"That I certainly shall not do," said the Knight of the White Moon. "Let the fame of Senora Dulcinea of Toboso's beauty live in its entirety; let it live, I say, for the satisfaction I ask is that the great Don Quixote retire to his village for a year, or for as long as I shall determine, as we agreed before entering into this battle."
All this was heard by the viceroy and Don Antonio, as well as by many others who were present, and they also heard Don Quixote respond that as long as he asked nothing that was to the detriment of Dulcinea, he would comply with all the rest like a true and honorable knight.
When this confession was made, the Knight of the White Moon turned his horse, bowed his head respectfully to the viceroy, and entered the city at a canter.
The viceroy ordered Don Antonio to go after him and learn without fail who he was. They picked up Don Quixote, uncovered his face, and found him pale and perspiring. Rocinante had been so badly hurt that he could not move. Sancho, utterly sad and utterly grief-stricken, did not know what to say or do: it seemed to him that the entire episode was a dream and everything that had happened a matter of enchantment. He saw his master defeated and obliged to not take up arms for a year; he imagined the light of his glorious deeds dimmed and the hopes of his latest promises to Sancho dissipated, as the wind dissipates smoke. He feared that Rocinante would be left crippled and his master's bones dislocated, though it would be no misfortune if he had been made sane.1 Finally, the viceroy sent for a sedan chair and Don Quixote was carried back to the city, and the viceroy returned as well, desiring to know the identity of the Knight of the White Moon who had left Don Quixote in so terrible a state.
CHAPTER LXV
Which reveals the identity of the Knight of the White Moon, and recounts the release of Don Gaspar Gregorio, as well as other matters
Don Antonio Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, who was also followed, even pursued, by a good number of boys, until he entered an inn inside the city. Don Antonio went in as well, desiring to meet him; a squire came out to greet him and remove his armor; the knight withdrew to a room on the ground floor, and Don Antonio went after him, for he could barely wait to find out who he might be. The Knight of the White Moon, seeing that this gentleman would not leave him alone, said:
"I know very well, Senor, why you have come: you want to know who I am, and since there is no reason not to tell you, while my servant removes my armor I shall tell you the truth of the matter, omitting nothing. Know then, Senor, that my name is Bachelor Sanson Carrasco; I am from the same village as Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose madness and foolishness move all of us who know him to pity; I have been one of those who pitied him most, and believing that his health depends on his remaining peacefully in his own village and in his own house, I devised a way to oblige him to do that, and so some three months ago I took to the road as a knight errant, calling myself the Knight of the Mirrors, and intending to do combat with him and defeat him without doing him harm, and setting as a condition of our combat that the vanquished would have to obey the victor; what I planned to ask of him, because I already considered him defeated, was that he return to his village and not leave it again for a year, for in that time he could be cured; but fate ordained otherwise, because he defeated me and toppled me from my horse, and so my idea did not succeed; he continued on his way, and I returned home, defeated, chagrined, and bruised from my fall, which was a dangerous one, yet not even this could diminish my desire to find him again and de-feat him, as you have witnessed today. And since he is so punctilious in complying with the rules of knight errantry, he undoubtedly will comply with the conditions I have set, and keep his word. This, Senor, is what has happened, and I have nothing more to tell you, and I implore you not to reveal my identity or tell Don Quixote who I am, so that my good intentions can be put into effect and a man can regain his reason, for his is fine when free of the absurdities of chivalry."
"Oh, Senor," said Don Antonio, "may God forgive you for the harm you have done to the entire world in wishing to restore the sanity of the most amusing madman in it! Don't you see, Senor, that the benefit caused by the sanity of Don Quixote cannot be as great as the pleasure produced by his madness? But I imagine that all the good bachelor's efforts will not suffice to restore sanity to a man so hopelessly mad; and if it were not contrary to charity, I would say that Don Quixote should never be cured, because when he regains his health we lose not only his amusing words and actions, but those of his squire, Sancho Panza, any one of which could cheer melancholy itself. Even so, I shall be silent and tell him nothing, if only to see if I am correct in supposing that Senor Carrasco's endeavors will have no effect."
The bachelor responded that the matter was well under way, and he expected a successful outcome. When Don Antonio offered to do whatever he might require, Sanson Carrasco took his leave, had his armor tied on to a mule, mounted the same horse he had ridden into battle, left the city that same day, and returned home without anything happening to him that needs to be recounted in this true history.
Don Antonio told the viceroy everything Carrasco had told him, which did not give the viceroy much pleasure: Don Quixote's retirement meant that all who knew of his madness would lose the pleasure that might have been theirs.
Don Quixote spent six days in bed, sick at heart, sad, melancholy, and morose as he went over and over again in his imagination the misfortune of his defeat. Sancho consoled him, and among other things, he said:
"Senor, your grace should lift up your head and be glad, if you can, and give thanks to heaven that even though you were toppled to the ground, you didn't break any ribs; and since you know there are always wins and losses, and you may have the hook but not the bacon, forget about the doctor because you don't need him to be cured of what's ailing you, and let's go back home and stop going around looking for adventures in places and countries we don't know; if you think about it, I'm the one who's lost the most, though your grace has been hurt more. When I gave up the governorship I also gave up any desire to be a governor again, but I didn't give up wanting to be a count, which will never happen if your grace gives up being a king by giving up the practice of your chivalry, which means all my hopes going up in smoke."
"Be quiet, Sancho, for my retirement and withdrawal do not need to last longer than a year, and then I shall return to my honorable practice, and there will be no lack of kingdoms for me to win and countships to give to you."
"May God hear you," said Sancho, "and sin be deaf, for I've always heard that virtuous hope is better than wicked possession."
Just then Don Antonio came in and said, with indications of great joy:
"Good news, Senor Don Quixote! Don Gaspar Gregorio and the renegade who went to rescue him are ashore! What do I mean ashore? They are already in the house of the viceroy, and will be here at any moment."
Don Quixote was cheered somewhat and said:
"The truth is I was about to say that I should be pleased if everything had turned out otherwise, because then I would be obliged to go to Barbary, where, by the strength of my arm, I would free not only Don Gaspar Gregorio, but all the Christian captives in Barbary. But what am I saying, wretch that I am? Am I not the vanquished one? Am I not the defeated one? Am I not the one who cannot take up arms for a year? Then what am I promising? Why do I praise myself when it would be more appropriate for me to use a distaff and not a sword?"
"Enough of that, Senor," said Sancho. "Long live the hen, even with the pip; today it's your turn and tomorrow it's mine; these matters of clashes and blows shouldn't be taken too seriously, because the man who falls today can pick himself up tomorrow, unless he decides to stay in bed, I mean if he lets himself lose heart and doesn't find new spirit for new fights. And your grace should get up now to receive Don Gaspar Gregorio, because it seems to me that everybody's in an uproar, and he must be in the house by now."
And this was true, because Don Gaspar Gregorio and the renegade had already given an account to the viceroy of the journey there
and back, and since Don Gaspar Gregorio was longing to see Ana Felix, he came with the renegade to the house of Don Antonio; although he had been dressed in women's clothes when they took him out of Algiers, on the boat he had exchanged them for the clothes of a captive who had been rescued along with him, but no matter what he wore he would have been sought after, served, and esteemed because he was extraordinarily handsome, and his age, apparently, was seventeen or eighteen years old. Ricote and his daughter came out to receive him, the father with tears in his eyes and the daughter with modesty. They did not embrace each other, because where there is great love, generally there is not excessive boldness. The beauty of Don Gaspar Gregorio and Ana Felix, seen together, astounded everyone present. Silence spoke for the two lovers, and their eyes were the tongues that revealed their chaste and joyful thoughts.
The renegade recounted the ingenious means he had used to rescue Don Gaspar Gregorio; Don Gaspar Gregorio recounted the dangers and difficulties he had undergone with the women in whose house he had been living, not at length but in a few words, showing that he had intelligence far beyond his years. In the end, Ricote paid and liberally compensated the renegade as well as the oarsmen. The renegade was reconciled with and reintegrated into the Church, a rotting limb who became cleansed and healthy again through penance and repentance.
Two days later, the viceroy discussed with Don Antonio what means to employ so that Ana Felix and her father could stay in Spain, for it seemed to them there was no good reason that so Christian a daughter and, apparently, so well-intentioned a father should not remain. Don Antonio offered to go to court to negotiate the matter, for he had to go there in any event to tend to other affairs, letting it be known that by means of favors and gifts, many difficult issues can be resolved.
"One must not place hope," said Ricote, who was present at this conversation, "in favors or gifts, because with the great Don Bernardino de Velasco, Count of Salazar,1 whom His Majesty made responsible for our expulsion, prayers are in vain, as are promises, gifts, and lamentations, for although it is true that he mixes mercy with justice, he sees that the entire body of our nation is contaminated and rotten, and he burns it with a cautery rather than soothing it with an ointment; and so, with prudence, sagacity, diligence, and the fear he imposes, he has borne on his strong shoulders the weight of this great plan, and put it into effect, and our schemes, strategies, pleas, and deceptions have not been able to blind his eyes of Argus, which are always alert so that none of our people can stay behind or be concealed, like a hidden root that in times to come will send out shoots and bear poisonous fruits in Spain, which is clean now, and rid of the fears caused by our numbers. What a heroic decision by the great Felipe III,2 and what unparalleled wisdom to have entrusted its execution to Don Bernardino de Velasco!"
"When I am there at court, I shall undertake all possible measures, one by one, and may heaven's will be done," said Don Antonio. "Don Gaspar Gregorio will come with me and alleviate the sorrow his parents must feel on account of his absence; Ana Felix will stay with my wife in my house, or in a convent, and I know the viceroy would like the good Ricote to stay with him until we see the outcome of my negotiations."
The viceroy consented to everything that was proposed, but Don Gaspar Gregorio, when he learned their plans, said that under no circumstances could he or would he leave Dona Ana Felix, but because he intended to see his parents and then arrange to come back for her, he finally agreed. Ana Felix stayed with Don Antonio's wife, and Ricote stayed with the viceroy.
The day of Don Antonio's departure arrived, and two days later that of Don Quixote and Sancho, for his fall did not allow him to set out any sooner. There were tears, sighs, swoons, and sobs when Don Gaspar Gregorio took his leave of Ana Felix. Ricote offered him a thousand escudos, if he wanted them, but he would not take any, though he did borrow five escudos from Don Antonio, promising to repay them at court. With this they left, and subsequently Don Quixote and Sancho departed, as has been said, Don Quixote unarmed and in traveling clothes and Sancho on foot, since the gray was carrying the armor.
CHAPTER LXVI
Which recounts what will be seen by whoever reads it, or heard by whoever listens to it being read
As he left Barcelona, Don Quixote turned to look at the place where he had fallen, saying:
"Here was Troy! Here my misfortune, not my cowardice, did away with the glories I had achieved; here Fortune turned her changes and reverses against me; here my deeds were obscured; here, in short, my happiness fell, never to rise again!"
When Sancho heard this, he said:
"Senor, it is as fitting for valiant hearts to endure misfortune as it is for them to rejoice in prosperity; and I judge this on the basis of my own experience, for if I was happy when I was governor, now that I'm a squire on foot, I'm not sad, because I've heard that the woman they call Fortune is drunken, and fickle, and most of all blind, so she doesn't see what she's doing and doesn't know who she's throwing down or raising up."
"You sound very philosophical, Sancho," responded Don Quixote, "and you speak very wisely; I do not know who taught that to you. What I can say is that there is no fortune in the world, and the things that happen in it, whether good or bad, do not happen by chance but by the particular providence of heaven, which is why people say that each man is the architect of his own fortune. I have done that with mine, but without the necessary prudence, and so my assumptions have turned out badly, for I should have realized that Rocinante's weakness could not resist the power and size of the horse belonging to the Knight of the White Moon. In short, I took a risk, I did what I could, I was toppled, and although I lost my honor, I did not lose, nor can I lose, the virtue of keeping my word. When I was a knight errant, daring and brave, my acts and my hands brought credit to my deeds, and now, when I am an ordinary gentleman, I shall bring credit to my words by keeping the promise I made. Walk on, then, Sancho my friend, and let us go home to spend the year of our novitiate, and in that seclusion we shall gather new strength to return to the practice of arms, which will never be forgotten by me."
"Senor," responded Sancho, "traveling on foot is not so pleasant a thing that it leads or moves me to travel a great distance each day. Let's leave this armor hanging from some tree instead of a hanged man, and if I can sit on my gray, with my feet off the ground, we'll travel whatever distances your grace asks for and decides, but if you think I'll walk great distances on foot, you'd better think again."
"You have spoken well, Sancho," responded Don Quixote. "Let my armor be hung as a trophy, and beneath it, or all around it, we shall carve on the trees what was written on the trophy of Roland's arms:
Let no one move them
who cannot test his own against Roland."1
"That all seems like pearls to me," responded Sancho, "and if we weren't going to need Rocinante on the road, it would be a good idea to leave him hanging, too."
"Well," replied Don Quixote, "I do not want either him or my arms hanged, so that no one can say this is a bad reward for good service!"
"Your grace is right," responded Sancho, "because according to wise men, you shouldn't blame the packsaddle for the donkey's mistake, and since your grace is to blame for what happened, you should punish yourself and not turn your anger against your battered and bloody arms, or the gentle Rocinante, or my tender feet by wanting them to walk more than is fair."
They spent all that day in this kind of talk and conversation, and another four as well, and nothing happened to interfere with their journey, but on the fifth day, at the entrance to a village, they discovered a crowd of people at the door of an inn, for it was a holiday and they were there enjoying themselves. When Don Quixote reached them, a peasant raised his voice, saying:
"One of these two gentlemen, who don't know the parties, can decide our wager."
"I shall, certainly," responded Don Quixote, "and with complete rectitude, if I can understand it."
"Well then, Senor," said the peasant, "the fact is that a
man from this village, so fat he weighs eleven arrobas, challenged a neighbor of his, who doesn't weigh more than five, to a race. The condition was that they had to run a hundred paces carrying equal weight, and when the challenger was asked how they would equal the weight he said that the other man, who weighs five arrobas, should add another six arrobas of iron on his back, and in this way the thin man's eleven arrobas would match the eleven of the fat man."
"Oh no," said Sancho before Don Quixote could respond. "Just a few days ago I stopped being a governor, and it's up to the judge, as everybody knows, to decide questions and give an opinion in every case."
"You are welcome to respond," said Don Quixote, "Sancho my friend; I would not be competent to do so, my judgment is so shaken and confused."
With this permission, Sancho said to the peasants, who stood around him with their mouths open, waiting for his verdict:
"Brothers, what the fat man asks for is not fair and doesn't have a shred of justice in it, because if what they say is true, and the one who's challenged can choose his weapons, it isn't right for him to choose ones that would keep him or stop him from being victorious, and so it's my opinion that the fat challenger should prune, trim, peel away, scrape, pare off, and lose six arrobas of his flesh, here and there on his body, wherever he thinks best, and in this way, when he weighs five arrobas, he'll match and be equal to the five of his adversary, and so they'll be able to run carrying equal weight."2
"By my soul!" said a peasant who had listened to Sancho's decision. "This gentleman has spoken like a saint and given a verdict like a canon! But I'll bet the fat man won't want to lose an ounce of his flesh, let alone six arrobas of it."
"The best thing would be if they don't run," responded another, "because then the thin man won't be worn out carrying that weight, and the fat man won't have to lose any; let half the wager be in wine, and let's take these gentlemen to the tavern that has the good wine, and let it be on me...and wear a cape when it rains."