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By Root 1129 0

are in the world; you came out of your mother’s womb without a governorship, and you’ve lived until now without a governorship, and when it pleases God you’ll go, or they’ll carry you, to the grave without a governorship. Many people in the world live without a governorship, and that doesn’t make them give up or not be counted among the living. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and since poor people have plenty of that, they always eat with great pleasure. But look, Sancho: if you happen to find yourself a governor somewhere, don’t forget about me and your children. Remember that Sanchico is already fifteen, and he ought to go to school if his uncle the abbot is going to bring him into the Church. And don’t forget that our daughter, Mari Sancha, won’t die if we marry her; she keeps dropping hints that she wants a husband as much as you want to be a governor, and when all is said and done, a daughter’s better off badly married than happily kept.”

“By my faith, Teresa,” responded Sancho, “if God lets me have any kind of governorship, I’ll marry Mari Sancha so high up that nobody will be able to reach her unless they call her Señora.”

“Don’t do that, Sancho,” responded Teresa. “She should marry an equal, that’s the best thing; if you raise her from wooden clogs to cork-soled mules, from homespun petticoats to silken hoopskirts and dressing gowns, and from you, Marica to Doña and my lady, the girl won’t know who she is, and wherever she turns she’ll make a thousand mistakes and show that the threads of her cloth are rough and coarse.”

“Quiet, fool,” said Sancho, “she just needs to practice for two or three years, and then the nobility and the dignity will be a perfect fit; if not, what difference does it make? Let her be my lady, and it won’t matter.”

“Be content with your station,” responded Teresa, “and don’t try to go to a higher one; remember the proverb that says: ‘Take your neighbor’s son, wipe his nose, and bring him into your house.’ Sure, it would be very nice to marry our María to some wretch of a count or gentleman who might take a notion to insult her and call her lowborn, the daughter of peasants and spinners! Not in my lifetime, my husband! I didn’t bring up my daughter for that! You bring the money, Sancho, and leave her marrying to me; there’s Lope Tocho, the son of Juan Tocho, a sturdy, healthy boy, and we know him, and I know for a fact that he doesn’t dislike the girl; he’s our equal, and she would make a good marriage with him, and we’d always see her, and we’d all be together, parents and children, grandchildren and in-laws, and the peace and blessing of God would be with us; so don’t go marrying her in those courts and great palaces where they don’t understand her and she won’t understand herself.”

“Come here, you imbecile, you troublemaker,” replied Sancho. “Why do you want to stop me now, and for no good reason, from marrying my daughter to somebody who’ll give me grandchildren they’ll call Lord and Lady? Look, Teresa: I’ve always heard the old folks say that if you don’t know how to enjoy good luck when it comes, you shouldn’t complain if it passes you by. It wouldn’t be a good idea, now that it’s come knocking, to shut the door in its face; we should let the favorable wind that’s blowing carry us along.”

(This manner of speaking, and what Sancho says below, is why the translator of this history considered this chapter apocryphal.)

“Don’t you think, you ignorant woman,” Sancho continued, “that it will be good for me to come into some profitable governorship that will take us out of poverty? Let Mari Sancha marry the man I choose, and you’ll see how they start calling you Doña Teresa Panza, and you’ll sit in church on a rug with pillows and tapestries, in spite of and regardless of all the gentlewomen in town. But no, not you, you’d rather always stay the same, never changing, like a figure in a wall hanging! And we’re not talking about this anymore; Sanchica will be a countess no matter what you say.”

“Do you hear what you’re saying, husband?” responded Teresa. “Well, even so, I’m afraid