Don Quixote

by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

  Sancho was very attentive to this recounting of the life and pastimes of the gentleman, and finding it a good and saintly life, and thinking that the man who led it must be able to perform miracles, he quickly dismounted the donkey and hurried to grasp the gentleman's right stirrup, and with a devout heart, and almost in tears, he kissed his feet over and over again. Seeing this, the gentleman asked:

  "What are you doing, brother? What is the reason for these kisses?"

  "Let me give them to you," responded Sancho, "because I think your grace is the first saint with short stirrups that I've ever seen in my life."

  "I'm not a saint," responded the gentleman, "but a great sinner, but you, brother, must be a good man; your simplicity proves it."

  Sancho returned to his packsaddle, having moved his master to laughter despite his profound melancholy and causing Don Diego even more amazement. Don Quixote asked how many children he had and said that among the things that ancient philosophers, who lacked a true knowledge of God, considered the highest good were the riches of nature, worldly goods, and having many friends and many good children.

  "I, Senor Don Quixote," responded the gentleman, "have a son, and if I didn't have him, perhaps I would consider myself more fortunate than I do, and not because he's bad, but because he isn't as good as I would like him to be. He's eighteen, and has spent the last six years in Salamanca, studying Latin and Greek, and when I wanted him to go on to the study of other areas of knowledge, I found him so enthralled with poetry, if that can be called knowledge, that I can't make him show any enthusiasm for law, which I would like him to study, or for the queen of all study, which is theology. I would like him to be the crown of his lineage, for we live in a time when our kings richly reward good, virtuous letters, for letters without virtue are pearls in the dungheap. He spends the whole day determining if Homer wrote well or badly in a particular line of the Iliad; if Martial was indecent in a certain epigram; if specific lines of Virgil are to be understood in this manner or another. In short, all his conversations are about the books of these poets and of Horace, Persius, Juvenal, and Tibullus; he does not think very highly of modern writers, and despite the antipathy he displays toward poetry in the vernacular, his thoughts are now entirely turned to writing a gloss on four lines sent to him from Salamanca, I think for a literary competition."

  To which Don Quixote responded:

  "Children, Senor, are the very apple of their parents' eyes, and whether they are good or bad, they are loved as we love the souls that give us life; from the time they are little, it is the obligation of parents to guide them along the paths of virtue, good breeding, and good Christian customs, so that when they are grown they will be a support in the old age of their parents and the glory of their posterity; I do not think it is wise to force them to study one thing or another, although persuading them to do so would not be harmful; and when there is no need to study pane lucrando, 1 if the student is so fortunate that heaven has endowed him with parents who can spare him that, it would be my opinion that they should allow him to pursue the area of knowledge to which they can see he is inclined; although poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is not one of those that dishonors the one who knows it. Poetry, Senor, in my opinion, is like an innocent young maiden who is extremely beautiful, and whom many other maidens, who are the other fields of knowledge, are careful to enrich, polish, and adorn, and she must be served by all of them, and all of them must encourage her, but this maiden does not wish to be pawed or dragged through the streets or proclaimed at the corners of the squares or in the corners of palaces. Her alchemy is such that the person who knows how to treat her will turn her into purest gold of inestimable value; the man who has her must keep her within bounds and not allow her to turn to indecent satires or cruel sonnets; she should never be in the marketplace except in heroic poems, heartfelt tragedies, or joyful, witty comedies; she should not be allowed in the company of scoundrels or the ignorant mob incapable of knowing or appreciating the treasures that lie within her. And do not think, Senor, that when I say mob I mean only humble, plebeian people; for anyone who is ignorant, even a lord and prince, can and should be counted as one of the mob. And so the man who uses and treats poetry in the requisite ways that I have mentioned will be famous, and his name esteemed, in all the civilized nations of the world.

  And as for what you have said, Senor, regarding your son's lack of esteem for poetry in the modern languages, it is my understanding that he is mistaken, for this reason: the great Homer did not write in Latin because he was Greek, and Virgil did not write in Greek because he was Latin. In short, all the ancient poets wrote in their mother tongues, and they did not look for foreign languages in order to declare the nobility of their ideas. And this being true, it is reasonable to extend this custom to all nations, and not to despise the German poet because he writes in his own language, or the Castilian, or even the Basque, for writing in his. But I imagine, Senor, that your son does not condemn vernacular poetry but poets who are merely vernacular and do not know other languages or other fields of knowledge, which adorn and awaken and assist their natural impulse; even in this he may be mistaken, because, according to reliable opinion, a poet is born: that is to say, the natural poet is a poet when he comes from his mother's womb, and with that inclination granted to him by heaven, with no further study or artifice he composes things that prove the truthfulness of the man who said: Est Deus in nobis... 2 I also say that the natural poet who makes use of art will be a much better and more accomplished poet than the one who knows only the art and wishes to be a poet; the reason is that art does not surpass nature but perfects it; therefore, when nature is mixed with art, and art with nature, the result is a perfect poet.

  Let me conclude by saying, Senor, that you should allow your son to walk the path to which his star calls him; if he is the good student he should be, and if he has already successfully climbed the first essential step, which is languages, with them he will, on his own, mount to the summit of human letters, which are so admirable in a gentleman with his cape and sword, and adorn, honor, and ennoble him, as mitres do bishops, or robes the learned jurists. Your grace should reprimand your son if he writes satires that damage other people's honor; you should punish him and tear up the poems; but if he composes admonitory sermons in the manner of Horace,3 in which vices in general are elegantly reproved, then praise him, because it is licit for the poet to write against envy, and to criticize the envious in his verses, and to do the same with the other vices, as long as he does not point out a specific person; but there are poets who, for the sake of saying something malicious, would run the risk of being exiled to the Islands of Pontus.4 If the poet is chaste in his habits, he will be chaste in his verses as well; the pen is the tongue of the soul: his writings will be like the concepts engendered there; when kings and princes see the miraculous art of poetry in prudent, virtuous, and serious subjects, they honor, esteem, and enrich them, and even crown them with the leaves of the tree that lightning never strikes,5 as a sign that those whose temples are honored and adorned by such crowns are not to be assaulted by anyone."

  The Gentleman in the Green Coat was so amazed at Don Quixote's words that he began to change his mind about his having to be a simpleton. But because it was not very much to his liking, in the middle of this speech Sancho had turned off the road to request a little milk from some shepherds who were milking their sheep nearby, and in the meantime, just as the gentleman was about to resume the conversation, satisfied in the extreme as to Don Quixote's intelligence and good sense, Don Quixote looked up and saw that coming down the road where they had been traveling was a wagon bearing royal banners, and believing that this must be some new adventure, he called to Sancho to bring him his helmet. And Sancho, hearing his shouts, left the shepherds, and spurred his donkey, and rushed to his master, who was about to engage in a terrifying and reckless adventure.

  CHAPTER XVII

  In which the heights and extremes to which the remarkable c
ourage of Don Quixote could and did go is revealed, along with the happily concluded adventure of the lions

  The history recounts that when Don Quixote called to Sancho to bring him his helmet, the squire was in the midst of buying curds from the shepherds, and flustered by his master's great urgency, he did not know what to do with them or where to carry them, and in order not to lose them, since he had already paid for them, he placed them in the helmet. Having made this provision, he went back to see what his master wanted, and as soon as he approached, Don Quixote said:

  "Friend, hand me the helmet, for either I know very little about adventures, or what I see there is one that will, and does, oblige me to take up arms."

  The Gentleman in the Green Coat heard this, and looked all around, and saw nothing but a wagon coming toward them, with two or three small flags on it, which led him to assume it was carrying currency that belonged to His Majesty, and he told this to Don Quixote, who did not accept what he said, for he always believed and thought that everything that happened to him had to be adventures and more adventures, and so he responded to the gentleman:

  "Forewarned is forearmed: nothing is lost by cautioning me, although I know from experience that I have visible and invisible enemies, and I do not know when, or where, or how, or in what guise they will attack me."

  And turning to Sancho, he asked for his sallet helmet; Sancho did not have time to take out the curds and was obliged to hand him the helmet just as it was. Don Quixote took it, and without even glancing at what might be inside, he quickly placed it on his head; since the curds were pressed and squeezed together, the whey began to run down Don Quixote's face and beard, which startled him so much that he said to Sancho:

  "What can this be, Sancho? It seems as if my head is softening, or my brains are melting, or that I am bathed in perspiration from head to foot. And if I am perspiring, the truth is that it is not because of fear, although I undoubtedly must believe that the adventure about to befall me will be a terrible one. Give me something, if you have it, that I can use to wipe away this copious perspiration, for it is blinding me."

  Sancho remained silent and gave him a cloth, and with it he gave his thanks to God that his master had not detected the truth. Don Quixote wiped his face and took off his helmet to see what it was that seemed to be chilling his head, and seeing that white mush inside, he brought the helmet up to his nose, and smelling it, he said:

  "By the life of my lady Dulcinea of Toboso, these are curds that you have placed here, you traitorous, shameless, discourteous squire."

  To which, with great aplomb and dissimulation, Sancho responded:

  "If those are curds, your grace should give them to me and I'll eat them.... But let the devil eat them, because he must be the one who put them there. Would I ever dare to dirty your grace's helmet? You must know who the scoundrel is! By my faith, Senor, and the brains God gave me, I must also have enchanters who pursue me, since I'm your grace's servant and one of your members, and they must have put that filth there to turn your patience to anger and move you to beat me around my ribs, as you so often do. But the truth is that this time they're far off the mark, for I trust in the good sense of my master, who will consider that I don't have any curds, or milk, or anything else along those lines, and if I did, I'd put them in my stomach and not in your sallet helmet."

  "All things are possible," said Don Quixote.

  And the gentleman observed all of this, and all of it amazed him, especially when Don Quixote, after carefully cleaning his head, face, beard, and sallet, steadied his feet in the stirrups, called for his sword, grasped his lance, and said:

  "Now come what may, for here I am, ready to do battle with Satan himself."

  At this moment the wagon with the flags reached them, and the only people on it were the driver, leading the mules, and a man sitting at the front. Don Quixote stopped in front of the wagon and said:

  "Where are you going, brothers? What wagon is this, and what are you carrying in it, and what flags are these?"

  To which the driver responded:

  "The wagon is mine; inside are two fierce lions in cages that the General of Oran is sending to court as a present for His Majesty; the flags belong to our master, the king, as a sign that what's inside is his."

  "And are the lions big?" asked Don Quixote.

  "So big," responded the man riding at the door of the wagon, "that no lions bigger, or even as big, have ever been brought over from Africa to Spain; I'm the lion keeper, and I've brought over other lions, but none like these. They're male and female; the male's in this first cage and the female's in the one behind, and they're hungry now because they haven't eaten today, and so, your grace, move out of the way because we have to hurry to the place where we can feed them."

  To which Don Quixote, smiling slightly, said:

  "You talk of lions to me? To me you speak of these little lions, and at this hour? Well, by God, those gentlemen who sent them here will see if I am a man who is frightened by lions! Get down, my good man, and since you are the lion keeper, open those cages and bring out those beasts, for in the middle of these fields I shall let them know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite of and in defiance of the enchanters who have sent them to me."

  "Well, that proves it!" said the gentleman to himself. "Our good knight has shown exactly who he is: the curds, no doubt, have softened his head and ripened his brains."

  At this moment Sancho came up to him and said:

  "Senor, for the love of God, your grace, do something to stop my master, Don Quixote, from doing battle with these lions; if he fights them, they'll tear us all to pieces."

  "Well, is your master so crazy," responded the gentleman, "that you fear and believe he'll fight with such savage animals?"

  "He isn't crazy," responded Sancho, "he's just reckless."

  "I'll do what I can to keep him from daring too much," replied the gentleman.

  And going up to Don Quixote, who was urging the lion keeper to open the cages, he said:

  "Senor Knight, knights errant ought to undertake adventures that promise some hope of success, not those that are completely devoid of hope, for the valor that crosses over into temerity has more to do with madness than courage, particularly because these lions are not attacking your grace, or even dreaming of doing so: they are gifts to His Majesty, and it would not be wise to stop them or interfere with their journey."

  "Senor," responded Don Quixote, "your grace should go and see to your tame decoy partridge and your bold ferret, and let each man do his work. This is mine, and I know whether or not these noble lions are attacking me."

  And turning to the lion keeper, he said:

  "I swear, Don Scoundrel, that if you do not open the cages immediately, I shall pin you to the wagon with this lance!"

  The driver, who saw the determination of that armed apparition, said:

  "Senor, if it please your grace, I beg you, let me unyoke the mules and take them somewhere safe before the lions show themselves, because if they kill them, I'll be ruined for life; the only thing I own is this wagon and these mules."

  "O man of little faith!" responded Don Quixote. "Get down, and unyoke them, and do whatever you wish, for soon you will see that you labored in vain and could have spared yourself the effort."

  The driver climbed down and quickly unyoked the mules, and the lion keeper cried out:

  "Let all those here present bear witness that I have been forced against my will to open the cages and set free the lions, and that I declare to this gentleman that he is answerable and accountable for all the harm and damage these beasts may do, as well as for my salaries and fees. Your graces should take cover before I let them out, though I'm sure they won't hurt me."

  Once again the gentleman tried to persuade him not to commit an act of such madness, for to engage in something so foolish was to tempt God. To which Don Quixote responded that he knew what he was doing. The gentleman responded that he should be careful, for he knew that Don Quixot
e was deceived.

  "Now, Senor," replied Don Quixote, "if your grace does not wish to be a witness to what you believe is going to be a tragedy, use your spurs on the dapple and hurry to safety."

  Hearing this, Sancho, with tears in his eyes, begged his master to desist from such an undertaking, compared to which the adventure of the windmills, and that of the waterwheels, and, in short, all the feats he had performed in the entire course of his life had been nothing but child's play.

  "Look, Senor," said Sancho, "there's no enchantment here or anything like it; I've seen through the gratings and cracks in the cage the claw of a real lion, and I think the lion that claw belongs to must be bigger than a mountain."

  "Your fear, at the very least," responded Don Quixote, "will make it seem bigger to you than half the world. Withdraw, Sancho, and leave me; if I die here, you know our old agreement: you will present yourself to Dulcinea, and I shall say no more to you."

  To these words he added others with which he took away all hope that he might not pursue his mad intention. The Gentleman in the Green Coat would have liked to stop him, but he was not as well-armed, and he did not think it prudent to fight with a madman, for by now he thought Don Quixote was completely out of his mind. The knight again began to press the lion keeper and to repeat his threats, which gave the gentleman the opportunity to spur his mare, and Sancho to urge on his donkey, and the driver to hurry his mules, all of them attempting to get as far away from the wagon as they could before the lions were freed.

  Sancho wept for the death of his master: this time he believed there was no doubt he would fall into the clutches of the lions; he cursed his luck and called it an evil hour when it had occurred to him to serve his master again, but his weeping and lamentations did not prevent him from kicking the donkey to hurry him away from the wagon. Then the lion keeper, seeing that those who were fleeing had reached safety, pleaded with and warned Don Quixote, using the same pleas and warnings he had used before, and Don Quixote responded that he had heard what he had to say, and he should not trouble himself with more warnings and pleas for they would be to no avail, and what he should do was hurry.