Chapter XX. In which is told of the wedding of Camacho the Rich, with what happened to Basilio the Poor

Scarcely had the white dawn given shining Phoebus room to dry, with the ardor of his hot rays, the liquid pearls on her golden hair, when Don Quixote, shaking the sloth from his limbs, rose to his feet and called his squire Sancho, who was still snoring; and seeing this, Don Quixote, before waking him, said to him:

“O you, blessed above all who live upon the face of the earth, for, without envying or being envied, you sleep with a tranquil spirit, and neither do enchanters persecute you nor enchantments alarm you! Sleep, I say again, and I shall say it a hundred times more, with no jealousy of your lady to keep you in constant vigil, nor thoughts of paying debts you owe to keep you awake, nor of what you must do so that you and your small and anxious family may eat tomorrow. Ambition does not trouble you, nor does the vain pomp of the world weary you, for the bounds of your desires reach no further than to feeding your donkey; for the care of your own person you have laid upon my shoulders: a counterweight and burden that nature and custom have laid upon masters. While the servant sleeps, the master keeps watch, pondering how to sustain him, better him, and do him favors. The anguish of seeing the sky turn to bronze without succoring the earth with the needful dew does not afflict the servant, but the master, who must sustain in barrenness and famine the one who served him in fertility and abundance.”

To all this Sancho made no answer, for he was asleep, nor would he have woken so soon if Don Quixote had not brought him to with the butt of his lance. He woke at last, sleepy and sluggish, and, turning his face in every direction, said:

“From the direction of that bower, if I’m not mistaken, there comes a whiff and smell far more of roast bacon than of rushes and thyme: a wedding that starts with smells like these, upon my soul, must be a plentiful and generous one.”

“Have done, you glutton,” said Don Quixote. “Come, we shall go and see this wedding, to see what the disdained Basilio does.”

“Let him do what he likes,” answered Sancho. “If he weren’t poor, he’d marry Quiteria. Is there nothing more to it than having one cuarto and wanting to rise up to the clouds? On my faith, sir, I’m of the opinion that a poor man ought to be content with what he finds, and not go asking for groundnuts in the open sea. I’ll bet an arm that Camacho can wrap Basilio up in reales; and if that’s so, as it must be, Quiteria would be a real fool to throw away the finery and jewels Camacho must have given her and can give her, to choose Basilio’s bar throwing and foil play. For a good throw of the bar or a neat trick with the sword they won’t give you a pint of wine at the tavern. Talents and gifts that can’t be sold, let Count Dirlos have them for all I care; but when such gifts fall on someone who has good money, may my life look as good as they do. A good building goes up on a good foundation, and there’s no better foundation and footing in the world than money.”

“For God’s sake, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this point, “finish your harangue; for I am convinced that if you were allowed to go on with the ones you begin at every step, you would have no time left to eat or sleep, for you would spend it all in talking.”

“If your grace had a good memory,” replied Sancho, “you ought to remember the articles of our agreement before we left home this last time: one of them was that you would let me say everything I liked, so long as it wasn’t against my neighbor or against your grace’s authority; and so far it seems to me I haven’t gone against that article.”

“I do not remember any such article, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “and, even supposing it is so, I want you to be quiet and come, for the instruments we heard last night are already gladdening the valleys again, and no doubt the wedding will be celebrated in the cool of the morning and not in the heat of the afternoon.”

Sancho did what his master ordered, and, putting the saddle on Rocinante and the packsaddle on the gray, the two of them mounted and at a walking pace made their way into the bower.

The first thing that met Sancho’s eyes was a whole young bull spitted on a whole elm trunk; and in the fire where it was to be roasted a fair-sized mountain of firewood was burning, and six pots that stood around the blaze had not been cast in the common mold of other pots, for they were six half wine jars, each of which held a whole slaughterhouse of meat: they swallowed up and enclosed whole sheep without a sign of them, as if they were squabs; the hares already skinned and the hens already plucked, hanging from the trees to be buried in the pots, were without number; the birds and game of various kinds were infinite, hung from the trees for the air to cool them.

Sancho counted more than sixty wineskins of over two arrobas each, and all full, as it turned out later, of noble wines; there were also stacks of the whitest bread, the way there are usually heaps of wheat on the threshing floors; the cheeses, set crisscross like bricks, formed a wall, and two cauldrons of oil, bigger than a dyer’s vats, served for frying things of dough, which they lifted out fried with two stout shovels and dipped in a second cauldron, of prepared honey, standing alongside.

The men and women cooks numbered more than fifty: all clean, all diligent, and all content. In the bull’s distended belly were twelve tender little suckling pigs, sewn in, which served to give it flavor and make it tender. The spices of various kinds seemed to have been bought not by the pound but by the arroba, and they were all on view in a great open chest. In short, the wedding provision was rustic, but so abundant that it could have fed an army.

Sancho Panza looked at it all, and contemplated it all, and loved it all: first the pots captivated and conquered his desire, and he would have very gladly taken a middling potful from them; then the wineskins won his affection; and last of all the pan fruits, if such round-bellied cauldrons could be called pans; and so, unable to bear it any longer and with no power to do otherwise, he went up to one of the busy cooks and, in courteous and hungry words, begged him to let him dip a crust of bread in one of those pots. To which the cook answered:

“Brother, this is not one of those days hunger has any jurisdiction over, thanks to Camacho the Rich. Get down and see if there’s a ladle anywhere about, and fish out a hen or two from the skimmings, and much good may they do you.”

“I don’t see one,” answered Sancho.

“Wait,” said the cook. “Sinner that I am, what a finicky good-for-nothing you must be!”

And, saying this, he seized a cauldron and, plunging it into one of the half jars, brought up in it three hens and two geese, and said to Sancho:

“Eat, friend, and break your fast with these skimmings until it’s time for the midday meal.”

“I have nothing to put them in,” answered Sancho.

“Then take,” said the cook, “ladle and all, for Camacho’s wealth and happiness make up for everything.”

While Sancho was occupied with this, then, Don Quixote was watching as some twelve peasants rode in at one side of the bower on twelve most beautiful mares, with rich and showy field trappings and many bells on their breastplates, all of them dressed in holiday finery; and in a well-ordered troop they ran not one but many courses over the meadow, with joyful whooping and shouting, crying:

“Long live Camacho and Quiteria! As rich is he as she is fair, and she the fairest in the world!”

Hearing which, Don Quixote said to himself:

“It is plain these people have not seen my Dulcinea del Toboso, for if they had, they would hold back in their praises of this Quiteria of theirs.”

Shortly after, many different dances began to come in at various sides of the bower, among them a sword dance of some twenty-four young shepherds of gallant looks and spirit, all dressed in fine, very white linen, with their headcloths embroidered in various colors of fine silk; and one of the men on the mares asked the one who led them, a nimble young fellow, whether any of the dancers had been wounded.

“So far, God be blessed, no one has been wounded: we’re all sound.”

And at once he began to weave in and out among his companions, with so many turns and so much skill that, though Don Quixote was used to seeing such dances, none had ever seemed to him as good as that one.

He also liked another that came in, of very beautiful maidens, so young that, to all appearances, none was under fourteen or had reached eighteen, all dressed in green palmilla cloth, their hair partly braided and partly loose, but all of it so golden that it could rival the sun’s, and over it they wore garlands made of jasmine, roses, amaranth, and honeysuckle. They were led by a venerable old man and an aged matron, but nimbler and livelier than their years promised. A Zamoran bagpipe played the tune for them, and they, carrying modesty in their faces and eyes and lightness in their feet, showed themselves the best dancers in the world.

After this came in another dance, an artful one, of the kind they call spoken dances. It was of eight nymphs, divided into two files: one file was led by the god Cupid, and the other by Interest; the former adorned with wings, bow, quiver, and arrows; the latter dressed in rich and varied colors of gold and silk. The nymphs who followed Love carried their names written on their backs, on white parchment in large letters: Poetry was the title of the first, of the second Good Sense, of the third Good Lineage, of the fourth Valor; in the same way those who followed Interest came marked: Liberality said the title of the first, Gift that of the second, Treasure that of the third, and that of the fourth Peaceful Possession. Ahead of them all came a castle of wood, hauled along by four wild men clad in ivy and in hemp dyed green, so true to life that they almost frightened Sancho. On the front of the castle and on all four of its sides it bore the words: Castle of Wise Reserve. Four skilled players of tabor and flute made the music for them.

Cupid began the dance, and, after making two figures, he raised his eyes and bent his bow against a maiden who stood between the battlements of the castle, to whom he spoke in this way:

“I am the god whose power is known
in the air and on the earth
and on the wide and billowing sea,
and in all the abyss encloses
within its dreadful pit below.
I have never known what fear is;
all that I will, I can achieve,
even should I will the impossible,
and in everything that’s possible
I command, remove, bestow, forbid.”

He finished the stanza, shot an arrow over the top of the castle, and withdrew to his place. Then Interest came out and made two more figures; the tabors fell silent, and he said:

“I am he who can do more than Love,
and it is Love that is my guide;
I am of the finest lineage
that heaven breeds upon the earth,
the best-known and the greatest one.
I am Interest, through whom
few are accustomed to do good,
and to act without me is a miracle;
and such as I am, I vow myself to you
for ever and ever, amen.”

Interest withdrew, and Poetry came forward; and she, after making her figures like the others, with her eyes fixed on the maiden of the castle, said:

“In conceits of utmost sweetness,
lofty, grave, and full of wit,
the sweetest Poetry, my lady,
sends her very soul to you
wrapped up in a thousand sonnets.
If by chance my perseverance
does not weary you, your fortune,
envied by so many others,
will be raised up high by me
above the circle of the moon.”

Poetry moved aside, and from Interest’s side came out Liberality, and, after making her figures, she said:

“Liberality they call
the giving that avoids the extreme
of prodigality, and flees
its opposite, which argues
a lukewarm and a slack will.
But I, to make you great,
from today will prodigal be;
for though a vice, it is an honest vice,
and of a heart in love,
which shows itself in giving.”

In this way all the figures of the two squadrons came out and withdrew, and each made his figures and spoke his verses, some elegant and some ridiculous, and Don Quixote committed to memory—which he had a great one—only those already set down; and then they all mingled, making and unmaking knots with fine grace and ease; and each time Love went past the castle, he let fly his arrows over its top, but Interest broke gilded money-boxes against it.

At last, after they had danced a good while, Interest took out a big purse, made of the skin of a large tabby cat, which seemed to be full of money, and, hurling it at the castle, with the blow the boards came apart and fell, leaving the maiden exposed and with no defense at all. Interest came up with the figures of his party, and, throwing a great gold chain around her neck, they made a show of seizing her, overcoming her, and taking her captive; and when Love and his supporters saw this, they made as if to take her away from them; and all the gestures they made were to the sound of the tabors, dancing and stepping in time. The wild men made peace between them, and with great speed set up and fitted together the boards of the castle again, and the maiden shut herself up in it as before, and with this the dance ended, to the great delight of those who were watching.

Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who had composed and arranged it. She answered that it was a beneficed priest of that village, who had a fine head for such inventions.

“I will wager,” said Don Quixote, “that this bachelor or beneficed priest must be more of a friend to Camacho than to Basilio, and must have more of the satirist in him than of the vespers: how neatly he has fitted into the dance Basilio’s talents and Camacho’s riches!”

Sancho Panza, who was listening to everything, said:

“The king is my cock: I stick with Camacho.”

“In short,” said Don Quixote, “it is plain to see, Sancho, that you are a peasant, and one of those who say: ‘Long live the winner!’”

“I don’t know which ones I am,” answered Sancho, “but I know very well that I’ll never get such elegant skimmings out of Basilio’s pots as these I’ve got out of Camacho’s.”

And he showed him the cauldron full of geese and hens, and, grabbing one, fell to eating with great relish and appetite, and said:

“A fig for Basilio’s talents! For you’re worth as much as you have, and you have as much as you’re worth. There are only two lineages in the world, as a grandmother of mine used to say, and they are having and not having, though she stuck to the having; and these days, my master Don Quixote, people feel the pulse of having before that of knowing: an ass decked out in gold makes a better show than a horse under a packsaddle. So I say again that I stick with Camacho, from whose pots the plentiful skimmings are geese and hens, hares and rabbits; and from Basilio’s, if it comes to hand, or even if it only comes to foot, it’ll be dishwater.”

“Have you finished your harangue, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.

“I must have finished it,” answered Sancho, “because I see it gives your grace pain; for if that weren’t in the way, I had work cut out for three days.”

“God grant, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that I see you dumb before I die.”

“At the rate we’re going,” answered Sancho, “before your grace dies I’ll be chewing clay, and then maybe I’ll be so dumb I won’t say a word until the world ends, or at the very least until Judgment Day.”

“Even if that should happen, O Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “your silence will never come up to what you have talked, are talking, and are to talk in your life; and besides, it stands to natural reason that the day of my death should come before that of yours; and so I never expect to see you dumb, not even when you are drinking or sleeping, which is the most I can say.”

“In good faith, sir,” answered Sancho, “there’s no trusting the fleshless one, I mean death, who eats lamb as well as mutton; and I’ve heard our priest say that she treads with an equal foot on the lofty towers of kings and the humble huts of the poor. This lady has more power than squeamishness: she isn’t a bit fussy, she eats everything and takes to everything, and she fills her saddlebags with all sorts of people, ages, and ranks. She’s no reaper who naps through the siesta, for she reaps at all hours and cuts the dry grass and the green alike; and she doesn’t seem to chew but to gulp and swallow whatever is put in front of her, for she has a dog’s hunger that’s never satisfied; and though she has no belly, she makes it plain she has the dropsy and is thirsty to drink nothing but the lives of all who live, like someone drinking a jug of cold water.”

“No more, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this point. “Stop while you are ahead, and do not let yourself fall; for truly, what you have said of death in your rustic terms is what a good preacher might say. I tell you, Sancho, that if, as you have a good natural wit and good sense, you could take a pulpit in your hand and go about the world preaching fine things…”

“He preaches well who lives well,” answered Sancho, “and I don’t know any other teologies.”

“Nor do you need them,” said Don Quixote. “But I cannot quite understand or make out how, since the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, you, who are more afraid of a lizard than of Him, know so much.”

“Let your grace judge your chivalries, sir,” answered Sancho, “and don’t meddle in judging other people’s fears or courage, for I’m as fine a God-fearing man as every neighbor’s son; and let your grace let me polish off these skimmings, for all the rest is idle words that we’ll be called to account for in the next life.”

And, saying this, he began a fresh assault on his cauldron with such hearty spirit that he roused Don Quixote’s, who no doubt would have helped him if he had not been prevented by what must be told further on.