CHAPTER XXIV — IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA

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The history relates that it was with the greatest attention Don Quixote
listened to the ragged knight of the Sierra, who began by saying:

“Of a surety, señor, whoever you are, for I know you not, I thank you
for the proofs of kindness and courtesy you have shown me, and would I
were in a condition to requite with something more than good-will that
which you have displayed towards me in the cordial reception you have
given me; but my fate does not afford me any other means of returning
kindnesses done me save the hearty desire to repay them.”

“Mine,” replied Don Quixote, “is to be of service to you, so much so
that I had resolved not to quit these mountains until I had found you,
and learned of you whether there is any kind of relief to be found for
that sorrow under which from the strangeness of your life you seem to
labour; and to search for you with all possible diligence, if search
had been necessary. And if your misfortune should prove to be one of
those that refuse admission to any sort of consolation, it was my
purpose to join you in lamenting and mourning over it, so far as I
could; for it is still some comfort in misfortune to find one who can
feel for it. And if my good intentions deserve to be acknowledged with
any kind of courtesy, I entreat you, señor, by that which I perceive
you possess in so high a degree, and likewise conjure you by whatever
you love or have loved best in life, to tell me who you are and the
cause that has brought you to live or die in these solitudes like a
brute beast, dwelling among them in a manner so foreign to your
condition as your garb and appearance show. And I swear,” added Don
Quixote, “by the order of knighthood which I have received, and by my
vocation of knight-errant, if you gratify me in this, to serve you with
all the zeal my calling demands of me, either in relieving your
misfortune if it admits of relief, or in joining you in lamenting it as
I promised to do.”

The Knight of the Thicket, hearing him of the Rueful Countenance talk
in this strain, did nothing but stare at him, and stare at him again,
and again survey him from head to foot; and when he had thoroughly
examined him, he said to him:

“If you have anything to give me to eat, for God’s sake give it me, and
after I have eaten I will do all you ask in acknowledgment of the
goodwill you have displayed towards me.”

Sancho from his sack, and the goatherd from his pouch, furnished the
Ragged One with the means of appeasing his hunger, and what they gave
him he ate like a half-witted being, so hastily that he took no time
between mouthfuls, gorging rather than swallowing; and while he ate
neither he nor they who observed him uttered a word. As soon as he had
done he made signs to them to follow him, which they did, and he led
them to a green plot which lay a little farther off round the corner of
a rock. On reaching it he stretched himself upon the grass, and the
others did the same, all keeping silence, until the Ragged One,
settling himself in his place, said:

“If it is your wish, sirs, that I should disclose in a few words the
surpassing extent of my misfortunes, you must promise not to break the
thread of my sad story with any question or other interruption, for the
instant you do so the tale I tell will come to an end.”

These words of the Ragged One reminded Don Quixote of the tale his
squire had told him, when he failed to keep count of the goats that had
crossed the river and the story remained unfinished; but to return to
the Ragged One, he went on to say:

“I give you this warning because I wish to pass briefly over the story
of my misfortunes, for recalling them to memory only serves to add
fresh ones, and the less you question me the sooner shall I make an end
of the recital, though I shall not omit to relate anything of
importance in order fully to satisfy your curiosity.”

Don Quixote gave the promise for himself and the others, and with this
assurance he began as follows:

“My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of this
Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, my misfortune so great
that my parents must have wept and my family grieved over it without
being able by their wealth to lighten it; for the gifts of fortune can
do little to relieve reverses sent by Heaven. In that same country
there was a heaven in which love had placed all the glory I could
desire; such was the beauty of Luscinda, a damsel as noble and as rich
as I, but of happier fortunes, and of less firmness than was due to so
worthy a passion as mine. This Luscinda I loved, worshipped, and adored
from my earliest and tenderest years, and she loved me in all the
innocence and sincerity of childhood. Our parents were aware of our
feelings, and were not sorry to perceive them, for they saw clearly
that as they ripened they must lead at last to a marriage between us, a
thing that seemed almost prearranged by the equality of our families
and wealth. We grew up, and with our growth grew the love between us,
so that the father of Luscinda felt bound for propriety’s sake to
refuse me admission to his house, in this perhaps imitating the parents
of that Thisbe so celebrated by the poets, and this refusal but added
love to love and flame to flame; for though they enforced silence upon
our tongues they could not impose it upon our pens, which can make
known the heart’s secrets to a loved one more freely than tongues; for
many a time the presence of the object of love shakes the firmest will
and strikes dumb the boldest tongue. Ah heavens! how many letters did I
write her, and how many dainty modest replies did I receive! how many
ditties and love-songs did I compose in which my heart declared and
made known its feelings, described its ardent longings, revelled in its
recollections and dallied with its desires! At length growing impatient
and feeling my heart languishing with longing to see her, I resolved to
put into execution and carry out what seemed to me the best mode of
winning my desired and merited reward, to ask her of her father for my
lawful wife, which I did. To this his answer was that he thanked me for
the disposition I showed to do honour to him and to regard myself as
honoured by the bestowal of his treasure; but that as my father was
alive it was his by right to make this demand, for if it were not in
accordance with his full will and pleasure, Luscinda was not to be
taken or given by stealth. I thanked him for his kindness, reflecting
that there was reason in what he said, and that my father would assent
to it as soon as I should tell him, and with that view I went the very
same instant to let him know what my desires were. When I entered the
room where he was I found him with an open letter in his hand, which,
before I could utter a word, he gave me, saying, ‘By this letter thou
wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition the Duke Ricardo has to serve
thee.’ This Duke Ricardo, as you, sirs, probably know already, is a
grandee of Spain who has his seat in the best part of this Andalusia. I
took and read the letter, which was couched in terms so flattering that
even I myself felt it would be wrong in my father not to comply with
the request the duke made in it, which was that he would send me
immediately to him, as he wished me to become the companion, not
servant, of his eldest son, and would take upon himself the charge of
placing me in a position corresponding to the esteem in which he held
me. On reading the letter my voice failed me, and still more when I
heard my father say, ‘Two days hence thou wilt depart, Cardenio, in
accordance with the duke’s wish, and give thanks to God who is opening
a road to thee by which thou mayest attain what I know thou dost
deserve; and to these words he added others of fatherly counsel. The
time for my departure arrived; I spoke one night to Luscinda, I told
her all that had occurred, as I did also to her father, entreating him
to allow some delay, and to defer the disposal of her hand until I
should see what the Duke Ricardo sought of me: he gave me the promise,
and she confirmed it with vows and swoonings unnumbered. Finally, I
presented myself to the duke, and was received and treated by him so
kindly that very soon envy began to do its work, the old servants
growing envious of me, and regarding the duke’s inclination to show me
favour as an injury to themselves. But the one to whom my arrival gave
the greatest pleasure was the duke’s second son, Fernando by name, a
gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous disposition, who very
soon made so intimate a friend of me that it was remarked by everybody;
for though the elder was attached to me, and showed me kindness, he did
not carry his affectionate treatment to the same length as Don
Fernando. It so happened, then, that as between friends no secret
remains unshared, and as the favour I enjoyed with Don Fernando had
grown into friendship, he made all his thoughts known to me, and in
particular a love affair which troubled his mind a little. He was
deeply in love with a peasant girl, a vassal of his father’s, the
daughter of wealthy parents, and herself so beautiful, modest,
discreet, and virtuous, that no one who knew her was able to decide in
which of these respects she was most highly gifted or most excelled.
The attractions of the fair peasant raised the passion of Don Fernando
to such a point that, in order to gain his object and overcome her
virtuous resolutions, he determined to pledge his word to her to become
her husband, for to attempt it in any other way was to attempt an
impossibility. Bound to him as I was by friendship, I strove by the
best arguments and the most forcible examples I could think of to
restrain and dissuade him from such a course; but perceiving I produced
no effect I resolved to make the Duke Ricardo, his father, acquainted
with the matter; but Don Fernando, being sharp-witted and shrewd,
foresaw and apprehended this, perceiving that by my duty as a good
servant I was bound not to keep concealed a thing so much opposed to
the honour of my lord the duke; and so, to mislead and deceive me, he
told me he could find no better way of effacing from his mind the
beauty that so enslaved him than by absenting himself for some months,
and that he wished the absence to be effected by our going, both of us,
to my father’s house under the pretence, which he would make to the
duke, of going to see and buy some fine horses that there were in my
city, which produces the best in the world. When I heard him say so,
even if his resolution had not been so good a one I should have hailed
it as one of the happiest that could be imagined, prompted by my
affection, seeing what a favourable chance and opportunity it offered
me of returning to see my Luscinda. With this thought and wish I
commended his idea and encouraged his design, advising him to put it
into execution as quickly as possible, as, in truth, absence produced
its effect in spite of the most deeply rooted feelings. But, as
afterwards appeared, when he said this to me he had already enjoyed the
peasant girl under the title of husband, and was waiting for an
opportunity of making it known with safety to himself, being in dread
of what his father the duke would do when he came to know of his folly.
It happened, then, that as with young men love is for the most part
nothing more than appetite, which, as its final object is enjoyment,
comes to an end on obtaining it, and that which seemed to be love takes
to flight, as it cannot pass the limit fixed by nature, which fixes no
limit to true love—what I mean is that after Don Fernando had enjoyed
this peasant girl his passion subsided and his eagerness cooled, and if
at first he feigned a wish to absent himself in order to cure his love,
he was now in reality anxious to go to avoid keeping his promise.

“The duke gave him permission, and ordered me to accompany him; we
arrived at my city, and my father gave him the reception due to his
rank; I saw Luscinda without delay, and, though it had not been dead or
deadened, my love gathered fresh life. To my sorrow I told the story of
it to Don Fernando, for I thought that in virtue of the great
friendship he bore me I was bound to conceal nothing from him. I
extolled her beauty, her gaiety, her wit, so warmly, that my praises
excited in him a desire to see a damsel adorned by such attractions. To
my misfortune I yielded to it, showing her to him one night by the
light of a taper at a window where we used to talk to one another. As
she appeared to him in her dressing-gown, she drove all the beauties he
had seen until then out of his recollection; speech failed him, his
head turned, he was spell-bound, and in the end love-smitten, as you
will see in the course of the story of my misfortune; and to inflame
still further his passion, which he hid from me and revealed to Heaven
alone, it so happened that one day he found a note of hers entreating
me to demand her of her father in marriage, so delicate, so modest, and
so tender, that on reading it he told me that in Luscinda alone were
combined all the charms of beauty and understanding that were
distributed among all the other women in the world. It is true, and I
own it now, that though I knew what good cause Don Fernando had to
praise Luscinda, it gave me uneasiness to hear these praises from his
mouth, and I began to fear, and with reason to feel distrust of him,
for there was no moment when he was not ready to talk of Luscinda, and
he would start the subject himself even though he dragged it in
unseasonably, a circumstance that aroused in me a certain amount of
jealousy; not that I feared any change in the constancy or faith of
Luscinda; but still my fate led me to forebode what she assured me
against. Don Fernando contrived always to read the letters I sent to
Luscinda and her answers to me, under the pretence that he enjoyed the
wit and sense of both. It so happened, then, that Luscinda having
begged of me a book of chivalry to read, one that she was very fond of,
Amadis of Gaul—”

Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry mentioned, than he said:

“Had your worship told me at the beginning of your story that the Lady
Luscinda was fond of books of chivalry, no other laudation would have
been requisite to impress upon me the superiority of her understanding,
for it could not have been of the excellence you describe had a taste
for such delightful reading been wanting; so, as far as I am concerned,
you need waste no more words in describing her beauty, worth, and
intelligence; for, on merely hearing what her taste was, I declare her
to be the most beautiful and the most intelligent woman in the world;
and I wish your worship had, along with Amadis of Gaul, sent her the
worthy Don Rugel of Greece, for I know the Lady Luscinda would greatly
relish Daraida and Garaya, and the shrewd sayings of the shepherd
Darinel, and the admirable verses of his bucolics, sung and delivered
by him with such sprightliness, wit, and ease; but a time may come when
this omission can be remedied, and to rectify it nothing more is needed
than for your worship to be so good as to come with me to my village,
for there I can give you more than three hundred books which are the
delight of my soul and the entertainment of my life;—though it occurs
to me that I have not got one of them now, thanks to the spite of
wicked and envious enchanters;—but pardon me for having broken the
promise we made not to interrupt your discourse; for when I hear
chivalry or knights-errant mentioned, I can no more help talking about
them than the rays of the sun can help giving heat, or those of the
moon moisture; pardon me, therefore, and proceed, for that is more to
the purpose now.”

While Don Quixote was saying this, Cardenio allowed his head to fall
upon his breast, and seemed plunged in deep thought; and though twice
Don Quixote bade him go on with his story, he neither looked up nor
uttered a word in reply; but after some time he raised his head and
said, “I cannot get rid of the idea, nor will anyone in the world
remove it, or make me think otherwise—and he would be a blockhead who
would hold or believe anything else than that that arrant knave Master
Elisabad made free with Queen Madasima.”

“That is not true, by all that’s good,” said Don Quixote in high wrath,
turning upon him angrily, as his way was; “and it is a very great
slander, or rather villainy. Queen Madasima was a very illustrious
lady, and it is not to be supposed that so exalted a princess would
have made free with a quack; and whoever maintains the contrary lies
like a great scoundrel, and I will give him to know it, on foot or on
horseback, armed or unarmed, by night or by day, or as he likes best.”

Cardenio was looking at him steadily, and his mad fit having now come
upon him, he had no disposition to go on with his story, nor would Don
Quixote have listened to it, so much had what he had heard about
Madasima disgusted him. Strange to say, he stood up for her as if she
were in earnest his veritable born lady; to such a pass had his unholy
books brought him. Cardenio, then, being, as I said, now mad, when he
heard himself given the lie, and called a scoundrel and other insulting
names, not relishing the jest, snatched up a stone that he found near
him, and with it delivered such a blow on Don Quixote’s breast that he
laid him on his back. Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this
fashion, attacked the madman with his closed fist; but the Ragged One
received him in such a way that with a blow of his fist he stretched
him at his feet, and then mounting upon him crushed his ribs to his own
satisfaction; the goatherd, who came to the rescue, shared the same
fate; and having beaten and pummelled them all he left them and quietly
withdrew to his hiding-place on the mountain. Sancho rose, and with the
rage he felt at finding himself so belaboured without deserving it, ran
to take vengeance on the goatherd, accusing him of not giving them
warning that this man was at times taken with a mad fit, for if they
had known it they would have been on their guard to protect themselves.
The goatherd replied that he had said so, and that if he had not heard
him, that was no fault of his. Sancho retorted, and the goatherd
rejoined, and the altercation ended in their seizing each other by the
beard, and exchanging such fisticuffs that if Don Quixote had not made
peace between them, they would have knocked one another to pieces.

“Leave me alone, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance,” said Sancho,
grappling with the goatherd, “for of this fellow, who is a clown like
myself, and no dubbed knight, I can safely take satisfaction for the
affront he has offered me, fighting with him hand to hand like an
honest man.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “but I know that he is not to blame
for what has happened.”

With this he pacified them, and again asked the goatherd if it would be
possible to find Cardenio, as he felt the greatest anxiety to know the
end of his story. The goatherd told him, as he had told him before,
that there was no knowing of a certainty where his lair was; but that
if he wandered about much in that neighbourhood he could not fail to
fall in with him either in or out of his senses.

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CHAPTER XXV.
WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF
LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, AND OF HIS IMITATION OF THE PENANCE OF
BELTENEBROS

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Don Quixote took leave of the goatherd, and once more mounting
Rocinante bade Sancho follow him, which he having no ass, did very
discontentedly. They proceeded slowly, making their way into the most
rugged part of the mountain, Sancho all the while dying to have a talk
with his master, and longing for him to begin, so that there should be
no breach of the injunction laid upon him; but unable to keep silence
so long he said to him:

“Señor Don Quixote, give me your worship’s blessing and dismissal, for
I’d like to go home at once to my wife and children with whom I can at
any rate talk and converse as much as I like; for to want me to go
through these solitudes day and night and not speak to you when I have
a mind is burying me alive. If luck would have it that animals spoke as
they did in the days of Guisopete, it would not be so bad, because I
could talk to Rocinante about whatever came into my head, and so put up
with my ill-fortune; but it is a hard case, and not to be borne with
patience, to go seeking adventures all one’s life and get nothing but
kicks and blanketings, brickbats and punches, and with all this to have
to sew up one’s mouth without daring to say what is in one’s heart,
just as if one were dumb.”

“I understand thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “thou art dying to
have the interdict I placed upon thy tongue removed; consider it
removed, and say what thou wilt while we are wandering in these
mountains.”

“So be it,” said Sancho; “let me speak now, for God knows what will
happen by-and-by; and to take advantage of the permit at once, I ask,
what made your worship stand up so for that Queen Majimasa, or whatever
her name is, or what did it matter whether that abbot was a friend of
hers or not? for if your worship had let that pass—and you were not a
judge in the matter—it is my belief the madman would have gone on with
his story, and the blow of the stone, and the kicks, and more than half
a dozen cuffs would have been escaped.”

“In faith, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “if thou knewest as I do what
an honourable and illustrious lady Queen Madasima was, I know thou
wouldst say I had great patience that I did not break in pieces the
mouth that uttered such blasphemies, for a very great blasphemy it is
to say or imagine that a queen has made free with a surgeon. The truth
of the story is that that Master Elisabad whom the madman mentioned was
a man of great prudence and sound judgment, and served as governor and
physician to the queen, but to suppose that she was his mistress is
nonsense deserving very severe punishment; and as a proof that Cardenio
did not know what he was saying, remember when he said it he was out of
his wits.”

“That is what I say,” said Sancho; “there was no occasion for minding
the words of a madman; for if good luck had not helped your worship,
and he had sent that stone at your head instead of at your breast, a
fine way we should have been in for standing up for my lady yonder, God
confound her! And then, would not Cardenio have gone free as a madman?”

“Against men in their senses or against madmen,” said Don Quixote,
“every knight-errant is bound to stand up for the honour of women,
whoever they may be, much more for queens of such high degree and
dignity as Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular regard on
account of her amiable qualities; for, besides being extremely
beautiful, she was very wise, and very patient under her misfortunes,
of which she had many; and the counsel and society of the Master
Elisabad were a great help and support to her in enduring her
afflictions with wisdom and resignation; hence the ignorant and
ill-disposed vulgar took occasion to say and think that she was his
mistress; and they lie, I say it once more, and will lie two hundred
times more, all who think and say so.”

“I neither say nor think so,” said Sancho; “let them look to it; with
their bread let them eat it; they have rendered account to God whether
they misbehaved or not; I come from my vineyard, I know nothing; I am
not fond of prying into other men’s lives; he who buys and lies feels
it in his purse; moreover, naked was I born, naked I find myself, I
neither lose nor gain; but if they did, what is that to me? many think
there are flitches where there are no hooks; but who can put gates to
the open plain? moreover they said of God—”

“God bless me,” said Don Quixote, “what a set of absurdities thou art
stringing together! What has what we are talking about got to do with
the proverbs thou art threading one after the other? for God’s sake
hold thy tongue, Sancho, and henceforward keep to prodding thy ass and
don’t meddle in what does not concern thee; and understand with all thy
five senses that everything I have done, am doing, or shall do, is well
founded on reason and in conformity with the rules of chivalry, for I
understand them better than all the world that profess them.”

“Señor,” replied Sancho, “is it a good rule of chivalry that we should
go astray through these mountains without path or road, looking for a
madman who when he is found will perhaps take a fancy to finish what he
began, not his story, but your worship’s head and my ribs, and end by
breaking them altogether for us?”

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“Peace, I say again, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for let me tell thee
it is not so much the desire of finding that madman that leads me into
these regions as that which I have of performing among them an
achievement wherewith I shall win eternal name and fame throughout the
known world; and it shall be such that I shall thereby set the seal on
all that can make a knight-errant perfect and famous.”

“And is it very perilous, this achievement?”

“No,” replied he of the Rueful Countenance; “though it may be in the
dice that we may throw deuce-ace instead of sixes; but all will depend
on thy diligence.”

“On my diligence!” said Sancho.

“Yes,” said Don Quixote, “for if thou dost return soon from the place
where I mean to send thee, my penance will be soon over, and my glory
will soon begin. But as it is not right to keep thee any longer in
suspense, waiting to see what comes of my words, I would have thee
know, Sancho, that the famous Amadis of Gaul was one of the most
perfect knights-errant—I am wrong to say he was one; he stood alone,
the first, the only one, the lord of all that were in the world in his
time. A fig for Don Belianis, and for all who say he equalled him in
any respect, for, my oath upon it, they are deceiving themselves! I
say, too, that when a painter desires to become famous in his art he
endeavours to copy the originals of the rarest painters that he knows;
and the same rule holds good for all the most important crafts and
callings that serve to adorn a state; thus must he who would be
esteemed prudent and patient imitate Ulysses, in whose person and
labours Homer presents to us a lively picture of prudence and patience;
as Virgil, too, shows us in the person of Æneas the virtue of a pious
son and the sagacity of a brave and skilful captain; not representing
or describing them as they were, but as they ought to be, so as to
leave the example of their virtues to posterity. In the same way Amadis
was the polestar, day-star, sun of valiant and devoted knights, whom
all we who fight under the banner of love and chivalry are bound to
imitate. This, then, being so, I consider, friend Sancho, that the
knight-errant who shall imitate him most closely will come nearest to
reaching the perfection of chivalry. Now one of the instances in which
this knight most conspicuously showed his prudence, worth, valour,
endurance, fortitude, and love, was when he withdrew, rejected by the
Lady Oriana, to do penance upon the Peña Pobre, changing his name into
that of Beltenebros, a name assuredly significant and appropriate to
the life which he had voluntarily adopted. So, as it is easier for me
to imitate him in this than in cleaving giants asunder, cutting off
serpents’ heads, slaying dragons, routing armies, destroying fleets,
and breaking enchantments, and as this place is so well suited for a
similar purpose, I must not allow the opportunity to escape which now
so conveniently offers me its forelock.”

“What is it in reality,” said Sancho, “that your worship means to do in
such an out-of-the-way place as this?”

“Have I not told thee,” answered Don Quixote, “that I mean to imitate
Amadis here, playing the victim of despair, the madman, the maniac, so
as at the same time to imitate the valiant Don Roland, when at the
fountain he had evidence of the fair Angelica having disgraced herself
with Medoro and through grief thereat went mad, and plucked up trees,
troubled the waters of the clear springs, slew shepherds, destroyed
flocks, burned down huts, levelled houses, dragged mares after him, and
perpetrated a hundred thousand other outrages worthy of everlasting
renown and record? And though I have no intention of imitating Roland,
or Orlando, or Rotolando (for he went by all these names), step by step
in all the mad things he did, said, and thought, I will make a rough
copy to the best of my power of all that seems to me most essential;
but perhaps I shall content myself with the simple imitation of Amadis,
who without giving way to any mischievous madness but merely to tears
and sorrow, gained as much fame as the most famous.”

“It seems to me,” said Sancho, “that the knights who behaved in this
way had provocation and cause for those follies and penances; but what
cause has your worship for going mad? What lady has rejected you, or
what evidence have you found to prove that the lady Dulcinea del Toboso
has been trifling with Moor or Christian?”

“There is the point,” replied Don Quixote, “and that is the beauty of
this business of mine; no thanks to a knight-errant for going mad when
he has cause; the thing is to turn crazy without any provocation, and
let my lady know, if I do this in the dry, what I would do in the
moist; moreover I have abundant cause in the long separation I have
endured from my lady till death, Dulcinea del Toboso; for as thou didst
hear that shepherd Ambrosio say the other day, in absence all ills are
felt and feared; and so, friend Sancho, waste no time in advising me
against so rare, so happy, and so unheard-of an imitation; mad I am,
and mad I must be until thou returnest with the answer to a letter that
I mean to send by thee to my lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as my
constancy deserves, my insanity and penance will come to an end; and if
it be to the opposite effect, I shall become mad in earnest, and, being
so, I shall suffer no more; thus in whatever way she may answer I shall
escape from the struggle and affliction in which thou wilt leave me,
enjoying in my senses the boon thou bearest me, or as a madman not
feeling the evil thou bringest me. But tell me, Sancho, hast thou got
Mambrino’s helmet safe? for I saw thee take it up from the ground when
that ungrateful wretch tried to break it in pieces but could not, by
which the fineness of its temper may be seen.”

To which Sancho made answer, “By the living God, Sir Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, I cannot endure or bear with patience some of the
things that your worship says; and from them I begin to suspect that
all you tell me about chivalry, and winning kingdoms and empires, and
giving islands, and bestowing other rewards and dignities after the
custom of knights-errant, must be all made up of wind and lies, and all
pigments or figments, or whatever we may call them; for what would
anyone think that heard your worship calling a barber’s basin
Mambrino’s helmet without ever seeing the mistake all this time, but
that one who says and maintains such things must have his brains
addled? I have the basin in my sack all dinted, and I am taking it home
to have it mended, to trim my beard in it, if, by God’s grace, I am
allowed to see my wife and children some day or other.”

“Look here, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “by him thou didst swear by just
now I swear thou hast the most limited understanding that any squire in
the world has or ever had. Is it possible that all this time thou hast
been going about with me thou hast never found out that all things
belonging to knights-errant seem to be illusions and nonsense and
ravings, and to go always by contraries? And not because it really is
so, but because there is always a swarm of enchanters in attendance
upon us that change and alter everything with us, and turn things as
they please, and according as they are disposed to aid or destroy us;
thus what seems to thee a barber’s basin seems to me Mambrino’s helmet,
and to another it will seem something else; and rare foresight it was
in the sage who is on my side to make what is really and truly
Mambrino’s helmet seem a basin to everybody, for, being held in such
estimation as it is, all the world would pursue me to rob me of it; but
when they see it is only a barber’s basin they do not take the trouble
to obtain it; as was plainly shown by him who tried to break it, and
left it on the ground without taking it, for, by my faith, had he known
it he would never have left it behind. Keep it safe, my friend, for
just now I have no need of it; indeed, I shall have to take off all
this armour and remain as naked as I was born, if I have a mind to
follow Roland rather than Amadis in my penance.”

Thus talking they reached the foot of a high mountain which stood like
an isolated peak among the others that surrounded it. Past its base
there flowed a gentle brook, all around it spread a meadow so green and
luxuriant that it was a delight to the eyes to look upon it, and forest
trees in abundance, and shrubs and flowers, added to the charms of the
spot. Upon this place the Knight of the Rueful Countenance fixed his
choice for the performance of his penance, and as he beheld it
exclaimed in a loud voice as though he were out of his senses:

“This is the place, oh, ye heavens, that I select and choose for
bewailing the misfortune in which ye yourselves have plunged me: this
is the spot where the overflowings of mine eyes shall swell the waters
of yon little brook, and my deep and endless sighs shall stir
unceasingly the leaves of these mountain trees, in testimony and token
of the pain my persecuted heart is suffering. Oh, ye rural deities,
whoever ye be that haunt this lone spot, give ear to the complaint of a
wretched lover whom long absence and brooding jealousy have driven to
bewail his fate among these wilds and complain of the hard heart of
that fair and ungrateful one, the end and limit of all human beauty!
Oh, ye wood nymphs and dryads, that dwell in the thickets of the
forest, so may the nimble wanton satyrs by whom ye are vainly wooed
never disturb your sweet repose, help me to lament my hard fate or at
least weary not at listening to it! Oh, Dulcinea del Toboso, day of my
night, glory of my pain, guide of my path, star of my fortune, so may
Heaven grant thee in full all thou seekest of it, bethink thee of the
place and condition to which absence from thee has brought me, and make
that return in kindness that is due to my fidelity! Oh, lonely trees,
that from this day forward shall bear me company in my solitude, give
me some sign by the gentle movement of your boughs that my presence is
not distasteful to you! Oh, thou, my squire, pleasant companion in my
prosperous and adverse fortunes, fix well in thy memory what thou shalt
see me do here, so that thou mayest relate and report it to the sole
cause of all,” and so saying he dismounted from Rocinante, and in an
instant relieved him of saddle and bridle, and giving him a slap on the
croup, said, “He gives thee freedom who is bereft of it himself, oh
steed as excellent in deed as thou art unfortunate in thy lot; begone
where thou wilt, for thou bearest written on thy forehead that neither
Astolfo’s hippogriff, nor the famed Frontino that cost Bradamante so
dear, could equal thee in speed.”

Seeing this Sancho said, “Good luck to him who has saved us the trouble
of stripping the pack-saddle off Dapple! By my faith he would not have
gone without a slap on the croup and something said in his praise;
though if he were here I would not let anyone strip him, for there
would be no occasion, as he had nothing of the lover or victim of
despair about him, inasmuch as his master, which I was while it was
God’s pleasure, was nothing of the sort; and indeed, Sir Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, if my departure and your worship’s madness are to
come off in earnest, it will be as well to saddle Rocinante again in
order that he may supply the want of Dapple, because it will save me
time in going and returning: for if I go on foot I don’t know when I
shall get there or when I shall get back, as I am, in truth, a bad
walker.”

“I declare, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “it shall be as thou wilt,
for thy plan does not seem to me a bad one, and three days hence thou
wilt depart, for I wish thee to observe in the meantime what I do and
say for her sake, that thou mayest be able to tell it.”

“But what more have I to see besides what I have seen?” said Sancho.

“Much thou knowest about it!” said Don Quixote. “I have now got to tear
up my garments, to scatter about my armour, knock my head against these
rocks, and more of the same sort of thing, which thou must witness.”

“For the love of God,” said Sancho, “be careful, your worship, how you
give yourself those knocks on the head, for you may come across such a
rock, and in such a way, that the very first may put an end to the
whole contrivance of this penance; and I should think, if indeed knocks
on the head seem necessary to you, and this business cannot be done
without them, you might be content—as the whole thing is feigned, and
counterfeit, and in joke—you might be content, I say, with giving them
to yourself in the water, or against something soft, like cotton; and
leave it all to me; for I’ll tell my lady that your worship knocked
your head against a point of rock harder than a diamond.”

“I thank thee for thy good intentions, friend Sancho,” answered Don
Quixote, “but I would have thee know that all these things I am doing
are not in joke, but very much in earnest, for anything else would be a
transgression of the ordinances of chivalry, which forbid us to tell
any lie whatever under the penalties due to apostasy; and to do one
thing instead of another is just the same as lying; so my knocks on the
head must be real, solid, and valid, without anything sophisticated or
fanciful about them, and it will be needful to leave me some lint to
dress my wounds, since fortune has compelled us to do without the
balsam we lost.”

“It was worse losing the ass,” replied Sancho, “for with him lint and
all were lost; but I beg of your worship not to remind me again of that
accursed liquor, for my soul, not to say my stomach, turns at hearing
the very name of it; and I beg of you, too, to reckon as past the three
days you allowed me for seeing the mad things you do, for I take them
as seen already and pronounced upon, and I will tell wonderful stories
to my lady; so write the letter and send me off at once, for I long to
return and take your worship out of this purgatory where I am leaving
you.”

“Purgatory dost thou call it, Sancho?” said Don Quixote, “rather call
it hell, or even worse if there be anything worse.”

“For one who is in hell,” said Sancho, “nulla est retentio, as I have
heard say.”

“I do not understand what retentio means,” said Don Quixote.

“Retentio,” answered Sancho, “means that whoever is in hell never
comes nor can come out of it, which will be the opposite case with your
worship or my legs will be idle, that is if I have spurs to enliven
Rocinante: let me once get to El Toboso and into the presence of my
lady Dulcinea, and I will tell her such things of the follies and
madnesses (for it is all one) that your worship has done and is still
doing, that I will manage to make her softer than a glove though I find
her harder than a cork tree; and with her sweet and honeyed answer I
will come back through the air like a witch, and take your worship out
of this purgatory that seems to be hell but is not, as there is hope of
getting out of it; which, as I have said, those in hell have not, and I
believe your worship will not say anything to the contrary.”

“That is true,” said he of the Rueful Countenance, “but how shall we
manage to write the letter?”

“And the ass-colt order too,” added Sancho.

“All shall be included,” said Don Quixote; “and as there is no paper,
it would be well done to write it on the leaves of trees, as the
ancients did, or on tablets of wax; though that would be as hard to
find just now as paper. But it has just occurred to me how it may be
conveniently and even more than conveniently written, and that is in
the notebook that belonged to Cardenio, and thou wilt take care to have
it copied on paper, in a good hand, at the first village thou comest to
where there is a schoolmaster, or if not, any sacristan will copy it;
but see thou give it not to any notary to copy, for they write a law
hand that Satan could not make out.”

“But what is to be done about the signature?” said Sancho.

“The letters of Amadis were never signed,” said Don Quixote.

“That is all very well,” said Sancho, “but the order must needs be
signed, and if it is copied they will say the signature is false, and I
shall be left without ass-colts.”

“The order shall go signed in the same book,” said Don Quixote, “and on
seeing it my niece will make no difficulty about obeying it; as to the
loveletter thou canst put by way of signature, ‘_Yours till death, the
Knight of the Rueful Countenance._’ And it will be no great matter if
it is in some other person’s hand, for as well as I recollect Dulcinea
can neither read nor write, nor in the whole course of her life has she
seen handwriting or letter of mine, for my love and hers have been
always platonic, not going beyond a modest look, and even that so
seldom that I can safely swear I have not seen her four times in all
these twelve years I have been loving her more than the light of these
eyes that the earth will one day devour; and perhaps even of those four
times she has not once perceived that I was looking at her: such is the
retirement and seclusion in which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo and her
mother Aldonza Nogales have brought her up.”

“So, so!” said Sancho; “Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter is the lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?”

“She it is,” said Don Quixote, “and she it is that is worthy to be lady
of the whole universe.”

“I know her well,” said Sancho, “and let me tell you she can fling a
crowbar as well as the lustiest lad in all the town. Giver of all good!
but she is a brave lass, and a right and stout one, and fit to be
helpmate to any knight-errant that is or is to be, who may make her his
lady: the whoreson wench, what sting she has and what a voice! I can
tell you one day she posted herself on the top of the belfry of the
village to call some labourers of theirs that were in a ploughed field
of her father’s, and though they were better than half a league off
they heard her as well as if they were at the foot of the tower; and
the best of her is that she is not a bit prudish, for she has plenty of
affability, and jokes with everybody, and has a grin and a jest for
everything. So, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I say you not
only may and ought to do mad freaks for her sake, but you have a good
right to give way to despair and hang yourself; and no one who knows of
it but will say you did well, though the devil should take you; and I
wish I were on my road already, simply to see her, for it is many a day
since I saw her, and she must be altered by this time, for going about
the fields always, and the sun and the air spoil women’s looks greatly.
But I must own the truth to your worship, Señor Don Quixote; until now
I have been under a great mistake, for I believed truly and honestly
that the lady Dulcinea must be some princess your worship was in love
with, or some person great enough to deserve the rich presents you have
sent her, such as the Biscayan and the galley slaves, and many more no
doubt, for your worship must have won many victories in the time when I
was not yet your squire. But all things considered, what good can it do
the lady Aldonza Lorenzo, I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, to have
the vanquished your worship sends or will send coming to her and going
down on their knees before her? Because maybe when they came she’d be
hackling flax or threshing on the threshing floor, and they’d be
ashamed to see her, and she’d laugh, or resent the present.”

“I have before now told thee many times, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“that thou art a mighty great chatterer, and that with a blunt wit thou
art always striving at sharpness; but to show thee what a fool thou art
and how rational I am, I would have thee listen to a short story. Thou
must know that a certain widow, fair, young, independent, and rich, and
above all free and easy, fell in love with a sturdy strapping young
lay-brother; his superior came to know of it, and one day said to the
worthy widow by way of brotherly remonstrance, ‘I am surprised, señora,
and not without good reason, that a woman of such high standing, so
fair, and so rich as you are, should have fallen in love with such a
mean, low, stupid fellow as So-and-so, when in this house there are so
many masters, graduates, and divinity students from among whom you
might choose as if they were a lot of pears, saying, ‘This one I’ll
take, that I won’t take;’ but she replied to him with great
sprightliness and candour, ‘My dear sir, you are very much mistaken,
and your ideas are very old-fashioned, if you think that I have made a
bad choice in So-and-so, fool as he seems; because for all I want with
him he knows as much and more philosophy than Aristotle.’ In the same
way, Sancho, for all I want with Dulcinea del Toboso she is just as
good as the most exalted princess on earth. It is not to be supposed
that all those poets who sang the praises of ladies under the fancy
names they give them, had any such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the
Amarillises, the Phillises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the
Fílidas, and all the rest of them, that the books, the ballads, the
barber’s shops, the theatres are full of, were really and truly ladies
of flesh and blood, and mistresses of those that glorify and have
glorified them? Nothing of the kind; they only invent them for the most
part to furnish a subject for their verses, and that they may pass for
lovers, or for men valiant enough to be so; and so it suffices me to
think and believe that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is fair and virtuous;
and as to her pedigree it is very little matter, for no one will
examine into it for the purpose of conferring any order upon her, and
I, for my part, reckon her the most exalted princess in the world. For
thou shouldst know, Sancho, if thou dost not know, that two things
alone beyond all others are incentives to love, and these are great
beauty and a good name, and these two things are to be found in
Dulcinea in the highest degree, for in beauty no one equals her and in
good name few approach her; and to put the whole thing in a nutshell, I
persuade myself that all I say is as I say, neither more nor less, and
I picture her in my imagination as I would have her to be, as well in
beauty as in condition; Helen approaches her not nor does Lucretia come
up to her, nor any other of the famous women of times past, Greek,
Barbarian, or Latin; and let each say what he will, for if in this I am
taken to task by the ignorant, I shall not be censured by the
critical.”

“I say that your worship is entirely right,” said Sancho, “and that I
am an ass. But I know not how the name of ass came into my mouth, for a
rope is not to be mentioned in the house of him who has been hanged;
but now for the letter, and then, God be with you, I am off.”

Don Quixote took out the notebook, and, retiring to one side, very
deliberately began to write the letter, and when he had finished it he
called to Sancho, saying he wished to read it to him, so that he might
commit it to memory, in case of losing it on the road; for with evil
fortune like his anything might be apprehended. To which Sancho
replied, “Write it two or three times there in the book and give it to
me, and I will carry it very carefully, because to expect me to keep it
in my memory is all nonsense, for I have such a bad one that I often
forget my own name; but for all that repeat it to me, as I shall like
to hear it, for surely it will run as if it was in print.”

“Listen,” said Don Quixote, “this is what it says:

“Don Quixote’s Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso

“Sovereign and exalted Lady,—The pierced by the point of absence, the
wounded to the heart’s core, sends thee, sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso,
the health that he himself enjoys not. If thy beauty despises me, if
thy worth is not for me, if thy scorn is my affliction, though I be
sufficiently long-suffering, hardly shall I endure this anxiety, which,
besides being oppressive, is protracted. My good squire Sancho will
relate to thee in full, fair ingrate, dear enemy, the condition to
which I am reduced on thy account: if it be thy pleasure to give me
relief, I am thine; if not, do as may be pleasing to thee; for by
ending my life I shall satisfy thy cruelty and my desire.
“Thine till death,
“The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”

“By the life of my father,” said Sancho, when he heard the letter, “it
is the loftiest thing I ever heard. Body of me! how your worship says
everything as you like in it! And how well you fit in ‘The Knight of
the Rueful Countenance’ into the signature. I declare your worship is
indeed the very devil, and there is nothing you don’t know.”

“Everything is needed for the calling I follow,” said Don Quixote.

“Now then,” said Sancho, “let your worship put the order for the three
ass-colts on the other side, and sign it very plainly, that they may
recognise it at first sight.”

“With all my heart,” said Don Quixote, and as he had written it he read
it to this effect:

“Mistress Niece,—By this first of ass-colts please pay to Sancho Panza,
my squire, three of the five I left at home in your charge: said three
ass-colts to be paid and delivered for the same number received here in
hand, which upon this and upon his receipt shall be duly paid. Done in
the heart of the Sierra Morena, the twenty-seventh of August of this
present year.”

“That will do,” said Sancho; “now let your worship sign it.”

“There is no need to sign it,” said Don Quixote, “but merely to put my
flourish, which is the same as a signature, and enough for three asses,
or even three hundred.”

“I can trust your worship,” returned Sancho; “let me go and saddle
Rocinante, and be ready to give me your blessing, for I mean to go at
once without seeing the fooleries your worship is going to do; I’ll say
I saw you do so many that she will not want any more.”

“At any rate, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “I should like—and there is
reason for it—I should like thee, I say, to see me stripped to the skin
and performing a dozen or two of insanities, which I can get done in
less than half an hour; for having seen them with thine own eyes, thou
canst then safely swear to the rest that thou wouldst add; and I
promise thee thou wilt not tell of as many as I mean to perform.”

“For the love of God, master mine,” said Sancho, “let me not see your
worship stripped, for it will sorely grieve me, and I shall not be able
to keep from tears, and my head aches so with all I shed last night for
Dapple, that I am not fit to begin any fresh weeping; but if it is your
worship’s pleasure that I should see some insanities, do them in your
clothes, short ones, and such as come readiest to hand; for I myself
want nothing of the sort, and, as I have said, it will be a saving of
time for my return, which will be with the news your worship desires
and deserves. If not, let the lady Dulcinea look to it; if she does not
answer reasonably, I swear as solemnly as I can that I will fetch a
fair answer out of her stomach with kicks and cuffs; for why should it
be borne that a knight-errant as famous as your worship should go mad
without rhyme or reason for a—? Her ladyship had best not drive me to
say it, for by God I will speak out and let off everything cheap, even
if it doesn’t sell: I am pretty good at that! she little knows me;
faith, if she knew me she’d be in awe of me.”

“In faith, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “to all appearance thou art no
sounder in thy wits than I.”

“I am not so mad,” answered Sancho, “but I am more peppery; but apart
from all this, what has your worship to eat until I come back? Will you
sally out on the road like Cardenio to force it from the shepherds?”

“Let not that anxiety trouble thee,” replied Don Quixote, “for even if
I had it I should not eat anything but the herbs and the fruits which
this meadow and these trees may yield me; the beauty of this business
of mine lies in not eating, and in performing other mortifications.”

“Do you know what I am afraid of?” said Sancho upon this; “that I shall
not be able to find my way back to this spot where I am leaving you, it
is such an out-of-the-way place.”

“Observe the landmarks well,” said Don Quixote, “for I will try not to
go far from this neighbourhood, and I will even take care to mount the
highest of these rocks to see if I can discover thee returning;
however, not to miss me and lose thyself, the best plan will be to cut
some branches of the broom that is so abundant about here, and as thou
goest to lay them at intervals until thou hast come out upon the plain;
these will serve thee, after the fashion of the clue in the labyrinth
of Theseus, as marks and signs for finding me on thy return.”

“So I will,” said Sancho Panza, and having cut some, he asked his
master’s blessing, and not without many tears on both sides, took his
leave of him, and mounting Rocinante, of whom Don Quixote charged him
earnestly to have as much care as of his own person, he set out for the
plain, strewing at intervals the branches of broom as his master had
recommended him; and so he went his way, though Don Quixote still
entreated him to see him do were it only a couple of mad acts. He had
not gone a hundred paces, however, when he returned and said:

“I must say, señor, your worship said quite right, that in order to be
able to swear without a weight on my conscience that I had seen you do
mad things, it would be well for me to see if it were only one; though
in your worship’s remaining here I have seen a very great one.”

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Full Size

“Did I not tell thee so?” said Don Quixote. “Wait, Sancho, and I will
do them in the saying of a credo,” and pulling off his breeches in all
haste he stripped himself to his skin and his shirt, and then, without
more ado, he cut a couple of gambados in the air, and a couple of
somersaults, heels over head, making such a display that, not to see it
a second time, Sancho wheeled Rocinante round, and felt easy, and
satisfied in his mind that he could swear he had left his master mad;
and so we will leave him to follow his road until his return, which was
a quick one.

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