Chapter XXXVI

Where is narrated the extraordinary and never-before-imagined adventure of the Distressed Duenna, otherwise known as the Countess Trifaldi, together with a letter that Sancho Panza wrote to his wife, Teresa Panza.

THE DUKE HAD A steward who had a very jovial and carefree wit who played the part of Merlin—he arranged everything for the last adventure, wrote the verses, and had a page play Dulcinea. And then, with the collaboration of the duke and duchess, prepared another one, of the rarest and most amusing kind imaginable.

The duchess asked Sancho the next day if he’d begun the labor of the penance he had to perform to disenchant Dulcinea. He said that he had, and that the previous night he’d given himself five lashes. The duchess asked with what he’d given himself those lashes. He answered that he’d used his hand.

“That,” replied the duchess, “is more like giving yourself slaps than lashes. I’m convinced that the wizard Merlin will not be satisfied with such gentleness. The good Sancho will have to make some kind of whip with metal thorns or a cat-o’-nine-tails, which can be felt. «Misfortunes make us wise», and the liberty of such a great lady as is Dulcinea cannot be achieved at such a small price. Sancho should know that works of charity that are done tepidly and half-heartedly have no merit and are worthless.”

To which Sancho responded: “Your ladyship, give me an appropriate scourge or rope, and I’ll whip myself with it, as long as it doesn’t hurt me too much. I’ll have your grace know that, although I’m a peasant, my flesh is more cotton than hemp, and it wouldn’t be good for me to do myself damage for someone else’s gain.”

“All right,” said the duchess, “tomorrow I’ll give you a scourge that will be just right and will suit the tenderness of your flesh, as if your flesh were your own sister.”

To which Sancho said: “I want you to know, señora mía of my soul, that I’ve written a letter to my wife Teresa Panza, telling her everything that has happened to me since I left her. I have it here inside my shirt, and all it needs is to be addressed. I would like you to read it because is seems to me to be in line with a governor, I mean, in the style of what governors ought to write.”

“And who wrote it?” asked the duchess.

“Who would write it if not me, sinner than I am?” responded Sancho.

“And did you write it down?”

“Not in a million years,” responded Sancho, “because I don’t know how to read or write, although I can sign my name.”

“Let’s see it,” said the duchess, “because it must be that you show the quality and capacity of your wit in it.”

Sancho took out the letter from his shirt and when the duchess took it, she saw that it read this way:

«If they gave me solid lashes, at least I had a fine mount»; if I got a good government, it’s costing me stout lashes. You won’t understand this, Teresa, for now—you’ll find out about it soon. You should know, Teresa, that I’ve determined that you’ll ride in a coach, for that’s the appropriate thing to do, for anything else would be like crawling on all fours. You are a wife of a governor, so see if they’ll talk about you behind your back now. I’m sending you a green hunting outfit that my lady the duchess gave me. Turn it into a skirt and bodice for our daughter. Don Quixote, my master, the way I heard it said in this region, is a crazy sane man and an amusing idiot, and that I’m not too far behind him. We have been in the Cave of Montesinos, and the wizard Merlin has selected me for the disenchantment of Dulcinea del Toboso, known as Aldonza Lorenzo in those parts, and with three thousand three hundred lashes that I have to give to myself, less five, she’ll be as disenchanted as the mother who bore her. Don’t tell any of this to anyone because «if you take a piece of business to the town council, some will call it white, others black».

In a few days I’ll leave for the government where I’m going with a great desire to make some money, because they’ve told me that all novice governors go with that same desire. I’ll take the pulse of the place and I’ll tell you if you have to come to be with me or not. The donkey is fine, and he sends you his greetings, and I won’t leave him behind, even if they make me the Grand Turk. My lady, the duchess, kisses your hands a thousand times. Send her back two thousand, for there’s nothing that costs less or comes cheaper, according to my master, than good manners. God hasn’t been pleased to offer me another valise with another hundred escudos like the last time. But don’t worry, Teresa dear, for «the one who sounds the alarm is safe», and «everything will come out in the wash» with this government. One thing that bothers me is that they told me that once I taste the government, I’ll eat my hands after it, and if this is true, it’ll cost me dearly, although those who are maimed or one-armed have benefits in the alms they beg for. So, one way or another, you’re to be rich and will have good fortune. May God give it to you as well as He can, and may He keep me healthy to serve you. From this castle, on the twentieth of July, 1614.

Once the duchess finished reading the letter, she said to Sancho: “The good governor is a bit off the track in two places—the first is when he says or gives her to understand that this government is being given to him in exchange for the lashes he is to give himself. When he knows full well, and cannot deny, that when the duke, my lord, promised it to him, no one in the world had yet dreamed of any lashes. The second thing is he shows himself to be very greedy in the letter, and I wouldn’t want him to look like a seeker of gold, because «greed bursts the bag» and a greedy governor makes for ungoverned justice.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, señora,” responded Sancho, “and if your grace thinks that the letter shouldn’t be sent as it is, we can just tear it up and start again, and it might prove to be a worse one if it’s just left up to me.”

“No, no,” replied the duchess, “this one is fine, and I want the duke to see it.”

With this they went into a garden where they were to have lunch that day. The duchess showed Sancho’s letter to the duke, from which he derived great pleasure. They ate, and after the cloths were removed and they had enjoyed a delicious conversation with Sancho for a while, suddenly they heard the sad notes of a fife and the hoarse beating of an unharmonious drum. They all seemed to be agitated because of the confused, military, and sad harmony, especially don Quixote, who was so excited he could hardly stay seated. As for Sancho—no need to mention it—his fear took him to his accustomed refuge, which was next to or behind the skirts of the duchess, because really and truly the sounds they were hearing were very sad and melancholic. And when they were all in such suspense, they saw two men enter the garden dressed in mourning that trailed on the ground. They were playing two large drums, also draped in black. To their side came the fife player, clad in black as the others were. Following these three came a person of gigantic proportions, draped rather then dressed in a very black long robe, whose train likewise was enormously large. Over the gown was a wide strap, also black, on which hung an inordinately large scimitar set with stones in a black scabbard. His face was covered with a transparent black veil through which one could glimpse a very long beard that was as white as snow. With great gravity and composure he moved in time with the drums. His immense size, his affected gait, his blackness, and his retinue could and did amaze everyone who looked at him and who were unaware of who he was.

He went with the already-mentioned slowness and pomposity to kneel before the duke, who, with the others, awaited him standing, and wouldn’t allow him to speak until he stood up. The frightening and monstrous apparition did so, and once he was standing, he removed the veil from this face, revealing the most horrendous, longest, whitest, and fullest beard that human eyes had ever seen up to that point, and then, fixing his gaze on the duke, he drew from his wide and expanded chest a grave and sonorous voice, and said: “Very high and powerful lord, I’m known as Trifaldín of the White Beard. I’m the squire of the Countess Trifaldi, also known as the Distressed Duenna, on whose behalf I’m bringing to your greatness a message, and it’s that your magnificence be pleased to authorize her to enter and tell you of her affliction, which is among the most unusual and astonishing ones that the most anguished imagination in the world could dream up, but first, she wants to know if the brave and never-conquered don Quixote de La Mancha is present, whom she has come on foot to seek, without eating, from the Kingdom of Candaya to your estate, something that should be held as a miracle, or as the result of enchantment. She’s at the gate of this castle or country estate, and is waiting only for your blessing to enter. I have spoken.”

And then he coughed, smoothed his beard from top to bottom with both hands, and with great calm waited for the answer from the duke, which was: “Yes, good squire Trifaldín of the White Beard, we have known of the misfortune of my lady the Countess Trifaldi, whom the enchanters have named the Distressed Duenna, for some days. You can well tell her to come in, stupendous squire, where she’ll find the brave don Quixote de La Mancha, whose generous qualities will surely provide all protection and assistance, and you can also tell her that if she needs my help, it won’t be lacking, since I’m obliged to give it to her, being a knight, whose duty it is to help all kinds of women, especially widowed, injured, and distressed duennas, as your mistress must be.”

When Trifaldín heard this, he knelt on one knee and signaled to the fife and drum players to begin playing, and with the same music and tempo in which he’d entered, he went out of the garden, leaving everyone astonished by his appearance and demeanor.

And the duke, turning toward don Quixote, said: “So, famous knight, neither the darkness of wickedness, nor ignorance can conceal and dim the light of courage and of virtue. I say this because it has been just six days since your goodness has been in this castle when sad and distressed people come here looking for you—not in coaches or on dromedaries—but on foot and fasting, confident that they will find in this very strong arm the remedy for their afflictions and travails, thanks to your great deeds, which are celebrated far and wide over the known world.”

“I would like, señor duke,” responded don Quixote, “for that holy ecclesiastic, who showed such prejudice and ill-will toward knights errant at dinner the other night, to be here now to see with his own eyes if knights are necessary in the world. He could actually touch with his own hands those people who are extraordinarily distressed and who, when they’re in dire straits and in enormous misfortune, don’t go looking for relief from the houses of men of letters, nor of village sextons, nor from the knight who has never left the borders of his town, nor from the lazy courtly knight, who goes looking for news to tell others rather than trying to do works and deeds for others to tell and write about. Relief from distress, rescue from need, protection of maidens, solace of widows, can be sought in no better type of person than knights errant, and because I’m one of them, I give infinite thanks to heaven, and I consider any misfortune and labor that I may undergo along the way well worth it in this so honorable profession. Let this duenna come and ask whatever she wants, and I’ll find relief for her through the might of my arm and in the intrepid resolve of my dauntless will.”