Chap. XII Giving an Account of the Manner in Which Sancho Was Conducted to the Government, and a Strange Adventure That Happened to Don Quixote in the Castle
The original of the history, it is said, relates that the interpreter did not translate this chapter as it had been written by Cid Hamet Benengeli, who bewails his fate in having undertaken such a dry and confined history as that of Don Quixote; which obliged him to treat of nothing but the knight and his squire, without daring to launch out into other more grave and entertaining episodes and digressions. He complained, that to be thus restricted in his hand, his pen, and his invention, to one subject only, so as to be obliged to speak through the mouths of a few persons, was an insupportable toil, that produced no fruit to the advantage of the author; and that in order to avoid this inconvenience, he had in the first part used the artifice of some novels, such as the Impertinent Curiosity, and the Captive, which were detached from the history, although many particulars there recounted are really incidents which happened to Don Quixote; and, therefore, could not be suppressed. It was likewise his opinion, as he observes, that many readers being wholly ingrossed with the exploits of Don Quixote, would not bestow attention upon novels, but pass them over either with negligence or disgust, without adverting to the spirit and artifice they contain: a truth which would plainly appear, were they to be published by themselves, independent of the madness of Don Quixote, and the simplicities of Sancho. He would not therefore insert in the second part any novels, whether detached or attached; but only a few episodes that seem to spring from those very incidents which truth represents; and even these, as brief and concise as they could possibly be related: and since he includes and confines himself within the narrow limits of narration, though his abilities and understanding are sufficient to treat the whole universe, he hopes that his work will not be depreciated; and begs he may receive due praise, not for what he has written, but for what he has left unwrit. Then the history proceeds in this manner.
In the evening that succeeded the afternoon on which the knight admonished his squire, he gave him his admonitions in writing, that he might find some person to read them occasionally; but, scarce had Sancho received, than he dropped them by accident, and they fell into the hands of the duke, who communicated the paper to the duchess, and both admired anew the madness and ingenuity of Don Quixote. Revolving to prosecute the jest, they, that very evening, dismissed Sancho with a large retinue to the place, which he supposed to be an island; the execution of the whole scheme being left to the sagacity of the duke’s steward, who was a person of great humour and discretion; for without discretion there can be no humour. He it was who acted the part of the Countess Trifaldi, with that pleasantry above related. Thus qualified, and in consequence of the instructions he received from their graces touching his behaviour to Sancho, he had performed his part to admiration. It happened, then, that Sancho no sooner beheld the said steward, than he traced in his countenance the very features of Trifaldi; and turning to his master, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘the devil may fly away with me from this spot where I stand, as an honest man, and a believer, if your worship will not confess that the face of the duke’s steward here present, is the very same with that of the afflicted duenna!’ Don Quixote, having attentively considered the steward’s countenance, replied, ‘There is no occasion for the devil’s running away with thee, Sancho, either as an honest man or a believer; (indeed, I cannot guess thy meaning) for, sure enough, this steward’s face is the very same with that of the afflicted duenna; but, nevertheless, the steward and the duenna cannot possibly be the same person: that would imply a downright contradiction, and this is no time to set on foot such enquiries, which would entangle us in the maze of inextricable labyrinths. Believe me, friend, we ought to beseech the Lord very earnestly to deliver us from those two evils of wicked wizzards, and vile inchanters.’—‘But this is no joke,’ answered Sancho; ‘for I heard him speak a little while ago, and methought the very voice of Trifaldi sounded in mine ears. At present, however, I will hold my tongue; but, nevertheless, I will keep a strict eye over him from henceforward, in order to discover some other mark either to destroy or confirm my suspicion.’—‘Do so, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ’and be sure to send me notice of the discoveries thou shalt make in this particular, as well as of every thing that shall happen to thee in the course of thine administration.’
At length Sancho departed with a numerous attendance; he was dressed like a gownman, with a long cloak of murrey-coloured camblet, and a cap of the same stuff: he rode upon a mule, with short stirrups; and was followed by Dapple, who, by the duke’s express order, was adorned with rich trappings of flaming silk; so that the governor from time to time turned about his head to contemplate the finery of his ass, with whose company he was so well content, that he would not have exchanged it for that of the German emperor.
At parting, he kissed the hands of the duke and duchess; and asked the benediction of his master, which was given with tears, and received with a whimper.
Courteous reader, suffer honest Sancho to depart in peace and happy time, and lay thy account with two bushels of laughter, which will proceed from thy knowing how he behaved himself in office; and in the mean time, attend to what befel his master this very night; an incident which, if it cannot excite thy laughter, will, at least, induce thee to grin like a monkey; for the adventures of Don Quixote must be celebrated, either with mirth or admiration.
It is related, then, that Sancho was no sooner gone than his master became solitary; and had it been possible, would have revoked the commission, and deprived him of his government; but the duchess being apprized of his melancholy, desired to know the cause, observing, that if it proceeded from Sancho’s absence, there was plenty of squires, duennas, and damsels, in the family, who should serve him to the satisfaction of his utmost wish. ‘True it is, my Lady Duchess,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I feel the absence of Sancho; but that is not the principal cause of my seeming sadness; and of all the generous proffers of your excellency, I chuse to accept nothing but the good-will with which they are made; for the rest, I humbly beg your excellency will consent, and permit me to wait upon myself in my own apartment.’—‘Truly,’ said the duchess, ‘that must not be; Signior Don Quixote shall be served by four of my damsels, as beautiful as roses.’—‘With regard to me,’ answered the knight, ‘they will not be roses, but thorns to prick my very soul; and, therefore, I will as soon fly as permit them, or any thing like them, to enter my chamber. If your grace would continue to bestow your favours, which, I own, I do not deserve, suffer me to be private, and make use of my own doors, that I may raise a wall between my passions and my chastity; a custom which I would not forego for all the liberality which your highness is pleased to display in my behalf; and, in a word, I will rather sleep in my cloaths than consent to be undressed by any person whatsoever.’—‘Enough, enough, Signior Don Quixote,’ answered her grace; ‘you may depend upon it, I shall give such orders, that not even a fly, much less a damsel, shall enter your apartment; I am not a person to discompose the decency of Signior Don Quixote, among whose virtues, I perceive, that of decorum shines with superior lustre. Your worship may dress and undress yourself alone, after your own fashion, when and how you please, without lett or impediment; for in your chamber you will find every utensil suited to those who sleep under lock and key, without being obliged to open upon any necessary occasion. Long live the great Dulcinea del Toboso, and may her fame be extended around the whole circumference of the earth, seeing she is worthy to be beloved by a knight of such valour and chastity; and may propitious Heaven infuse into the heart of Sancho Panza, our governor, a promptitude to finish his flagellation, that the world may soon re-enjoy the beauty of such an excellent lady!’ To this compliment the knight replied; ‘Your highness hath spoken like yourself; for from the mouths of such benevolent ladies nothing evil can proceed; and Dulcinea will be more fortunate, and more renowned through the world, by your grace’s approbation, than by all the applause of the greatest orators upon earth.’
‘Well then, Signior Don Quixote,’ answered the duchess, ‘it is now supper time, and the duke probably stays for us; let us go and sup, therefore, that you may be a-bed betimes; for your journey to Candaya was not so short, but that it must have fatigued your worship in some measure.’—‘Madam,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I feel no sort of weariness; and I swear to your excellency, that in my life I never crossed a better or easier going steed than Clavileno; nor can I conceive what should induce Malambruno to deprive himself of such a light and gentle carriage, by burning it without scruple or hesitation.’—’As to that particular,’ said the duchess, ‘we may suppose, that repenting of the injury he had done to the countess and her company, as well as to other people, and being sorry for the mischief he must certainly have produced as a wizzard and inchanter, he resolved to destroy all the instruments of his art; as the principal of these, which gave him the greatest uneasiness, because it has transported him from place to place in his operations, he burned Clavileno, that by means of his ashes, and the trophy of the parchment, the valour of Don Quixote might be eternized.’
The knight made fresh acknowledgments of her grace’s politeness, and after supper retired to his apartment, without suffering any person to accompany or minister unto his occasions; so much was he afraid of meeting with trials, which might provoke or compel him to forego the chastity and decorum which he had hitherto preserved for his mistress Dulcinea, ever schooling his imagination with the exemplary virtue of Amadis, the flower and mirrour of knight-errantry.
Having locked the door behind him, he undressed himself by the light of two wax tapers; and in the course of this occupation (O misfortune, ill decreed to such a personage!) forth broke—not a volley of sighs, or any thing else to discredit the purity of his politeness, but about two dozen of stitches in one stocking; which, being thus torn, resembled a lattice: a mishap which was the source of extreme affliction to our worthy Signior; who, on this occasion, would have given an ounce of silver for a drachm of green silk, for his stockings were of that colour.
Here Benengeli exclaims, ‘O poverty, poverty! I know not what should induce the great Cordovan poet to call thee an holy unfrequented gift. I, though a Moor, am very sensible, from my correspondence with Christians, that holiness consists in charity, humility, faith, poverty, and obedience; yet, nevertheless, I will affirm, that he must be holy indeed, who can sit down content with poverty, unless we mean that kind of poverty to which one of the greatest saints alludes, when he says, “Possess all things as not possessing them,” and this is called spiritual poverty. But thou second poverty, which is the cause I spoke of, why wouldst thou assault gentlemen of birth rather than any other class of people? Why dost thou compel them to cobble their shoes, and wear upon their coats one button of silk, another of hair, and a third of glass? Why must their ruffs be generally yellow and ill starched?’ (By the bye, from this circumstance we learn the antiquity of ruffs and starch186.) But, thus he proceeds: ‘O wretched man of noble pedigree! who is obliged to administer cordials to his honour, in the midst of hunger and solitude, by playing the hypocrite with a toothpick, which he affects to use in the street, though he has eat nothing to require that act of cleanliness; wretched he! I say, whose honour is ever apt to be startled, and thinks that every body, at a league’s distance, observes the patch upon his shoe, his greasy hat, and thread-bare cloak, and even the hunger that predominates in his belly!’
All these reflections occurred to Don Quixote when he tore his stockings; but he consoled himself for the misfortune, when he perceived that Sancho had left behind him a pair of travelling-boots, which he resolved to wear next day: finally, he crept into bed, where he lay pensive and melancholy, as well for the absence of Sancho, as for the irreparable misfortune of his stocking, which he would have gladly mended, even with silk of a different colour; one of the greatest marks of misery which a gentleman can exhibit in the course of his tedious poverty. After having extinguished the lights, he found the weather so hot that he could not sleep: he therefore arose again, and opened the casement of a great window that looked into a fine garden; then it was, that perceiving and hearing people walking and talking together, he began to listen attentively, while those below spoke so loud that he heard the following dialogue.
‘Do not, O Emerencia, press me to sing; for well thou knowest, that from the moment this stranger entered the castle, and mine eyes beheld his merit, instead of singing, I can do nothing but weep; besides, my lady’s sleep is rather slight than profound; and I would not for all the wealth in the world, that her grace should find us here. Moreover, suppose she should still sleep on, without waking, vain would be my song, unless it should awake, and attract the attention of this new Æneas, who is arrived in my territories, in order to leave me forlorn.’—‘Let not these suppositions have any weight with you, my dear Altisidora,’ replied another voice; ‘the duchess is doubtless asleep, and every body in the house, except the lord of your heart, and watchman of your soul, who must certainly be awake, for I just now heard him open the casement in his apartment; sing, therefore, my disastrous friend, in a low, sweet, and plaintive tone, to the sound of thy harp; and should the duchess overhear us, we will lay the blame upon the heat of the weather.’—‘That is not the cause of my hesitation, O Emerencia,’ replied Altisidora; ‘but, I am afraid that my song will disclose the situation of my heart, and I myself be censured by those who never felt the almighty power of Love, as a light and liquorish damsel; but, come what will, better have an hot face than an heavy heart.’ At that instant an harp was ravishingly touched, and Don Quixote hearing the sound, was struck with amazement; for his imagination was instantly filled with an infinity of similar adventures of rails and gardens, serenades, courtships and swoonings, which he had read in his vain books of chivalry; and he concluded that some damsel of the duchess was enamoured of him, but that modesty compelled her to keep her inclinations secret. Possessed of this notion, he began to be afraid of his virtue: but he resolved, in his own mind, to hold out to the last; and, recommending himself, with all his soul and spirit, to his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, determined to listen to the song. With a view, therefore, to let them know he was there, he pretended to sneeze, a circumstance which not a little pleased the damsels, who desired nothing so much as that Don Quixote should hear them. Then the harp being tuned, Altisidora, after a flourish, began the following ditty.
SONG.
‘O Thou! who now a-bed,
In Holland sheets are laid,
And sleep’st from night till morn,
Untouch’d by care and scorn;
The knight of greatest worth
La Mancha e’er brought forth;
More chaste an hundred fold,
Than pure Arabian gold;
O hear an hapless maid
By cruel love betray’d!
The flame of thy two suns
Hath scorch’d her to the bones!
Thou seeking thy own foe,
Hast found another’s woe:
Thou gav’st the wound, and sure
Wilt not refuse the cure.
O tell me, valiant youth,
(So God shall prosper truth)
Wast thou in desarts bred,
Or among mountains fed?
Did serpents give thee suck,
On some bleak barren rock,
Deep in the wild recess
Of forest or morass?
Dulcinea fat and fair,
May boast her shape and air,
That in subjection hold
A tyger fierce and bold:
Her fame shall live in stanza,
From Ebro to Arlanza,
From Tagus to Henarez,
From Seine to Manganarez,
Would I her place could fill,
I’d give her for good will,
My gayest petticoat
With golden fringes wrought,
How happy then should I
In thine embraces lie!
Or on some cushion loll,
And scratch thy valiant poll.
Such joys are far above
The merits of my love;
Let me, then, bending low,
With rapture kiss thy toe.
What presents would be made,
Of sattin and brocade!
I’d give thee shoes and socks,
Silk hose with silver clocks;
Of cash uncounted sums,
And pearls as big as plums;
So precious, each would sell
As perfect nonpareil.
Manchegan Nero, say,
Dost thou, aloof, survey
The flames that rage and smart
Within my love-sick heart?
A maid I vow and swear,
Young, tender, and sincere;
As yet I have not seen
The borders of fifteen.
My sides are not awry,
Nor lame, nor blind, am I:
My locks with ribbands bound,
Like lilies, sweep the ground:
My nose is flat, ’tis true,
And eke my mouth askew;
But teeth as topaz fine,
Compleat my charms divine;
My voice, as you may hear,
Is tuneful, sweet, and clear;
My temper soft and good,
If rightly understood.
These beauties all so clever,
Are yielded to thy quiver,
And I who tell my story,
Am call’d Altisidory.’
Here ended the song of the hapless Altisidora; and here began the horror of the courted Don Quixote; who, fetching a heavy sigh, said within himself—‘What an unfortunate errant am I, whom no damsel can behold without being enamoured of my person! and how hapless is the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, who cannot enjoy my incomparable constancy, without a rival! Queens, what would you have? Empresses, why do you persecute her beauty? Damsels of fifteen, why do you molest such virtue? Leave, leave, I say, that wretched lady, to taste, enjoy, and triumph, in the lot which love hath decreed her, by subduing my heart, and captivating my soul. Take notice, enamoured tribe, that to Dulcinea alone I am sugar paste, but flint to all the rest of her sex: to her I am honey; but gall and bitterness to such as you. In my eye, Dulcinea alone is beauteous, wise, gay, chaste, and well-born; but all others are homely, foolish, idle, and of humble birth. To be her slave, and her’s alone, nature has thrown me into the world; Altisidora may weep or sing; and that lady may despair, on whose account I was pummelled in the castle of the inchanted Moor; Dulcinea’s I am resolved to be, boiled or roasted, neat, chaste, and well-bred, in spite of all the witchcraft upon earth.’ So saying, he shut the casement with a flap, and retired to bed, in as much anxiety and concern as if some great misfortune had befallen him. There, then, we will leave him for the present, as we are summoned by the mighty Panza, who is impatient to begin his famous administration.