Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (120 page)

“By God, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “simply because of the last words that you have said I judge you worthy of being the governor of a thousand ínsulas: you have a good nature, and without that no learning is worthwhile; commend yourself to God and try not to wander from your first purpose; I mean that you should always have the firm and steady intention of doing the right thing in everything that happens to you, because heaven always favors virtuous desires. And now let us go to dinner, for I believe the duke and duchess are waiting for us.”

CHAPTER XLIV

They say that in the actual original of this history, one reads that when Cide Hamete came to write this chapter, his interpreter did not translate what he had written, which was a kind of complaint that the Moor had concerning himself for becoming involved in a history as dry and limited as this one, for it seemed to him he always had to talk of Don Quixote and Sancho, not daring to wander into other digressions and episodes that were more serious and more entertaining; and he said that to have his mind, his hand, and his pen always fixed on writing about a single subject and speaking through the mouths of so few persons was an insupportable hardship whose outcome did not redound to the benefit of the author; in order to circumvent this difficulty, in the first part he had used the device of some novels, such as
The Man Who Was Recklessly
Curious
and
The Captive Captain,
which are, in a sense, separate from the history, although the other matters recounted there are events that occurred to Don Quixote himself, which he could not fail to write down. He also thought, as he says, that many readers, carried away by the attention demanded by the deeds of Don Quixote, would pay none at all to the novels, and pass them over entirely or read them with haste or with annoyance, not realizing the elegance and invention they contain, which would be readily apparent if they came to light on their own, not depending on the madness of Don Quixote or the foolishness of Sancho. And so in this second part he did not wish to introduce any novels, whether detached or attached, but only some episodes born of the very events offered by truth, and even these in a very limited way and using only the words needed to recount them; and so, contained and enclosed within the narrow confines of the narration even though he possesses the ability, competence, and understanding to deal with the entire universe, he asks that his work not be scorned but praised, not for what he has written but for what he has omitted from his writing.

And then the history goes on to say that when Don Quixote had finished dinner on the day he gave advice to Sancho, he also wrote down the precepts so that Sancho could find someone to read them to him, but as soon as Don Quixote gave them to his squire they came and fell into the hands of the duke, who communicated them to the duchess, and the two of them were astonished once more at the madness and intelligence of Don Quixote; and so, going forward with their deceptions, that afternoon they sent Sancho with a large retinue to the village that for him would be an ínsula.

It so happened that the man in charge was one of the duke’s stewards, who was very intelligent and very humorous—for there can be no humor where there is no intelligence—and had played the part of Countess Trifaldi with the wit that has already been described; this, and the instructions he had received from the duke and duchess regarding how he was to behave with Sancho, meant that he achieved his purposes wonderfully well. I say, then, that as soon as Sancho saw the steward, he imagined that his face was the same as Countess Trifaldi’s, and turning to his master, he said:

“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 Córdoba
¹
was moved to call you

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 saints
²
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 patch
³
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 wellborn 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.”