CHAPTER 44
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 San-
cho, 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 Cu-
riosity,” 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 inter-
woven, but only episodes, something like them, arising out of the circum-
stances 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 per-
son 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 ma-
jordomo 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 in-
volve a mighty contradiction; but this is not the time for going into ques-
tions 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 be-
haved 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 adven-
tures 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 of-
fers 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 dis-
play 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 as-
sure you I will give orders that not even a fly, not to say a damsel, shall en-
ter 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 req-
uisite 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 To-
boso 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 virtu-
ous; 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 instru-
ments 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, re-
tired 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 al-
ways 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 disas-
ter unworthy of such a personage!—there came a burst, not of sighs, or any-
thing 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 al-
ways 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 hon-
our, 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 him-
self 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 AE-
neas, who has come into my neighbourhood to flout me, sleeps on and wak-
ens 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 resolu-
tion 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:
{verse
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.
{verse
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 perse-
cute 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. Na-
ture 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 en-
chanted 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 de-
mands our attention.
