How Sancho Panza was taken to his government, and the strange adventure that befell don Quixote in the castle.
THEY SAY that in the original account of this history one reads that when Cide Hamete comes to write this chapter, his translator didn’t render it as he’d written it, for he criticizes himself for having taken on a history that was so dry and so limited as this one about don Quixote is, because it seemed to him that he always had to talk about don Quixote and Sancho, without daring to include other digressions and more serious and more entertaining episodes, and he said that having to dedicate all his intellect, and use his hand and pen exclusively to write about a single subject, and speak through the mouths of so few personages, was an unbearable labor whose fruit yielded little in return to its author. Because of this drawback, he resorted to using the device of interspersed novellas, such as the one about the «Ill-Advised Curiosity» and the one about the «Captive Captain», which are not part of the main story, although everything else that happened in that part deal with don Quixote, and had to be recorded. Also, he thought, as he says, that many people who were very interested in the deeds of don Quixote, wouldn’t pay much attention to the novellas, and would skip over them in haste or hostility, without noticing their grace and craft, which would be quite apparent if they were published by themselves, without depending on the crazy acts of don Quixote or the follies of Sancho. And so, in this second part he didn’t introduce novellas, whether separate from the action or woven into it, but just some episodes that might seem to be novellas that derive from the episodes themselves, and even these are very limited and use only enough words to be related. And since he contains and confines himself within the narrow limits of the narration, even though he has sufficient ability, faculties, and intellect to embark on the whole universe, he begs no one to scorn his work, and to praise him not for what he has written but rather for what he has chosen not to write.
And then he continues his history saying that as soon as don Quixote finished eating, the day he gave advice to Sancho, that afternoon he gave it to Sancho in written form so he could find someone to read it to him. But hardly had he given it to Sancho when he dropped it and it came into the hands of the duke who showed it to the duchess and the two marveled at both don Quixote’s madness and intellect. And so, to continue with their jests, that afternoon they sent Sancho with large retinue to a village that was to be the ínsula.
It happened that the person who was in charge was a steward of the duke who was very sharp and witty—because there’s no wit without intelligence—who had played the role of the Countess Trifaldi with the charm that has been described, and with this, and the instructions he got from his master and mistress about how he had to act with Sancho, he carried out their scheme marvelously well.
I say, then, that it happened that as soon as Sancho saw that steward, he thought that his face seemed to be just like Trifaldi’s, and turning toward his master, he said: “Señor, either the devil hauls me off from here right now, or your grace has to confess that the face of this steward of the duke, here present, is the same as the Distressed One’s.”
Don Quixote looked attentively at the steward and after having examined him carefully, he said to Sancho: “There’s no reason for the devil to haul you off immediately, Sancho. The face of the Distressed One looks like the steward’s, but that doesn’t mean that the steward is the Distressed One, because if he were, it would imply an enormous contradiction. This isn’t the right time to go about looking for proofs because it would mean going into an intricate labyrinth. Believe me, my friend, what we have to do is pray to Our Lord very earnestly to free us from evil sorcerers and enchanters.”
“This is no joke, señor,” replied Sancho, “for I heard him speak a while ago and it seemed just like the voice of Trifaldi was resonating in my ears. All right, I’ll keep quiet, but I’ll still continue to be on the alert from now on to see if I discover any other sign that confirms or denies my suspicions.”
“That’s what you should do, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “and you’ll tell me everything you find out about this, and everything that happens to you in your government.”
Sancho finally left, accompanied by many people, dressed as a man of letters, and wearing a tan cloak with a matching cap, and riding a mule with short stirrups. Behind him, on orders of the duke, came his donkey, with trappings and magnificent ornaments made of silk. Sancho turned around once in a while to look at his donkey, and so pleased with his company, he wouldn’t have switched places with the Emperor of Germany.
When he bade farewell to the duke and duchess, he kissed their hands, and received a blessing from his master, who bestowed it with tears, and Sancho received it with blubbering.
Let’s let Sancho go away in peace, dear reader, and wait for two bushels of laughter when you find out how he behaved in his new position, and meanwhile, let’s tend to what happened to his master that night. And if you don’t laugh, at least you’ll spread your lips in a monkey grin, because whatever befalls don Quixote either has to be greeted with wonder or laughter.
It’s told, then, that hardly had Sancho left when don Quixote began to miss him, and if it had been possible to revoke the commission and take away his government, he would have done it. The duchess saw his melancholy, and asked him why he was so sad. If it was because of Sancho’s absence, they had squires, duennas, and maidens in their house who could serve him perfectly.
“It’s true, señora mía,” responded don Quixote, “that I lament Sancho’s absence, but that’s not the main reason for my seeming so sad; and of the many offers your grace has made me, I’ll accept only the spirit in which they were offered. And as for the rest, I beg you to consent and permit me to wait upon myself inside my room.”
“In truth,” said the duchess, “señor don Quixote, this must not be. Four of my maidens will serve you, and they’re as pretty as flowers.”
“For me,” responded don Quixote, “they won’t be like flowers, but rather like thorns that pierce my soul. They’ll as soon come into my room, or get anywhere near it, as they would fly. If you want to continue to do me favors—which I don’t deserve—allow me to have my way so that I can erect a wall to guard my passions and my chastity. I won’t forsake this precept of mine for all the liberality your highness wants to bestow on me. In other words, I’d rather sleep fully dressed than to consent to having anyone else undress me.”
“That’s enough, that’s enough, señor don Quixote,” replied the duchess. “I’ll give an order so that not even a fly should enter your room, not to mention a maiden. I’m not a person who would impeach señor don Quixote’s sense of propriety. What comes through to me is that the most eminent of your virtues is that of chastity. You may undress and get dressed alone and in your own way, however and whenever you wish. No one will prevent it since inside your room you’ll find the vessels necessary for the needs of those who sleep behind a locked door, so no call of nature should oblige you to open it. May the great Dulcinea del Toboso live a thousand centuries and may her name be known over the face of the earth since she deserved to be loved by such a valiant and chaste knight, and may the benign heavens instill in the heart of Sancho Panza, our governor, a desire to finish his penance very soon, so the world can enjoy the beauty of such a great lady once again.”
To which don Quixote responded: “Your highness has spoken like the person she is, for worthy ladies don’t speak ill of any other woman. And Dulcinea will be better known throughout the world for having been praised by your greatness than by all other praises that could be given to her by the most eloquent people on earth.”
“Now then, señor don Quixote” replied the duchess, “dinnertime is approaching and the duke must be waiting. Let your grace come and let’s eat, then you can go to bed early, for the voyage yesterday to Candaya was not so short that it won’t have fatigued you.”
“I’m not tired, señora,” responded don Quixote, “because I’ll swear to your excellency that I’ve never in my life ridden a calmer more even-paced animal than Clavileño, and I don’t know what could have caused Malambruno to get rid of such an easy and gentle mount, and blow him up just like that.”
“One can only imagine,” responded the duchess, “that when he repented from the bad thing done to Trifaldi, her company, and from other bad things he must have done to others as a sorcerer and enchanter, he wanted to have done with the implements of his craft; and since Clavileño was the primary tool that took him wandering from country to country, he burned him up. Through those ashes and the monumental scroll, the bravery of don Quixote de La Mancha will be eternal.”
Once again don Quixote gave thanks to the duchess, and after he ate, he returned to his room all alone, without allowing anyone else to go in with him to serve him, so much did he fear finding reasons that might cause or force him to lose the chastity he was keeping for Dulcinea, always thinking of the virtue of Amadís, flower and mirror of knights errant. He locked his door after him, and by the light of two candles he got undressed, and when he was taking off his shoes—oh, calamity unworthy of such a person!—there burst, not sighs, or anything that might discredit the purity of his thoughts, but rather about two dozen stitches from one of his stockings, turning it into lattice-work. The good man grieved greatly and would have given an ounce of silver for a bit of green thread. I say «green thread» because his stockings were green.
Here Benengeli exclaims and writes: “Oh, poverty, poverty! I don’t know what moved the great Cordovan poet to call you an ‘unappreciated holy gift’! I, although I’m a Moor, know very well through my speaking with Christians, that holiness consists of charity, humility, faith, obedience, and poverty. But, with all this, I say that the person who can be content being poor must have much of God in him, unless it’s the same kind of poverty about which one of the greatest saints said: ‘Possess all things as if you possessed them not.’ This is what they call poverty of the spirit. But you, second poverty, are the one I’m talking about. Why do you insist on victimizing hidalgos and the well-born, more than other people? Why do you oblige them to apply soot to their shoes, and make them use some buttons of silk, others of horsehair, others of glass on their coats? Why must their collars be pleated and not starched?” (And by this you can see that using starch for collars is a very ancient custom, indeed.) And he went on saying: “Ah, the wretched well-born, who nourish their honor while eating poorly and behind closed doors, making their toothpicks into hypocrites, as they go out after not having eaten, and pick their teeth. Ah, the wretch, I say, who has skittish honor and thinks that people will see the patch on his shoe, the sweat stain on his hat, his threadbare cape, and the hunger in his stomach from a league away!”
All of this was brought home to don Quixote by the run in his stocking. But he consoled himself seeing that Sancho had left him some traveling boots he would put on in the morning.
Finally, he went to bed, pensive and sorrowful, as much by missing Sancho, as by the irreparable misfortune of his stockings, which he would have darned even with thread of another color—one of the surest signs of wretchedness that can betray an hidalgo in the course of his lengthy poverty. He extinguished the candles. It was a hot night and he couldn’t sleep, so he got out of bed and opened the window that looked out onto a beautiful garden, and when it was open, he heard people walking about and talking in the garden. He began to listen attentively.
The voices below got louder so that he could hear these words: “Don’t beg me to sing, Emerencia, since you know as soon as the stranger came into this castle, and my eyes saw him, I can’t sing anymore—I can only cry. And what’s more, my mistress sleeps more lightly than heavily, and I wouldn’t want her to find us here for all the wealth in the world. And even if she didn’t wake up, my song would be in vain if he’s sleeping and won’t be awake to hear it, this new Æneas, who has come here to leave me scorned.”
“Don’t consider that, Altisidora my friend,” she responded, “because without a doubt the duchess and everyone else in this house is sleeping except the lord of your heart and the awakener of your soul because I just heard the window to his room open, and he doubtless must be awake. Sing, my afflicted one, softly and smoothly, accompanied by your harp, and if the duchess hears us, we’ll just blame it on the heat of the night.”
“That’s not the point, Emerencia,” responded the one named Altisidora, “but rather I wouldn’t want my song to reveal what’s in my heart, and be judged by those who don’t know about the powerful forces of love, as a capricious and frivolous maiden. But come what may, «better shame on the face than sore in the heart».”
And right then he heard the harp start playing very softly, and he was astonished because at that instant, an infinite number of adventures similar to that one—of windows, grates and gardens, music, love plaints, and faintings, which he’d read about in his vacuous books of chivalry—came back to him. Then he imagined that some maiden of the duchess was in love with him, and that her modesty forced her to keep her love a secret. He feared he might be tempted, but resolved in his heart not to give in. And commending himself with all his heart and will to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he resolved to listen to the music, and so they would know that he was listening, he feigned a sneeze, which pleased the maidens no little, for they wanted nothing more than for don Quixote to hear them. Running her fingers over the strings and tuning the harp, Altisidora began her ballad:
Here the badly stricken Altisidora ended her song and the dread of the wooed don Quixote began. He heaved a great sigh and said to himself: “Why am I such an unfortunate errant, for there’s no girl who looks at me but what she doesn’t fall in love with me? Why is Dulcinea so unlucky that they won’t leave her alone to enjoy my incomparable fidelity? What do you queens want of Dulcinea? For what reason do you empresses persecute her? Why do you maidens of fourteen or fifteen years of age hate her? Please let the poor girl triumph, and rejoice and boast of the good fortune that Love gave her by offering her my heart and handing her my soul. Take notice, you lovesick crew, that I’m dough and almond paste only for Dulcinea, and for everyone else I’m made of flint. For her I’m honey, and for you I’m bitterness. For me alone Dulcinea is beautiful, discreet, chaste, charming, and well born, and the rest are ugly, foolish, frivolous, and base born. To be hers alone, and not for anyone else, nature placed me on earth. Let Altisidora cry or sing, and let the lady for whom they mauled me in the castle of the enchanted Moor despair, for I belong to Dulcinea, boiled or roasted, clean, courteous, and chaste in spite of all the powerful witchcraft in the world.”
And with this he slammed the window shut, and despairing and sorrowful as if some great disgrace had befallen him, he lay down on his bed, where we’ll leave him for the moment, because the great Sancho Panza is beckoning to us, and is about to assume the reins of his government.