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By Root 884 0

to choose their own husbands, one would choose her father’s servant, and another a man she saw walking on the street, who seemed to her proud and gallant, although he might be a debauchee and a braggart; for love and affection easily blind the eyes of the understanding, which are so necessary for choosing one’s estate, and the estate of matrimony is at particular risk of error, and great caution is required, and the particular favor of heaven, in order to choose correctly. If a person wishes to make a long journey, and if he is prudent, before setting out he will find reliable and peaceful companionship for his travels; then why would he not do the same for the journey that takes a lifetime, until it reaches the resting place of death, and especially if his companion will be with him in bed, at the table, everywhere, which is how a wife accompanies her husband? The companionship of one’s own wife is not merchandise that, once purchased, can be returned, or exchanged, or altered; it is an irrevocable circumstance that lasts as long as one lives: it is a rope that, if put around one’s neck, turns into the Gordian knot, and if the scythe of Death does not cut it, there is no way to untie it. I could say much more with regard to this subject, but I am kept from doing so by my desire to know if the distinguished licentiate has more to tell us of the history of Basilio.”

To which the student bachelor, or licentiate, as Don Quixote called him, responded:

“There really is no more for me to say except that ever since the moment Basilio learned that fair Quiteria was marrying rich Camacho, he has not been known to laugh, or to speak coherently, and he always goes about pensive and sad, talking to himself, which are clear and certain signs that he has lost his mind: he eats little and sleeps little, and what he does eat is fruit, and if he does sleep it is in the fields, on the hard ground, like a dumb animal; from time to time he looks up at the sky, at other times he fixes his eyes on the ground and is so entranced that he seems to be a dressed statue whose clothes are moved by the breeze. In short, he gives so many indications of having a heart maddened by love that those of us who know him fear that when fair Quiteria takes her marriage vows tomorrow, it will be his death sentence.”

“God will find the cure,” said Sancho, “for God gives the malady and also the remedy; nobody knows the future: there’s a lot of hours until tomorrow, and in one of them, and even in a moment, the house can fall; I’ve seen it rain at the same time the sun is shining; a man goes to bed healthy and can’t move the next day. And tell me, is there anybody who can boast that he’s driven a nail into Fortune’s wheel? No, of course not, and I wouldn’t dare put the point of a pin between a woman’s yes and no, because it wouldn’t fit. Tell me that Quiteria loves Basilio with all her heart and all her soul, and I’ll give him a sack of good fortune, because I’ve heard that love looks through spectacles that make copper look like gold, poverty like riches, and dried rheum like pearls.”

“Damn you, Sancho, where will you stop?” said Don Quixote. “When you begin to string together proverbs and stories, nobody can endure it but Judas himself, and may Judas himself take you. Tell me, you brute, what do you know of nails, or wheels, or anything else?”

“Oh, well, if none of you understand me,” responded Sancho, “it’s no wonder my sayings are taken for nonsense. But it doesn’t matter: I understand what I’m saying, and I know there’s not much foolishness in what I said, but your grace is always sentencing what I say, and even what I do.”

“Censuring is what you should say,” said Don Quixote, “and not sentencing, you corrupter of good language, may God confound you!”

“Your grace shouldn’t get angry with me,” responded Sancho, “because you know I didn’t grow up at court or study at Salamanca, so how would I know if I’m adding or taking away letters from my words? God save me! You can’t force a Sayagan to talk like a Toledan,2 and there may be some Toledans who don’t talk