Read Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] Online
Authors: Miguel de Cervantes
Tags: #Fiction, #Classics, #Literary, #Knights and knighthood, #Spain, #Literary Criticism, #Spanish & Portuguese, #European, #Don Quixote (Fictitious character)
“When highborn women and secluded maidens trample on their honor, and give permission to their tongues to break free of all restraints and proclaim in public the secrets hidden in their hearts, they find themselves in desperate circumstances. I, Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, am one of these, afflicted, vanquished, enamored, but with it all long-suffering and modest, so much so, and so much of each, that my silence made my heart burst and I lost my life. For two days, on account of the harshness with which you have treated me, O unfeeling knight,
Oh, harder than marble to my complaints!
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I was dead, or, at least, judged to be so by those who saw me; and if it had not been that Love took pity on me and placed the remedy in the sufferings of this good squire, I would have remained in the next world.”
“Love could just as well have placed them in the sufferings of my donkey, and I would have thanked him for that. But tell me, Señora, and may heaven find you another lover more tenderhearted than my master, what did you see in the next world? What’s it like in hell? Because whoever dies in despair is bound to go there.”
“To tell the truth,” responded Altisidora, “I probably didn’t die completely because I didn’t enter hell, and if I had, I really couldn’t have left even if I’d wanted to. The truth is I reached the gate, where about a dozen devils were playing pelota, all of them in tights and doublets, their collars trimmed with borders of Flemish lace and cuffs of the same material, exposing four fingers’ width of arm so that their hands appeared longer, and in them they were holding bats of fire, and what amazed me most was that instead of balls they were using books, apparently full of wind and trash, which was something marvelous and novel; but this did not amaze me as much as seeing that, although it is natural for players to be happy when they win and sad when they lose, in that game everybody was grumbling, everybody was quarreling, and everybody was cursing.”
“That’s not surprising,” responded Sancho, “because devils, whether they play or not, can never be happy, whether they win or not.”
“That must be true,” responded Altisidora, “but there’s something else that also surprises me, I mean, surprised me then, and it was that at
the first volley there wasn’t a ball left in play that was in condition to be used again, and so they went through books, new and old, which was a remarkable thing to see. One of them, brand new and nicely bound, was hit so hard that its innards spilled out and its pages were scattered. One devil said to another:
‘See what book that is.’
And the other devil responded:
‘This is the second part of the history of Don Quixote of La Mancha, composed not by Cide Hamete, its first author, but by an Aragonese who is, he says, a native of Tordesillas.’
‘Take it away from here,’ responded the other devil, ‘and throw it into the pit of hell so that my eyes never see it again.’
‘Is it so bad?’ responded the other one.
‘So bad,’ replied the first, ‘that if I myself set out to make it worse, I would fail.’ And they continued with their game, hitting other books, and I, because I had heard the name of Don Quixote, whom I love and adore so passionately, did my best to keep this vision in my memory.”
“It must have been a vision, no doubt about it,” said Don Quixote, “because there is no other I in the world, and that history is already being passed from hand to hand but stops in none, because everyone’s foot is kicking it along. I have not been perturbed to hear that I wander like a shade in the darkness of the abyss or in the light of the world, because I am not the one told about in that history. If it is good, faithful, and true, it will have centuries of life, but if it is bad, the road will not be long between its birth and its grave.”
Altisidora was going to continue her complaints about Don Quixote, when the knight said to her:
“As I have often told you, Señora, I am grieved that you have turned your thoughts to me, for they can sooner be thanked than remedied by mine; I was born to belong to Dulcinea of Toboso, and the Fates, if there are any, have dedicated me to her, and to think that any other beauty can occupy the place she has in my soul is to think the impossible. This is sufficient discouragement for you to withdraw inside the borders of your modesty, for no one can be obliged to do the impossible.”
Hearing which, Altisidora, showing signs of anger and vexation, said:
“Good Lord! Don Codfish, with a soul of metal, like the pit of a date, harder and more stubborn than a peasant when he has his mind set on something, if I get near you I’ll scratch out your eyes! Do you think by any chance, Don Defeated, Don Battered, that I died for you? Every-
thing you saw tonight was pretense; I’m not the kind of woman who would let herself suffer as much as the dirt under her fingernail, much less die, on account of nonsense like that.”
“I believe it,” said Sancho, “because all this about lovers dying makes me laugh: they can say it easily enough, but doing it is a story only Judas would believe.”
While they were having this conversation, the musician, singer, and poet, who had sung the two stanzas already described, came in, and making a deep bow to Don Quixote, he said:
“Señor Knight, your grace should consider and count me in the number of your greatest admirers, for I have been devoted to you for some time now, as much for your fame as for your exploits.”
Don Quixote responded:
“Your grace should tell me who you are so that my courtesy may respond to your merits.”
The youth responded that he was the musician and panegyrist of the previous night.
“Certainly,” replied Don Quixote, “your grace has an excellent voice, but what you sang did not seem very appropriate to me. What do stanzas by Garcilaso have to do with the death of this lady?”
“Your grace should not be surprised at that,” responded the musician, “for among the untutored poets of our day, the custom is for each to write however he wishes and steal from whomever he wishes regardless of whether or not it suits his intention, and there is no foolishness, either sung or written, that is not attributed to poetic license.”
Don Quixote wished to respond but was prevented from doing so by the duke and duchess, who came in to see him, and they had a long and pleasant conversation in which Sancho said so many amusing things and so many clever things that the duke and duchess were once again astounded by his simplicity and his shrewdness. Don Quixote asked them to give him permission to depart that very day, because it is more seemly for defeated knights like him to sleep in pigsties rather than in royal palaces. They gave it willingly, and the duchess asked if Altisidora remained in his good graces. He responded:
“Señora, your ladyship should know that all the problems afflicting this maiden are born of idleness, and the remedy lies in honest and constant labor. She has told me that they use lace trimmings in hell, and since she must know how to make them, she should never let them out of her hands; if she is occupied in moving the bobbins, the image or im
ages of what she desires will not move through her imagination, and this is the truth, this is my opinion, and this is my advice.”
“And mine,” added Sancho, “for I’ve never seen in all my life a lace-maker who’s died for love; maidens who are occupied think more about finishing their tasks than about love. At least that’s true for me, because when I’m busy digging I never think about my better half, I mean my Teresa Panza, and I love her more than my eyelashes.”
“Well said, Sancho,” said the duchess, “and from now on I shall keep my Altisidora busy doing needlework, which she does extremely well.”
“There’s no reason, Señora,” responded Altisidora, “to make use of this remedy, for consideration of the cruelties this wicked vagrant has inflicted on me will wipe him from my memory with no need for other measures. And with the permission of your highness, I should like to leave now in order not to have before my eyes not only his sorrowful face, but his hideous and hateful features.”
“That seems to me,” said the duke, “like the old saying:
Because the one who says insults
is very close to forgiving.”
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Altisidora made a show of drying her tears with a handkerchief, and after curtsying to her master and mistress, she left the room.
“Go in peace,” said Sancho, “poor maiden, go in peace, I mean, you have bad luck because you fell in love with a soul of esparto grass and a heart of oak. By my faith, if you’d fallen in love with me, you’d be singing a different tune!”
The conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed, dined with the duke and duchess, and departed that afternoon.
What befell Don Quixote and his squire, Sancho, as they were traveling to their village
The vanquished and exhausted Don Quixote was extremely melancholy on the one hand and very happy on the other. His sadness was caused by his defeat and his happiness by his consideration of Sancho’s virtue and how it had been demonstrated in the resurrection of Altisidora, even though he had felt certain reservations when he persuaded himself that the enamored maiden had in fact been dead. Sancho was not at all happy, because it made him sad to see that Altisidora had not kept her promise to give him the chemises, and going back and forth over this, he said to his master:
“The truth is, Señor, that I’m the most unfortunate doctor one could find anywhere in the world, where a physician can kill the sick person he’s treating and wants to be paid for his work, which is nothing but signing a piece of paper for some medicines that are made not by him but by the apothecary, and that’s the whole swindle; but when other people’s well-being costs me drops of blood, slaps, pinches, pinpricks, and lashes, they don’t give me an
ardite
. Well, I swear that if they bring me another patient, before I cure anybody they’ll have to grease my palm, because if the abbot sings he eats his supper, and I don’t want to believe that heaven gave me this virtue to use for others at no charge.”
“You are right, Sancho my friend,” responded Don Quixote, “and it was very wrong of Altisidora not to give you the chemises she promised, although your virtue is
gratis data
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and has not cost you any study at all, for suffering torments on your person is more than study. As for me, I can tell
you that if you wanted payment for the lashes of Dulcinea’s disenchantment, I should have given it to you gladly, but I do not know if payment would suit the cure, and I would not want rewards to interfere with the treatment. Even so, it seems to me that nothing would be lost if we tried it: decide, Sancho, how much you want, and then flog yourself and pay yourself in cash and by your own hand, for you are carrying my money.”
At this offer Sancho opened his eyes and ears at least a span and consented in his heart to flog himself willingly, and he said to his master:
“Well now, Señor, I’m getting ready to do what your grace desires, and to make a little profit, too, because the love I have for my children and my wife makes me seem greedy. Tell me, your grace: how much will you pay me for each lash I give myself?”
“If I were to pay you, Sancho,” responded Don Quixote, “according to what the greatness and nobility of this remedy deserve, the treasure of Venice and the mines of Potosí would not be enough; estimate how much of my money you are carrying, and then set a price for each lash.”
“The lashes,” responded Sancho, “amount to three thousand, three hundred, and a few; of those I’ve given myself five: that leaves the rest; let the five count as those few, and we come to the three thousand and three hundred, which at a
cuartillo
each, and I won’t do it for less even if the whole world ordered me to, comes to three thousand and three hundred
cuartillos,
and that three thousand comes to fifteen hundred half-
reales,
and that’s seven hundred fifty
reales;
and the three hundred comes to one hundred fifty half-
reales,
which is seventy-five
reales,
and add that to the seven hundred fifty, it comes to a total of eight hundred twenty-five
reales.
I’ll take that out of your grace’s money, and I’ll walk into my house a rich and happy man, though badly whipped; because trout aren’t caught…,
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and that’s all I’ll say.”
“O blessed Sancho! O kind and courteous Sancho!” responded Don Quixote. “Dulcinea and I shall be obliged to serve you for all the days of life that heaven grants us! If she returns to the state that was lost, and it is impossible that she will not, her misfortune will have been fortune, and my defeat a glorious triumph. Decide, Sancho, when you want to begin the flogging; if you do it soon, I shall add another hundred
reales.”
“When?” replied Sancho. “Tonight, without fail. Your grace should
arrange for us to spend it in the countryside, out of doors, and I’ll lay open my flesh.”
Night fell, anticipated by Don Quixote with the deepest longing in the world, for it seemed to him that the wheels on Apollo’s carriage
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had broken and that the day lasted longer than usual, which is what lovers generally feel, for they can never account for their desire. At last they entered a pleasant wood a short distance from the road, and leaving Rocinante’s saddle and the gray’s packsaddle unoccupied, they lay on the green grass and ate their supper from Sancho’s provisions; then, making a powerful and flexible whip from the donkey’s halter and headstall, Sancho withdrew some twenty paces from his master into a stand of beeches. Don Quixote, who saw him go with boldness and spirit, said:
“Be careful, my friend, not to tear yourself to pieces; pause between lashes; do not try to race so quickly that you lose your breath in the middle of the course; I mean, you should not hit yourself so hard that you lose your life before you reach the desired number. And to keep you from losing by a card too many or too few, I shall stand to one side and count the lashes you administer on my rosary. May heaven favor you as your good intentions deserve.”