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VOLUME[ PART 2  ]  

CHAPTER[ XLIV. HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE

ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE

It is stated, they say, in the true original of this history, that when

Cide Hamete came to write this chapter, his interpreter did not translate

it as he wrote it--that is, as a kind of complaint the Moor made against

himself for having taken in hand a story so dry and of so little variety

as this of Don Quixote, for he found himself forced to speak perpetually

of him and Sancho, without venturing to indulge in digressions and

episodes more serious and more interesting. He said, too, that to go on,

mind, hand, pen always restricted to writing upon one single subject, and

speaking through the mouths of a few characters, was intolerable

drudgery, the result of which was never equal to the author's labour, and

that to avoid this he had in the First Part availed himself of the device

of novels, like "The Ill-advised Curiosity," and "The Captive Captain,"

which stand, as it were, apart from the story; the others are given there

being incidents which occurred to Don Quixote himself and could not be

omitted. He also thought, he says, that many, engrossed by the interest

attaching to the exploits of Don Quixote, would take none in the novels,

and pass them over hastily or impatiently without noticing the elegance

and art of their composition, which would be very manifest were they

published by themselves and not as mere adjuncts to the crazes of Don

Quixote or the simplicities of Sancho. Therefore in this Second Part he

thought it best not to insert novels, either separate or interwoven, but

only episodes, something like them, arising out of the circumstances the

facts present; and even these sparingly, and with no more words than

suffice to make them plain; and as he confines and restricts himself to

the narrow limits of the narrative, though he has ability; capacity, and

brains enough to deal with the whole universe, he requests that his

labours may not be despised, and that credit be given him, not alone for

what he writes, but for what he has refrained from writing.

And so he goes on with his story, saying that the day Don Quixote gave

the counsels to Sancho, the same afternoon after dinner he handed them to

him in writing so that he might get some one to read them to him. They

had scarcely, however, been given to him when he let them drop, and they

fell into the hands of the duke, who showed them to the duchess and they

were both amazed afresh at the madness and wit of Don Quixote. To carry

on the joke, then, the same evening they despatched Sancho with a large

following to the village that was to serve him for an island. It happened

that the person who had him in charge was a majordomo of the duke's, a

man of great discretion and humour--and there can be no humour without

discretion--and the same who played the part of the Countess Trifaldi in

the comical way that has been already described; and thus qualified, and

instructed by his master and mistress as to how to deal with Sancho, he

carried out their scheme admirably. Now it came to pass that as soon as

Sancho saw this majordomo he seemed in his features to recognise those of

the Trifaldi, and turning to his master, he said to him, "Senor, either

the devil will carry me off, here on this spot, righteous and believing,

or your worship will own to me that the face of this majordomo of the

duke's here is the very face of the Distressed One."

Don Quixote regarded the majordomo attentively, and having done so, said

to Sancho, "There is no reason why the devil should carry thee off,

Sancho, either righteous or believing--and what thou meanest by that I

know not; the face of the Distressed One is that of the majordomo, but

for all that the majordomo is not the Distressed One; for his being so

would involve a mighty contradiction; but this is not the time for going

into questions of the sort, which would be involving ourselves in an

inextricable labyrinth. Believe me, my friend, we must pray earnestly to

our Lord that he deliver us both from wicked wizards and enchanters."

"It is no joke, senor," said Sancho, "for before this I heard him speak,

and it seemed exactly as if the voice of the Trifaldi was sounding in my

ears. Well, I'll hold my peace; but I'll take care to be on the look-out

henceforth for any sign that may be seen to confirm or do away with this

suspicion."

"Thou wilt do well, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and thou wilt let me know

all thou discoverest, and all that befalls thee in thy government."

Sancho at last set out attended by a great number of people. He was

dressed in the garb of a lawyer, with a gaban of tawny watered camlet

over all and a montera cap of the same material, and mounted a la gineta

upon a mule. Behind him, in accordance with the duke's orders, followed

Dapple with brand new ass-trappings and ornaments of silk, and from time

to time Sancho turned round to look at his ass, so well pleased to have

him with him that he would not have changed places with the emperor of

Germany. On taking leave he kissed the hands of the duke and duchess and

got his master's blessing, which Don Quixote gave him with tears, and he

received blubbering.

Let worthy Sancho go in peace, and good luck to him, Gentle Reader; and

look out for two bushels of laughter, which the account of how he behaved

himself in office will give thee. In the meantime turn thy attention to

what happened his master the same night, and if thou dost not laugh

thereat, at any rate thou wilt stretch thy mouth with a grin; for Don

Quixote's adventures must be honoured either with wonder or with

laughter.

It is recorded, then, that as soon as Sancho had gone, Don Quixote felt

his loneliness, and had it been possible for him to revoke the mandate

and take away the government from him he would have done so. The duchess

observed his dejection and asked him why he was melancholy; because, she

said, if it was for the loss of Sancho, there were squires, duennas, and

damsels in her house who would wait upon him to his full satisfaction.

"The truth is, senora," replied Don Quixote, "that I do feel the loss of

Sancho; but that is not the main cause of my looking sad; and of all the

offers your excellence makes me, I accept only the good-will with which

they are made, and as to the remainder I entreat of your excellence to

permit and allow me alone to wait upon myself in my chamber."

"Indeed, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, "that must not be; four of

my damsels, as beautiful as flowers, shall wait upon you."

"To me," said Don Quixote, "they will not be flowers, but thorns to

pierce my heart. They, or anything like them, shall as soon enter my

chamber as fly. If your highness wishes to gratify me still further,

though I deserve it not, permit me to please myself, and wait upon myself

in my own room; for I place a barrier between my inclinations and my

virtue, and I do not wish to break this rule through the generosity your

highness is disposed to display towards me; and, in short, I will sleep

in my clothes, sooner than allow anyone to undress me."

"Say no more, Senor Don Quixote, say no more," said the duchess; "I

assure you I will give orders that not even a fly, not to say a damsel,

shall enter your room. I am not the one to undermine the propriety of

Senor Don Quixote, for it strikes me that among his many virtues the one

that is pre-eminent is that of modesty. Your worship may undress and

dress in private and in your own way, as you please and when you please,

for there will be no one to hinder you; and in your chamber you will find

all the utensils requisite to supply the wants of one who sleeps with his

door locked, to the end that no natural needs compel you to open it. May

the great Dulcinea del Toboso live a thousand years, and may her fame

extend all over the surface of the globe, for she deserves to be loved by

a knight so valiant and so virtuous; and may kind heaven infuse zeal into

the heart of our governor Sancho Panza to finish off his discipline

speedily, so that the world may once more enjoy the beauty of so grand a

lady."

To which Don Quixote replied, "Your highness has spoken like what you

are; from the mouth of a noble lady nothing bad can come; and Dulcinea

will be more fortunate, and better known to the world by the praise of

your highness than by all the eulogies the greatest orators on earth

could bestow upon her."

"Well, well, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, is nearly supper-time,

and the duke is is probably waiting; come let us go to supper, and retire

to rest early, for the journey you made yesterday from Kandy was not such

a short one but that it must have caused you some fatigue."

"I feel none, senora," said Don Quixote, "for I would go so far as to

swear to your excellence that in all my life I never mounted a quieter

beast, or a pleasanter paced one, than Clavileno; and I don't know what

could have induced Malambruno to discard a steed so swift and so gentle,

and burn it so recklessly as he did."

"Probably," said the duchess, "repenting of the evil he had done to the

Trifaldi and company, and others, and the crimes he must have committed

as a wizard and enchanter, he resolved to make away with all the

instruments of his craft; and so burned Clavileno as the chief one, and

that which mainly kept him restless, wandering from land to land; and by

its ashes and the trophy of the placard the valour of the great Don

Quixote of La Mancha is established for ever."

Don Quixote renewed his thanks to the duchess; and having supped, retired

to his chamber alone, refusing to allow anyone to enter with him to wait

on him, such was his fear of encountering temptations that might lead or

drive him to forget his chaste fidelity to his lady Dulcinea; for he had

always present to his mind the virtue of Amadis, that flower and mirror

of knights-errant. He locked the door behind him, and by the light of two

wax candles undressed himself, but as he was taking off his stockings--O

disaster unworthy of such a personage!--there came a burst, not of sighs,

or anything belying his delicacy or good breeding, but of some two dozen

stitches in one of his stockings, that made it look like a

window-lattice. The worthy gentleman was beyond measure distressed, and

at that moment he would have given an ounce of silver to have had half a

drachm of green silk there; I say green silk, because the stockings were

green.

Here Cide Hamete exclaimed as he was writing, "O poverty, poverty! I know

not what could have possessed the great Cordovan poet to call thee 'holy

gift ungratefully received.' Although a Moor, I know well enough from the

intercourse I have had with Christians that holiness consists in charity,

humility, faith, obedience, and poverty; but for all that, I say he must

have a great deal of godliness who can find any satisfaction in being

poor; unless, indeed, it be the kind of poverty one of their greatest

saints refers to, saying, 'possess all things as though ye possessed them

not;' which is what they call poverty in spirit. But thou, that other

poverty--for it is of thee I am speaking now--why dost thou love to fall

out with gentlemen and men of good birth more than with other people? Why

dost thou compel them to smear the cracks in their shoes, and to have the

buttons of their coats, one silk, another hair, and another glass? Why

must their ruffs be always crinkled like endive leaves, and not crimped

with a crimping iron?" (From this we may perceive the antiquity of starch

and crimped ruffs.) Then he goes on: "Poor gentleman of good family!

always cockering up his honour, dining miserably and in secret, and

making a hypocrite of the toothpick with which he sallies out into the

street after eating nothing to oblige him to use it! Poor fellow, I say,

with his nervous honour, fancying they perceive a league off the patch on

his shoe, the sweat-stains on his hat, the shabbiness of his cloak, and

the hunger of his stomach!"

All this was brought home to Don Quixote by the bursting of his stitches;

however, he comforted himself on perceiving that Sancho had left behind a

pair of travelling boots, which he resolved to wear the next day. At last

he went to bed, out of spirits and heavy at heart, as much because he

missed Sancho as because of the irreparable disaster to his stockings,

the stitches of which he would have even taken up with silk of another

colour, which is one of the greatest signs of poverty a gentleman can

show in the course of his never-failing embarrassments. He put out the

candles; but the night was warm and he could not sleep; he rose from his

bed and opened slightly a grated window that looked out on a beautiful

garden, and as he did so he perceived and heard people walking and

talking in the garden. He set himself to listen attentively, and those

below raised their voices so that he could hear these words:

"Urge me not to sing, Emerencia, for thou knowest that ever since this

stranger entered the castle and my eyes beheld him, I cannot sing but

only weep; besides my lady is a light rather than a heavy sleeper, and I

would not for all the wealth of the world that she found us here; and

even if she were asleep and did not waken, my singing would be in vain,

if this strange AEneas, who has come into my neighbourhood to flout me,

sleeps on and wakens not to hear it."

"Heed not that, dear Altisidora," replied a voice; "the duchess is no

doubt asleep, and everybody in the house save the lord of thy heart and

disturber of thy soul; for just now I perceived him open the grated

window of his chamber, so he must be awake; sing, my poor sufferer, in a

low sweet tone to the accompaniment of thy harp; and even if the duchess

hears us we can lay the blame on the heat of the night."

"That is not the point, Emerencia," replied Altisidora, "it is that I

would not that my singing should lay bare my heart, and that I should be

thought a light and wanton maiden by those who know not the mighty power

of love; but come what may; better a blush on the cheeks than a sore in

the heart;" and here a harp softly touched made itself heard. As he

listened to all this Don Quixote was in a state of breathless amazement,

for immediately the countless adventures like this, with windows,

gratings, gardens, serenades, lovemakings, and languishings, that he had

read of in his trashy books of chivalry, came to his mind. He at once

concluded that some damsel of the duchess's was in love with him, and

that her modesty forced her to keep her passion secret. He trembled lest

he should fall, and made an inward resolution not to yield; and

commending himself with all his might and soul to his lady Dulcinea he

made up his mind to listen to the music; and to let them know he was

there he gave a pretended sneeze, at which the damsels were not a little

delighted, for all they wanted was that Don Quixote should hear them. So

having tuned the harp, Altisidora, running her hand across the strings,

began this ballad:

O thou that art above in bed,

  Between the holland sheets,

A-lying there from night till morn,

  With outstretched legs asleep;

O thou, most valiant knight of all

  The famed Manchegan breed,

Of purity and virtue more

  Than gold of Araby;

Give ear unto a suffering maid,

  Well-grown but evil-starr'd,

For those two suns of thine have lit

  A fire within her heart.

Adventures seeking thou dost rove,

  To others bringing woe;

Thou scatterest wounds, but, ah, the balm

  To heal them dost withhold!

Say, valiant youth, and so may God

  Thy enterprises speed,

Didst thou the light mid Libya's sands

  Or Jaca's rocks first see?

Did scaly serpents give thee suck?

  Who nursed thee when a babe?

Wert cradled in the forest rude,

  Or gloomy mountain cave?

O Dulcinea may be proud,

  That plump and lusty maid;

For she alone hath had the power

  A tiger fierce to tame.

And she for this shall famous be

  From Tagus to Jarama,

From Manzanares to Genil,

  From Duero to Arlanza.

Fain would I change with her, and give

  A petticoat to boot,

The best and bravest that I have,

  All trimmed with gold galloon.

O for to be the happy fair

  Thy mighty arms enfold,

Or even sit beside thy bed

  And scratch thy dusty poll!

I rave,--to favours such as these

  Unworthy to aspire;

Thy feet to tickle were enough

  For one so mean as I.

What caps, what slippers silver-laced,

  Would I on thee bestow!

What damask breeches make for thee;

  What fine long holland cloaks!

And I would give thee pearls that should

  As big as oak-galls show;

So matchless big that each might well

  Be called the great "Alone."

Manchegan Nero, look not down

  From thy Tarpeian Rock

Upon this burning heart, nor add

  The fuel of thy wrath.

A virgin soft and young am I,

  Not yet fifteen years old;

(I'm only three months past fourteen,

  I swear upon my soul).

I hobble not nor do I limp,

  All blemish I'm without,

And as I walk my lily locks

  Are trailing on the ground.

And though my nose be rather flat,

  And though my mouth be wide,

My teeth like topazes exalt

  My beauty to the sky.

Thou knowest that my voice is sweet,

  That is if thou dost hear;

And I am moulded in a form

  Somewhat below the mean.

These charms, and many more, are thine,

  Spoils to thy spear and bow all;

A damsel of this house am I,

  By name Altisidora.

Here the lay of the heart-stricken Altisidora came to an end, while the

warmly wooed Don Quixote began to feel alarm; and with a deep sigh he

said to himself, "O that I should be such an unlucky knight that no

damsel can set eyes on me but falls in love with me! O that the peerless

Dulcinea should be so unfortunate that they cannot let her enjoy my

incomparable constancy in peace! What would ye with her, ye queens? Why

do ye persecute her, ye empresses? Why ye pursue her, ye virgins of from

fourteen to fifteen? Leave the unhappy being to triumph, rejoice and

glory in the lot love has been pleased to bestow upon her in surrendering

my heart and yielding up my soul to her. Ye love-smitten host, know that

to Dulcinea only I am dough and sugar-paste, flint to all others; for her

I am honey, for you aloes. For me Dulcinea alone is beautiful, wise,

virtuous, graceful, and high-bred, and all others are ill-favoured,

foolish, light, and low-born. Nature sent me into the world to be hers

and no other's; Altisidora may weep or sing, the lady for whose sake they

belaboured me in the castle of the enchanted Moor may give way to

despair, but I must be Dulcinea's, boiled or roast, pure, courteous, and

chaste, in spite of all the magic-working powers on earth." And with that

he shut the window with a bang, and, as much out of temper and out of

sorts as if some great misfortune had befallen him, stretched himself on

his bed, where we will leave him for the present, as the great Sancho

Panza, who is about to set up his famous government, now demands our

attention.

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