Chapter LVIII. Which deals with how adventures came crowding upon Don Quixote so thick that they left one another no room

When Don Quixote found himself in the open country, free and rid of Altisidora’s amorous advances, he felt he was in his element, and that his spirits were renewed for pursuing afresh the business of his chivalries, and, turning to Sancho, he said to him:

“Freedom, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts that the heavens have given to men; the treasures the earth holds and the sea conceals cannot equal it; for freedom, as for honor, one can and should venture one’s life, and, on the other hand, captivity is the greatest evil that can come upon men. I say this, Sancho, because you have seen very well the luxury and plenty we have had in this castle we are leaving; well, in the midst of those savory banquets and those snow-cooled drinks, it seemed to me that I was shut up in the straits of hunger, because I did not enjoy them with the freedom with which I would have enjoyed them had they been my own; for the obligation to repay benefits and favors received is a bond that does not let the free spirit range at large. Happy the man to whom heaven has given a piece of bread, with no obligation to thank anyone for it but heaven itself!”

“For all that your grace has told me,” said Sancho, “it isn’t right for two hundred gold escudos to go without thanks on our part, which the duke’s steward gave me in a little purse, and which I carry on my heart like a poultice and a cordial, for whatever may come up; for we won’t always find castles where they treat us well, and now and then we’ll run into some inns where they beat us.”

With these and other discourses the errant pair, knight and squire, were going along, when, after traveling little more than a league, they saw that on the grass of a little green meadow, on top of their cloaks, as many as a dozen men dressed as farmers were eating. Beside them they had what looked like white sheets, with which they were covering something underneath; these stood up on end and lay stretched out, and were set at intervals. Don Quixote went up to those who were eating, and, first greeting them courteously, asked them what it was those cloths were covering. One of them answered him:

“Sir, under these cloths are some images in relief and carved work that are to go into an altarpiece we are making in our village; we carry them covered so that they won’t lose their freshness, and on our shoulders so that they won’t break.”

“If you would be so kind,” answered Don Quixote, “I should be glad to see them, for images carried with such care must no doubt be good.”

“And how good they are!” said another. “If not, let what they cost speak for it: for truly there isn’t one of them that doesn’t stand at more than fifty ducats; and so that your grace may see this truth, wait, your grace, and you will see it with your own eyes.”

And getting up, he left off eating and went to take the cover off the first image, which proved to be Saint George on horseback, with a serpent coiled at his feet and the lance thrust through its mouth, with all the fierceness with which he is usually painted. The whole image looked like a blaze of gold, as the saying goes. On seeing it, Don Quixote said:

“This knight was one of the best errant knights the divine host ever had: his name was Don Saint George, and he was besides a defender of damsels. Let us see this other one.”

The man uncovered it, and it proved to be Saint Martin on horseback, sharing his cloak with the poor man; and scarcely had Don Quixote seen it when he said:

“This knight too was one of the Christian adventurers, and I believe he was more liberal than valiant, as you can see, Sancho, from his sharing his cloak with the poor man and giving him half; and no doubt it must have been winter then, for otherwise he would have given him all of it, so charitable was he.”

“That can’t have been it,” said Sancho, “but he must have held to the proverb that says: giving and keeping both take brains.”

Don Quixote laughed and asked them to take off another cloth, beneath which was revealed the image of the Patron of the Spains on horseback, his sword bloodied, trampling Moors and treading on heads; and on seeing it, Don Quixote said:

“This one is a knight indeed, and of the squadrons of Christ; this one is called Don Saint Diego Matamoros, Saint James the Moor-slayer, one of the most valiant saints and knights the world ever had and heaven now has.”

Then they uncovered another cloth, and it turned out to be hiding the fall of Saint Paul from his horse, with all the circumstances usually painted in altarpieces of his conversion. When he saw it so lifelike, one would have said that Christ was speaking to him and Paul was answering.

“This one,” said Don Quixote, “was the greatest enemy the Church of God our Lord had in his time, and the greatest defender it will ever have: a knight-errant in his life, and a saint standing firm in his death, a tireless laborer in the Lord’s vineyard, teacher of the Gentiles, for whom the heavens served as schools, and Jesus Christ himself as professor and master to teach him.”

There were no more images, and so Don Quixote ordered them to be covered again, and said to those who were carrying them:

“I have taken it for a good omen, brothers, to have seen what I have seen, for these saints and knights professed what I profess, which is the exercise of arms; only the difference between me and them is that they were saints and fought in the divine fashion, and I am a sinner and fight in the human fashion. They conquered heaven by force of arms, for heaven suffers violence, and I so far do not know what I am conquering by force of my labors; but if my Dulcinea del Toboso were to come out of the ones she is suffering, my fortune improving and my judgment being mended, it might be that I would turn my steps toward a better road than the one I am on.”

“May God hear it and sin be deaf,” said Sancho at this.

The men marveled as much at Don Quixote’s figure as at his words, without understanding half of what he meant by them. They finished eating, took up their images, and, taking their leave of Don Quixote, went on their way.

Sancho was left once more as if he had never known his master, amazed at how much he knew, for it seemed to him that there could be no history or event in the world that he did not have written on his fingernail and nailed in his memory, and he said to him:

“Truly, sir, our master, if what has happened to us today can be called an adventure, it has been one of the gentlest and sweetest that have happened to us in the whole course of our pilgrimage: we’ve come out of it without cudgelings or any fright, and we haven’t laid hands on our swords, or beaten the ground with our bodies, or been left hungry. Blessed be God, who has let me see such a thing with my own eyes.”

“You say well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but you must note that all times are not the same, nor do they all run the same way, and these things the common people usually call omens, which are founded on no natural reason, must be taken by the sensible man and judged as fortunate happenings. One of these omen-mongers gets up in the morning, goes out of his house, runs into a friar of blessed Saint Francis’s order, and, as though it were a griffin he had come upon, turns his back and goes home again. Another, some Mendoza, spills the salt on the table, and melancholy spills over his heart, as if nature were bound to give signs of coming misfortunes by things of as little moment as those mentioned. The sensible and Christian man must not split hairs over what heaven means to do. Scipio reaches Africa, stumbles as he leaps ashore, and his soldiers take it for a bad omen; but he, embracing the ground, said: ‘You cannot escape me, Africa, because I have you held fast in my arms.’ So, Sancho, our having come upon these images has been a most fortunate happening for me.”

“So I believe,” answered Sancho, “and I’d like your grace to tell me what’s the reason why the Spaniards, when they’re about to give battle, call on that Saint Diego Matamoros and say: ‘Santiago, and close in, Spain!’ Is Spain by any chance open, so that it needs closing, or what ceremony is this?”

“You are most simple, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; “and mark that this great knight of the red cross was given by God to Spain as its patron and protector, especially in the harsh encounters the Spaniards have had with the Moors; and so they invoke and call on him as their defender in all the battles they undertake, and many times they have plainly seen him in them, overthrowing, trampling, destroying, and slaying the Hagarene squadrons; and of this truth I could bring you many examples told in the true Spanish histories.”

Sancho changed the subject, and said to his master:

“I’m amazed, sir, at the forwardness of Altisidora, the duchess’s damsel: the one they call Love must have her badly wounded and pierced through, for they say he’s a little blind brat who, though he’s bleary-eyed, or, to put it better, sightless, if he takes a heart for his target, however small it is, hits it and runs it through from side to side with his arrows. I’ve also heard it said that the arrows of love are blunted and dulled against the modesty and reserve of maidens, but in this Altisidora it looks more as if they’re sharpened than blunted.”

“Note, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that love neither regards respect nor keeps the bounds of reason in its course, and it has the same nature as death: that it attacks the lofty palaces of kings as readily as the humble huts of shepherds, and when it takes full possession of a soul, the first thing it does is to rid it of fear and shame; and so, without shame, Altisidora declared her desires, which bred in my breast confusion rather than pity.”

“Plain cruelty!” said Sancho. “Unheard-of ingratitude! For my part I can say that the slightest loving word of hers would have conquered and enslaved me. Son of a whore, and what a heart of marble, what bowels of bronze, and what a soul of mortar! But I can’t think what this damsel saw in your grace that so conquered and enslaved her: what elegance, what dash, what grace, what face, which of these things by itself, or all of them together, made her fall in love; for truly, truly, many times I stop to look at your grace from the tip of your foot to the last hair on your head, and I see more things to frighten than to make anyone fall in love; and since I’ve also heard it said that beauty is the first and chief thing that makes people fall in love, and your grace having none, I don’t know what the poor girl fell in love with.”

“Note, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “that there are two kinds of beauty: one of the soul and the other of the body; that of the soul shines out and shows itself in understanding, in modesty, in good conduct, in liberality, and in good breeding, and all these qualities can find room and be present in an ugly man; and when one sets one’s sights on this beauty, and not on that of the body, love is apt to be born with force and to great advantage. I, Sancho, see very well that I am not handsome, but I also know that I am not deformed; and it is enough for a man of worth not to be a monster to be well loved, provided he has the gifts of the soul I have told you of.”

With these words and talk they were making their way into a wood that lay off the road, and all of a sudden, without thinking of it, Don Quixote found himself entangled in some nets of green thread that were stretched from one tree to another; and, unable to imagine what this could be, he said to Sancho:

“It seems to me, Sancho, that this business of the nets must be one of the newest adventures I could imagine. May they kill me if the enchanters who persecute me do not mean to entangle me in them and stop my way, as if in revenge for the harshness I showed Altisidora. Well, I tell them that even if these nets, made as they are of green thread, were of the hardest diamonds, or stronger than the one with which the jealous god of smiths entangled Venus and Mars, I would break it as if it were made of sea rushes or cotton threads.”

And as he was about to push forward and break through it all, suddenly two most beautiful shepherdesses appeared before him, coming out from among some trees; at least they were dressed as shepherdesses, except that their jackets and skirts were of fine brocade; I mean that the skirts were the richest petticoats of gold tabby. They wore their hair loose over their shoulders, and in its fairness it could rival the rays of the sun itself; and it was crowned with two garlands woven of green laurel and red amaranth. Their age, by the look of it, was not below fifteen nor above eighteen.

This was a sight that amazed Sancho, held Don Quixote spellbound, made the sun stop in its course to see them, and kept all four in a wondering silence. At last the first to speak was one of the two shepherd girls, who said to Don Quixote:

“Stay your step, sir knight, and do not break the nets, for they are stretched there not for your harm but for our pastime; and since I know you will ask us what they have been put there for and who we are, I will tell you briefly. In a village about two leagues from here, where there are many people of rank and many hidalgos and rich folk, it was agreed among a number of friends and relations that, with their sons, wives, and daughters, neighbors, friends, and relations, we should come and enjoy ourselves in this spot, which is one of the most pleasant in all these parts, forming among us all a new and pastoral Arcadia, the maidens dressing as shepherd girls and the young men as shepherds. We have learned two eclogues, one by the famous poet Garcilaso, and another by the most excellent Camoes, in his own Portuguese tongue, which we have not performed until now. Yesterday was the first day we arrived here; we have pitched some tents among these branches, which they say are called field tents, on the bank of a plentiful stream that makes all these meadows fertile; last night we stretched these nets from these trees to deceive the simple little birds which, startled by our noise, should fly into them. If it pleases you, sir, to be our guest, you will be entertained liberally and courteously; for for now neither sorrow nor melancholy is to enter this spot.”

She fell silent and said no more. To which Don Quixote answered:

“Certainly, most beautiful lady, Anteón cannot have been more spellbound or amazed when he suddenly saw Diana bathing in the waters than I have been astounded at seeing your beauty. I praise the purpose of your entertainments, and that of your offers I thank you for; and if I can serve you, you may command me in the certainty of being obeyed; for my calling is no other than to prove myself thankful and beneficent to every kind of people, especially to people of rank such as your persons represent; and if these nets, which must take up some small space, took up the whole round of the earth, I would seek new worlds through which to pass without breaking them; and so that you may give some credit to this exaggeration of mine, see that it is promised you by no less than Don Quixote of La Mancha, if indeed this name has reached your ears.”

“Ah, friend of my soul,” said the other shepherd girl then, “and what great good luck has befallen us! Do you see this gentleman before us? Well, I would have you know that he is the most valiant, and the most enamored, and the most courteous man in the world, unless a history of his exploits that is going about in print, and that I have read, lies to us and deceives us. I will wager that this good man who comes with him is a certain Sancho Panza, his squire, whose drolleries have none to equal them.”

“That is the truth,” said Sancho, “for I am that droll one and that squire your grace speaks of, and this gentleman is my master, the very Don Quixote of La Mancha, written up in histories and told of.”

“Ah!” said the other. “Let us beg him, friend, to stay; for our fathers and our brothers will be infinitely pleased by it, for I too have heard said of his valor and his drolleries the same things you have told me, and above all they say of him that he is the most constant and most loyal lover that is known, and that his lady is a certain Dulcinea del Toboso, to whom all Spain gives the palm of beauty.”

“And rightly they give it to her,” said Don Quixote, “unless your peerless beauty puts it in doubt. Do not tire yourselves, ladies, in trying to detain me, for the strict obligations of my profession do not let me rest anywhere.”

At this point there came up to where the four were a brother of one of the two shepherdesses, likewise dressed as a shepherd, with a richness and finery that matched the shepherd girls’; they told him that the man who was with them was the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, and the other his squire Sancho, of whom he already had knowledge from having read their history. The gallant shepherd offered him his services and asked him to come with him to their tents; Don Quixote had to grant it, and so he did.

At this point the beaters came up, and the nets were filled with various little birds that, deceived by the color of the nets, fell into the danger they were fleeing from. More than thirty people gathered in that spot, all gaily dressed as shepherds and shepherdesses, and in an instant they were informed of who Don Quixote and his squire were, at which they took no small pleasure, because they already knew of him from his history. They went to the tents and found the tables laid, rich, plentiful, and clean; they honored Don Quixote by giving him the first place at them; they all looked at him, and marveled to see him.

At last, when the cloths had been removed, Don Quixote, with great composure, raised his voice and said:

“Among the greatest sins that men commit, though some say it is pride, I say it is ingratitude, holding to what is commonly said: that hell is full of the ungrateful. This sin I have tried to flee, as far as has been possible for me, from the instant I had the use of reason; and if I cannot repay the good deeds done me with other deeds, I put in their place the wish to do them, and when that is not enough, I make them public; for whoever tells and makes public the good deeds he receives would also repay them with others, if he could; for for the most part those who receive are inferior to those who give; and so God is above all, because he is the giver above all, and the gifts of man cannot match those of God on equal terms, being infinitely distant from them; and this narrowness and shortcoming is in a certain way made up for by gratitude. I, then, grateful for the favor that has been done me here, and unable to return it in the same measure, keeping within the narrow limits of my power, offer what I can and what I have of my own harvest; and so I say that for two natural days I will maintain, in the middle of that highway that goes to Zaragoza, that these ladies, counterfeit shepherd girls who are here, are the most beautiful and most courteous damsels in the world, excepting only the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole lady of my thoughts, be it said with the leave of all the men and women who hear me.”

Hearing which, Sancho, who had been listening to him with great attention, gave a great shout and said:

“Is it possible that there are people in the world who dare to say and swear that this master of mine is mad? Tell me, your graces, lord shepherds: is there any village priest, however sensible and however learned he may be, who can say what my master has said, or is there any knight-errant, however famous he may be for valor, who can offer what my master has offered here?”

Don Quixote turned to Sancho, and, his face flushed and angry, said to him:

“Is it possible, O Sancho, that there is anyone in the whole globe who says you are not a fool, lined with the same stuff, with some trimmings or other of malice and roguery? Who puts you into my affairs, and into finding out whether I am sensible or a blockhead? Be quiet and do not answer me back, but saddle Rocinante, if he is unsaddled: let us go and put my offer into effect, for, with the right that is on my side, you may count as beaten all who choose to gainsay it.”

And with great fury and signs of anger he rose from his seat, leaving those present amazed and making them doubt whether they could take him for mad or sane. At last, though they tried to persuade him not to undertake such a challenge, for they held his grateful goodwill as well known and no new demonstrations were needed to know his valiant spirit, since those related in the history of his deeds were enough, for all that, Don Quixote had his way; and, mounted on Rocinante, slinging his shield on his arm and taking his lance, he planted himself in the middle of a highway that lay not far from the green meadow. Sancho followed him on his gray, with all the people of the pastoral flock, eager to see where his arrogant and never-seen offer would end.

Don Quixote, then, being planted in the middle of the road—as I have told you—smote the air with words like these:

“O ye passersby and wayfarers, knights, squires, people on foot and on horseback who pass along this road, or are to pass in these next two days! Know that here stands Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant, posted to uphold that all the beauties and courtesies of the world are surpassed by those contained in the nymphs who dwell in these meadows and woods, setting aside the lady of my soul, Dulcinea del Toboso. Therefore, let whoever is of the contrary opinion come forward, for here I await him.”

Twice he repeated these same words, and twice they were heard by no adventurer; but fortune, which was steering his affairs from good to better, ordained that shortly afterward a multitude of men on horseback should appear along the road, and many of them with lances in their hands, all riding packed together, in a crowd and in great haste. No sooner had those who were with Don Quixote seen them than, turning their backs, they went off well away from the road, because they knew that if they waited, some danger might befall them; only Don Quixote, with dauntless heart, stood firm, and Sancho Panza shielded himself behind Rocinante’s haunches.

The troop of lancers came up, and one of them, who rode farther ahead, began to shout at Don Quixote:

“Get out of the road, you devil of a man, or these bulls will tear you to pieces!”

“Come, you rabble,” answered Don Quixote, “for me there are no bulls that count for anything, even if they are of the fiercest that the Jarama breeds along its banks! Confess, you miscreants, all of you together, that what I have proclaimed here is the truth; else with me ye shall do battle!”

The herdsman had no time to answer, nor Don Quixote to get out of the way, even had he wished to; and so the troop of fierce bulls and that of the tame lead oxen, with the multitude of herdsmen and other people who were taking them to be penned in a town where they were to be run the next day, swept right over Don Quixote, and over Sancho, Rocinante, and the gray, throwing them all to the ground and sending him rolling over the earth. Sancho was left battered, Don Quixote terrified, the gray bruised, and Rocinante none too Catholic in his health; but at last they all got up, and Don Quixote, in great haste, stumbling here and falling there, began to run after the herd, shouting:

“Stop and wait, you miscreant rabble, for a single knight awaits you, who is not of the temper or the opinion of those who say that for a fleeing enemy one should build a bridge of silver!”

But the hurrying runners did not stop for that, nor did they take more notice of his threats than of last year’s clouds. Weariness stopped Don Quixote, and, more angered than avenged, he sat down in the road, waiting for Sancho, Rocinante, and the gray to come up. They came, master and man mounted again, and, without going back to take leave of the feigned or counterfeit Arcadia, and with more shame than pleasure, they went on their way.