The hunters rode up, asked for their hare, and Don Quixote gave it to them; he and Sancho went on, and at the entrance to the village they encountered the priest and Bachelor Carrasco praying in a small meadow. And it should be noted here that Sancho Panza had draped the buckram tunic painted with flames, which they had placed on him in the duke's castle on the night Altisidora was resuscitated, over the bundle of armor on the gray to serve as his repostero.3 He had also set the cone-shaped hat on the gray's head, which was the oddest transformation and adornment ever seen on any donkey in the world.
The priest and the bachelor recognized them immediately and came toward them with open arms. Don Quixote dismounted and embraced them warmly, and some boys, who are as sharp-eyed as lynxes, caught sight of the donkey's hat and hurried over to see it, saying to one another:
"Come on, boys, and you'll see Sancho Panza's donkey all dressed up and Don Quixote's animal skinnier today than he ever was."
In short, surrounded by boys and accompanied by the priest and the bachelor, they entered the village and went to Don Quixote's house, and at the door they saw his housekeeper and his niece, who had already heard the news of their return. Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife, had heard exactly the same news, and disheveled and half-dressed and pulling her daughter, Sanchica, along by the hand, she hurried to see her husband, and when she saw him not as elegantly dressed as she thought a governor should be, she said:
"Husband, why are you traveling like this, on foot and footsore and, it seems to me, looking more like a misgoverned fool than like a governor?"
"Be quiet, Teresa," responded Sancho, "because often you can have hooks and no bacon;4 let's go home, and there you will hear wonderful things. I have money, which is what matters, that I earned by my own labor, and with no harm to anybody."
"Bring the money, my good husband," said Teresa, "no matter if you earned it here or there; no matter how you did it, you won't have thought up any new ways of earning it."
Sanchica embraced her father and asked if he had brought her anything, for she had been waiting for him like the showers of May, and she held him on one side by his belt; and with his wife holding his hand and his daughter leading the gray, they went to their house, leaving Don Quixote in his, in the hands of his niece and his housekeeper, and in the company of the priest and the bachelor.
Don Quixote, at that very moment, without regard for the time or the hour, withdrew with the bachelor and the priest, and when they were alone he told them briefly about his defeat and the obligation he was under not to leave his village for a year, which he intended to obey to the letter and not violate in the slightest, as befitted a knight errant bound by the order and demands of knight errantry, and that he had thought of becoming a shepherd for the year and spending his time in the solitude of the countryside, where he could freely express his amorous thoughts and devote himself to the virtuous pastoral occupation; and he implored them, if they did not have too much to do and were not prevented by more important matters, to be his companions, and he would buy enough sheep and livestock to give them the name of shepherds; and he told them that the most important part of the business had already been taken care of, because he had given them names that would fit them like a glove. The priest asked him to say what they were. Don Quixote responded that he would be called Shepherd Quixotiz, and the bachelor would be Shepherd Carrascon, and the priest, Shepherd Curambro, and Sancho Panza, Shepherd Pancino.
They were stunned by Don Quixote's new madness, but in order to keep him from leaving the village again on chivalric exploits, and hoping he might be cured during that year, they acquiesced to his new intentions, and approved his madness as sensible, and offered to be his companions in his occupations.
"Moreover," said Sanson Carrasco, "as everyone already knows, I am a celebrated poet and shall constantly compose pastoral verses, or courtly ones, or whatever seems most appropriate, to entertain us as we wander those out-of-the-way places; and what is most necessary, Senores, is for each to choose the name of the shepherdess to be celebrated in his verses, the name he will carve and inscribe on every tree, no matter how hard, as is the usage and custom of enamored shepherds."
"That is quite fitting," responded Don Quixote, "although I do not need to find the name of a feigned shepherdess, for there is the peerless Dulcinea of Toboso, glory of these fields, ornament of these meadows, mainstay of beauty, flower of all graces, and, in short, a subject on whom all praise sits well, no matter how hyperbolic."
"That is true," said the priest, "but we shall have to find some well-mannered shepherdesses, and if their names don't suit us, we can trim them to fit."
To which Sanson Carrasco added:
"And if our invention fails, we can give them the names that have been published and printed and that fill the world: Phyllida, Amaryllis, Diana, Flerida, Galatea, and Belisarda; since they're sold on every square, we can certainly buy them and keep them for our own. If my lady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens to be named Ana, I shall celebrate her under the name Anarda, and if her name is Francisca, I shall call her Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for that's all it amounts to; and Sancho Panza, if he joins our fraternity, can celebrate his wife, Teresa Panza, with the name Teresaina."
Don Quixote laughed at the aptness of the name, and the priest praised to the skies his honest and honorable resolution and once again offered to accompany him in the time he was not occupied in attending to his obligations. And with this they took their leave of Don Quixote and implored him and advised him to take care of his health and to eat well.
It so happened that the niece and the housekeeper heard the conversation of the three men, and as soon as the visitors left, the two women entered the room to see Don Quixote, and his niece said:
"What is this, Uncle? We thought your grace would stay at home again and lead a quiet and honorable life, and now you want to go into new labyrinths and become
Little shepherd, now you're coming,
little shepherd, now you're going?5
Well, the truth is that the stem's too hard for making flutes.6
To which the housekeeper added:
"And there in the countryside will your grace be able to endure the heat of summer, the night air of winter, the howling of the wolves? No, certainly not; this is work for strong, hard men who've been brought up to the life almost from the time they're in swaddling clothes. No matter how bad it is, it's better to be a knight errant than a shepherd. Look, Senor, take my advice; I'm giving it to you not when I'm full of bread and wine, but when I'm fasting, and based on what I've learned in my fifty years: stay in your house, tend to your estate, go to confession often, favor the poor, and let it be on my soul if that does you any harm."
"Be quiet, my dears," responded Don Quixote, "for I know what I must do. Take me to my bed, because I think I am not well, and you can be certain that regardless of whether I am a knight errant or a shepherd on the verge of wandering, I shall always provide for you, as my actions will prove."
And the two good women, which the housekeeper and niece undoubtedly were, took him to his bed, where they fed him and pampered him as much as possible.
CHAPTER LXXIV
Which deals with how Don Quixote fell ill, and the will he made, and his death
Since human affairs, particularly the lives of men, are not eternal and are always in a state of decline from their beginnings until they reach their final end, and since the life of Don Quixote had no privilege from heaven to stop its natural course, it reached its end and conclusion when he least expected it, for whether it was due to the melancholy caused by his defeat or simply the will of heaven, he succumbed to a fever that kept him in bed for six days, during which time he was often visited by his friends the priest, the bachelor, and the barber, while Sancho Panza, his good squire, never left his side.
They believed that his grief at being defeated, and his unsatisfied longing to see Dulcinea free and disenchanted, were responsible for his condition, and they
did everything they could think of to lift his spirits; the bachelor told him to be of good cheer and to get out of bed so that they could begin the pastoral life, for which he had already composed an eclogue that would put all those written by Sannazaro1 to shame, and he said he had bought with his own money two famous dogs to guard the flocks, one named Barcino and the other Butron, which had been sold to him by a herder from Quintanar. But not even this could bring Don Quixote out of his sorrow.
His friends called the physician, who took his pulse and did not give them good news, and said there was no doubt that he should attend to the health of his soul because the health of his body was in peril. Don Quixote heard him with a tranquil spirit, but not his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, who began to weep piteously, as if he were already lying dead before them. It was the physician's opinion that melancholy and low spirits were bringing his life to an end. Don Quixote asked to be left alone because he wanted to sleep for a while. They did as he asked, and he slept more than six hours at a stretch, as they say, so long that his housekeeper and his niece thought he would never open his eyes again. He awoke after the length of time that has been mentioned, and giving a great shout, he said:
"Blessed be Almighty God who has done such great good for me! His mercies have no limit, and the sins of men do not curtail or hinder them."
His niece listened carefully to her uncle's words, and they seemed more sensible than the ones he usually said, at least during his illness, and she asked him:
"What is your grace saying, Senor? Is there news? Which mercies are these, and which sins of men?"
"The mercies, Niece," responded Don Quixote, "are those that God has shown to me at this very instant, and as I said, my sins do not hinder them. My judgment is restored, free and clear of the dark shadows of ignorance imposed on it by my grievous and constant reading of detestable books of chivalry. I now recognize their absurdities and deceptions, and my sole regret is that this realization has come so late it does not leave me time to compensate by reading other books that can be a light to the soul. I feel, Niece, that I am about to die; I should like to do so in a manner that would make it clear that my life was not so wicked that I left behind a reputation for being a madman, for although I have been one, I should not like to confirm this truth in my death. Dear girl, call my good friends for me: the priest, the bachelor Sanson Carrasco, and the barber Master Nicolas, for I wish to confess and make my will."
But the niece was excused from this task by the entrance of the three men. As soon as Don Quixote saw them, he said:
"Good news, Senores! I am no longer Don Quixote of La Mancha but Alonso Quixano, once called the Good because of my virtuous life. Now I am the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and all the infinite horde of his lineage; now all the profane histories of knight errantry are hateful to me; now I recognize my foolishness and the danger I was in because I read them; now, by God's mercy, I have learned from my experience and I despise them."
When the three men heard him say this, they undoubtedly believed that some new madness had taken hold of him, and Sanson said:
"Now, Senor Don Quixote, you say this now, when we have news of the disenchantment of Senora Dulcinea? And now that we are on the point of becoming shepherds and spending our lives in song, like princes, now your grace wishes to be a hermit? For God's sake, be quiet, come to your senses, and tell us no more tales."
"Those that until now," replied Don Quixote, "have been real, to my detriment, will, with the help of heaven, be turned to my benefit by my death. Senores, I feel that I am dying very rapidly; let us put all jokes aside, and bring me a confessor to hear my confession, and a scribe to write my will, for at critical moments like these a man cannot play games with his soul; and so, while the priest hears my confession, I beg you to bring the scribe."
They exchanged glances, astonished by Don Quixote's words, and although they had their doubts, they tended to believe him; one of the signs that led them to think he really was dying was how easily he had moved from madness to sanity, because to the words already cited he added many others that were so well-spoken, so Christian, and so reasonable that their doubts were completely dispelled and they believed he was sane.
The priest had everyone leave, and was alone with him, and heard his confession.
The bachelor went for the scribe and returned a short time later with him and with Sancho Panza, and Sancho--who had already been told by the bachelor about his master's condition--found the housekeeper and the niece weeping, and he began to sob and shed tears. When the confession had ended the priest came out and said:
"Alonso Quixano the Good is truly dying, and he has truly recovered his reason; we ought to go in so that he can make his will."
This news put terrible pressure on the already full eyes of his housekeeper, his niece, and his good squire, Sancho Panza, forcing tears from their eyes and a thousand deep sighs from their bosoms, because the truth is, as has already been said, that whether Don Quixote was simply Alonso Quixano the Good, or whether he was Don Quixote of La Mancha, he always had a gentle disposition and was kind in his treatment of others, and for this reason he was dearly loved not only by those in his household, but by everyone who knew him.
The scribe came in with the others, and after Don Quixote had completed the preface to the will and tended to his soul with all the Christian particulars that are required, he came to the bequests and said:
"Item: it is my will that with regard to certain monies held by Sancho Panza, whom, in my madness, I made my squire, because between him and me there were certain accounts and debts and payments, and I do not want him held responsible for them, nor should any accounting be demanded of him, but if anything is left over after he has taken what I owe him, the remainder, which will not amount to much, should be his, and may it do him good; and if, when I was mad, I was party to giving him the governorship of the insula, now, when I am sane, if I could give him the governorship of a kingdom, I would, because the simplicity of his nature and the fidelity of his actions deserve it."
And turning to Sancho, he said:
"Forgive me, my friend, for the opportunity I gave you to seem as mad as I, making you fall into the error into which I fell, thinking that there were and are knights errant in the world."
"Oh!" responded Sancho, weeping. "Don't die, Senor; your grace should take my advice and live for many years, because the greatest madness a man can commit in this life is to let himself die, just like that, without anybody killing him or any other hands ending his life except those of melancholy. Look, don't be lazy, but get up from that bed and let's go to the countryside dressed as shepherds, just like we arranged: maybe behind some bush we'll find Senora Dona Dulcinea disenchanted, as pretty as you please. If you're dying of sorrow over being defeated, blame me for that and say you were toppled because I didn't tighten Rocinante's cinches; besides, your grace must have seen in your books of chivalry that it's a very common thing for one knight to topple another, and for the one who's vanquished today to be the victor tomorrow."
"That's right," said Sanson, "and our good Sancho Panza knows the truth of these cases."
"Senores," said Don Quixote, "let us go slowly, for there are no birds today in yesterday's nests. I was mad, and now I am sane; I was Don Quixote of La Mancha, and now I am, as I have said, Alonso Quixano the Good. May my repentance and sincerity return me to the esteem your graces once had for me, and let the scribe continue.
Item: I bequeath my entire estate to Antonia Quixana, my niece, who is present, having first taken out, in the most convenient way, what is necessary to fulfill the other bequests I have made; and the first that I want to make is to pay the salary owed to my housekeeper for the time she has served me, plus another twenty ducados for a dress. As executors I appoint the priest and Bachelor Sanson Carrasco, who are both present.
Item: it is my will that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, wishes to marry, she marry a man regarding whom it has first been determined that he does not know anyt
hing about books of chivalry; and in the event it is discovered that he does know about them, and despite this my niece still wishes to marry him, she must lose all that I have left her, which can then be distributed by my executors in pious works, as they see fit.
Item: I implore the aforementioned executors that if they are fortunate enough to meet the author who, they say, composed a history entitled The Second Part of the Exploits of Don Quixote of La Mancha, that they ask him for me, as courteously as possible, to forgive the occasion I unwittingly gave him for writing so many and such great absurdities as he wrote therein, because I depart this life with qualms that I have been the reason he wrote them."
With this he brought his will to a close, and falling into a swoon, he collapsed on his bed. Everyone was alarmed and hurried to assist him, and in the three days he lived after making his will, he fainted very often. The house was in an uproar, but even so the niece ate, the housekeeper drank, and Sancho Panza was content, for the fact of inheriting something wipes away or tempers in the heir the memory of the grief that is reasonably felt for the deceased.
In brief, Don Quixote's end came after he had received all the sacraments and had execrated books of chivalry with many effective words. The scribe happened to be present, and he said he had never read in any book of chivalry of a knight errant dying in his bed in so tranquil and Christian a manner as Don Quixote, who, surrounded by the sympathy and tears of those present, gave up the ghost, I mean to say, he died.
When he saw this, the priest asked the scribe to draw up a document to the effect that Alonso Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed from this life and had died a natural death; he said he was requesting this document in order to remove the possibility that any author other than Cide Hamete Benengeli would falsely resurrect him and write endless histories of his deeds.
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