o not weary you, your fortune,
envied by so many damsels,
will be raised on high by me,
to the Circle of the Moon.
Poetry moved away, and from the side where Interest stood, Liberality stepped forward, performed her figures, and said:
Liberality is the name
of giving that shuns th' extremes
of either prodigality
or its opposite, th' unwilling
hand of a miserly soul.
But, in order to praise you,
today I shall be prodigal,
and though a vice, it is honored
from a heart that is enamored,
and in giving shows its love.
In this fashion all the dancers in the two bands came forward and then withdrew, and each one performed her figures and said her verses, some of them elegant and some ridiculous, but Don Quixote could retain in his memory--which was very good--only those that have been cited; then all the dancers mingled, forming pairs and then separating with gentle grace and ease, and when Love passed in front of the castle, he shot his arrows into the air, but Interest broke gilded money boxes against it.
Finally, after having danced for some time, Interest took out a large bag made of the skin of a big Roman cat,3 which seemed to be full of coins, and threw it at the castle, and at the impact the boards fell apart and collapsed, leaving the maiden exposed and without any defenses. Interest approached with the dancers in his group, put a long gold chain around her neck, and pretended to seize and subdue her and make her his prisoner; when Love and his companions saw this, they moved to free her, and all these displays were made to the sound of the timbrels as they danced and twirled in harmony. The savages imposed peace when they quickly set up and put together again the boards of the castle, and the maiden went back inside, concluding the dance that had been watched with great pleasure by the spectators.
Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who had composed and directed it. She responded that it was a cleric, a beneficiary from the village who had a great talent for these kinds of inventions.
"I would wager," said Don Quixote, "that this beneficiary or bachelor must be more of a friend to Camacho than to Basilio, and that he is more inclined to writing satires than to saying his prayers at vespers. How well he has incorporated into the dance Basilio's skills and Camacho's wealth!"
Sancho Panza, who heard everything, said:
"My cock's king;4 I'm on Camacho's side."
"In short," said Don Quixote, "it seems clear, Sancho, that you are a peasant, the kind who shouts, 'Long live whoever wins!'"
"I don't know what kind I am," responded Sancho, "but I do know that I'd never get such fine skimmings from Basilio's pots as I've gotten from Camacho's."
And he showed him the pot full of geese and chickens, and seizing one of them, he began to eat with great verve and enthusiasm, saying:
"To hell with Basilio's talents! You're worth what you have, and what you have is what you're worth. There are only two lineages in the world, as my grandmother used to say, and that's the haves and the have-nots, though she was on the side of having; nowadays, Senor Don Quixote, wealth is better than wisdom: an ass covered in gold seems better than a saddled horse. And so I say again that I'm on the side of Camacho, whose pots are overflowing with geese and chickens, hares and rabbits, while Basilio's, if they ever show up, and even if they don't, won't hold anything but watered wine."
"Have you finished your harangue, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
"I must have," responded Sancho, "because I see that your grace is bothered by it; if you hadn't cut this one short, I could have gone on for another three days."
"May it please God, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that I see you mute before I die."
"At the rate we're going," responded Sancho, "before your grace dies I'll be chewing on mud, and then maybe I'll be so mute I won't say a word till the end of the world or, at least, until Judgment Day."
"Oh, Sancho, even if that should happen," responded Don Quixote, "your silence will never match all that you have said, are saying, and will say in your lifetime! Furthermore, it seems likely in the natural course of events that the day of my death will arrive before yours, and so I think I shall never see you mute, not even when you are drinking, or sleeping, which is what I earnestly desire."
"By my faith, Senor," responded Sancho, "you mustn't trust in the fleshless woman, I mean Death, who devours lamb as well as mutton; I've heard our priest say that she tramples the high towers of kings as well as the humble huts of the poor. This lady is more powerful than finicky; nothing disgusts her, she eats everything, and she does everything, and she crams her pack with all kinds and ages and ranks of people. She's not a reaper who takes naps; she reaps constantly and cuts the dry grass along with the green, and she doesn't seem to chew her food but wolfs it down and swallows everything that's put in front of her, because she's as hungry as a dog and is never satisfied; and though she has no belly, it's clear that she has dropsy and is always thirsty and ready to drink down the lives of everyone living, like somebody drinking a pitcher of cold water."
"Enough, Sancho," said Don Quixote at this point. "Stop now before you fall, for the truth is that what you have said about death, in your rustic terms, is what a good preacher might say. I tell you, Sancho, with your natural wit and intelligence, you could mount a pulpit and go around preaching some very nice things."
"Being a good preacher means living a good life," responded Sancho, "and I don't know any other theologies."
"You do not need them," said Don Quixote, "but I cannot understand or comprehend how, since the beginning of wisdom is the fear of God, you, who fear a lizard more than you fear Him, can know so much."
"Senor, your grace should pass judgment on your chivalries," responded Sancho, "and not start judging other people's fear or bravery, because I fear God as much as the next man. And your grace should let me eat up these skimmings; all the rest is idle words, and we'll have to account for those in the next world."
And saying this, he resumed the assault on his pot with so much gusto that he awoke the appetite of Don Quixote, who no doubt would have helped him if he had not been hindered by what must be recounted below.
CHAPTER XXI
Which continues the account of the wedding of Camacho, along with other agreeable events
While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the conversation described in the previous chapter, loud shouts and a great noise were heard from the men on mares, for with a huge outcry they galloped to receive the bride and groom, who were arriving in the midst of a thousand different kinds of musical instruments and inventions, accompanied by the priest, and their families, and the most distinguished people from the neighboring villages, all of them dressed in their finest clothes. As soon as Sancho saw the bride, he said:
"By my faith, she isn't dressed like a peasant girl but like an elegant lady. By God, as far as I can tell, the medallions1 she's supposed to be wearing are made of fine coral, and her green cloth from Cuenca is thirty-pile velvet!2 And are the edgings strips of linen? I'd swear they're made of satin! And then, just look at her hands adorned with jet rings! Damn me if they're not rings of gold, and really good gold, and set with pearl as white as curds, each one worth an eye at least. And damn me again for a whoreson, but what hair! If it's not a wig, I've never seen hair longer or blonder in my whole life! No, nobody can say anything about her grace and form except to compare her to a swaying palm tree loaded down with dates, which is just what the jewels look like hanging from her hair and throat! I swear she's a fine, rosy-cheeked girl who can pass through the banks of Flanders."3
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho Panza's rustic praise, though it seemed to him that aside from his lady Dulcinea of Toboso, he had never seen a more beautiful woman. Fair Quiteria seemed somewhat pale, and it must have been because of the sleepless night that brides always experience as they prepare for their wedding on the following day. The wedding party was approaching a stage on one side of the meadow, adorned with carpets and bouquets of flowers, where the marriage would take place and from which they would watch the dances and dramatic inventions, and as they reached this spot, they heard shouts behind them, and one voice cried out, saying:
"Wait a little, you who are as thoughtless as you are hasty."
At these shouts and words, everyone turned around and saw that the one who had called out was a man dressed, apparently, in a black cassock decorated with fiery red strips of cloth. He was crowned--as they later saw--with a wreath of funereal cypress, and in his hands he held a large staff. As he came closer, everyone recognized the gallant Basilio, and everyone was in suspense, waiting to see the outcome of his shouts and his words and fearing the worst from his appearing at that time.
At last he stopped, tired and breathless, before the bride and groom and thrust his staff, which had a steel tip at one end, into the ground; his color changed, he fixed his eyes on Quiteria, and in a hoarse, trembling voice he said:
"You know very well, O forgetful Quiteria, that according to the holy laws which we profess, as long as I am alive you cannot take a husband; and you are not unaware that, as I waited for time and my diligence to improve my fortune, I have not failed to maintain the decorum that your honor demanded; but you, turning your back on all the obligations you owe to my honest desires, wish to make another the lord and master of what is mine, for his riches bring him not only good fortune but even greater happiness. And so, to fill his cup of joy to the brim, not because I think he deserves it but because heaven wishes to grant it to him, I, with my own hands, will take down the obstacle or impediment that may hinder him by removing myself from the scene. Long live rich Camacho, and with the thankless Quiteria may he live many long and happy years, and death, death to poor Basilio, whose poverty cut the wings of his contentment and sent him to the grave!"
And saying this, he seized the staff that he had thrust into the ground, and leaving half of it in the earth, he showed that it served as a sheath for a medium-size sword that was hidden inside; and after placing what could be called the hilt in the ground, with swift agility and resolute purpose he threw himself on it, and in a moment the bloody tip emerged from his back, along with half the steel blade, and the unhappy man lay on the ground, bathed in his own blood and run through by his own weapon.
His friends hurried over to help him, grief-stricken at his misery and his pitiable misfortune; leaving Rocinante, Don Quixote hurried to help him, and took him in his arms, and discovered that he had not yet expired. Some wished to remove the sword, but the priest, who was present, thought it should not be withdrawn until he had heard his confession, because as soon as it was removed he would die. But Basilio began to revive, and in a faint, sorrowful voice, he said:
"If you should wish, O cruel Quiteria, to give me your hand in marriage in my final dying moment, then I think my temerity might find forgiveness, for with it I achieved the good of being yours."
When the priest heard this, he told him to attend to the well-being of his soul rather than to the pleasures of his body and to beg God very sincerely to pardon his sins and his act of despair. To which Basilio replied that under no circumstances would he make his confession until Quiteria gave him her hand in marriage: that joy would strengthen his will and give him the courage to confess.
Don Quixote, hearing the request of the wounded man, said in a loud voice that Basilio was asking for something very fair and reasonable and, moreover, very easy to do, and that Senor Camacho would be just as honored receiving Senora Quiteria as the widow of the valiant Basilio as if he had received her from her father's side:
"Here only one vow will be made, and its only effect will be the saying of it, for the nuptial bed of this marriage will be the grave."
Camacho heard all of this, and all of this confused and baffled him and he did not know what to do or say, but the voices of Basilio's friends were so clamorous, asking him to consent to Quiteria's giving her hand to Basilio so that his soul would not be condemned by leaving this life in despair, that he was moved, perhaps even forced, to say that if Quiteria wished to do so, then he was content, for it meant delaying only for a moment the fulfillment of his desires.
Then they all turned to Quiteria, and some with pleas, and others with tears, and still others with persuasive arguments, urged her to give her hand to poor Basilio; she, as hard as marble and as motionless as a statue, showed that she could not and would not and did not wish to say a word, and she would not have responded at all if the priest had not told her to decide quickly what she was going to do, because Basilio's soul was between his teeth, and there was no time for her to be irresolute or indecisive.
Then fair Quiteria, without saying a word, but perturbed and apparently sad and sorrowful, went toward Basilio, whose eyes were turned up and whose breath was quick and hurried, and who was whispering to himself the name of Quiteria, giving every indication that he would die like a heathen and not like a Christian. Finally, when she reached him, Quiteria fell to her knees and signaled for his hand, not asking for it with words. Basilio rolled down his eyes, and looking at her intently, he said:
"O, Quiteria, you have become merciful at a time when your mercy will serve as the knife that finally ends my life, for I no longer have the strength to bear the glory you have given me by choosing me for your own, or to hold back the pain that so quickly covers my eyes with the fearful shadow of death! What I implore, O my fatal star, is that you not ask for my hand nor give me yours out of a sense of duty, or to deceive me again, but because you confess and admit that of your own free will you give and present it to me as your legitimate husband, for it is not right that you deceive me at a moment like this, or use any pretense with one who has been so truthful with you."
As he said these words he fainted, and all those present thought that each time he fainted his soul would be carried away. Quiteria, filled with modesty and embarrassment, took Basilio's right hand in her own and said:
"No power is strong enough to turn my will, and so, with the freest will I have, I give you my hand as your legitimate wife, and I receive yours, if you give it to me of your own free will, unclouded and unchanged by the calamity your hasty action has brought you to."
"I do," responded Basilio, "not clouded, not confused, but with the clear understanding it has pleased heaven to give to me, and so I give myself and surrender myself to you to be your husband."
"And I give myself to be your wife," responded Quiteria, "whether you live for many long years or are taken now from my arms and carried to your grave."
"For someone who's so badly wounded," said Sancho Panza, "this young man certainly talks a lot; they should make him stop his courting and pay attention to his soul, which in my opinion is more on his tongue than between his teeth."
Then, as Basilio and Quiteria held hands, the priest, tenderhearted and weeping, gave them his blessing and asked heaven to rest the soul of the newly wed husband, who, as soon as he had received the blessing, leaped with great agility to his feet and with remarkable ease pulled out the sword that had been sheathed in his body.
All the onlookers were astonished, and some of them, more simpleminded than inquisitive, began to shout:
"A miracle, a miracle!"
But Basilio replied:
"Not 'a miracle, a miracle,' but ingenuity, ingenuity!"
The priest, confused and bewildered, hurried to touch the wound with both hands, and he discovered that the blade had passed not through the flesh and ribs of Basilio, but through a hollow metal tube filled with blood, which he had carefully placed there; as it was later learned, he had prepared the blood so it would not congeal.
In short, the priest, Camacho, and all the bystanders considered themselves fooled and deceived. The bride showed no signs of regretting the trick; rather, when she heard someone say that the wedding, because it had been deceitful, could not be valid, she said that she confirmed it again; everyone concluded that she had known about and consented to the ruse, and this so angered Camacho and his companions that they took their vengeance into their own hands, unsheathed many swords, and attacked Basilio, and in an instant almost as many swords were drawn in his defense. And at their head rode Don Quixote, who, with his lance at the ready and his shield on his arm, forced everyone to make way for him. Sancho, who never took pleasure or solace from such exploits, took refuge among the cauldrons where he had made his happy skimmings, for he thought the place was sacred and had to be respected. Don Quixote, in a great voice, shouted:
"Hold, Senores, hold, for it is not right to take revenge for the offenses that love commits; you should know that love and war are the same, and just as in war it is legitimate and customary to make use of tricks and stratagems to conquer the enemy, so in the contests and rivalries of love the lies and falsehoods used to achieve a desired end are considered fair, as long as they do not discredit or dishonor the beloved. Quiteria belonged to Basilio and Basilio to Quiteria, by the just and favorable disposition of heaven. Camacho is rich, and can buy whenever, and wherever, and whatever he desires. Basilio has only this sheep, and no man, no matter how powerful, can take her from him; those whom God has joined let no man put asunder, and if any wishes to try, he will first have to pass by the point of this lance."
And saying this, he brandished his lance with so much strength and dexterity that he filled all who did not know him with fear; Quiteria's disdain was fixed so firmly in Camacho's imagination that in an instant he erased her from his memory, and so he was persuaded by the arguments of the priest, a prudent, well-intentioned man, and he and his supporters were calmed and appeased; and to indicate this they returned their swords to their sheathes, blaming Quiteria's complaisance more than Basilio's ingenuity, and Camacho reasoned that if Quiteria truly loved Basilio as a maiden, she would also love him as a married woman, and that he ought to give thanks to heaven for taking her away instead of giving her to him.
Since Camacho and his followers were consoled and appeased, all of Basilio's supporters