_How Sancho Panza was carried to his government; and of the strange
adventure that befell Don Quixote in the castle._
After dinner, Don Quixote gave Sancho, in writing, the copy of his
verbal instructions, ordering him to get somebody to read them to him.
But the squire had no sooner got them, than he dropt the paper, which
fell into the duke's hands, who communicating the same to the duchess,
they found a fresh occasion of admiring the mixture of Don Quixote's
good sense and extravagance; and so, carrying on the humour, they sent
Sancho that afternoon, with a suitable equipage, to the place he was
to govern, which, wherever it lay, was to be an island to him.
It happened that the management of this affair was committed to a
steward of the duke's, a man of a facetious humour, and who had not
only wit to start a pleasant design, but discretion to carry it on. He
had already personated the Countess Trifaldi very successfully; and,
with his master's instructions in relation to his behaviour towards
Sancho, could not but discharge his trust to a wonder. Now it fell
out, that Sancho no sooner cast his eyes on the steward than he
fancied he saw the very face of Trifaldi; and turning to his master,
"Look, sir," quoth he, "and see if this same steward of the duke's
here has not the very face of my Lady Trifaldi." Don Quixote looked
very earnestly on the steward, and having perused him from top to toe,
"Sancho," said he, "thou art in the right; I see their faces are the
very same. Yet, for all that, the steward and the disconsolate lady
cannot be the same person, for that would imply a very great
contradiction, and might involve us in more abstruse and difficult
doubts than we have conveniency now to discuss or examine. Believe me,
friend, our devotion cannot be too earnest, that we may be delivered
from the power of these cursed enchantments." "You may think, sir,"
quoth Sancho, "that I am in jest, but I heard him speak just now, and
I thought the very voice of Madam Trifaldi sounded in my ears. But mum
is the word; I say nothing, though I shall watch him well, to find out
whether I am right or wrong in my suspicion." "Well, do so," said Don
Quixote; "and fail not to acquaint me with all the discoveries thou
canst make in this affair, and other occurrences in thy government."
At last, Sancho set out with a numerous train. He was dressed like a
man of the long-robe, and wore over his other clothes a white
sad-coloured coat or gown, of watered camblet, and a cap of the same
stuff. He was mounted on a mule; and behind him, by the duke's order,
was led his Dapple, bridled and saddled like a horse of state, in
gaudy trappings of silk; which so delighted Sancho, that every now and
then he turned his head about to look upon him, and thought himself so
happy, that now he would not have changed fortunes with the Emperor of
Germany.
Immediately upon Sancho's departure, Don Quixote found the want of his
presence; and, had it been in his power, he would have revoked his
authority, and deprived him of his commission. The duchess, perceiving
his disquiet, and desiring to know the cause of his melancholy, told
him, that if it was Sancho's absence made him uneasy, she had squires
enough, and damsels in her house, that should supply his place in any
service he would be pleased to command. "It is true, madam," answered
Don Quixote, "I am somewhat concerned for the absence of Sancho; but
there is a more material cause of my present uneasiness, and I must
beg to be excused, if, among the many obligations your grace is
pleased to confer on me, I decline all but the good intention that has
offered them. All I have further to crave is, your grace's permission
to be alone in my apartment, and to be my own servant." "Sir," said
the duchess, waving further discourse, "it is supper-time, and my lord
expects us. Come, then, let us to supper, that you may go to bed
betimes; for you must needs be weary still with the long journey you
took to Candaya yesterday." "Indeed, madam," answered Don Quixote, "I
feel no manner of weariness; for I can safely swear to your grace,
that I never rode an easier horse, nor a better goer, than Clavileno.
For my part, I cannot imagine what could induce Malambruno to part
with so swift and gentle a horse, and to burn him too in such a
manner."
Don Quixote repeated his thanks to the duchess, and after supper
retired to his chamber, where, conformably to his determination, he
remained alone. He shut the door of his chamber after him, and
undressed himself by the light of two wax-candles. As he was putting
off his hose, there fell--oh, misfortune, unworthy of such a
personage--about four-and-twenty stitches of one of his stockings,
which made it look like a lattice-window. The good knight was
extremely afflicted, and would have given an ounce of silver for a
drachm of green silk; green silk, I say, because his stockings were
green. However, for his consolation, he bethought himself that Sancho
had left him a pair of light boots, which he designed to put on the
next day.
He laid himself down with a pensive, heavy mind; the thought of
Sancho's absence, and the irreparable damage that his stocking had
received, made him uneasy; he would have darned it, though it had been
with silk of another colour--one of the greatest tokens of want a
poor gentleman can shew. At last he put out the lights, but it was so
hot that he could not compose himself to rest. Getting up, therefore,
he opened a little shutter of a barred window that looked into a fine
garden, and was presently sensible that some people were walking and
talking there. He listened, and as they raised their voices, he easily
overheard their discourse.
"No more, dear Emerenia," said one to the other. "Do not press me to
sing; you know that from the first moment this stranger came to the
castle, and my unhappy eyes gazed on him, I have been too conversant
with tears and sorrow to sing or relish songs! Alas, all music jars
when the soul is out of tune. Besides, you know the least thing wakens
my lady, and I would not for the world she should find us here. But,
grant she might not wake; what will my singing signify, if this new
AEneas, who is come to our habitation to make me wretched, should be
asleep, and not hear the sound of my complaint?" "Pray, my dear
Altisidora," said the other, "do not make yourself uneasy with those
thoughts; for, without doubt, the duchess is fast asleep, and every
body in the house but we and the master of your heart. He is certainly
awake; I heard him open his window just now: then sing, my poor
grieving creature, sing, and join the melting music of the lute to the
soft accents of thy voice." "Alas! my dear," replied Altisidora, "it
is not that which frightens me most: I would not have my song betray
my thoughts, for those that do not know the mighty force of love will
be apt to take me for a light and indiscreet creature; but yet, since
it must be so, I will venture: better shame on the face, than sorrow
in the heart." This said, she began to touch her lute so sweetly, that
Don Quixote was ravished. At the same time, the infinite number of
adventures of this nature, such as he had read of in his books of
knight-errantry; windows, grates, gardens, serenades, courtships,
meetings, parleys, &c., crowded into his imagination, and he presently
fancied that one of the duchess's damsels was in love with him, and
struggling to conceal her passion. He began to be apprehensive of the
danger to which his fidelity was exposed, but yet firmly determined to
withstand the powerful allurement; and so recommending himself, with a
great deal of fervency, to his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he resolved
to hear the music; and, to let the serenading ladies know he was
awake, he feigned a kind of sneeze, which did not a little please
them, for it was the only thing they wanted to be assured their jest
was not lost. With that, Altisidora, having tuned her lute afresh,
after a flourish began her serenade; which, when Don Quixote had heard
to an end, he thus began his expostulation: "Why," said he, with a
sigh heaved from the bottom of his heart, "why must I be so unhappy a
knight, that no damsel can gaze on me without falling in love! Why
must the peerless Dulcinea be so unfortunate? Queens, why do you envy
her? Empresses, why do you persecute her? Damsels of fifteen, why do
you attempt to deprive her of her right? Leave, oh, leave the
unfortunate fair! Let her triumph, glory, and rejoice, in the quiet
possession of the heart which love has allotted her, and the absolute
sway which she bears over my yielding soul. Away, unwelcome crowd of
loving impertinents; Dulcinea alone can soften my temper, and mould me
as she pleases. For her I am all sweetness; for you I am bitterness
itself. There is to me no beauty, no prudence, no modesty, no gaiety,
no nobility among your sex, but in Dulcinea alone. Let Altisidora weep
or sing, still I am Dulcinea's, and hers alone, dead or alive,
dutiful, and unchanged, in spite of all the necromantic powers in the
world." This said, he hastily shut the window, and flung himself into
his bed with as high an indignation as if he had received some great
affront. There let us leave him a while, seeing that the great Sancho
Panza calls upon us to attend him on the commencement of his famous
government.