On the other hand, I want your lordship and ladyship to understand that Sancho Panza is one of the most amusing squires who ever served a knight errant; at times his simpleness is so clever that deciding if he is simple or clever is a cause of no small pleasure; his slyness condemns him for a rogue, and his thoughtlessness confirms him as a simpleton; he doubts everything, and he believes everything; when I think that he is about to plunge headlong into foolishness, he comes out with perceptions that raise him to the skies. In short, I would not trade him for any other squire even if I were given a city to do so; consequently, I have some doubt regarding whether sending him to the governorship with which your highness has favored him is the right thing to do, although I see in him a certain aptitude for governing; with just a little refinement of his understanding, he would be as successful with any governorship as the king is with his duties and taxes; moreover, by dint of long experience, we know that neither great ability nor great learning is needed to be a governor, for there are in the world at least a hundred who barely know how to read, and who govern in a grand manner; the essential point is that they have good intentions and the desire always to do the right thing, for they will never lack someone to guide and counsel them in what they must do, like those knightly, unlettered governors who pass judgments with an adviser at their side. I would caution him not to accept bribes, and not to lose sight of the law, and a few other trifles that I shall not mention now but will come out in due course, to the benefit of Sancho and the advantage of the ínsula which he will govern.”
The duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote had reached this point in their conversation when they heard many voices and a clamor of people in the palace, and suddenly a frightened Sancho burst into the room wearing a piece of coarse burlap as a bib, and behind him came a number of young men, that is to say scullery boys and other menials, and one was carrying a tub of water whose color and lack of cleanliness indicated that it was dishwater, and the boy with the tub was following and pursuing Sancho and attempting with all solicitude to place it and put it under his beard, which another rogue showed signs of wanting to wash.
“What is this, my friends?” asked the duchess. “What is this? What do you want from this good man? Haven’t you considered that he has been selected governor?”
To which the roguish barber responded:
“This gentleman won’t let himself be washed, though that’s the custom, in the way the duke my lord was washed, and his own master.”
“I will let myself,” responded Sancho in a fury, “but I want it to be with cleaner towels, and clearer water, and hands that aren’t so dirty, for there’s not so much difference between me and my master that they should wash him with angel water and me with the devil’s bleach. The customs of different lands and the palaces of princes are good as long as they don’t cause any pain, but the custom of washing that they have here is worse than being flagellated. My beard is clean and I don’t need any freshening up like this; whoever tries to wash me or touch a hair on my head, I mean, of my beard, with all due respect, I’ll hit him so hard that I’ll leave my fist embedded in his skull; ceremonies and soapings like these seem more like mockery than hospitality for guests.”
The duchess was convulsed with laughter when she saw the anger and heard the words of Sancho, but Don Quixote was not very pleased to see him so badly adorned with the streaked and spotted towel, and so surrounded by so many kitchen scullions; and after making a deep bow to the duke and duchess, as if asking their permission to speak, he spoke to the mob in a tranquil voice, saying:
“Hello, Señores! Your graces must leave the young man alone and return to the place from which you came, or anywhere else you like; my squire is as clean as any other, and those little bowls are for him small and narrow-mouthed vessels. Take my advice and leave him alone, for neither he nor I have any fondness for mockery.”
Sancho caught his words as they left his mouth and continued, saying:
“No, let them come and mock the bumpkin, and I’ll put up with that the way it’s nighttime now! Bring a comb here, or whatever you want, and curry this beard, and if you find anything there that offends cleanliness, then you can shear me willy-nilly.”
At this point, the duchess, who was still laughing, said:
“Sancho Panza is correct in everything he has said, and everything he will say: he is clean and, as he says, he has no need of washing; if our custom does not please him, that should be the end of it, especially since you, ministers of cleanliness, have been far too remiss and negligent, and perhaps I should say insolent, in bringing to such a person and such a beard, not basins and pitchers of pure gold, and damask towels, but wooden bowls and pans and cleaning rags. But, after all, you are wicked and base and, like the scoundrels you are, cannot help showing the ill will you bear toward the squires of knights errant.”
The roguish ministrants, and even the butler who had come in with them, believed that the duchess was speaking seriously, and so they removed the burlap from Sancho’s chest, and disconcerted, and almost embarrassed, they went away and left him alone; and he, seeing himself free of what had seemed to him an extreme danger, went to kneel before the duchess and said:
“From great ladies, great favors are expected; the one your grace has granted me today cannot be repaid unless it is with my desire to see myself dubbed a knight errant so that I can spend all the days of my life serving so high a lady. I am a peasant, my name is Sancho Panza, I am married, I have children, and I serve as a squire; if with any of these things I can be of service to your highness, I will take less time to obey than your ladyship will to command.”
“It certainly seems, Sancho,” responded the duchess, “that you have learned to be courteous in the school of courtesy itself; it certainly seems, I mean to say, that you have been nurtured in the bosom of Señor Don Quixote, who must be the cream of courtesy and the flower of ceremonies, or cirimonies, as you call them. Good fortune to such a master and such a servant, the one for being the polestar of knight errantry, the other for being the star of squirely fidelity. Arise, Sancho my friend, and I shall repay your courtesies by having the duke my lord, as quickly as he can, fulfill the promised favor of a governorship for you.”
With this their conversation ended, and Don Quixote went to take his siesta, and the duchess requested that if Sancho had no great desire to sleep, he should come and spend the afternoon with her and her maidens in a room that was cool and pleasant. Sancho replied that although it was true that he was in the habit of taking four-or five-hour siestas in the summer, to respond to her great kindness he would attempt with all his might not to sleep even one that day and would obey her command, and then he left. The duke issued new orders that Don Quixote was to be treated as a knight errant, without deviating in the slightest from the manner in which it has been recounted that knights of old were treated.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Regarding the delightful conversation that the duchess and her ladies had with Sancho Panza, one that is worthy of being read and remembered
Well, the history recounts that Sancho did not sleep that day’s siesta but kept his word and came as requested to see the duchess, who derived so much pleasure from listening to him that she had him sit next to her on a low seat, although Sancho, being well-bred, did not wish to sit, but the duchess told him to sit as a governor and speak as a squire, since for both he deserved the ivory seat of El Cid Ruy Díaz Campeador.1
Sancho shrugged, obeyed, and sat down, and all the maidens and duennas of the duchess gathered round attentively, in great silence, to hear what he would say; but the duchess was the one who spoke first, saying:
“Now that we are alone, where no one can hear us, I should like you, Señor Governor, to resolve certain doubts I have, which have their origin in the history of the great Don Quixote that has already been published; one of these doubts is that, since our good Sancho never saw Dulcinea, I mean Señora Dulcinea of Toboso, and did not bring her the letter from Señor Don Quixo
te because it was left in the notebook in the Sierra Morena, how did he dare invent her response and say that he found her winnowing grain? This was nothing but a deception and a lie, so harmful to the good name of the peerless Dulcinea, and so inappropriate to the character and fidelity of good squires.”
At these words, without saying a single one in response, Sancho got up from the seat, and with silent steps, his body bent, his finger to his lips, he walked around the room lifting all the hangings, and then, when he had done this, he sat down again and said:
“Now that I have seen, Señora, that nobody is hiding and listening to us, except for those present, without fear or sudden fright I’ll answer what you have asked me, and anything else you may ask me, and the first thing I’ll say is that I believe my master, Don Quixote, is completely crazy, even though sometimes he says things that in my opinion, and in the opinion of everybody who hears him, are so intelligent and well-reasoned that Satan himself couldn’t say them better; but even so, truly and without any scruples, it’s clear to me that he’s a fool. And because I have this idea in mind, I can dare to make him believe anything, even if it makes no sense, like that reply to his letter, or something that happened six or eight days ago that isn’t in the history yet, I mean the enchantment of Señora Doña Dulcinea, because I’ve made him think she’s enchanted, and that’s as true as a fairy tale.”
The duchess asked him to tell her about the enchantment, or deception, and Sancho recounted everything just as it had occurred, from which his listeners derived no small pleasure; and continuing their conversation, the duchess said:
“From what our good Sancho has told me, a certain scruple has leaped into my soul, and a certain whisper reaches my ears, saying:
‘Since Don Quixote of La Mancha is a madman, a fool, and a simpleton, and Sancho Panza his squire knows this and still serves him, and follows him, and believes his hollow promises, there can be no doubt that he is more of a madman and a dimwit than his master; and this being the case, and it is, it will not be to your credit, Señora Duchess, if you give this Sancho Panza an ínsula to govern, because if a man cannot govern himself, how will he govern others?’”
“By God, Señora,” said Sancho, “that scruple of yours is just what I expected; but your grace should tell it to speak clearly, or however it wants to, because I know it’s telling the truth; if I were a clever man, I would have left my master days ago. But this is my fate and this is my misfortune; I can’t help it; I have to follow him: we’re from the same village, I’ve eaten his bread, I love him dearly, he’s a grateful man, he gave me his donkeys, and more than anything else, I’m faithful; and so it’s impossible for anything to separate us except the man with the pick and shovel.2And if your highness doesn’t want me to have the governorship I’ve been promised, God made me without it, and maybe not giving it to me will be for the good of my conscience; I may be a fool, but I understand the proverb that says, ‘It did him harm when the ant grew wings,’ and it might even be that Sancho the squire will enter heaven more easily than Sancho the governor. The bread they bake here is as good as in France, and at night every cat is gray, and the person who hasn’t eaten by two in the afternoon has more than enough misfortune, and no stomach’s so much bigger than any other that it can’t be filled, as they say, with straw and hay,3 and the little birds of the field have God to protect and provide for them, and four varas of flannel from Cuenca will warm you more than four of limiste4 from Segovia, and when we leave this world and go into the ground, the path of the prince is as narrow as the laborer’s, and the pope’s body doesn’t need more room underground than the sacristan’s, even if one is higher than the other, because when we’re in the grave we all have to adjust and shrink or they make us adjust and shrink, whether we want to or not, and that’s the end of it. And I say again that if your ladyship doesn’t want to give me the ínsula because I’m a fool, I’ll be smart enough not to care at all; I’ve heard that the devil hides behind the cross, and that all that glitters isn’t gold, and that from his oxen, plows, and yokes they took the peasant Wamba to be king of Spain,5 and from his brocades, entertainments, and riches they took Rodrigo to be eaten by snakes, if the lines from the old ballads don’t lie.”
“Of course they don’t lie!” said Doña Rodríguez the duenna, who was among those listening. “There’s a ballad that says they put King Rodrigo alive and kicking into a tomb filled with toads and snakes and lizards, and two days later, from inside the tomb, the king said in a low and mournful voice:
They’re eating me, they’re eating
me in the place where I sinned most;
and so this gentleman is very correct when he says he’d rather be a peasant than a king if vermin are going to eat him.”
The duchess could not control her laughter when she heard her duenna’s simplemindedness, nor could she help but marvel at Sancho’s words and proverbs, and she said to him:
“Our good Sancho already knows that what a knight has promised he attempts to fulfill, even if it costs him his life. The duke, my lord and husband, though not a knight errant, is still a knight, and so he will keep his word regarding the promised ínsula, despite the world’s envy and malice. Sancho should be of good heart, for when he least expects it he will find himself seated on the throne of his ínsula and of his estate, and he will hold his governorship in his hand and not trade it for another of three-pile brocade.6 My charge to him is that he attend to how he governs his vassals, knowing that all of them are loyal and wellborn.”
“As for governing them well,” responded Sancho, “there’s no need to charge me with it, because I’m charitable by nature and have compassion for the poor; and if he kneads and bakes, you can’t steal his cakes; by my faith, they won’t throw me any crooked dice; I’m an old dog and understand every here, boy,7 and I know how to wake up at the right time, and I don’t allow cobwebs in front of my eyes, because I know if the shoe fits: I say this because with me good men will have my hand and a place in my house,8 and bad men won’t get a foot or permission to enter. And it seems to me that in this business of governorships it’s all a matter of starting, and it may be that after two weeks of being a governor I’ll be licking my lips over the work and know more about it than working in the fields, which is what I’ve grown up doing.”
“You’re right, Sancho,” said the duchess, “because nobody is born knowing, and bishops are made from men, not stones. But returning to the conversation we had a little while ago about the enchantment of Señora Dulcinea, I consider it true and verified beyond any doubt that the idea Sancho had of tricking his master and leading him to believe that the peasant was Dulcinea, and if his master did not know her, it had to be because she was enchanted, was all an invention of one of the enchanters who pursue Señor Don Quixote, because really and truly, I know from a reliable source that the peasant girl who leaped onto the donkey was and is Dulcinea of Toboso, and that our good Sancho, think-ing he was the deceiver, is the deceived; there is no reason to doubt this truth any more than we doubt other things we have never seen, and Señor Sancho Panza should know that we too have enchanters here, and they love us dearly, and tell us what is going on in the world, purely and simply and without plots or complications; let Sancho believe me when I say that the leaping peasant girl was and is Dulcinea of Toboso, who is as enchanted as the mother who bore her; and when we least expect it we shall see her in her true form, and then Sancho will be free of the self-deception in which he lives.”
“That may be true,” said Sancho Panza, “and now I want to believe what my master says he saw in the Cave of Montesinos, where he says he saw Señora Dulcinea of Toboso in the same dress and garb that I said I had seen her wearing when I enchanted her for my own pleasure; it must all be the reverse, Señora, just like your grace says, because one can’t and shouldn’t think that in only an instant my poor wits could make up so clever a lie, and I don’t believe either that my master is so crazy that with powers of persuasion as weak and thin as mine he
would believe something so unbelievable. But, Señora, it wouldn’t be right for your highness to consider me a villain because of it, for a dolt like me isn’t obliged to fathom the thoughts and evil intentions of wicked enchanters: I made it up to avoid a scolding from my master, Don Quixote, not to offend him, and if it’s turned out wrong, God’s in heaven and judges men’s hearts.”
“That is true,” said the duchess, “but now tell me, Sancho, what you were saying about the Cave of Montesinos; I’d like to know.”
Then Sancho Panza recounted point by point what has already been said about that adventure, and when the duchess heard it, she said:
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