Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (127 page)

CHAPTER L

Cide Hamete, that most punctilious observer of the smallest details in this true history, says that at the same time Doña Rodríguez left her room to go to Don Quixote’s chamber, another duenna who slept in the same room heard her, and since all duennas are fond of knowing, understanding, and inquiring, she followed her so silently that Doña Rodríguez did not know she was there; and as soon as the duenna saw her go into Don Quixote’s chamber, and in order not to fail in the widespread custom of all duennas to be gossips, she went immediately to tell her mistress the duchess that Doña Rodríguez was in Don Quixote’s room.

The duchess told the duke and asked his leave to go with Altisidora to see what that duenna wanted with Don Quixote; the duke agreed, and the two women, with very cautious and silent steps, approached the door of his room, and stood so close they could hear everything that was said inside; and when the duchess heard Doña Rodríguez disclose the Aranjuez of her flowing issues,
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she could not bear it, and neither could Altisidora; and so, filled with rage and longing for vengeance, they burst into the room, and riddled Don Quixote with wounds, and beat the duenna in the manner that has been recounted, because affronts directed against the beauty and vanity of women
awaken in them an immense anger and kindle their desire to take revenge.

The duchess told the duke what had happened, which he enjoyed hearing very much, and the duchess, moving ahead with her intention of deceiving Don Quixote and deriving pleasure from that, dispatched the page who had played the part of Dulcinea in the performance concerning her disenchantment—which Sancho Panza had forgotten in his preoccupation with governing—to Teresa Panza, his wife, with the letter from her husband, and another from her, as well as a long string of fine corals as a present.

The history tells us, then, that the page was very clever and witty, and, desiring to serve his master and mistress, he left very willingly for Sancho’s village; before entering it, he saw a number of women washing clothes in a stream, and he asked them if they could tell him if a woman named Teresa Panza, the wife of a certain Sancho Panza, who was squire to a knight named Don Quixote of La Mancha, lived in that village; and when he had asked the question, a girl who was washing rose to her feet and said:

“Teresa Panza is my mother, and Sancho is my father, and that knight is our master.”

“Then come along, my girl,” said the page, “and take me to your mother, because I have a letter and a present for her from your father.”

“I’ll do that very gladly, Señor,” responded the girl, who looked about fourteen years old.

And leaving the clothes she was washing with a friend, without covering her head or putting on shoes, though she was barefoot and disheveled, she jumped in front of the page’s horse and said:

“Come, your grace, for our house is at the entrance to the village, and my mother is in it, filled with grief because she hasn’t heard anything from my father for so many days.”

“Well, I’m bringing her news so good,” said the page, “that she’ll have to give thanks to God for it.”

Jumping, running, and leaping, the girl finally reached the village, and before entering her house, she called from the door:

“Come out, Teresa, come out, Mother, come out, come out, because here’s a gentleman who’s bringing letters and other things from my good father.”

At her call, Teresa Panza, her mother, came out, spinning a bunch of flax and wearing a dun-colored skirt so short it looked as if it had been
cut to shame her,
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a bodice that was also dun colored, and a chemise. She was not very old, although she looked over forty, but she was strong, hard, vigorous, and as brown as a hazelnut; and seeing her daughter, and the page on horseback, she said:

“What’s this, girl? Who’s this gentleman?”

“A servant of my lady Doña Teresa Panza,” responded the page.

And having said this, he leaped down from the horse and went very humbly to kneel before Señora Teresa, saying:

“Your grace, give me your hands, my lady Doña Teresa, which you are as the sole legitimate wife of Señor Don Sancho Panza, governor of the ínsula of Barataria.”

“Oh, Señor, get up, don’t do that,” responded Teresa. “I have nothing to do with palaces, I’m a poor peasant, the daughter of a farmer and the wife of a squire errant, not of any governor!”

“Your grace,” responded the page, “is most worthy of a most archworthy governor, and to prove this truth, here are a letter and a present for your grace.”

And he immediately took from his pocket a string of corals with gold beads and put it around her neck, saying:

“This letter is from my lord the governor, and another letter and these corals are from my lady the duchess, who has sent me to your grace.”

Teresa was stunned, and her daughter no less so, and the girl said:

“On my life, our lord and master, Don Quixote, has something to do with this, for he must have given my father the governorship or countship that he promised him so often.”

“That’s true,” responded the page, “and out of respect for Señor Don Quixote, Señor Sancho is now the governor of the ínsula of Barataria, as can be seen in this letter.”

“Your grace must read it to me, Señor,” said Teresa, “because I know how to spin but can’t read a thing.”

“Neither can I,” added Sanchica, “but wait for me here, and I’ll go and find somebody to read it, whether it’s the priest himself or Bachelor Sansón Carrasco, and they’ll be very happy to come hear news about my father.”

“You don’t have to find anybody, because I don’t know how to spin, but I do know how to read, and I’ll read it to you.”

And so he read her Sancho’s entire letter, and since it has already been cited, it is not set down here, and then he took out another letter, the one from the duchess, and it said:

“O,” said Teresa when she heard the letter, “what a good and straightforward and humble lady! Let them bury me with ladies like these and not the gentlewomen we have in this village who think that because they’re wellborn the wind shouldn’t touch them, and who go to church with all the airs of queens, and seem to think it’s a dishonor to look at a peasant woman; and you can see here where this good lady, even though she’s a duchess, calls me her friend and treats me like an equal, and may I see her equal to the highest belltower in all of La Mancha. And as for the acorns, Señor, I’ll send her ladyship a
celemín
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of ones so fat that people will come just to look at them. And for now, Sanchica, look after this
gentleman: take care of his horse, and get some eggs from the stable, and cut plenty of bacon, and let’s feed him like a prince; he deserves it for the good news he’s brought us and for that nice face of his; in the meantime, I’ll go out and tell the news about our luck to my neighbors and to the reverend priest and Master Nicolás, the barber, who are and have been such good friends of your father’s.”

“I will, Mother,” responded Sanchica, “but look, you have to give me half of that necklace, because I don’t think my lady the duchess is so foolish as to send the whole thing to you.”

“It’s all for you, daughter,” responded Teresa, “but let me wear it around my neck for a few days, because it really seems to bring joy to my heart.”

“You’ll both feel joy,” said the page, “when you see the package that’s in this portmanteau; it’s a suit of very fine cloth that the governor wore to the hunt only once, and he’s sent all of it for Señora Sanchica.”

“May he live a thousand years,” responded Sanchica, “and the man who brings it not a year less, even two thousand, if that’s necessary.”

Then Teresa left the house, carrying the letters and wearing the necklace around her neck, and she drummed on the letters with her fingers as if they were tambourines, and when she happened to meet the priest and Sansón Carrasco, she began to dance, saying:

“By my faith, we’re not poor relations anymore! We have a nice little governorship! And if the proudest of the gentlewomen tries to snub me now, I’ll know how to put her in her place!”

“What is this, Teresa Panza? What madness is this, and what papers are those?”

“The only madness is that these are letters from duchesses and governors, and these things I’m wearing around my neck are fine corals, and the Hail Marys and Our Fathers are of beaten gold, and I’m a governor’s wife.”

“As God’s in heaven we don’t understand you, Teresa, and we don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You can see it here,” responded Teresa.

And she handed them the letters. The priest read them aloud so that Sansón Carrasco could hear, and Sansón and the priest looked at each other as if amazed at what they had read, and the bachelor asked who had brought the letters. Teresa responded that if they came home with her, they would see the messenger, a handsome, well-mannered boy who
had brought another present that was worth a good deal. The priest took the corals from around her neck and looked at them, and looked at them again, and being convinced of their value, he was amazed all over again and said:

“By the habit I wear, I don’t know what to say or think about these letters and these gifts: on the one hand, I can see and touch the fineness of these corals, and on the other, I read that a duchess sends a request for two dozen acorns.”

“It’s ludicrous!” said Carrasco. “Let’s go and see the messenger; he’ll explain the things that perplex us.”

They did, and Teresa returned with them. They found the page sifting some barley for his horse, and Sanchica cutting slices of bacon that she would cover with eggs and give to the page, whose bearing and grace pleased both men very much; after they had exchanged courteous greetings, Sansón asked him for news of Don Quixote as well as Sancho Panza, for although they had read the letters from Sancho and my lady the duchess, they were still confused and could not really grasp Sancho’s governorship, especially of an ínsula, since all or most of the islands in the Mediterranean belonged to His Majesty. To which the page responded:

“Señor Sancho Panza is a governor, of that there can be no doubt; whether what he governs is an ínsula or not does not concern me, but it’s enough to know that it’s a place with more than a thousand residents; as for the acorns, I can say that my lady the duchess is so straightforward and humble,” he said, “that she not only would send a request to a peasant for some acorns, but has on occasion asked to borrow a comb from a neighbor. Because I want your graces to know that the ladies of Aragón are as highborn but not as punctilious and haughty as Castilian ladies; they are simpler in their dealings with people.”

While they were engaged in this conversation, Sanchica interrupted, her skirt filled with eggs, and asked the page:

“Tell me, Señor: does my father happen to wear full-length breeches since he’s been governor?”

“I haven’t noticed,” responded the page, “but he probably does.”

“O, God!” replied Sanchica. “How I’d like to see my father wearing them! Can you believe that since I was born I’ve wanted to see my father in those full-length breeches?”

“Well, your grace will see him wearing those things if you live,” responded the page. “By God, if his governorship lasts two months, he’ll even be wearing a cap for cold weather.”

The priest and the bachelor saw clearly enough that the page was speaking sarcastically, but the fine quality of the corals and the hunting outfit that Sancho sent had the opposite effect, for Teresa had already shown them the clothing. And they could not help laughing at Sanchica’s desire, especially when Teresa said:

“Señor Priest, keep your eyes open and see if anybody’s going to Madrid or Toledo who can buy me a hooped skirt, nice and round and just the way it should be, right in fashion and the best quality, because the real truth is I have to honor my husband’s governorship as much as I can, and even if it’s a bother I have to go to that court and get a carriage like all the other ladies, because a woman who has a governor for a husband can easily buy and keep one.”

“That’s right, Mother!” said Sanchica. “Please God, it’ll be today and not tomorrow, even though people who see me sitting next to my lady mother in that carriage will say: ‘Just look at her, daughter of a garlic eater, sitting and leaning back in the carriage as if she were the pope!’ But they can walk in the mud, and I’ll go in my carriage with my feet off the ground. A bad year and a bad month to all the gossips in the world, and as long as I’m warm, people can laugh all they want! Am I right, Mother?”