“Señor, either the devil will carry me away from where I stand, suddenly and without warning, or your grace has to confess that the face of the duke’s steward, here present, is the same as the Dolorous One’s.”
Don Quixote looked carefully at the steward, and when he had looked, he said to Sancho:
“There is no reason for the devil to carry you off, Sancho, either suddenly or without warning, for I do not know what you mean; the face of the Dolorous One may be that of the steward, but that does not mean the steward is the Dolorous One; if he were, it would imply a very serious contradiction, and this is not the time to make such inquiries, for that would lead us into intricate labyrinths. Believe me, my friend, it is necessary to pray to Our Lord very sincerely to save both of us from evil wizards and wicked enchanters.”
“It isn’t a joke, Señor,” replied Sancho, “because I heard him talking earlier, and it seemed as if the voice of Countess Trifaldi were sounding in my ears. All right: I’ll be quiet, but I’ll stay on the alert from now on to see if I can find anything else that will prove or disprove what I suspect.”
“That is what you must do, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and keep me informed regarding everything you discover in this matter, and everything that happens to you in your governorship.”
At last, accompanied by a good number of people, Sancho set out, dressed in the style of a lettered man, and over that wearing a very wide coat of tawny camel’s hair and a cap of the same material, and riding a mule with short stirrups; behind him, by order of the duke, came the gray with new donkey’s trappings and a halter made of silk. From time to time Sancho turned his head to look at his jackass, in whose company he felt so content that he would not have traded places with the emperor of Germany.
When he took his leave of the duke and duchess, he kissed their hands and received the blessing of his master, who gave it to him in tears, and which Sancho received with sobs.
Kind reader, let the good Sancho go in peace and good fortune, and expect two bushels of laughter when you learn how he behaved in office, and in the meantime wait and find out what happened to his master that night; and if you do not laugh at this, at least you will spread your lips wide in a monkey grin, because those things that befall Don Quixote have to be celebrated either with astonishment or with laughter.
It is recounted that as soon as Sancho left, Don Quixote felt lonely for him, and if it had been possible for him to revoke the squire’s mandate and take the governorship away from him, his master would have done so. The duchess perceived his melancholy and asked him why he was sad, for if it was because of Sancho’s absence, there were squires, duennas, and maidens in her house who would serve him to his complete satisfaction.
“It is true, Señora,” responded Don Quixote, “that I feel the absence of Sancho, but this is not the principal reason that makes me seem sad; of the many offers Your Excellency has made I accept and choose only the goodwill with which they have been proffered; for the rest, I implore Your Excellency that in my own chamber you allow and permit me to be the only one who serves me.”
“In truth,” said the duchess, “Señor Don Quixote, that cannot be: you will be served by four of my maidens who are as beautiful as flowers.”
“As far as I am concerned,” responded Don Quixote, “they will be not like flowers but like thorns piercing my soul. They will no more enter my chamber, or anything like that, than fly. If your highness wishes to proceed to grant me favors I do not deserve, allow me to accept them alone and to serve myself behind my chamber doors; for I place a wall between my desires and my modesty, and I do not wish to lose this custom because of the liberality your highness desires to show me. In short, I would rather sleep in my clothes than allow anyone to undress me.”
“Enough, enough, Señor Don Quixote,” replied the duchess. “I can tell you that I shall give orders that not even a fly can enter your room, much less a maiden; on no account am I the person to interfere with the propriety of Señor Don Quixote, for it has become clear to me that the most outstanding of his many virtues is modesty. Your grace may undress and dress by yourself, and in your own fashion, however and whenever you wish; there will be none to impede you, for in your chamber you will find the containers required for the needs of one who sleeps with a closed door, so that not even the necessities of nature will oblige you to open it. May the great Dulcinea of Toboso live for a thousand centuries, and may her name be known throughout the world, for she deserved to be the beloved of so valiant and chaste a knight, and may benign heaven fill the heart of Sancho Panza, our governor, with the desire to conclude his whipping quickly so that the world can once again enjoy the beauty of so great a lady.”
To which Don Quixote said:
“Your grace has spoken like the person you are, for in the mouths of virtuous ladies there can be nothing that is wicked; Dulcinea will be more fortunate and renowned in the world for your highness’s praise than for all the praises of the most eloquent men on earth.”
“Well now, Señor Don Quixote,” replied the duchess, “it is time to eat supper, and the duke must be waiting; come, your grace, and let us eat, and retire early, for the journey you made yesterday to Candaya was not so short that it has not caused you some weariness.”
“I feel none at all, Señora,” responded Don Quixote, “for I can swear to Your Excellency that never in my life have I mounted a calmer animal, or one with a better gait, than Clavileño, and I do not know what could have moved Malambruno to destroy so swift and gentle a mount and burn him for no reason at all.”
“As for that, I can imagine,” responded the duchess, “that he repented of the wrong he had done to Countess Trifaldi and her company, and to other persons, and the many acts of wickedness he must have committed as a wizard and an enchanter, and he wanted to put an end to all the devices of his profession, and since the wooden horse was the principal one that caused him the most concern wandering from country to country, he burned Clavileño so that with those ashes, and the trophy of the scroll, the valor of the great Don Quixote of La Mancha would be made immortal.”
Once again Don Quixote thanked the duchess, and when they had eaten supper he withdrew to his chamber alone, not permitting anyone to come in to serve him: so fearful was he of facing situations that would move him or oblige him to lose the decorous modesty that he preserved for his lady Dulcinea, always keeping present in his imagination the virtue of Amadís, flower and model of all knights errant. He closed the door after him, and in the light of two wax candles he undressed, and as he removed his shoes—O misfortune so unworthy of such a person!—there was an eruption, not of sighs or anything else that would discredit the purity of his courtesy, but of some two dozen stitches in a stocking that now looked like latticework. The good gentleman was distraught, and he would have given an ounce of silver for just a small amount of green silk thread; I say green silk because his stockings were green.
Here Benengeli interjected this exclamation, saying:
“O poverty, poverty! I do not know why the great poet of Córdoba1 was moved to call you
Holy and unwelcome gift!
I, though a Moor, know very well, through the communication I have had with Christians, that holiness consists of charity, humility, faith, obedience, and poverty; but even so, I say that a man must be very close to God if he can be content with being poor, unless it is the kind of poverty about which one of the greatest saints2 says: ‘Possess all things as if you possessed them not,’ and this is called poverty in spirit; but you, the second poverty, the one I am speaking of: why do you wish to crush gentlemen and the wellborn more than other people? Why do you oblige them to patch3 their shoes, and have some buttons on their doublets that are of silk, and others of horsehair, and others of glass? Why must their collars, for the most part, always be crumpled and not open and smooth?”
And in this one can see that the use of starch and smooth collars is very old. And he continued:
“How wretched is the w
ellborn man who nurtures his honor by eating badly, behind a closed door, playing the hypocrite with the toothpick he wields when he goes out after not having eaten anything that would oblige him to clean his teeth!4 How wretched is he, I say, who is apprehensive about his honor and thinks that the patch on his shoe, the perspiration on his hat, the darn on his cape, and the hunger in his stomach can be seen from a league away!”
All this was repeated in Don Quixote’s thoughts when those stitches tore, but he was consoled at seeing that Sancho had left him a pair of high traveling boots that he intended to wear the next day. Finally he lay down, pensive and melancholy, not only because he missed Sancho, but on account of the irreparable disaster of his stockings, which he would have stitched up, even with silk thread of another color, one of the greatest indications of poverty that a gentleman can give in the course of his wearisome penury. He put out the candles, it was hot and he could not sleep, he got out of bed and opened slightly a jalousied window that overlooked a beautiful garden, and when he opened it he perceived and heard people walking and talking in the garden. He began to listen attentively. Those below him spoke loudly enough for him to hear these words:
“Do not urge me, O Emerencia, to sing, for you know that since the moment the stranger entered this castle and my eyes looked upon him, I can no longer sing but only weep, and besides, my lady is more a light sleeper than a heavy one, and I would not want her to find us here for all the riches in the world. And even if she slept and did not awaken, my song would be in vain if this second Aeneas, who has come to my realm only to scorn me and abandon me, should sleep and not awaken.”
“Do not be concerned about that, Altisidora my friend,” was the reply, “for undoubtedly the duchess and all those in the house are asleep, except for the lord of your heart and the inspiration of your soul, for just now I heard the jalousied window in his room being opened, and no doubt he must be awake; sing, my suffering friend, softly and quietly to the sound of your harp, and if the duchess hears us, we can blame the heat.”
“Oh, Emerencia, that isn’t the point!” responded Altisidora. “It’s just that I wouldn’t want to reveal my heart in my song or be judged a capricious and frivolous maiden by those who do not know the power and might of love. But come what may, an embarrassed face is better than a wounded heart.”
And then he heard the sound of a harp played very softly. When he heard this, Don Quixote was dumbfounded, because at that instant he remembered an infinite number of adventures similar to this one, with windows, jalousies, gardens, music, amorous compliments, and swoons, which he had read in his delusive books of chivalry. Then he imagined that a maiden of the duchess was in love with him, and that modesty compelled her to keep her desires secret; he feared he might surrender and resolved not to allow himself to be vanquished, and commending himself with all his heart and soul to his lady Dulcinea of Toboso, he decided to listen to the music; to let it be known that he was there, he gave a mock sneeze, which brought no small delight to the maidens, whose sole desire was that Don Quixote should hear them. When she had tuned and adjusted the harp, Altisidora began to sing this ballad:
O you, who lie in your bed,
between sheets of Holland linen,
soundly and deeply asleep all night
long until the morning,
O brave knight, the most courageous
ever born in great La Mancha,
more modest, more chaste, more blessed
than the fine gold of Arabia!
Hear this melancholy maiden,
so wellborn and so ill-fated:
in the light of your two suns
she feels her soul burst into flames.
You go in search of adventures
but find the sorrows of others,
inflicting wounds, yet refusing
the remedy that can cure them.
O tell me, most valiant youth,
—may God make your wishes prosper—
if Libyan sands were your home,
or the craggy peaks of Jaca;
if you suckled a serpent’s milk
or by chance you had for nurses
the harshness of the wild forest
and the horrors of the mountains.
Well may the fair Dulcinea,
a maiden plump and sturdy,
boast of subduing a tiger,
and vanquishing a fierce beast,
winning her fame along rivers
from Henares to Jarama,
from Tajo to Manzanares,
from Pisuerga to Arlanza.
If I could change places with her,
I would give my very best,
my most gaily colored skirt
adorned with trimmings of gold.
O, if I were but in your arms,
or at least beside your bed,
where I could scratch your dear head
and shake dandruff from your hair!
I ask for much but am not worthy
of so notable a boon:
I should like to rub your feet;
that’s enough for a humble maid.
O, what fine caps I would give you,
and oh, what gaiters of silver,
and oh, what breeches of damask,
and oh, what short capes of linen!
And then the most lustrous pearls,
each one as big as a gallnut,
and if they had no companions,
they’d be called the Only Ones!5
Look not from your Tarpeian Rock6 upon the fire that burns me,
Manchegan Nero of the world,
nor fan it with cruelty.
I am a girl, a tender maid,
no more than fifteen years old:
I am fourteen and three months,
I swear by God and my soul.
I am not lame, I do not limp,
I am not deformed or maimed;
my hair is like fairest lilies,
touching the floor when I stand.
And though my mouth is aquiline
and my nose is rather blunt,
I have teeth of topaz, raising
my beauty up to high heaven.
My voice, as you’ll see, just listen,
as sweet as the sweetest tone,
and my nature and appearance,
something less than only middling.
All these and my other graces
are the spoils won by your arrows;
I am a maiden of this house;
I am called Altisidora.
Here the song of the afflicted Altisidora came to an end, and here began the astonishment of the fervently wooed Don Quixote, who heaved a great sigh and said to himself:
“Why must I be so unfortunate a knight that no maiden can look upon me without falling in love…! Why must the peerless Dulcinea of Toboso be so unlucky that she cannot be permitted to enjoy my incomparable firmness of purpose…! O queens, what do you wish of her? O empresses, why do you pursue her? O maidens of fourteen to fifteen years old, why do you harass her? Oh, allow her, allow the wretched lady to tri-umph and delight and take pride in the good fortune that Love wished to grant her by giving her my heart and presenting her with my soul. Remember, all you enamored ladies, that for Dulcinea alone I am as soft as sugar paste, and for all the rest I am as hard as flint; for her I am honey, and for you, bitter aloe; for me, only Dulcinea is beautiful, wise, modest, gallant, and wellborn, and the rest are ugly, foolish, licentious, and of the worst lineage; to be hers alone, and no other’s, nature cast me into the world. Let Altisidora weep or sing; let the lady despair on whose account I was beaten in the castle of the enchanted Moor; for I must belong to Dulcinea, boiled or roasted, clean, wellborn, and chaste, despite all the powers of sorcery in the world.”
And with this he slammed the window shut, and as indignant and sorrowful as if some great calamity had befallen him he lay down in his bed, where we shall leave him for now because we are being summoned by the great Sancho Panza, who wishes to begin his famo
us governorship.
CHAPTER XLV
Regarding how the great Sancho Panza took possession of his ínsula, and the manner in which he began to govern
O perpetual discloser of the Antipodes, torch of the world, eye of heaven, sweet movement of cooling decanters,1 here Thymbraeus, there Phoebus, here an archer, there a healer. Father of Poetry, Inventor of Music,2 you who always rise and never set, although you seem to! To you, I say, O Sun, with whose help man engenders man,3 to you I say that you ought to favor me and illuminate the dimness of my wits so that they may touch upon every point in the narration of the governorship of the great Sancho Panza, for without you I feel weak, fainthearted, and confused.
I say, then, that with all his retinue Sancho came to a village with some thousand inhabitants, which was one of the best owned by the duke. They gave him to understand that it was called the Ínsula Barataria, either because the village was named Baratario or because he had been given the governorship at so little cost.4 When they reached the gates, for it was a walled town, the village councilmen came out to receive him; the bells were rung, and all the inhabitants displayed general rejoicing, and with a good deal of pomp they brought him to the largest church to give their thanks to God, and then, in a ridiculous ceremony, they presented him with the keys to the village and accepted him as perpetual governor of the Ínsula Barataria.
The clothing, beard, plumpness, and short stature of the new governor surprised all the people who were not privy to the secret, and even all of the many people who were. Finally they led him from the church and brought him to the judge’s seat in a courtroom, and seated him upon it, and the duke’s steward said to him:
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