“From this incident we can infer that since the great Don Quixote says he saw there the same peasant girl Sancho saw on the way out of Toboso, she no doubt is Dulcinea, and very clever and meddlesome enchanters are wandering around here.”
“That’s what I say,” said Sancho Panza. “If my lady Dulcinea of Toboso is enchanted, so much the worse for her, but I, I don’t have to take on my master’s enemies, and there must be a lot, all of them very wicked. It may be true that the woman I saw was a peasant, and I thought she was a peasant, and judged her to be a peasant; if that was Dulcinea, I’m not to blame, and nobody should hold me responsible; we’ll see about that. Picking fights with me all the time: ‘Sancho said this, Sancho did that, Sancho turned around, and Sancho went back,’ as if Sancho Panza were just anybody and not the same Sancho Panza who’s wandering the world now in books, which is what Sansón Carrasco told me, and he’s nothing less than a bachelor from Salamanca, and people like him can’t lie except if they feel like it or it’s very convenient; and so nobody should blame me, and since I have a good reputation, and I’ve heard my master say that a good name’s worth more than great wealth, just let them pass this governorship on to me and they’ll see marvels, because whoever’s been a good squire will be a good governor.”
“Everything said here by our good Sancho,” said the duchess, “are Catonian sentences, or, at least, taken from the very heart of Micael Verino himself, florentibus occidit annis.9 Well, well, to say it in his fashion, under a poor cloak you can find a good drinker.”
“The truth is, Señora,” responded Sancho, “that I never abused drink, though I might have been thirsty, because I’m no hypocrite; I drink when I want to, and when I don’t want to, and when somebody offers me a drink so as not to seem finicky or impolite; to toast a friend, whose heart is so like marble that he won’t lift a glass? But even if I do, I never dirty it, since the squires of knights errant almost always drink water, because they’re always traveling through woods, forests, and meadows, mountains and cliffs, without finding a charitable drop of wine even if they’d give an eye for it.”
“I believe that,” responded the duchess. “And for now, Sancho should go and rest, and we will speak at length later, and give the order to quickly pass this governorship, as he says, on to him.”
Sancho again kissed the hands of the duchess and implored her to be so kind as to take good care of his gray, because he was the light of his eyes.
“What gray is that?” asked the duchess.
“My jackass,” responded Sancho, “and so as not to call him by that name, I usually call him the gray, and when I entered this castle I asked this Señora Duenna to take care of him, and she got as angry as if I had called her ugly or old, since it must be more fitting and natural for duennas to give a thought to donkeys than to claim authority in castle halls. Oh, and Lord save me, what a dislike a nobleman from my village had for these ladies!”
“He must have been some peasant,” said Doña Rodríguez the duenna, “because if he were noble and wellborn, he would have praised them to the skies.”
“Well now,” said the duchess, “that’s enough: Doña Rodríguez, be still, and Señor Panza, calm down, and let me take care of looking after this gray, for if he is Sancho’s jewel, I shall value him more highly than the apple of my eye.”
“It’s enough if he’s in the stable,” responded Sancho. “As for being valued more highly than the apple of your highness’s eye, he and I aren’t worthy of that even for an instant, and I would no more agree to it than to being stabbed; though my master says that in courtesies it’s better to lose by a card too many than a card too few, as far as donkeys and apples are concerned, you have to go with your compass in hand, and at a measured pace.”
“Let Sancho take him to his governorship,” said the duchess, “and there he can treat him as nicely as he wants, and even keep him from hard labor.”
“Your grace should not think, Señora Duchess, that you have said anything remarkable,” said Sancho, “for I have seen more than two jackasses go into governorships, and if I take mine with me, it won’t be anything new.”
Sancho’s words renewed the duchess’s laughter and delight, and after sending him to rest, she went to recount to the duke her conversation with Sancho; and between the two of them, they arranged and planned to play tricks on Don Quixote that would be remarkable and consonant with the chivalric style; and they devised so many, and ones so appropriate and clever, that they are some of the best adventures contained in this great history.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Which recounts the information that was received regarding how the peerless Dulcinea of Toboso was to be disenchanted, which is one of the most famous adventures in this book
The duke and the duchess received great pleasure from Don Quixote’s conversation and that of Sancho Panza; they confirmed their intention of playing some tricks that would have the appearance and semblance of adventures, basing their plan on what Don Quixote had already told them about the Cave of Montesinos in order to create for him an adventure that would be famous—though what most astonished the duchess was Sancho’s simplemindedness, so great that he had come to believe as an infallible truth that Dulcinea of Toboso was enchanted when he himself had been the enchanter and deceiver in that affair—and so, having given orders to their servants regarding everything they had to do, six days later they took Don Quixote hunting for big game, with so many hunters and trackers that it might have been the party of a crowned king. They gave Don Quixote a hunting outfit, and Sancho another of fine green cloth, but Don Quixote refused to put his on, saying that the next day he would have to return to the harsh profession of arms and could not carry wardrobes and furnishings with him. Sancho, however, accepted what they gave him, intending to sell it at the earliest opportunity.
When the long-awaited day arrived, Don Quixote put on his armor, Sancho donned his outfit, and, riding his donkey, for he did not wish to leave him behind even though they had provided him with a horse, he joined the troop of hunters. The duchess rode out in splendid attire, and Don Quixote, in his courtesy and politeness, took the reins of her palfrey although the duke did not wish to allow it, and finally they reached a forest that lay between two high mountains, where, having set up their posts, their blinds, and their traps, and assigning people to different positions, the hunt began with so great a clamor, so much shouting and calling and barking of dogs and sounding of horns, that they could not hear one another speak.
The duchess dismounted and, holding a sharp javelin in her hands, took up a post where she knew wild boar usually passed by. The duke and Don Quixote also dismounted and stationed themselves on either side of her; Sancho, who was behind them all, did not dismount the donkey, for he did not dare abandon him in the event some mishap befell him. And as soon as they and a good number of other servants had taken their places, then, pursued by the dogs and followed by the trackers, they saw a huge wild boar rushing toward them, grinding its teeth and tusks and foaming at the mouth; when he saw it, Don Quixote grasped his shield and drew his sword and stepped forward to meet it. The duke did the same with his javelin, but the duchess would have gone ahead of all of them if the duke had not stopped her. Only Sancho, when he saw the valiant beast, abandoned his donkey, and began to run as fast as he could, and attempted to climb to the top of a tall oak but failed; instead, when he was halfway up the tree, holding on to a branch as he struggled to reach the top, his luck was so bad and he was so unfortunate that the branch broke, and when it fell to the ground he was still in the air, caught on the stump of a branch and unable to reach the ground. And seeing himself in this situation, and his green tunic tearing, and thinking that if the wild animal ran past it could reach him, he began to give so many shouts and to call for help with so much urgency that everyone who heard him and did not see him believed he was in the jaws of a savage beast.
Finally, the tusked boar was run through by the sharp points of the many javelins it encountered
; Don Quixote, turning his head in the direction of Sancho’s shouting, for he had realized that the shouts were his, saw him hanging upside down from the oak, his donkey beside him, for the gray did not abandon him in his calamity, and Cide Hamete says he rarely saw Sancho Panza without his donkey, or the donkey without Sancho: such was the friendship and good faith that existed between the two of them.
Don Quixote approached and unhooked Sancho, who, finding himself free and on the ground, looked at how badly torn the hunting tunic was, and it pained him deeply, for he had thought of his outfit as an inheritance. In the meantime, the powerful boar was lain across a mule, covered with sprigs of rosemary and sprays of myrtle, and taken, as a sign of the spoils of victory, to some large field tents that had been pitched in the middle of the wood; there they found the tables prepared and the meal ready, a banquet so sumptuous and large that one could easily see in it the greatness and magnificence of the person who offered it. Sancho, showing the duchess the tears in his ripped tunic, said:
“If this had been a hunt of hares or small birds, my tunic would not have suffered this damage. I don’t know what pleasure there is in waiting for an animal that, if it gores you with a tusk, can kill you; I remember hearing an old ballad that says:
May you be eaten by bears,
like His Majesty Favila.”
“That was a Visigothic king,” said Don Quixote, “who went hunting for big game and was devoured by a bear.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” responded Sancho. “I wouldn’t want princes and kings to put themselves in that kind of danger in exchange for a pleasure that really shouldn’t be one, since it involves killing an animal that hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“But you’re mistaken, Sancho,” responded the duke, “because the practice of hunting big game is more appropriate and necessary for kings and princes than any other. Hunting is an image of war: in it there are stratagems, traps, and snares for conquering the enemy safely; one suffers bitter cold and intolerable heat; idleness and sleep are diminished, one’s strength is fortified, one’s limbs are made agile; in short, it is a practice that harms no one and gives pleasure to many; and the best thing about it is that it is not for everyone, as other forms of hunting are, except for hawking, which also is only for kings and great lords. And so, Sancho, change your opinion, and when you are a governor, devote yourself to hunting and see how it will benefit you a hundred times over.”
“No,” responded Sancho, “a good governor and a broken leg stay at home.1 How nice if weary merchants came to see him and he was in the woods enjoying himself! What a misfortune for the governorship! By my faith, Señor, hunting and those pastimes are more for idlers than for governors. What I plan to amuse myself with is playing triunfo envidado2 on feast days and ninepins on Sundays and holidays; all this hunting and hollering3 doesn’t go well with my nature and doesn’t sit well with my conscience.”
“May it please God, Sancho, because there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.”
“That may be so,” replied Sancho, “but if you pay your debts, you don’t worry about guaranties, and it’s better to have God’s help than to get up early, and your belly leads your feet, not the other way around; I mean, if God helps me, and I do what I ought to with good intentions, I’ll be sure to govern in grand style. Just put a finger in my mouth and see if I bite or not!”
“God and all his saints curse you, wretched Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “as I have said so often, will the day ever come when I see you speak an ordinary coherent sentence without any proverbs? Señores, your highnesses should leave this fool alone, for he will grind your souls not between two but two thousand proverbs brought in as opportunely and appropriately as the health God gives him, or me if I wanted to listen to them.”
“Sancho Panza’s proverbs,” said the duchess, “although more numerous than those of the Greek Commander,4 because of their brevity are no less estimable. As far as I am concerned, they give me more pleasure than others that may be more fitting and more opportune.”
Engaged in this and other amiable conversations, they walked out of the tent and into the forest, and in the collecting of some traps the day passed quickly and night fell, not as clear or as tranquil as it usually was at that time of year, which was the middle of summer, but it did bring a certain chiaroscuro that furthered the plans of the duke and duchess, for as dusk began to turn into night, it suddenly seemed that the entire forest on all four sides was ablaze, and then here and there, this way and that, an infinite number of cornets and other warlike instruments were heard, as if troops of cavalry were riding through the woods. The light of the fires and the sound of martial instruments almost blinded and deafened the eyes and ears of those nearby and even those who were elsewhere in the forest.
Then they heard the sound of infinite lelelíes, in the manner of a Moorish battle cry; trumpets and bugles blared, drums sounded, fifes played almost all at the same time, and so continually and so rapidly that one could lose one’s senses in the confused din of so many instruments. The duke was stunned, the duchess was astounded, Don Quixote was astonished, Sancho Panza trembled, and even those who knew the cause were frightened. In their fear they fell silent, and a postillion dressed as a demon passed in front of them, and instead of a cornet he was playing a huge, hollow animal horn that emitted a harsh and terrifying sound.
“Hello there, courier!” said the duke. “Who are you, where are you going, and what soldiers are these who seem to be crossing this forest?”
To which the courier, in a dreadful, brash voice, responded:
“I am the devil; I am looking for Don Quixote of La Mancha; the people coming through here are six troops of enchanters who bear the peerless Dulcinea of Toboso on a triumphal carriage. Enchanted, she comes with the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to instruct Don Quixote as to how the lady is to be disenchanted.”
“If you were the devil, as you say and as your figure suggests, you would have known the knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, for you have him here before you.”
“By God and my conscience,” responded the devil, “I wasn’t really thinking; my thoughts are distracted by so many things that I forgot the principal reason for my being here.”
“There can be no doubt,” said Sancho, “that this demon is a decent man and a good Christian, because otherwise he wouldn’t swear by God and my conscience. Now I think there must be good people even down in hell.”
Then the demon, without dismounting, directed his gaze at Don Quixote and said:
“To you, Knight of the Lions (and may I see you in their claws), I am sent by the unfortunate but valiant knight Montesinos, who has ordered me to tell you on his behalf that you should wait for him in the place where I encountered you, because he brings with him the one they call Dulcinea of Toboso, and he will instruct you on what is needed to disenchant her. And since I came here with no other purpose, I need stay no longer: may demons like me be with you, and good angels with these nobles.”
And having said this, he blew on the enormous horn, turned his back, and left, not waiting for anyone’s reply.
This caused new amazement in everyone, especially in Sancho and Don Quixote: in Sancho, when he saw that despite the truth, people insisted that Dulcinea was enchanted; in Don Quixote, because he could not be certain if what had happened to him in the Cave of Montesinos was true or not. And as he was lost in these thoughts, the duke said to him:
“Does your grace intend to wait, Señor Don Quixote?”
“How could I not?” he responded. “I shall wait here, intrepid and strong, though all of hell were to attack me.”
“Well, if I see another devil and hear another horn like that one, I wouldn’t wait here any more than I’d wait in Flanders,” said Sancho.
By now the night had grown even darker, and a good number of lights began to move through the forest, just as the dry exhalations of the earth move across the sky and to our eyes seem like shooting stars. At the same time a terrifyi
ng noise was heard, something like the one made by the solid wheels usually found on oxcarts, from whose harsh and constant screeching, they say, wolves and bears flee if there are any nearby when they pass. To this was added more tumult, another clamor that heightened all the others, which was that it really seemed that in the four corners of the forest four encounters or battles were taking place at the same time, because here the hard thunder of terrifying artillery sounded; there infinite muskets were being fired; the voices of the combatants cried out close by; the Muslim lelelíes were repeated in the distance.
Finally, the cornets, the animal horns, the hunting horns, the bugles, the trumpets, the drums, the artillery, the harquebuses, and above all, the awful noise of the carts together formed a sound so confused and horrible that Don Quixote had to summon all his valor to endure it; but Sancho’s courage plummeted and sent him, swooning, to the skirts of the duchess, who received him there and quickly ordered that water be thrown in his face. It was, and he regained consciousness just as a cart with screeching wheels arrived at the place where they stood.
It was pulled by four slow oxen draped in black; a great blazing wax torch was tied to each of their horns, and on the cart was a high seat on which a venerable old man was sitting, his beard whiter than the snow, and so long it fell below his waist; he wore a long robe of black buckram, for since the cart was filled with infinite lights, one could clearly see and discern everything it carried. It was driven by two hideous demons dressed in the same buckram, with faces so ugly that Sancho, having seen them once, closed his eyes so as not to see them again. And so the cart reached them, and the venerable old man got up from his high seat, and as he stood there he gave a great shout, saying:
“I am the wise Lirgandeo.”5
And the cart drove on, and he did not say another word. Behind this one came another cart of the same kind, carrying another old man enthroned, and he, stopping the cart, in a voice no less grave than the other’s, said:
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