Don Quixote_ Translation by Edith Grossman (HarperCollins) - Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra [470]
They dried him, brought him wine, and untied the shields, and he sat on his bed and fainted from fear, shock, and alarm. Those who had deceived him regretted having carried the joke so far, but Sancho’s return to consciousness tempered the regret caused by his swoon. He asked the time; they responded that dawn had broken. He fell silent, and without saying another word he began to dress, deep in silence, and everyone watched him, waiting to see what the outcome would be of his dressing so urgently. Finally he was dressed, and very slowly, because he was bruised and could not move quickly, he went to the stable, followed by everyone present, and when he reached the gray he embraced him and gave him a kiss of peace on the forehead, and, not without tears in his eyes, he said:
“Come here, my companion and friend, comrade in all my sufferings and woes: when I spent time with you and had no other thoughts but mending your harness and feeding your body, then my hours, my days, and my years were happy, but after I left you and climbed the towers of ambition and pride, a thousand miseries, a thousand troubles, and four thousand worries have entered deep into my soul.”
As he was saying these words, he was also saddling his donkey, and no one said anything to him. And when the donkey was saddled, with great sadness and sorrow he mounted him, and directing his words and thoughts to the steward, the secretary, the butler, the physician Pedro Recio, and the many others who were present, he said:
“Make way, Señores, and let me return to my old liberty; let me go and find my past life, so that I can come back from this present death. I was not born to be a governor, or to defend ínsulas or cities from enemies who want to attack them. I have a better understanding of plowing and digging, of pruning and layering the vines, than of making laws or defending provinces and kingdoms. St. Peter’s fine in Rome: I mean, each man is fine doing the work he was born for. I’m better off with a scythe in my hand than a governor’s scepter; I’d rather eat my fill of gazpacho than suffer the misery of a brazen doctor who starves me to death, and I’d rather lie down in the shade of an oak tree in summer and wrap myself in an old bald sheepskin in winter, in freedom, than lie between linen sheets and wear sables, subject to a governorship. God keep your graces, and tell my lord the duke that I was born naked, and I’m naked now: I haven’t lost or gained a thing; I mean, I came into this governorship without a blanca, and I’m leaving without one, which is very different from how the governors of other ínsulas leave. Now move aside and let me go: I’ll apply some poultices, because I think all my ribs are crushed, thanks to the enemies who ran over me tonight.”
“It must not be like this, Señor Governor,” said Dr. Recio, “for I shall give your grace a potion against falls and bruising, which will return you to your former well-being and vigor; as for food, I promise your grace to mend my ways and allow you to eat as much as you want of anything you like.”
“You peeped too late!”4 responded Sancho. “I’d sooner become a Turk than not leave. These aren’t tricks you can play twice. By God, I’m as likely to stay here, or accept another governorship, even if they handed it to me on a platter, as I am to fly up to heaven without wings. I’m from the lineage of the Panzas, and they’re all stubborn, and if they say odds once, odds it’ll be, even if it’s evens, no matter what anybody says. Here in this stable I’ll leave the wings on the ant that carried me into the air where the martins and other birds could eat me, and I’ll go back to walking on my feet on level ground, and if they’re not adorned with cutout shoes5 of Cordoban leather, they won’t lack for sandals made of hemp. Every sheep with its mate, and let no man stretch his leg farther than the length of the sheet, and now let me pass, it’s getting late.”
To which the steward said:
“Senor Governor, we would very gladly let your grace pass, though it saddens us greatly