking he was mocking them, raised a long pole that he had in his hand and hit him so hard with it that he knocked Sancho Panza to the ground, senseless. Don Quixote, who saw Sancho so badly treated, turned, his lance in hand, on the man who had hit him, but so many men came between them that it was not possible to avenge his squire; instead, seeing that a storm of stones came raining down on him, and that he was being threatened by a thousand crossbows and a similar number of harquebuses, all of them aimed at him, he turned Rocinante’s reins and as fast as his best gallop could carry him, Don Quixote rode away, praying to God with all his heart to save him from that danger, and fearing at each step that a bullet would enter at his back and come out of his chest; at every moment he would take a breath to see if he still could.

  But the men in the squadron were content to see him flee, and they did not shoot at him. They put Sancho across his donkey as soon as he came to, and they allowed him to go after his master, not because he was alert enough to guide the animal, but because the donkey followed in Rocinante’s footsteps since he did not like being without him. When Don Quixote had gone some distance, he turned his head and saw Sancho and waited for him, for he saw that no one was following him.

  The men in the squadron stayed there until nightfall, and since their adversaries had not come out to do battle, they returned to their village joyfully and happily; if they had known about the ancient custom of the Greeks, on that spot and in that place they would have raised a monument to their victory.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Regarding matters that Benengeli says will be known to the reader if he reads with attention

  When the brave man flees, trickery is revealed, and the prudent man waits for a better opportunity. This truth was proved in Don Quixote, who yielded to the fury of the village and the evil intent of the enraged squadron and fled, not thinking of Sancho or the danger in which he left him, and rode the distance he thought sufficient to ensure his safety. Sancho followed, lying across his donkey, as has been related. When he had regained consciousness he overtook Don Quixote, and when he did, Sancho dropped off the donkey at Rocinante’s feet, perturbed, bruised, and battered. Don Quixote dismounted to tend to the squire’s wounds, but since he found him sound from head to foot, with some anger he said:

  “It was an evil hour when you learned how to bray, Sancho!1 And when did you decide it would be a good idea to mention rope in the house of the hanged man? When braying is the music, what counterpoint can there be except a beating? Give thanks to God, Sancho, that even though they made the sign of the cross over you with a stick, they did not cut a per signum crucis2 on your face.”

  “I’m not about to respond,” responded Sancho, “because it seems to me I’m talking with my back. Let’s mount and leave this place, and I’ll silence my braying, but I won’t stop saying that knights errant run away and leave their good squires beaten to a pulp or ground up like grain and in the power of their enemies.”

  “Withdrawal is not flight,” responded Don Quixote, “because you should know, Sancho, that valor not founded on the base of prudence is called recklessness, and the deeds of the reckless are attributed more to good fortune than to courage. And so I confess that I withdrew, but not that I fled, and in this I have imitated many valiant men who have waited for a better moment; the histories are full of such cases, but since they would not be to your advantage or my taste, I shall not recount them to you now.”

  By now Sancho had mounted his donkey, with the assistance of Don Quixote, who then mounted Rocinante, and slowly they rode toward a stand of poplars that appeared about a quarter of a league distant. From time to time Sancho heaved some very deep sighs and mournful groans, and when Don Quixote asked the cause of such bitter feeling, he responded that from the base of his spine to the back of his neck he was in so much pain that it was driving him mad.

  “The cause of this pain no doubt must be,” said Don Quixote, “that since the staff they used to beat you was long and tall, it hit the length of your back, which is where the parts that pain you are located; if it had hit more of you, more of you would be in pain.”

  “By God,” said Sancho, “your grace has cleared up a great doubt, and said it so nicely, too! Lord save us! Was the cause of my pain so hidden that you had to tell me I hurt where the staff hit me? If my ankles hurt, there might be a reason to try and guess why, but guessing that I hurt where I was beaten isn’t much of a guess. By my faith, Señor Master, other people’s troubles don’t matter very much, and every day I learn something else about how little I can expect from being in your grace’s company, because if you let them beat me this time, then a hundred more times we’ll be back to the old tossings in a blanket and other tricks like that, and if it was my back now, the next time it’ll be my eyes. I’d be much better off, but I’m an idiot and will never do anything right in my life, but I’d be much better off, and I’ll say it again, if I went back home to my wife and children and supported her and brought them up with whatever it pleased God to give me, instead of following after your grace on roads that have no destination, and byways and highways that lead nowhere, drinking badly and eating worse. And sleeping! Brother squire, you can count on seven feet of ground, and if you want more, take another seven, for it’s all up to you, and you can stretch out to your heart’s content; all I hope is that I can see the first man who put the finishing touches on knight errantry burned and ground into dust, or at least the first one who wanted to be squire to the great fools that all knights errant in the past must have been. I won’t say anything about those in the present; since your grace is one of them, I respect them, and I know that your grace knows a point or two more than the devil in all you say and think.”

  “I would make a wager with you, Sancho,”3 said Don Quixote. “Now that you are speaking and no one is restraining you, you have no pains anywhere in your body. Speak, my friend, and say everything that comes to your mind and your mouth; in exchange for your not having any pains, I shall consider the irritation your impertinence causes me as pleasure. And if you so fervently desire to return to your house and wife and children, God forbid that I do anything to stop you; you have my money; calculate how long it has been since we left our village this third time, and calculate what you can and should earn each month, and pay yourself a salary.”

  “When I served Tomé Carrasco,” responded Sancho, “the father of Bachelor Sansón Carrasco, and your grace knows him very well, I earned two ducados a month, and food besides; with your grace I don’t know what I should earn, though I know that the squire of a knight errant has more work than a man who serves a farmer, because when we serve farmers, no matter how much we work during the day, and no matter what bad things happen to us, at night we eat stew and sleep in beds, which I haven’t done since I started serving your grace. Except for the short time we were in Don Diego de Miranda’s house, and the outing I had with the skimmings I took from Camacho’s pots, and the way I ate and drank and slept in Basilio’s house, all the rest of the time I’ve slept on the hard ground, outside, exposed to what they call the inclemencies of heaven, eating crumbs of cheese and crusts of bread and drinking water from streams or springs or whatever we find in those out-of-the-way places where we travel.”

  “I confess,” said Don Quixote, “that everything you say, Sancho, is true. In your opinion, how much more should I give you than Tomé Carrasco did?”

  “In my opinion,” said Sancho, “if your grace added two reales more a month, I’d think I was well-paid. This is the salary for my work, but as far as satisfying your grace’s word and promise to make me governor of an ínsula, it would be fair to add another six reales, and that would be a total of thirty.”

  “Very well,” replied Don Quixote, “and in accordance with the salary you have indicated, it has been twenty-five days since we left our village: calculate, Sanc
ho, the rate times the amount, and see what I owe you, and pay yourself the money, as I have said.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Sancho, “your grace is very much mistaken in this count, because in the matter of the promise of the ínsula, you have to count from the day your grace promised it to me until this very moment.”

  “Well, Sancho, how long ago did I promise it to you?” said Don Quixote.

  “If I remember correctly,” responded Sancho, “it must be more than twenty years, give or take three days.”

  Don Quixote gave himself a great slap on the forehead and began to laugh very heartily, and he said:

  “My travels in the Sierra Morena or in the course of all our sallies took barely two months, and you say, Sancho, that I promised you the ínsula twenty years ago? Now I say that you want to use all my money for your salary, and if this is true, and it makes you happy, I shall give it all to you, and may it do you good; in exchange for finding myself without so bad a squire, I shall enjoy being poor and not having a blanca. But tell me, you corrupter of the squirely rules of knight errantry, where have you seen or read that any squire of a knight errant has engaged his master in ‘You have to give me this amount plus that amount every month for serving you’? Set sail, set sail, scoundrel, coward, monster, for you seem to be all three, set sail, I say, on the mare magnum4 of their histories, and if you find that any squire has said, or even thought, what you have said here, I want you to fasten it to my forehead and then you can pinch my face four times. Turn the reins or halter of your donkey, and go back to your house, because you will not take another step with me. O bread unthanked! O promises misplaced! O man more animal than human! Now, when I intended to place you in a position where, despite your wife, you would be called Señor, now you take your leave? Now you go, when I had the firm and binding intention of making you lord of the best ínsula in the world? In short, as you have said on other occasions, there is no honey…5 You are a jackass, and must be a jackass, and will end your days as a jackass, for in my opinion, your life will run its course before you accept and realize that you are an animal.”

  Sancho stared at Don Quixote as he was inveighing against him and felt so much remorse that tears came to his eyes, and in a weak and mournful voice he said:

  “Señor, I confess that for me to be a complete jackass, all that’s missing is my tail; if your grace wants to put one on me, I’ll consider it well-placed, and I’ll serve you like a donkey for the rest of my days. Your grace should forgive me, and take pity on my lack of experience, and remember that I know very little, and if I talk too much, it comes more from weakness than from malice, and to err is human, to forgive, divine.”

  “I would be amazed, Sancho, if you did not mix some little proverb into your talk. Well, then, I forgive you as long as you mend your ways and from now on do not show so much interest in your own gain, but attempt to take heart, and have the courage and valor to wait for my promises to be fulfilled, for although it may take some time, it is in no way impossible.”

  Sancho responded that he would, although it would mean finding strength in weakness.

  Saying this, they entered the stand of trees, and Don Quixote settled down at the foot of an elm, and Sancho at the foot of a beech, for these trees, and others like them, always have feet but not hands. Sancho spent a painful night, because he felt the beating more in the night air, and Don Quixote spent the night in his constant memories; even so, their eyes closed in sleep, and at daybreak they continued on their way, looking for the banks of the famous Ebro, where something occurred that will be recounted in the following chapter.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  Regarding the famous adventure of the enchanted boat

  At an unhurried and leisurely pace, two days after they left the stand of trees, Don Quixote and Sancho came to the Ebro River, and seeing it brought great joy to Don Quixote because he contemplated and observed the pleasantness of its banks, the clarity of its waters, the gentleness of its current, and the abundance of its liquid crystal, and this happy sight revived in his memory a thousand amorous thoughts. He lingered especially on what he had seen in the Cave of Montesinos; although Master Pedro’s monkey had told him that some of those things were true and some a lie, he relied more on the true parts than on the false, unlike Sancho, who considered them all the same lie.

  As they proceeded in this fashion, there came into view a small boat that lacked oars or any other kind of gear and was pulled up to shore and tied to the trunk of a tree on the river bank. Don Quixote looked all around and saw no one, and then, without warning, he dismounted Rocinante and told Sancho to do the same with his donkey and to tie both animals very carefully to the trunk of a poplar or willow that was growing there. Sancho asked the reason for this sudden dismounting and tethering of their animals. Don Quixote responded:

  “You must know, Sancho, that this boat clearly and beyond any doubt is calling and inviting me to get in it and sail to assist a knight or some other eminent person in need who must be in grave danger, because in the books of chivalric histories this is what is done by the enchanters who become involved and act in them: when a knight is placed in extreme difficulty and cannot be freed except by the hand of another knight, though the second knight may be at a distance of two or three thousand leagues or even more, either they carry him off on a cloud or provide him with a boat which he enters, and in the blink of an eye they move him through the air or over the sea, wherever they wish and wherever his help is needed; and so, O Sancho, this boat has been placed here for the very same purpose, and this is as true as the fact that it is now day; and before this day is over, tie the donkey and Rocinante together, and may the hand of God guide us, for I would not fail to embark even if asked not to by discalced friars.”

  “Well, if that’s true,” responded Sancho, “and your grace at every step insists on finding nonsensical things, or whatever you call them, there’s nothing I can do but obey, and bow my head, and follow the proverb that says, ‘Do what your master tells you and sit with him at the table.’ But just to satisfy my conscience, I want to warn your grace that I don’t think this boat is one of the enchanted ones; it seems to me it belongs to some fishermen, because the best shad in the world swim this river.”

  Sancho said this as he was tethering the animals, leaving them, with a grieving heart, in the care and protection of the enchanters. Don Quixote told him not to worry about abandoning the animals, for the enchanter who would take them to such longinquous roads and regions would be sure to care for them.

  “I don’t understand logiquos,” said Sancho, “and I don’t think I’ve heard a word like that in all my days.”

  “Longinquous,” responded Don Quixote, “means remote, and it is no wonder you do not understand it, for you are not obliged to know Latin, as are those who boast of knowing it but do not.”

  “The animals are tied,” replied Sancho. “What do we do now?”

  “What?” responded Don Quixote. “Cross ourselves and raise anchor; I mean to say, embark and cut the mooring line that holds this boat.”

  And after leaping in, with Sancho following him, he cut the rope, and the boat started to move slowly away from shore; when Sancho found himself some two varas onto the river he began to tremble, fearing that he was lost; but nothing caused him more grief than the sound of the donkey braying and the sight of Rocinante struggling to break free, and he said to his master:

  “The donkey is braying because he is sorry about our absence, and Rocinante is trying to get free so that he can jump in after us. O dearest friends, stay in peace, and let the madness that takes us away from you turn into disappointment and bring us back to you!”

  And saying this, he began to cry so bitterly that Don Quixote, displeased and irascible, said:

  “What do you fear, coward? Why do you weep, spineless creature? Who is pursuing you, who is hounding you, heart of a mouse, and what do you lack, beggar in the midst of plenty? Are you perhaps walking barefoot through the mountains of the Ri
f, or are you sitting on a bench like an archduke and sailing the tranquil current of this pleasant river, from which we shall shortly emerge onto a calm sea? But we must have emerged already, and traveled at least seven hundred or eight hundred leagues; if I had an astrolabe here and could calculate the height of the pole, I could tell you how far we have traveled, although either I know very little, or we have already passed, or will soon pass, the equinoctial line that divides and separates the opposite poles at an equal distance from each.”

  “And when we reach that lion your grace has mentioned,” asked Sancho, “how far will we have traveled?”

  “A good distance,” replied Don Quixote, “because of the three hundred and sixty degrees of water and earth that the globe contains, according to the computations of Ptolemy, the greatest cosmographer known to man, we shall have traveled half that distance when we reach the line I have mentioned.”

  “By God,” said Sancho, “your grace has brought in a fine witness to testify to what you say, some kind of coast and a raft, and a toll with a meow or something like that.”

  Don Quixote laughed at the interpretation Sancho had given to the name and computations and calculations of the cosmographer Ptolemy, and he said:

  “You should know, Sancho, that the Spaniards and others who embark at Cádiz for the East Indies have a sign to let them know they have passed the equinoctial line, which is that every louse on the ship dies,1 and not one is left alive, and you could not find a single one on the vessel even if you were paid its weight in gold; and so, Sancho, you can run your hand along your thigh, and if you run across a living thing, our doubts will be resolved, and if you do not, then we have passed the line.”

  “I don’t believe any of that,” responded Sancho, “but even so, I’ll do what your grace tells me to, though I don’t know why we need to make these tests, since I can see with my own eyes that we haven’t gone five varas from shore, and we haven’t moved two varas away from the animals because there’s Rocinante and the donkey exactly where we left them, and looking carefully, which is what I’m doing now, I swear that we’re not even moving or traveling as fast as an ant.”