Volume II (1615)
Which recounts the strange and unimaginable adventure of the Dolorous Duenna, also known as the Countess Trifaldi, as well as a letter that Sancho Panza wrote to his wife, Teresa Panza
The duke had a steward, a man with a comic and inventive turn of mind, who had acted the part of Merlin, prepared all the devices of the previous adventure, composed the verses, and arranged for a page to play Dulcinea. Then, with the intervention of his master and mistress, he devised another adventure, with the most diverting and strangest contrivances anyone could imagine.
The following day, the duchess asked Sancho if he had begun the task of the penance he was obliged to perform in order to disenchant Dulcinea. He said yes, that very night he had given himself five lashes. The duchess asked what implement he had used to administer them. He responded that he had used his hand.
“That,” replied the duchess, “is more like slapping than flogging. It seems to me that the wise Merlin will not be satisfied with so much gentleness, and that it will be necessary for our good Sancho to use a whip with metal points or a cat-o’-nine-tails, something he can feel, because a good teacher never spares the rod, and the freedom of so great a lady as Dulcinea cannot be gotten cheaply and at so little cost; and be advised, Sancho, that works of charity performed in a lukewarm and halfhearted way have no merit and are worth nothing.”473
To which Sancho responded:
“Your ladyship, give me the right kind of whip or braided rope, and I’ll hit myself with it as long as it doesn’t hurt too much; because your grace should know that even though I’m a peasant, my flesh is more like cotton than esparto grass, and it wouldn’t be right if I did myself harm for somebody else’s benefit.”
“Let it be all for the best,” responded the duchess. “Tomorrow I’ll give you a whip that will be perfect for you and suit the tenderness of your flesh as if the two were sisters.”
To which Sancho said:
“Señora of my soul, your highness should know that I’ve written a letter to my wife, Teresa Panza, telling her everything that’s happened to me since I left her side; it’s here in my shirt, and all that’s missing is the address; I’d like your intelligence to read it, because it seems to me it suits a governor, I mean, the way governors ought to write.”
“Who dictated it?” asked the duchess.
“Who else would dictate it but me, sinner that I am?” responded Sancho.
“And did you write it?” said the duchess.
“I couldn’t do that,” responded Sancho, “because I don’t know how to read or write, though I can sign my name.”
“Let’s see it,” said the duchess. “I’m sure that in it you display the nature and quality of your wit.”
Sancho took an open letter from inside his shirt, and when he gave it to the duchess, she saw that this is what it said:
A LETTER FROM SANCHO PANZA TO TERESA PANZA, HIS WIFE
If they gave me a good whipping, at least I rode a nice donkey; 474 if I have a good governorship, it cost me a good whipping. You won’t understand this now, my Teresa, but someday you will. You should know, Teresa, that I’ve decided you should go around in a carriage, because that’s the way it should be; anything else is going around on all fours. You’re the wife of a governor, and nobody’s going to talk about you behind your back! I’m sending you a green hunting tunic that my lady the duchess gave me; make it into a skirt and bodice for our daughter. I’ve heard in this land that Don Quixote, my master, is a sane madman and an amusing fool, and that I’m just as good as he is. We’ve been in the Cave of Montesinos, and the wise Merlin has picked me for the disenchantment of Dulcinea of Toboso, who’s called Aldonza Lorenzo there where you are; with the three thousand and three hundred lashes, less five, that I’ll give myself, she’ll be as disenchanted as the mother who bore her. Don’t tell anybody about this, because if you tell your business in public, some will say it’s white, and others that it’s black. In a few days I’ll leave for the governorship, and I’m going there with a real desire to make money because I’ve been told that all new governors have this same desire; I’ll see how things are there and let you know whether or not you should come to be with me. The gray is fine and sends you his best; I don’t plan to leave him even if they make me Grand Turk. My lady the duchess kisses your hands a thousand times; send her back two thousand, because there’s nothing that costs less or is cheaper, as my master says, than good manners. It was not God’s will to grant me another case with another hundred escudos in it, like before, but don’t feel bad about that, Teresa; the man who sounds the alarm is safe, and it’ll all come out in the wash of the governorship; what does make me very sad is that they’ve told me that if I try to take something away from it, I’ll go hungry afterwards, and if that’s true it won’t be very cheap for me, though the maimed and wounded already have their soft job in the alms they beg; so one way or another, you’ll be rich and have good luck. God grant you that, if He can, and keep me safe to serve you. From this castle, on the twentieth of July, 1614.
Your husband the governor,
SANCHO PANZA
As soon as the duchess finished reading the letter, she said to Sancho:
“There are two things in which the good governor is slightly mistaken: one, when he says or implies that this governorship has been given to him in exchange for the lashes that he’ll give himself, when he knows and cannot deny that when my lord the duke promised it to him, nobody even dreamed there were lashes in the world; the other is that he shows himself to be very greedy, and I wouldn’t want it to be oregano;475 greed rips the sack, and a greedy governor dispenses unjust justice.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Señora,” responded Sancho, “and if your grace thinks the letter isn’t the way it should be, there’s nothing to do but tear it up and make a new one, though it may be even worse if it’s left up to my poor wits.”
“No, no,” replied the duchess, “this is fine, and I want the duke to see it.”
Having said this, they went out to a garden where they were to have dinner that day. The duchess showed Sancho’s letter to the duke, who derived a good deal of pleasure from it. They ate, and after the table had been cleared, and after amusing themselves for some time with Sancho’s delicious talk, they suddenly heard the mournful sound of a fife and a harsh, strident drum. Everyone seemed startled by the confused, martial, and melancholy harmony, especially Don Quixote, who in his agitation could barely keep his seat; regarding Sancho, we need say only that fear carried him to his customary refuge, which was the side or the skirts of the duchess, because, really and truly, the sound they heard was extremely sad and melancholy.
And with all of them in this state of perplexity, they saw two men dressed in mourning come into the garden, their robes so long and flowing that they trailed along the ground; they were playing two large drums that were also covered in black. Beside them a man played the fife, as pitch black and dark as the rest. Following the three men was a personage with a gigantic body, cloaked, rather than dressed, in a deep black, full-length robe whose skirt was also exceptionally long. Girding and encircling the robe was a broad black swordbelt from which there hung an enormous scimitar with a black scabbard and guard. His face was covered by a black transparent veil, through which one could catch glimpses of a very long beard as white as the snow, and he walked, very gravely and serenely, to the beat of the drums. In short, his size, pace, black raiment, and escort could and did astound all those who looked at him but did not know who he was.
The figure approached, then, with the aforementioned slow solemnity, to kneel before the duke, who stood, as did everyone else who was there, to wait for him, but under no circumstances would the duke allow him to speak until he rose to his feet. The prodigiously frightening person obeyed, and when he was standing he raised the veil to reveal the most hideous, longest, whitest, and thickest beard that human eyes had ever seen, and then, from a broad and swelling chest, he forced and coerced a solemn, sonorous voice, and fixing his eyes on the duke, he said:
“Most high and powerful lord, I am called Trifaldín of the White Beard; I am squire to the Countess Trifaldi, also known as the Dolorous Duenna, on whose behalf I bring your highness a message, which is this: may your magnificence have the goodness to give her license and per-mission to enter and tell you of her affliction, which is one of the strangest and most amazing that the most troubled mind in the world could ever have imagined. And first she wishes to know if the valiant and never vanquished knight Don Quixote of La Mancha is in your castle, for she has come looking for him, on foot, and without breaking her fast, all the way from the kingdom of Candaya to your realm, something that can and ought to be considered a miracle, or else the work of enchantment. She is at the door of this fortress or country house, and awaits only your consent to come in. I have spoken my message.”
And then he coughed and stroked his beard with both hands, and with great calm he waited for the duke’s response, which was:
“Good Squire Trifaldín of the White Beard, it has been many days since we heard of the misfortune of Señora Countess Trifaldi, obliged by enchanters to be called the Dolorous Duenna; you may certainly, O stupendous squire, tell her to come in, and that the valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha is here, and from his generous nature she can surely expect every protection and every assistance; you may also tell her on my behalf that if she finds my favor necessary, she shall have it, for I must give it to her as a knight who is bound and obliged to serve all women, especially widowed, scorned, and afflicted duennas, which is what your mistress must be.”
On hearing this, Trifaldín went down on one knee, then signaled the fife and drums to play and walked out of the garden to the same music and at the same pace with which he had entered, leaving everyone stunned by his presence and bearing. And the duke, turning to Don Quixote, said:
“It seems, O famous knight, that the shadows of malice and ignorance cannot cover and obscure the light of valor and virtue. I say this because it is barely six days that your grace has been in this castle, and already the sad and the afflicted come seeking you from distant and remote lands, not in carriages or on dromedaries, but on foot, and fasting, confident they will find in that mighty arm the remedy for their cares and sorrows, for your great deeds are known and admired all over the known world.”
“Señor Duke, I wish,” responded Don Quixote, “that the blessed religious who displayed at the table the other day so much animosity and ill will toward knights errant were here to see with his own eyes whether such knights are necessary in the world: to touch, at least, with his own hand, the fact that those who are extraordinarily afflicted and disconsolate, in great difficulties and enormous misfortunes, do not go to seek their remedy in the house of the lettered, or the village sacristan, or the knight who has never managed to go beyond the borders of his town, or the idle courtier who would rather seek out news to repeat and recount than perform deeds and great feats so that others can tell about them and write about them; the remedy for difficulties, the help for those in need, the protection of damsels, the consolation of widows, are not found in any persons more clearly than in knights errant, and I give infinite thanks to heaven because I am one, and I welcome any misfortune and travail that may befall me in this honorable exercise. Let the duenna come and make any request she chooses; I shall draw her remedy from the strength of my arm and the intrepid resolve of my courageous spirit.”
