though it was ordered that no one should name him or mention him in speech or in writing, so that his desire would not be accomplished, yet it was learned that his name was Erostratus. And also to the point is what happened to the great Emperor Charles V and a gentleman in Rome. The emperor wished to see the famous Temple of the Rotunda, which in antiquity was called the Temple of All the Gods, and today is known by the holier name of All Saints, and is the most complete surviving building of all those erected by the gentiles in Rome, and the one that best preserves the fame of its founders for grandeur and magnificence:2 it has the shape of half an orange and is extremely large, and it is well-lit, though the only light is from a window, or rather, a round skylight at the top, and it was there that the emperor looked down at the building, and at his side was a Roman gentle-man who pointed out the beauties and subtleties of that great structure and its memorable architecture; and when they had come down, he said to the emperor: 'A thousand times, Most Sacred Majesty, I have felt the desire to embrace Your Majesty and then throw myself down from that skylight so my fame in the world will be eternal.' The emperor responded: 'I thank you for not having put so wicked a thought into effect, and from now on I shall not give you occasion to test your loyalty; I command you never to speak to me again or to be anywhere I am.' And with these words he performed a great service for him.
I mean, Sancho, that the desire to achieve fame is extraordinarily active. What do you think made Horatius leap from the bridge, dressed in all his armor, into the depths of the Tiber? What burned the arm and hand of Mutius? What impelled Curtius to throw himself into the deep burning abyss that opened in the center of Rome? What, against all the unfavorable omens that had appeared, drove Caesar to cross the Rubicon? And, with more modern examples, what scuttled the ships and left the valiant Spaniards, led by the gallant Cortes, stranded and isolated in the New World? All these and many other great feats are, were, and will be the works of fame, which mortals desire as a reward and as part of the immortality which their famous deeds deserve, though we as Christians, Catholics, and knights errant must care more for future glory, eternal in the ethereal and celestial spheres, than for the vanity of the fame achieved in this present and transitory world; this fame, no matter how long it may last, must finally come to an end with the world itself, whose end has been determined. And so, O Sancho, our actions must not go beyond the limits placed there by the Christian religion, which we profess. We must slay pride by slaying giants; slay envy with generosity and a good heart; anger with serene bearing and tranquility of spirit; gluttony and sleep by eating little and watching always; lust and lasciviousness by maintaining our fealty toward those whom we have made mistresses of our thoughts; sloth by wandering everywhere in the world, seeking those occasions when we may become famous knights as well as Christians. Here you see, Sancho, the means by which one attains the highest praise that comes with fame and a good name."
"Everything your grace has told me so far," said Sancho, "I have understood very well, but even so, I would like your grace to absolve a doubt that has just come to mind."
"Resolve is what you mean, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Come, tell me, and I shall answer the best I can."
"Tell me, Senor," Sancho continued, "all those Julys or Augusts,3 and all those brave knights you mentioned, the ones who are dead, where are they now?"
"The gentiles," responded Don Quixote, "are undoubtedly in hell; the Christians, if they were good Christians, are either in purgatory or in heaven."
"That's fine," said Sancho, "but tell me now: the tombs where the bodies of those big important knights are buried, do they have silver lamps burning in front of them, and are the walls of their chapels hung with crutches, shrouds, wigs, and legs and eyes of wax? And if not, how are they decorated?"
To which Don Quixote responded:
"The tombs of the gentiles were, for the most part, sumptuous temples: the ashes of Julius Caesar were placed at the top of an extraordinarily large stone pyramid, which in Rome they now call St. Peter's Needle; the Emperor Hadrian had for his tomb a castle as large as a good-sized village, which was called Moles Hadriani, and today is the Castel Santangelo in Rome; Queen Artemisia buried her husband, Mausolus, in a tomb that was considered one of the seven wonders of the world; but none of these tombs, or the many others that the gentiles had, were adorned with shrouds or any of the offerings and signs indicating that those buried there were saints."
"I'm coming to that," replied Sancho. "Now, tell me which is the greater deed, raising a dead man or killing a giant?"
"The answer is self-evident," responded Don Quixote. "It is greater to raise a dead man."
"Then I've got you," said Sancho. "The fame of those who raise the dead, give sight to the blind, heal the lame, and cure the sick, and whose tombs have lamps burning in front of them, and whose chapels are filled with devout people who adore the relics on their knees, that would be a better fame, in this world and the next, than the fame left behind by all the gentile emperors and knights errant who ever lived."
"I admit that this is true," responded Don Quixote.
"Well, this fame, these favors, these prerogatives, or whatever they're called," responded Sancho, "is what the bodies and relics of the saints have, and with the approval and permission of our Holy Mother Church, they also have lamps, candles, shrouds, crutches, paintings, wigs, eyes, and legs, and with these they deepen devotion and increase their Christian fame; the bodies of saints or their relics are carried on their shoulders by kings, and they kiss the fragments of their bones, and use them to decorate and adorn their private chapels and their favorite altars."
"What do you wish me to infer, Sancho, from all that you have said?" said Don Quixote.
"I mean," said Sancho, "that we should begin to be saints, and then we'll win the fame we want in a much shorter time; and remember, Senor, that only yesterday or the day before--it happened so recently, it's fair to say that--they canonized or beatified two discalced friars, and the iron chains they used to bind and torture their bodies are now thought to bring great good luck if you kiss and touch them, and are venerated, as I said, more than the sword of Roland in the armory of His Majesty the king, God save him. And so, Senor, it's better to be a humble friar, in any order at all, than a valiant knight errant; two dozen lashings with a scourge have more effect on God than two thousand thrusts with a lance, whether they're aimed at giants, or monsters, or dragons."
"All of that is true," responded Don Quixote, "but we cannot all be friars, and God brings His children to heaven by many paths: chivalry is a religion, and there are sainted knights in Glory."
"Yes," responded Sancho, "but I've heard that there are more friars in heaven than knights errant."
"That is true," responded Don Quixote, "because the number of religious is greater than the number of knights."
"There are many who are errant," said Sancho.
"Many," responded Don Quixote, "but few who deserve to be called knights."
They spent that night and the following day in this and other similar conversations, and nothing worth recounting happened to them, which caused no small sorrow to Don Quixote. Finally, the next day at dusk, they could see the great city of Toboso, a sight that brought joy to Don Quixote's spirit and saddened Sancho's, because he did not know which house was Dulcinea's, for he had never seen it, just as his master had never seen it, so that both were in a state of high agitation, one with his desire to see it, the other because he had not, and Sancho could not imagine what he would do when his master sent him into Toboso. In short, Don Quixote decided to enter the city when night had fallen, and they waited for the hour of darkness in a stand of oaks growing near Toboso, and when the time came they entered the city, where things befell them that certainly were memorable.
CHAPTER IX
Which recounts what will soon be seen
It was on the stroke of midnight,1 more or less, when Don Quixote and Sancho left the countryside and entered Toboso. The town lay in peaceful silence, because all the residents were in their beds and sleeping like logs, as the saying goes. The night was fairly clear, although Sancho would have preferred it totally dark so that he could find an excuse for his ignorance in the darkness. All that could be heard in the town was the sound of dogs barking, which thundered in Don Quixote's ears and troubled the heart of Sancho. From time to time a donkey brayed, pigs grunted, cats meowed, and the different sounds of their voices seemed louder in the silence of the night, which the enamored knight took as an evil omen; despite this, however, he said to Sancho:
"Sancho, my friend, lead the way to the palace of Dulcinea; perhaps we may find her awake."
"Good God, what palace am I supposed to lead to," responded Sancho, "when the place where I saw her highness was only a very small house?"
"She must have withdrawn, at that time," responded Don Quixote, "to a small apartment in her castle, finding solace alone with her damsels, as is the practice and custom of noble ladies and princesses."
"Senor," said Sancho, "since your grace insists, in spite of what I say, that the house of my lady Dulcinea is a castle, do you think we'll find the door open at this hour? And would it be a good idea for us to knock loud enough for them to hear us and open the door, disturbing everybody with the noise we make? Are we by chance calling at the houses of our kept women, where we can visit and knock at the door and go in any time we want no matter how late it is?"
"Before we do anything else, let us first find the castle," replied Don Quixote, "and then I shall tell you, Sancho, what it would be good for us to do. And listen, Sancho, either I cannot see very well or that large shape and its shadow over there must be the palace of Dulcinea."
"Well, your grace, lead the way," responded Sancho, "and maybe it will be, though even if I saw it with my eyes and touched it with my hands, I'd believe it the way I believe it's daytime now."
Don Quixote led the way, and after some two hundred paces he came to the shape that was casting the shadow, and he saw a high tower, and then he realized that the building was not a castle but the principal church of the town. And he said:
"We have come to the church, Sancho."2
"I can see that," responded Sancho. "And may it please God that we don't come to our graves; it's not a good idea to walk through cemeteries at this hour of the night, especially since I told your grace, if I remember correctly, that the lady's house is in a little dead-end lane."
"May God damn you for a fool!" said Don Quixote. "Where have you ever found castles and royal palaces built in little dead-end lanes?"
"Senor," responded Sancho, "each place has its ways: maybe here in Toboso the custom is to build palaces and large buildings in lanes, and so I beg your grace to let me look along these streets and lanes that I see here; maybe at some corner I'll run into that castle, and I hope I see it devoured by dogs for bringing us such a weary long way."
"Speak with respect, Sancho, of the things that pertain to my lady," said Don Quixote, "and let us be patient: we shall not give up."
"I'll control myself," responded Sancho, "but how can I be patient if I saw our lady's house only one time but your grace wants me to know it forever and find it in the middle of the night, when your grace can't find it and you must have seen it thousands of times?"
"You make me despair, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Come here, you scoundrel: have I not told you a thousand times that in all the days of my life I have not seen the peerless Dulcinea, and I have never crossed the threshold of her palace, and I am in love only because I have heard of the great fame she has for beauty and discernment?"
"Now I hear it," responded Sancho, "and I say that just as your grace has not seen her, neither have I."
"That cannot be," replied Don Quixote. "At least you told me that you saw her sifting wheat, when you brought me her answer to the letter I sent with you."
"Don't depend on that, Senor," responded Sancho, "because I want you to know that I only heard about seeing her and bringing you her answer, and I have as much idea who the lady Dulcinea is as I have chances to punch the sky."
"Sancho, Sancho," responded Don Quixote, "there is a time for jokes and a time when jokes are inappropriate and out of place. Simply because I say I have not seen or spoken to the lady of my soul, it does not mean that you must also say you have not spoken to her or seen her, when just the opposite is true, as you well know."
They were engaged in this conversation when they saw a man with two mules coming toward them, and by the noise he made with the plow that was dragging along the ground, they judged him to be a peasant who had gotten up before dawn to begin his labors, which was the truth. As he walked along, the peasant sang the ballad that says:
A bad day for you, O Frenchmen,
that defeat at Roncesvalles.
"By heaven, Sancho," said Don Quixote when he heard him, "I doubt anything good will happen to us this night. Do you hear what that laborer is singing?"
"I do," responded Sancho, "but what does the rout at Roncesvalles3 have to do with us? He could just as easily be singing the ballad of Calainos, and it wouldn't change whether we have good or bad luck in this business."
By now the laborer had reached them, and Don Quixote asked:
"Can you tell me, my friend, and may God send you good fortune, the location of the palaces of the peerless princess Dona Dulcinea of Toboso?"
"Senor," the young man responded, "I'm a stranger, and I've only been in town a few days, working for a rich farmer in his fields; the priest and the sacristan live in that house in front of us, and either one or both of them will be able to tell your grace about that lady the princess, because they have the list of everybody who lives in Toboso, though it seems to me that no princess lives anywhere around here; but there are lots of ladies, and they're so distinguished that each one could be a princess in her own house."
"Well, friend, the lady I am asking about," said Don Quixote, "must be one of them."
"That might be," responded the young man, "and now goodbye: dawn is breaking."
And prodding his mules, he waited for no more questions. Sancho, seeing his master somewhat baffled and in a bad humor, said:
"Senor, it's almost day and it wouldn't be a good idea to let the sun find us out on the street; it would be better for us to leave the city, and then your grace can wait in some nearby woods, and I'll come back in broad daylight and search every corner of this town for the house, castle, or palace of my lady, and I'll have to be pretty unlucky not to find it; and when I do, I'll talk to her grace and tell her where your grace is waiting for her to give you leave to see her and tell you how you can without doing damage to her honor and good name."
"You have, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "enclosed a thousand wise statements within the circle of a few brief words: the advice you have just given pleases me, and I accept it very willingly. Come, my friend, and let us look for the place where I shall wait while you, as you have said, will come back to find, see, and speak to my lady, from whose intelligence and courtesy I hope for more than wondrous favors."
Sancho was desperate to get his master outside the town so that he would not discover the lie of the response from Dulcinea that he had brought to him in the Sierra Morena, and so he hurried their departure, which took place without delay, and two miles from the town they found a stand of trees or a wood where Don Quixote waited while Sancho returned to the city to speak with Dulcinea; and on this mission things occurred that demand a renewal of both attention and belief.
CHAPTER X
Which recounts Sancho's ingenuity in enchanting the lady Dulcinea, and other events as ridiculous as they are true
When the author of this great history came to recount what is recounted in this chapter, he says he would have preferred to pass over it in silence, fearful it would not be given credence, for the madness of Don Quixote here reached the limits and boundaries of the greatest madnesses that can be imagined, and even passed two crossbow shots beyond them. But finally, despite this fear and trepidation, he wrote down the mad acts just as Don Quixote performed them, not adding or subtracting an atom of truth from the history and not concerning himself about the accusations that he was a liar, which might be made against him; and he was right, because truth may be stretched thin and not break, and it always floats on the surface of the lie, like oil on water.
And so, continuing his history, he says that as soon as Don Quixote had entered the wood, oak grove, or forest near the great Toboso, he ordered Sancho to return to the city and not appear again in his presence without first having spoken on his behalf to his lady, asking her to be so kind as to allow herself to be seen by her captive knight and deign to give him her blessing so that he might hope for a most happy conclusion for all his undertakings and arduous enterprises. Sancho agreed to do everything exactly as ordered and to bring back a reply as good as the one he had brought the first time.
"Go, my friend," replied Don Quixote, "and do not become disconcerted when you find yourself looking at the light emanating from the sun of beauty which you will seek. Oh, you are more fortunate than all the squires in the world! Remember everything and do not miss a detail of how she receives you: if her color changes as you give her my message; if she becomes agitated or troubled when she hears my name; if she moves about on her pillows, if you happen to find her in the richly furnished antechamber of her rank;1 if she is standing, look at her to see if she shifts from one foot to another; if she repeats her answer two or three times; if she changes from gentle to severe, from harsh to loving; if she raises her hand to her hair to smooth it, although it is not disarranged; finally, my friend, observe all her actions and movements, because if you relate them to me just as they occurred, I shall interpret what she keeps hidden in the secret places of her heart in response to the fact of my love; for you must know, Sancho, if you do not know it already, that with lovers, the external actions and movements, revealed when the topic of their love arises, are reliable messengers bringing the news of what transpires deep