第 九十 章 · CHAPTER XXXVIII. WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA’S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES

. CHAPTER XXXVIII. WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA’S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA’S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES

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Following the melancholy musicians there filed into the garden as many

as twelve duennas, in two lines, all dressed in ample mourning robes

apparently of milled serge, with hoods of fine white gauze so long that

they allowed only the border of the robe to be seen. Behind them came

the Countess Trifaldi, the squire Trifaldin of the White Beard leading

her by the hand, clad in the finest unnapped black baize, such that,

had it a nap, every tuft would have shown as big as a Martos chickpea;

the tail, or skirt, or whatever it might be called, ended in three

points which were borne up by the hands of three pages, likewise

dressed in mourning, forming an elegant geometrical figure with the

three acute angles made by the three points, from which all who saw the

peaked skirt concluded that it must be because of it the countess was

called Trifaldi, as though it were Countess of the Three Skirts; and

Benengeli says it was so, and that by her right name she was called the

Countess Lobuna, because wolves bred in great numbers in her country;

and if, instead of wolves, they had been foxes, she would have been

called the Countess Zorruna, as it was the custom in those parts for

lords to take distinctive titles from the thing or things most abundant

in their dominions; this countess, however, in honour of the new

fashion of her skirt, dropped Lobuna and took up Trifaldi.

The twelve duennas and the lady came on at procession pace, their faces

being covered with black veils, not transparent ones like Trifaldin’s,

but so close that they allowed nothing to be seen through them. As soon

as the band of duennas was fully in sight, the duke, the duchess, and

Don Quixote stood up, as well as all who were watching the slow-moving

procession. The twelve duennas halted and formed a lane, along which

the Distressed One advanced, Trifaldin still holding her hand. On

seeing this the duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote went some twelve

paces forward to meet her. She then, kneeling on the ground, said in a

voice hoarse and rough, rather than fine and delicate, “May it please

your highnesses not to offer such courtesies to this your servant, I

should say to this your handmaid, for I am in such distress that I

shall never be able to make a proper return, because my strange and

unparalleled misfortune has carried off my wits, and I know not

whither; but it must be a long way off, for the more I look for them

the less I find them.”

“He would be wanting in wits, señora countess,” said the duke, “who did

not perceive your worth by your person, for at a glance it may be seen

it deserves all the cream of courtesy and flower of polite usage;” and

raising her up by the hand he led her to a seat beside the duchess, who

likewise received her with great urbanity. Don Quixote remained silent,

while Sancho was dying to see the features of Trifaldi and one or two

of her many duennas; but there was no possibility of it until they

themselves displayed them of their own accord and free will.

All kept still, waiting to see who would break silence, which the

Distressed Duenna did in these words: “I am confident, most mighty

lord, most fair lady, and most discreet company, that my most miserable

misery will be accorded a reception no less dispassionate than generous

and condolent in your most valiant bosoms, for it is one that is enough

to melt marble, soften diamonds, and mollify the steel of the most

hardened hearts in the world; but ere it is proclaimed to your hearing,

not to say your ears, I would fain be enlightened whether there be

present in this society, circle, or company, that knight

immaculatissimus, Don Quixote de la Manchissima, and his squirissimus

Panza.”

“The Panza is here,” said Sancho, before anyone could reply, “and Don

Quixotissimus too; and so, most distressedest Duenissima, you may say

what you willissimus, for we are all readissimus to do you any

servissimus.”

On this Don Quixote rose, and addressing the Distressed Duenna, said,

“If your sorrows, afflicted lady, can indulge in any hope of relief

from the valour or might of any knight-errant, here are mine, which,

feeble and limited though they be, shall be entirely devoted to your

service. I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose calling it is to give aid

to the needy of all sorts; and that being so, it is not necessary for

you, señora, to make any appeal to benevolence, or deal in preambles,

only to tell your woes plainly and straightforwardly: for you have

hearers that will know how, if not to remedy them, to sympathise with

them.”

On hearing this, the Distressed Duenna made as though she would throw

herself at Don Quixote’s feet, and actually did fall before them and

said, as she strove to embrace them, “Before these feet and legs I cast

myself, O unconquered knight, as before, what they are, the foundations

and pillars of knight-errantry; these feet I desire to kiss, for upon

their steps hangs and depends the sole remedy for my misfortune, O

valorous errant, whose veritable achievements leave behind and eclipse

the fabulous ones of the Amadises, Esplandians, and Belianises!” Then

turning from Don Quixote to Sancho Panza, and grasping his hands, she

said, “O thou, most loyal squire that ever served knight-errant in this

present age or ages past, whose goodness is more extensive than the

beard of Trifaldin my companion here of present, well mayest thou boast

thyself that, in serving the great Don Quixote, thou art serving,

summed up in one, the whole host of knights that have ever borne arms

in the world. I conjure thee, by what thou owest to thy most loyal

goodness, that thou wilt become my kind intercessor with thy master,

that he speedily give aid to this most humble and most unfortunate

countess.”

To this Sancho made answer, “As to my goodness, señora, being as long

and as great as your squire’s beard, it matters very little to me; may

I have my soul well bearded and moustached when it comes to quit this

life, that’s the point; about beards here below I care little or

nothing; but without all these blandishments and prayers, I will beg my

master (for I know he loves me, and, besides, he has need of me just

now for a certain business) to help and aid your worship as far as he

can; unpack your woes and lay them before us, and leave us to deal with

them, for we’ll be all of one mind.”

The duke and duchess, as it was they who had made the experiment of

this adventure, were ready to burst with laughter at all this, and

between themselves they commended the clever acting of the Trifaldi,

who, returning to her seat, said, “Queen Doña Maguncia reigned over the

famous kingdom of Kandy, which lies between the great Trapobana and the

Southern Sea, two leagues beyond Cape Comorin. She was the widow of

King Archipiela, her lord and husband, and of their marriage they had

issue the Princess Antonomasia, heiress of the kingdom; which Princess

Antonomasia was reared and brought up under my care and direction, I

being the oldest and highest in rank of her mother’s duennas. Time

passed, and the young Antonomasia reached the age of fourteen, and such

a perfection of beauty, that nature could not raise it higher. Then, it

must not be supposed her intelligence was childish; she was as

intelligent as she was fair, and she was fairer than all the world; and

is so still, unless the envious fates and hard-hearted sisters three

have cut for her the thread of life. But that they have not, for Heaven

will not suffer so great a wrong to Earth, as it would be to pluck

unripe the grapes of the fairest vineyard on its surface. Of this

beauty, to which my poor feeble tongue has failed to do justice,

countless princes, not only of that country, but of others, were

enamoured, and among them a private gentleman, who was at the court,

dared to raise his thoughts to the heaven of so great beauty, trusting

to his youth, his gallant bearing, his numerous accomplishments and

graces, and his quickness and readiness of wit; for I may tell your

highnesses, if I am not wearying you, that he played the guitar so as

to make it speak, and he was, besides, a poet and a great dancer, and

he could make birdcages so well, that by making them alone he might

have gained a livelihood, had he found himself reduced to utter

poverty; and gifts and graces of this kind are enough to bring down a

mountain, not to say a tender young girl. But all his gallantry, wit,

and gaiety, all his graces and accomplishments, would have been of

little or no avail towards gaining the fortress of my pupil, had not

the impudent thief taken the precaution of gaining me over first.

First, the villain and heartless vagabond sought to win my good-will

and purchase my compliance, so as to get me, like a treacherous warder,

to deliver up to him the keys of the fortress I had in charge. In a

word, he gained an influence over my mind, and overcame my resolutions

with I know not what trinkets and jewels he gave me; but it was some

verses I heard him singing one night from a grating that opened on the

street where he lived, that, more than anything else, made me give way

and led to my fall; and if I remember rightly they ran thus:

From that sweet enemy of mine

My bleeding heart hath had its wound;

And to increase the pain I’m bound

To suffer and to make no sign.

The lines seemed pearls to me and his voice sweet as syrup; and

afterwards, I may say ever since then, looking at the misfortune into

which I have fallen, I have thought that poets, as Plato advised, ought

to be banished from all well-ordered States; at least the amatory ones,

for they write verses, not like those of ‘The Marquis of Mantua,’ that

delight and draw tears from the women and children, but sharp-pointed

conceits that pierce the heart like soft thorns, and like the lightning

strike it, leaving the raiment uninjured. Another time he sang:

Come Death, so subtly veiled that I

Thy coming know not, how or when,

Lest it should give me life again

To find how sweet it is to die.

—and other verses and burdens of the same sort, such as enchant when

sung and fascinate when written. And then, when they condescend to

compose a sort of verse that was at that time in vogue in Kandy, which

they call seguidillas! Then it is that hearts leap and laughter breaks

forth, and the body grows restless and all the senses turn quicksilver.

And so I say, sirs, that these troubadours richly deserve to be

banished to the isles of the lizards. Though it is not they that are in

fault, but the simpletons that extol them, and the fools that believe

in them; and had I been the faithful duenna I should have been, his

stale conceits would have never moved me, nor should I have been taken

in by such phrases as ‘in death I live,’ ‘in ice I burn,’ ‘in flames I

shiver,’ ‘hopeless I hope,’ ‘I go and stay,’ and paradoxes of that sort

which their writings are full of. And then when they promise the Phœnix

of Arabia, the crown of Ariadne, the horses of the Sun, the pearls of

the South, the gold of Tibar, and the balsam of Panchaia! Then it is

they give a loose to their pens, for it costs them little to make

promises they have no intention or power of fulfilling. But where am I

wandering to? Woe is me, unfortunate being! What madness or folly leads

me to speak of the faults of others, when there is so much to be said

about my own? Again, woe is me, hapless that I am! it was not verses

that conquered me, but my own simplicity; it was not music made me

yield, but my own imprudence; my own great ignorance and little caution

opened the way and cleared the path for Don Clavijo’s advances, for

that was the name of the gentleman I have referred to; and so, with my

help as go-between, he found his way many a time into the chamber of

the deceived Antonomasia (deceived not by him but by me) under the

title of a lawful husband; for, sinner though I was, I would not have

allowed him to approach the edge of her shoe-sole without being her

husband. No, no, not that; marriage must come first in any business of

this sort that I take in hand. But there was one hitch in this case,

which was that of inequality of rank, Don Clavijo being a private

gentleman, and the Princess Antonomasia, as I said, heiress to the

kingdom. The entanglement remained for some time a secret, kept hidden

by my cunning precautions, until I perceived that a certain expansion

of waist in Antonomasia must before long disclose it, the dread of

which made us all there take counsel together, and it was agreed that

before the mischief came to light, Don Clavijo should demand

Antonomasia as his wife before the Vicar, in virtue of an agreement to

marry him made by the princess, and drafted by my wit in such binding

terms that the might of Samson could not have broken it. The necessary

steps were taken; the Vicar saw the agreement, and took the lady’s

confession; she confessed everything in full, and he ordered her into

the custody of a very worthy alguacil of the court.”

“Are there alguacils of the court in Kandy, too,” said Sancho at this,

“and poets, and seguidillas? I swear I think the world is the same all

over! But make haste, Señora Trifaldi; for it is late, and I am dying

to know the end of this long story.”

“I will,” replied the countess.

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