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By Root 733 0

from a high tower; if you were asked, O enemy of humankind, to eat a dozen toads, two dozen lizards, and three dozen snakes; if you were urged to murder your wife and children with a cruel, sharp scimitar, it would be no surprise if you were reluctant and evasive; but to take notice of three thousand and three hundred lashes, when there’s not a boy in catechism class, no matter how puny, who doesn’t get that many every month, astounds, alarms, and horrifies all the compassionate natures of those who hear this, and even those who will come to know of it in the course of time. Turn, O wretched and hardhearted beast! Turn, I say, those eyes of a startled owl toward mine, which have been compared to shining stars, and you will see them weep a steady stream—nay, a river—of tears, cutting furrows, tracks, and pathways into the fair fields of my cheeks. Show pity, you crafty and malevolent monster; I am still in my teens—nineteen, not yet twenty—and the flower of my youth is being consumed and withered beneath the coarse hide of a crude peasant girl; and if I do not appear so now, it is a particular favor that Señor Merlin, here present, has done for me, so that my beauty may soften you, for the tears of afflicted beauty can turn crags into cotton and tigers into sheep. Lash, lash that hide, O savage beast, and liberate your energies from the sloth that inclines you only to eating and still more eating; free the smoothness of my flesh, the gentleness of my nature, and the beauty of my face, and if for my sake you do not wish to soften your heart or lessen the time it will take you, then do so for that poor knight there beside you: for your master, I say, whose soul I can see, since it is caught in his throat, not the span of ten fingers from his lips, waiting only for your harsh or gentle response to come out of his mouth or return to his stomach.”

Hearing this, Don Quixote felt his throat and said, turning to the duke:

“By God, Señor, what Dulcinea has said is true: here is my soul caught in my throat like the tightening nut on a crossbow.”

“What do you say to that, Sancho?” asked the duchess.

“I say, Señora,” responded Sancho, “what I have already said: as far as lashes are concerned, I renunce thee.”

“I renounce thee is what you mean, Sancho; what you said is wrong,” said the duke.

“Your highness, leave me alone,” responded Sancho, “I’m in no condition now to worry about subtleties or one letter more or less; these lashes that have to be given to me, or that I have to give myself, have me so upset that I don’t know what I’m saying or doing. But I’d like to hear from the lady Señora Dulcinea of Toboso where it was that she learned how to ask for things: she comes to ask me to open my flesh with lashes, and she calls me unfeeling soul and savage beast and a whole string of names so bad only the devil could put up with them. By some chance is my flesh made of bronze, or does it matter to me if she’s disenchanted or not? What basket of linen, shirts, scarves, gaiters, though I don’t use them, does she bring with her to soften me? Nothing but one insult after another, though she must know the proverb that says that a jackass loaded down with gold climbs the mountain fast, and gifts can break boulders, and God helps those who help themselves, and a bird in hand is worth two in the bush. And then my master, who should have coddled me and flattered me so I’d turn as soft as wool and carded cotton, says that if he catches me he’ll tie me naked to a tree and double the number of lashes; these noble folk so full of pity should remember that they’re not only asking a squire to whip himself, but a governor; like they say, ‘That’s the finishing touch.’ Let them learn, let them learn, damn them, how to beg, and how to ask, and how to have good manners; all times are not the same, and men are not always in a good humor. Here I am, bursting with grief because my green tunic is torn, and they come to ask me to give myself lashes of my own free will, when it’s as unwilling to do that as to become an Indian chief.”

“Well, the truth is, Sancho