Chapter XVIII. In which are told the words that passed between Sancho Panza and his master Don Quixote, with other adventures worth telling

Sancho came up to his master so limp and faint that he could not urge his donkey on. When Don Quixote saw him in that state, he said to him:

“Now I am fully convinced, my good Sancho, that that castle, or inn, is enchanted beyond a doubt; for those who made such atrocious sport of you, what could they be but phantoms and people from the other world? And I confirm this by having seen that, when I was by the wall of the yard watching the acts of your sad tragedy, it was not possible for me to climb over it, nor could I so much as get down from Rocinante, because they must have had me enchanted; for I swear to you, by the faith of who I am, that if I could have climbed over or got down, I would have avenged you in such a way that those caitiffs and miscreants would have remembered the jest forever, even if I knew that in doing so I was going against the laws of chivalry, which, as I have told you many times now, do not allow a knight to lay hand on one who is not a knight, unless it be in defense of his own life and person, in a case of urgent and great necessity.”

“I’d have taken my revenge too if I could, dubbed knight or not, but I couldn’t; though I’m of the opinion that those who had their fun with me weren’t phantoms or enchanted men, as your grace says, but men of flesh and bone like us; and all of them, from what I heard them call each other while they were tossing me, had their names: one of them was called Pedro Martínez, and another Tenorio Hernández, and I heard that the innkeeper was called Juan Palomeque the Left-Handed. So, sir, your not being able to jump over the wall of the yard or get down off your horse had something else behind it than enchantments. And what I make out clearly from all this is that these adventures we go looking for will in the end, at the very end, bring us to so many misadventures that we won’t know which is our right foot. And what would be better and wiser, according to my little understanding, would be for us to go back to our village, now that it’s harvest time and time to see to the farm, and leave off wandering from Ceca to Mecca and from tub to milking pail, as they say.”

“How little you know, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “of matters of chivalry! Be quiet and have patience, for the day will come when you will see with your own eyes what an honorable thing it is to follow this calling. Or else tell me: what greater happiness can there be in the world, or what delight can match that of winning a battle and triumphing over your enemy? None, without any doubt.”

“It must be so,” answered Sancho, “though I don’t know it; I only know that since we became knights-errant, or since your grace became one (for there’s no reason for me to count myself in so honorable a number), we’ve never won a single battle, except the one with the Biscayan, and even from that one your grace came away with half an ear and half a helmet less; and since then it’s all been cudgels and more cudgels, punches and more punches, and I got the blanket-tossing on top of that, and having it done to me by enchanted people I can’t take revenge on, so as to find out how far the pleasure of beating the enemy goes, as your grace says.”

“That is the grief I have, and the one you must have, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “but from now on I will try to lay my hands on some sword made with such mastery that no kind of enchantment can be worked on the one who carries it; and it might even be that fortune would bring me that of Amadís, when he was called the Knight of the Burning Sword, which was one of the best swords any knight in the world ever had, for, besides having the virtue I spoke of, it cut like a razor, and there was no armor, however strong and enchanted it might be, that could stand before it.” “I’m so lucky,” said Sancho, “that, even if that happened and your grace came to find such a sword, it would only be of service and use to dubbed knights, like the balm; and as for squires, let sorrow eat them.”

“Do not fear that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for heaven will deal better with you.”

Don Quixote and his squire were going along in this talk when Don Quixote saw coming toward them along the road they were traveling a great, thick cloud of dust; and, on seeing it, he turned to Sancho and said to him:

“This is the day, O Sancho, on which shall be seen the good that my fortune holds in store for me; this is the day, I say, on which the valor of my arm shall be shown, as much as on any other, and on which I am to do deeds that will remain written in the book of Fame for all the centuries to come. Do you see that cloud of dust rising there, Sancho? Well, it is all thick with a vast army of diverse and countless peoples who are marching this way.”

“By that reckoning there must be two,” said Sancho, “because on this side, the opposite one, another cloud of dust just like it is rising too.”

Don Quixote turned to look and saw that this was the truth; and, rejoicing beyond measure, he thought, without any doubt, that these were two armies coming to attack and clash with each other in the middle of that broad plain; for at every hour and moment his fancy was full of those battles, enchantments, adventures, follies, loves, and challenges that are told in books of chivalry, and everything he said, thought, or did was directed toward such things. Now the dust he had seen was being raised by two large flocks of ewes and rams that were coming along that same road from two different directions, and which, because of the dust, could not be made out until they came close. And Don Quixote insisted so earnestly that they were armies that Sancho came to believe it and said to him:

“Sir, then what are we to do?”

“What?” said Don Quixote. “Favor and aid the needy and the helpless. And you must know, Sancho, that this one coming toward our front is led and guided by the great emperor Alifanfarón, lord of the great island of Trapobana; this other one marching at my back is that of his enemy, the king of the Garamantes, Pentapolén of the Rolled-Up Sleeve, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.”

“Well, why do these two lords hate each other so?” asked Sancho. “They hate each other,” answered Don Quixote, “because this Alefanfarón is a furious pagan and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolín, who is a very beauteous lady, and graceful besides, and a Christian, and her father will not give her to the pagan king unless he first abandons the law of his false prophet Muhammad and turns to his own.”

“By my beard,” said Sancho, “if Pentapolín isn’t doing the right thing, and I mean to help him all I can!”

“In that you will do your duty, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for to take part in such battles it is not required to be a dubbed knight.”

“I can see that well enough,” answered Sancho, “but where shall we put this ass so we’re sure of finding him after the fray is over? Because I don’t think it’s the custom up to now to go into one on such a mount.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote. “What you can do with him is leave him to his adventures, whether he gets lost or not, for so many will be the horses we will have once we come out victorious that even Rocinante runs the risk of my trading him for another. But pay attention to me and look, for I wish to give you an account of the chief knights coming in these two armies. And so that you may see them and mark them better, let us withdraw to that little hill rising there, from which both armies should be in view.”

They did so, and took their stand on a ridge from which they could have seen clearly the two flocks that Don Quixote had turned into armies, had the clouds of dust they raised not clouded and blinded their sight; but for all that, seeing in his imagination what he did not see and what was not there, he began to say in a raised voice:

“That knight you see there in yellow armor, who bears on his shield a crowned lion lying submissive at the feet of a damsel, is Laurcalco the valiant, lord of the Bridge of Silver; the other one, in armor with golden flowers, who bears on his shield three silver crowns on a blue field, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia; the other, with the giant’s limbs, who is at his right hand, is the never-fearful Brandabarbarán de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias, who comes armed in that serpent’s hide and has for a shield a door which, as rumor has it, is one of the doors of the temple that Samson pulled down when by his death he took vengeance on his enemies. But turn your eyes to this other side and you will see in front, at the head of this other army, the ever-victorious and never-vanquished Timonel de Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes armed in armor quartered blue, green, white, and yellow, and bears on his shield a golden cat on a tawny field, with a motto that says Miau, which is the beginning of his lady’s name, who, it is said, is the peerless Miulina, daughter of Duke Alfeñiquén of the Algarve; the other, who loads and bears down the back of that powerful charger, whose armor is white as snow and his shield white and without any device, is a new-made knight, French by nation, called Pierres Papín, lord of the baronies of Utrique; the other, who is beating with his iron-shod heels the flanks of that swift, painted zebra and bears arms of blue vair, is the mighty duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo of the Wood, whose shield shows for device an asparagus plant and a motto in Castilian reading thus: My fortune trails the ground.” And in this way he went on naming many knights of the one squadron and of the other, all of his own imagining, and to each he gave his arms, colors, devices, and mottoes off the top of his head, carried away by the imaginings of his never-before-seen madness; and, without stopping, he went on, saying:

“This squadron in front of us is formed and made up of peoples of many nations: here are those who drank the sweet waters of famous Xanthus; the mountaineers who tread the Massylian fields; those who sift the finest gold dust in Arabia the Happy; those who enjoy the famous cool banks of the clear Thermodon; those who bleed golden Pactolus by many different channels; the Numidians, false to their promises; the Persians, famous for bows and arrows; the Parthians and the Medes, who fight while fleeing; the Arabs, with their moving houses; the Scythians, fair of skin and cruel in equal measure; the Ethiopians of the pierced lips; and countless other nations, whose faces I know and see, though I do not remember their names. In this other squadron come those who drink the crystal currents of olive-bearing Betis; those who smooth and polish their faces with the waters of the ever-rich and golden Tagus; those who enjoy the bountiful waters of the divine Genil; those who tread the Tartessian fields, rich in pasture; those who take their delight in the Elysian meadows of Jerez; the Manchegans, rich and crowned with golden ears of wheat; those clad in iron, ancient relics of the Gothic blood; those who bathe in the Pisuerga, famous for the gentleness of its current; those who graze their flocks on the wide pastures of the winding Guadiana, renowned for its hidden course; those who shiver with the cold of the wooded Pyrenees and the white snowflakes of the lofty Apennines; in short, all that Europe holds and contains within it.”

God save us, how many provinces he named, how many nations he listed, giving to each, with marvelous readiness, the attributes that belonged to it, all absorbed and steeped in what he had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza hung on his words without speaking one, and from time to time he turned his head to see whether he could see the knights and giants his master was naming; and as he could make out none of them, he said to him:

“Sir, devil take me if there’s a man, or a giant, or a knight of all the ones your grace speaks of to be seen anywhere around here; at least I don’t see them; maybe it’s all enchantment, like the phantoms last night.”

“How can you say that?” answered Don Quixote. “Do you not hear the neighing of the horses, the sounding of the trumpets, the roll of the drums?”

“I don’t hear anything,” answered Sancho, “but a lot of bleating of ewes and rams.”

And so it was in truth, for by now the two flocks were coming close.

“Your fear, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “makes you neither see nor hear aright; for one of the effects of fear is to confound the senses and make things seem other than they are; and if you are so afraid, withdraw to one side and leave me alone, for I alone am enough to give the victory to the side to which I give my aid.”

And, saying this, he set spurs to Rocinante, and, with his lance in the rest, he went down the slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted to him, saying: “Come back, your grace, Señor Don Quixote, for I swear to God those are rams and ewes you’re going to charge! Come back, woe to the father who begot me! What madness is this? Look, there isn’t a giant or a knight, or cats, or arms, or shields quartered or whole, or blue vair or devilish vair. What are you doing? Sinner that I am before God!”

Not even for that did Don Quixote turn back; instead he went along crying out in a loud voice: “On, knights, you who follow and serve under the banners of the valiant emperor Pentapolín of the Rolled-Up Sleeve, follow me, all of you: you will see how easily I give him vengeance on his enemy Alefanfarón of Trapobana!” Saying this, he plunged into the middle of the squadron of ewes and began to spear them with as much courage and daring as if he were truly spearing his mortal enemies. The shepherds and herdsmen who came with the flock shouted at him not to do that; but, seeing that it was no use, they unslung their slings and began greeting his ears with fist-sized stones. Don Quixote paid no heed to the stones; instead, rushing about in every direction, he said:

“Where are you, proud Alifanfuón? Come at me; for I am a single knight, who wishes, one against one, to test your strength and take your life, in payment for the trouble you give the valiant Pentapolín Garamanta.”

At this there came a sugared almond from the brook, a smooth pebble, and, striking him in the side, it buried two of his ribs in his body. Seeing himself so badly hurt, he believed without a doubt that he was dead or sorely wounded, and, remembering his liquor, he took out his jug and put it to his mouth and began to pour liquor into his stomach; but before he had finished stowing away what seemed to him enough, there came another almond and hit him on the hand and on the jug so squarely that it smashed the jug to pieces, carrying off with it three or four teeth and molars from his mouth, and badly crushing two fingers of his hand.

Such was the first blow, and such the second, that the poor knight was forced to tumble down off his horse. The shepherds came up to him and believed they had killed him; and so, in great haste, they gathered their flock, loaded up the dead beasts, of which there were more than seven, and, without looking into anything else, went away.

All this time Sancho stood on the slope watching the follies his master was committing, and tearing at his beard, cursing the hour and the moment fortune had made him acquainted with him. Seeing him, then, fallen on the ground, and that the shepherds had gone, he came down from the slope and went up to him, and found him in a very bad way, though he had not lost his senses, and said to him:

“Didn’t I tell you, Señor Don Quixote, to come back, that the ones you were going to attack weren’t armies but flocks of rams?”

“That is how that thief, the sage who is my enemy, can make things vanish and change their looks. Know, Sancho, that it is a very easy thing for such people to make us see what they please, and this malignant one who persecutes me, envious of the glory he saw I was to win from this battle, has turned the squadrons of the enemy into flocks of sheep. Or else do one thing, Sancho, on my life, so that you may be undeceived and see that what I tell you is true: get up on your ass and follow them quietly, and you will see how, once they have gone a little way from here, they return to their first shape, and, ceasing to be rams, are men made and finished, just as I first painted them for you… But do not go now, for I need your help and assistance; come close to me and see how many molars and teeth I am missing, for it seems to me I have none left in my mouth.”

Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes in his mouth, and it was just when the balm had done its work in Don Quixote’s stomach; and, at the moment Sancho came to look into his mouth, he shot out, harder than a musket, everything he had inside him, and landed all of it in the compassionate squire’s beard.

“Holy Mary!” said Sancho. “What is this that’s happened to me? No doubt this poor sinner is wounded to death, since he’s vomiting blood from his mouth.” But looking into it a little more closely, he made out from the color, taste, and smell that it was not blood but the balm from the jug he had seen him drink; and so great was the disgust he felt that, his stomach turning, he vomited up his guts all over his own master, and the two of them were left as pretty as pearls. Sancho ran to his ass to take out of the saddlebags something to clean himself with and to tend his master; and when he did not find them, he came close to losing his mind. He cursed himself again, and resolved in his heart to leave his master and go back to his own country, even if he lost the wages for his service and his hopes of governing the promised isle.

At this Don Quixote got up, and, with his left hand over his mouth so that the rest of his teeth would not fall out, he took hold with the other of the reins of Rocinante, who had not budged from beside his master—so loyal and good-natured was he—and went over to where his squire stood, leaning on his ass with his chest, his cheek in his hand, in the posture of a man lost in thought. And Don Quixote, seeing him in that way, with signs of such sadness, said to him:

“Know, Sancho, that no man is more than his neighbor unless he does more than his neighbor. All these storms that befall us are signs that the weather will soon clear and that things will go well for us; for it is not possible for either evil or good to last forever, and so it follows that, since the bad has lasted a long while, the good is close at hand. So you must not grieve over the misfortunes that befall me, since you have no share in them.” “How not?” answered Sancho. “Was the one they tossed in a blanket yesterday, by any chance, anyone but my father’s son? And the saddlebags that are missing today, with all my belongings, do they belong to anyone but the same?”

“You are missing the saddlebags, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.

“Yes, I’m missing them,” answered Sancho.

“In that case, we have nothing to eat today,” replied Don Quixote.

“That would be so,” answered Sancho, “if these meadows lacked the herbs your grace says you know, with which such unlucky knights-errant as your grace usually make up for such wants.” “For all that,” answered Don Quixote, “I would sooner have now a quarter loaf of bread, or a round loaf and two salted pilchard heads, than all the herbs that Dioscorides describes, even in the edition illustrated by Doctor Laguna. But for all that, get up on your donkey, good Sancho, and come after me; for God, who is the provider of all things, will not fail us, all the more since we go about so much in His service as we do, for He does not fail the gnats of the air, or the grubs of the earth, or the tadpoles of the water; and He is so merciful that He makes His sun rise on the good and the bad, and sends rain on the unjust and the just.”

“Your grace would be better at being a preacher,” said Sancho, “than a knight-errant.”

“Knights-errant knew, and must know, something of everything, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for there was a knight-errant in centuries past who would stop to preach a sermon or give a talk in the middle of a camp royal as if he were a graduate of the University of Paris; from which it may be inferred that the lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.”

“Well, then, let it be as your grace says,” answered Sancho. “Let’s get away from here now and look for a place to lodge tonight, and God grant it’s somewhere where there are no blankets or blanket-tossers, or phantoms, or enchanted Moors; for if there are, I’ll give the devil the pack and the hook.” “Ask that of God, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and lead the way wherever you like, for this time I wish to leave the choice of our lodging to you. But give me your hand here and feel with your finger, and look carefully how many teeth and molars I am missing on this right side of the upper jaw, for that is where I feel the pain.” Sancho put his fingers in, and, while he was feeling about, said to him:

“How many molars did your grace use to have on this side?”

“Four,” answered Don Quixote, “besides the wisdom tooth, all whole and very sound.”

“Mind well what you’re saying, sir,” answered Sancho.

“I say four, if not five,” answered Don Quixote, “for in all my life no tooth or molar has been pulled from my mouth, nor has any fallen out or been eaten away by decay or any rheum.”

“Well, on this lower side,” said Sancho, “your grace has no more than two molars and a half, and on the upper, not even a half or any at all, for it’s all as bare as the palm of your hand.”

“Unhappy me!” said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news his squire was giving him. “I would rather they had knocked off an arm, so long as it was not my sword arm; for I would have you know, Sancho, that a mouth without molars is like a mill without a stone, and a tooth is to be prized far above a diamond. But to all this we who profess the strict order of chivalry are subject. Mount, my friend, and lead the way, for I will follow you at whatever pace you please.”

Sancho did so, and set off toward where it seemed to him they might find shelter, without leaving the highroad, which ran on unbroken thereabouts. Going along, then, little by little, because the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws would not let him rest or attend to making haste, Sancho wished to entertain and divert him by telling him something; and, among the other things he told him, was what will be told in the following chapter.