Chương Chương 96 · CHAPTER XLIV. HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE

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

CHAPTER XLIV.

HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE

ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE

p44a.jpg (140K)

Full Size

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 someone 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, “Señor, 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, señor,” 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.

p44b.jpg (341K)

Full Size

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, señora,” 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, Señor 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, Señor 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

Señor 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, Señor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, it is nearly

supper-time, and the duke 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, señora,” 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 Clavileño; 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 Clavileño 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 Æneas, 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.

p44c.jpg (266K)

Full Size

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.

p44e.jpg (145K)

Full Size