CHAPTER XXVIII — WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE — CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA

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Happy and fortunate were the times when that most daring knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha was sent into the world; for by reason of his
having formed a resolution so honourable as that of seeking to revive
and restore to the world the long-lost and almost defunct order of
knight-errantry, we now enjoy in this age of ours, so poor in light
entertainment, not only the charm of his veracious history, but also of
the tales and episodes contained in it which are, in a measure, no less
pleasing, ingenious, and truthful, than the history itself; which,
resuming its thread, carded, spun, and wound, relates that just as the
curate was going to offer consolation to Cardenio, he was interrupted
by a voice that fell upon his ear saying in plaintive tones:

“O God! is it possible I have found a place that may serve as a secret
grave for the weary load of this body that I support so unwillingly? If
the solitude these mountains promise deceives me not, it is so; ah! woe
is me! how much more grateful to my mind will be the society of these
rocks and brakes that permit me to complain of my misfortune to Heaven,
than that of any human being, for there is none on earth to look to for
counsel in doubt, comfort in sorrow, or relief in distress!”

All this was heard distinctly by the curate and those with him, and as
it seemed to them to be uttered close by, as indeed it was, they got up
to look for the speaker, and before they had gone twenty paces they
discovered behind a rock, seated at the foot of an ash tree, a youth in
the dress of a peasant, whose face they were unable at the moment to
see as he was leaning forward, bathing his feet in the brook that
flowed past. They approached so silently that he did not perceive them,
being fully occupied in bathing his feet, which were so fair that they
looked like two pieces of shining crystal brought forth among the other
stones of the brook. The whiteness and beauty of these feet struck them
with surprise, for they did not seem to have been made to crush clods
or to follow the plough and the oxen as their owner’s dress suggested;
and so, finding they had not been noticed, the curate, who was in
front, made a sign to the other two to conceal themselves behind some
fragments of rock that lay there; which they did, observing closely
what the youth was about. He had on a loose double-skirted dark brown
jacket bound tight to his body with a white cloth; he wore besides
breeches and gaiters of brown cloth, and on his head a brown montera;
and he had the gaiters turned up as far as the middle of the leg, which
verily seemed to be of pure alabaster.

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As soon as he had done bathing his beautiful feet, he wiped them with a
towel he took from under the montera, on taking off which he raised his
face, and those who were watching him had an opportunity of seeing a
beauty so exquisite that Cardenio said to the curate in a whisper:

“As this is not Luscinda, it is no human creature but a divine being.”

The youth then took off the montera, and shaking his head from side to
side there broke loose and spread out a mass of hair that the beams of
the sun might have envied; by this they knew that what had seemed a
peasant was a lovely woman, nay the most beautiful the eyes of two of
them had ever beheld, or even Cardenio’s if they had not seen and known
Luscinda, for he afterwards declared that only the beauty of Luscinda
could compare with this. The long auburn tresses not only covered her
shoulders, but such was their length and abundance, concealed her all
round beneath their masses, so that except the feet nothing of her form
was visible. She now used her hands as a comb, and if her feet had
seemed like bits of crystal in the water, her hands looked like pieces
of driven snow among her locks; all which increased not only the
admiration of the three beholders, but their anxiety to learn who she
was. With this object they resolved to show themselves, and at the stir
they made in getting upon their feet the fair damsel raised her head,
and parting her hair from before her eyes with both hands, she looked
to see who had made the noise, and the instant she perceived them she
started to her feet, and without waiting to put on her shoes or gather
up her hair, hastily snatched up a bundle as though of clothes that she
had beside her, and, scared and alarmed, endeavoured to take flight;
but before she had gone six paces she fell to the ground, her delicate
feet being unable to bear the roughness of the stones; seeing which,
the three hastened towards her, and the curate addressing her first
said:

“Stay, señora, whoever you may be, for those whom you see here only
desire to be of service to you; you have no need to attempt a flight so
heedless, for neither can your feet bear it, nor we allow it.”

Taken by surprise and bewildered, she made no reply to these words.
They, however, came towards her, and the curate taking her hand went on
to say:

“What your dress would hide, señora, is made known to us by your hair;
a clear proof that it can be no trifling cause that has disguised your
beauty in a garb so unworthy of it, and sent it into solitudes like
these where we have had the good fortune to find you, if not to relieve
your distress, at least to offer you comfort; for no distress, so long
as life lasts, can be so oppressive or reach such a height as to make
the sufferer refuse to listen to comfort offered with good intention.
And so, señora, or señor, or whatever you prefer to be, dismiss the
fears that our appearance has caused you and make us acquainted with
your good or evil fortunes, for from all of us together, or from each
one of us, you will receive sympathy in your trouble.”

While the curate was speaking, the disguised damsel stood as if
spell-bound, looking at them without opening her lips or uttering a
word, just like a village rustic to whom something strange that he has
never seen before has been suddenly shown; but on the curate addressing
some further words to the same effect to her, sighing deeply she broke
silence and said:

“Since the solitude of these mountains has been unable to conceal me,
and the escape of my dishevelled tresses will not allow my tongue to
deal in falsehoods, it would be idle for me now to make any further
pretence of what, if you were to believe me, you would believe more out
of courtesy than for any other reason. This being so, I say I thank
you, sirs, for the offer you have made me, which places me under the
obligation of complying with the request you have made of me; though I
fear the account I shall give you of my misfortunes will excite in you
as much concern as compassion, for you will be unable to suggest
anything to remedy them or any consolation to alleviate them. However,
that my honour may not be left a matter of doubt in your minds, now
that you have discovered me to be a woman, and see that I am young,
alone, and in this dress, things that taken together or separately
would be enough to destroy any good name, I feel bound to tell what I
would willingly keep secret if I could.”

All this she who was now seen to be a lovely woman delivered without
any hesitation, with so much ease and in so sweet a voice that they
were not less charmed by her intelligence than by her beauty, and as
they again repeated their offers and entreaties to her to fulfil her
promise, she without further pressing, first modestly covering her feet
and gathering up her hair, seated herself on a stone with the three
placed around her, and, after an effort to restrain some tears that
came to her eyes, in a clear and steady voice began her story thus:

“In this Andalusia there is a town from which a duke takes a title
which makes him one of those that are called Grandees of Spain. This
nobleman has two sons, the elder heir to his dignity and apparently to
his good qualities; the younger heir to I know not what, unless it be
the treachery of Vellido and the falsehood of Ganelon. My parents are
this lord’s vassals, lowly in origin, but so wealthy that if birth had
conferred as much on them as fortune, they would have had nothing left
to desire, nor should I have had reason to fear trouble like that in
which I find myself now; for it may be that my ill fortune came of
theirs in not having been nobly born. It is true they are not so low
that they have any reason to be ashamed of their condition, but neither
are they so high as to remove from my mind the impression that my
mishap comes of their humble birth. They are, in short, peasants, plain
homely people, without any taint of disreputable blood, and, as the
saying is, old rusty Christians, but so rich that by their wealth and
free-handed way of life they are coming by degrees to be considered
gentlefolk by birth, and even by position; though the wealth and
nobility they thought most of was having me for their daughter; and as
they have no other child to make their heir, and are affectionate
parents, I was one of the most indulged daughters that ever parents
indulged.

“I was the mirror in which they beheld themselves, the staff of their
old age, and the object in which, with submission to Heaven, all their
wishes centred, and mine were in accordance with theirs, for I knew
their worth; and as I was mistress of their hearts, so was I also of
their possessions. Through me they engaged or dismissed their servants;
through my hands passed the accounts and returns of what was sown and
reaped; the oil-mills, the wine-presses, the count of the flocks and
herds, the beehives, all in short that a rich farmer like my father has
or can have, I had under my care, and I acted as steward and mistress
with an assiduity on my part and satisfaction on theirs that I cannot
well describe to you. The leisure hours left to me after I had given
the requisite orders to the head-shepherds, overseers, and other
labourers, I passed in such employments as are not only allowable but
necessary for young girls, those that the needle, embroidery cushion,
and spinning wheel usually afford, and if to refresh my mind I quitted
them for a while, I found recreation in reading some devotional book or
playing the harp, for experience taught me that music soothes the
troubled mind and relieves weariness of spirit. Such was the life I led
in my parents’ house and if I have depicted it thus minutely, it is not
out of ostentation, or to let you know that I am rich, but that you may
see how, without any fault of mine, I have fallen from the happy
condition I have described, to the misery I am in at present. The truth
is, that while I was leading this busy life, in a retirement that might
compare with that of a monastery, and unseen as I thought by any except
the servants of the house (for when I went to Mass it was so early in
the morning, and I was so closely attended by my mother and the women
of the household, and so thickly veiled and so shy, that my eyes
scarcely saw more ground than I trod on), in spite of all this, the
eyes of love, or idleness, more properly speaking, that the lynx’s
cannot rival, discovered me, with the help of the assiduity of Don
Fernando; for that is the name of the younger son of the duke I told
of.”

The moment the speaker mentioned the name of Don Fernando, Cardenio
changed colour and broke into a sweat, with such signs of emotion that
the curate and the barber, who observed it, feared that one of the mad
fits which they heard attacked him sometimes was coming upon him; but
Cardenio showed no further agitation and remained quiet, regarding the
peasant girl with fixed attention, for he began to suspect who she was.
She, however, without noticing the excitement of Cardenio, continuing
her story, went on to say:

“And they had hardly discovered me, when, as he owned afterwards, he
was smitten with a violent love for me, as the manner in which it
displayed itself plainly showed. But to shorten the long recital of my
woes, I will pass over in silence all the artifices employed by Don
Fernando for declaring his passion for me. He bribed all the household,
he gave and offered gifts and presents to my parents; every day was
like a holiday or a merry-making in our street; by night no one could
sleep for the music; the love letters that used to come to my hand, no
one knew how, were innumerable, full of tender pleadings and pledges,
containing more promises and oaths than there were letters in them; all
which not only did not soften me, but hardened my heart against him, as
if he had been my mortal enemy, and as if everything he did to make me
yield were done with the opposite intention. Not that the high-bred
bearing of Don Fernando was disagreeable to me, or that I found his
importunities wearisome; for it gave me a certain sort of satisfaction
to find myself so sought and prized by a gentleman of such distinction,
and I was not displeased at seeing my praises in his letters (for
however ugly we women may be, it seems to me it always pleases us to
hear ourselves called beautiful) but that my own sense of right was
opposed to all this, as well as the repeated advice of my parents, who
now very plainly perceived Don Fernando’s purpose, for he cared very
little if all the world knew it. They told me they trusted and confided
their honour and good name to my virtue and rectitude alone, and bade
me consider the disparity between Don Fernando and myself, from which I
might conclude that his intentions, whatever he might say to the
contrary, had for their aim his own pleasure rather than my advantage;
and if I were at all desirous of opposing an obstacle to his
unreasonable suit, they were ready, they said, to marry me at once to
anyone I preferred, either among the leading people of our own town, or
of any of those in the neighbourhood; for with their wealth and my good
name, a match might be looked for in any quarter. This offer, and their
sound advice strengthened my resolution, and I never gave Don Fernando
a word in reply that could hold out to him any hope of success, however
remote.

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“All this caution of mine, which he must have taken for coyness, had
apparently the effect of increasing his wanton appetite—for that is the
name I give to his passion for me; had it been what he declared it to
be, you would not know of it now, because there would have been no
occasion to tell you of it. At length he learned that my parents were
contemplating marriage for me in order to put an end to his hopes of
obtaining possession of me, or at least to secure additional protectors
to watch over me, and this intelligence or suspicion made him act as
you shall hear. One night, as I was in my chamber with no other
companion than a damsel who waited on me, with the doors carefully
locked lest my honour should be imperilled through any carelessness, I
know not nor can conceive how it happened, but, with all this seclusion
and these precautions, and in the solitude and silence of my
retirement, I found him standing before me, a vision that so astounded
me that it deprived my eyes of sight, and my tongue of speech. I had no
power to utter a cry, nor, I think, did he give me time to utter one,
as he immediately approached me, and taking me in his arms (for,
overwhelmed as I was, I was powerless, I say, to help myself), he began
to make such professions to me that I know not how falsehood could have
had the power of dressing them up to seem so like truth; and the
traitor contrived that his tears should vouch for his words, and his
sighs for his sincerity.

“I, a poor young creature alone, ill versed among my people in cases
such as this, began, I know not how, to think all these lying
protestations true, though without being moved by his sighs and tears
to anything more than pure compassion; and so, as the first feeling of
bewilderment passed away, and I began in some degree to recover myself,
I said to him with more courage than I thought I could have possessed,
‘If, as I am now in your arms, señor, I were in the claws of a fierce
lion, and my deliverance could be procured by doing or saying anything
to the prejudice of my honour, it would no more be in my power to do it
or say it, than it would be possible that what was should not have
been; so then, if you hold my body clasped in your arms, I hold my soul
secured by virtuous intentions, very different from yours, as you will
see if you attempt to carry them into effect by force. I am your
vassal, but I am not your slave; your nobility neither has nor should
have any right to dishonour or degrade my humble birth; and low-born
peasant as I am, I have my self-respect as much as you, a lord and
gentleman: with me your violence will be to no purpose, your wealth
will have no weight, your words will have no power to deceive me, nor
your sighs or tears to soften me: were I to see any of the things I
speak of in him whom my parents gave me as a husband, his will should
be mine, and mine should be bounded by his; and my honour being
preserved even though my inclinations were not would willingly yield
him what you, señor, would now obtain by force; and this I say lest you
should suppose that any but my lawful husband shall ever win anything
of me.’ ‘If that,’ said this disloyal gentleman, ‘be the only scruple
you feel, fairest Dorothea’ (for that is the name of this unhappy
being), ‘see here I give you my hand to be yours, and let Heaven, from
which nothing is hid, and this image of Our Lady you have here, be
witnesses of this pledge.’”

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When Cardenio heard her say she was called Dorothea, he showed fresh
agitation and felt convinced of the truth of his former suspicion, but
he was unwilling to interrupt the story, and wished to hear the end of
what he already all but knew, so he merely said:

“What! is Dorothea your name, señora? I have heard of another of the
same name who can perhaps match your misfortunes. But proceed;
by-and-by I may tell you something that will astonish you as much as it
will excite your compassion.”

Dorothea was struck by Cardenio’s words as well as by his strange and
miserable attire, and begged him if he knew anything concerning her to
tell it to her at once, for if fortune had left her any blessing it was
courage to bear whatever calamity might fall upon her, as she felt sure
that none could reach her capable of increasing in any degree what she
endured already.

“I would not let the occasion pass, señora,” replied Cardenio, “of
telling you what I think, if what I suspect were the truth, but so far
there has been no opportunity, nor is it of any importance to you to
know it.”

“Be it as it may,” replied Dorothea, “what happened in my story was
that Don Fernando, taking an image that stood in the chamber, placed it
as a witness of our betrothal, and with the most binding words and
extravagant oaths gave me his promise to become my husband; though
before he had made an end of pledging himself I bade him consider well
what he was doing, and think of the anger his father would feel at
seeing him married to a peasant girl and one of his vassals; I told him
not to let my beauty, such as it was, blind him, for that was not
enough to furnish an excuse for his transgression; and if in the love
he bore me he wished to do me any kindness, it would be to leave my lot
to follow its course at the level my condition required; for marriages
so unequal never brought happiness, nor did they continue long to
afford the enjoyment they began with.

“All this that I have now repeated I said to him, and much more which I
cannot recollect; but it had no effect in inducing him to forego his
purpose; he who has no intention of paying does not trouble himself
about difficulties when he is striking the bargain. At the same time I
argued the matter briefly in my own mind, saying to myself, ‘I shall
not be the first who has risen through marriage from a lowly to a lofty
station, nor will Don Fernando be the first whom beauty or, as is more
likely, a blind attachment, has led to mate himself below his rank.
Then, since I am introducing no new usage or practice, I may as well
avail myself of the honour that chance offers me, for even though his
inclination for me should not outlast the attainment of his wishes, I
shall be, after all, his wife before God. And if I strive to repel him
by scorn, I can see that, fair means failing, he is in a mood to use
force, and I shall be left dishonoured and without any means of proving
my innocence to those who cannot know how innocently I have come to be
in this position; for what arguments would persuade my parents that
this gentleman entered my chamber without my consent?’

“All these questions and answers passed through my mind in a moment;
but the oaths of Don Fernando, the witnesses he appealed to, the tears
he shed, and lastly the charms of his person and his high-bred grace,
which, accompanied by such signs of genuine love, might well have
conquered a heart even more free and coy than mine—these were the
things that more than all began to influence me and lead me unawares to
my ruin. I called my waiting-maid to me, that there might be a witness
on earth besides those in Heaven, and again Don Fernando renewed and
repeated his oaths, invoked as witnesses fresh saints in addition to
the former ones, called down upon himself a thousand curses hereafter
should he fail to keep his promise, shed more tears, redoubled his
sighs and pressed me closer in his arms, from which he had never
allowed me to escape; and so I was left by my maid, and ceased to be
one, and he became a traitor and a perjured man.

“The day which followed the night of my misfortune did not come so
quickly, I imagine, as Don Fernando wished, for when desire has
attained its object, the greatest pleasure is to fly from the scene of
pleasure. I say so because Don Fernando made all haste to leave me, and
by the adroitness of my maid, who was indeed the one who had admitted
him, gained the street before daybreak; but on taking leave of me he
told me, though not with as much earnestness and fervour as when he
came, that I might rest assured of his faith and of the sanctity and
sincerity of his oaths; and to confirm his words he drew a rich ring
off his finger and placed it upon mine. He then took his departure and
I was left, I know not whether sorrowful or happy; all I can say is, I
was left agitated and troubled in mind and almost bewildered by what
had taken place, and I had not the spirit, or else it did not occur to
me, to chide my maid for the treachery she had been guilty of in
concealing Don Fernando in my chamber; for as yet I was unable to make
up my mind whether what had befallen me was for good or evil. I told
Don Fernando at parting, that as I was now his, he might see me on
other nights in the same way, until it should be his pleasure to let
the matter become known; but, except the following night, he came no
more, nor for more than a month could I catch a glimpse of him in the
street or in church, while I wearied myself with watching for one;
although I knew he was in the town, and almost every day went out
hunting, a pastime he was very fond of. I remember well how sad and
dreary those days and hours were to me; I remember well how I began to
doubt as they went by, and even to lose confidence in the faith of Don
Fernando; and I remember, too, how my maid heard those words in reproof
of her audacity that she had not heard before, and how I was forced to
put a constraint on my tears and on the expression of my countenance,
not to give my parents cause to ask me why I was so melancholy, and
drive me to invent falsehoods in reply. But all this was suddenly
brought to an end, for the time came when all such considerations were
disregarded, and there was no further question of honour, when my
patience gave way and the secret of my heart became known abroad. The
reason was, that a few days later it was reported in the town that Don
Fernando had been married in a neighbouring city to a maiden of rare
beauty, the daughter of parents of distinguished position, though not
so rich that her portion would entitle her to look for so brilliant a
match; it was said, too, that her name was Luscinda, and that at the
betrothal some strange things had happened.”

Cardenio heard the name of Luscinda, but he only shrugged his
shoulders, bit his lips, bent his brows, and before long two streams of
tears escaped from his eyes. Dorothea, however, did not interrupt her
story, but went on in these words:

“This sad intelligence reached my ears, and, instead of being struck
with a chill, with such wrath and fury did my heart burn that I
scarcely restrained myself from rushing out into the streets, crying
aloud and proclaiming openly the perfidy and treachery of which I was
the victim; but this transport of rage was for the time checked by a
resolution I formed, to be carried out the same night, and that was to
assume this dress, which I got from a servant of my father’s, one of
the zagals, as they are called in farmhouses, to whom I confided the
whole of my misfortune, and whom I entreated to accompany me to the
city where I heard my enemy was. He, though he remonstrated with me for
my boldness, and condemned my resolution, when he saw me bent upon my
purpose, offered to bear me company, as he said, to the end of the
world. I at once packed up in a linen pillow-case a woman’s dress, and
some jewels and money to provide for emergencies, and in the silence of
the night, without letting my treacherous maid know, I sallied forth
from the house, accompanied by my servant and abundant anxieties, and
on foot set out for the city, but borne as it were on wings by my
eagerness to reach it, if not to prevent what I presumed to be already
done, at least to call upon Don Fernando to tell me with what
conscience he had done it. I reached my destination in two days and a
half, and on entering the city inquired for the house of Luscinda’s
parents. The first person I asked gave me more in reply than I sought
to know; he showed me the house, and told me all that had occurred at
the betrothal of the daughter of the family, an affair of such
notoriety in the city that it was the talk of every knot of idlers in
the street. He said that on the night of Don Fernando’s betrothal with
Luscinda, as soon as she had consented to be his bride by saying ‘Yes,’
she was taken with a sudden fainting fit, and that on the bridegroom
approaching to unlace the bosom of her dress to give her air, he found
a paper in her own handwriting, in which she said and declared that she
could not be Don Fernando’s bride, because she was already Cardenio’s,
who, according to the man’s account, was a gentleman of distinction of
the same city; and that if she had accepted Don Fernando, it was only
in obedience to her parents. In short, he said, the words of the paper
made it clear she meant to kill herself on the completion of the
betrothal, and gave her reasons for putting an end to herself all which
was confirmed, it was said, by a dagger they found somewhere in her
clothes. On seeing this, Don Fernando, persuaded that Luscinda had
befooled, slighted, and trifled with him, assailed her before she had
recovered from her swoon, and tried to stab her with the dagger that
had been found, and would have succeeded had not her parents and those
who were present prevented him. It was said, moreover, that Don
Fernando went away at once, and that Luscinda did not recover from her
prostration until the next day, when she told her parents how she was
really the bride of that Cardenio I have mentioned. I learned besides
that Cardenio, according to report, had been present at the betrothal;
and that upon seeing her betrothed contrary to his expectation, he had
quitted the city in despair, leaving behind him a letter declaring the
wrong Luscinda had done him, and his intention of going where no one
should ever see him again. All this was a matter of notoriety in the
city, and everyone spoke of it; especially when it became known that
Luscinda was missing from her father’s house and from the city, for she
was not to be found anywhere, to the distraction of her parents, who
knew not what steps to take to recover her. What I learned revived my
hopes, and I was better pleased not to have found Don Fernando than to
find him married, for it seemed to me that the door was not yet
entirely shut upon relief in my case, and I thought that perhaps Heaven
had put this impediment in the way of the second marriage, to lead him
to recognise his obligations under the former one, and reflect that as
a Christian he was bound to consider his soul above all human objects.
All this passed through my mind, and I strove to comfort myself without
comfort, indulging in faint and distant hopes of cherishing that life
that I now abhor.

“But while I was in the city, uncertain what to do, as I could not find
Don Fernando, I heard notice given by the public crier offering a great
reward to anyone who should find me, and giving the particulars of my
age and of the very dress I wore; and I heard it said that the lad who
came with me had taken me away from my father’s house; a thing that cut
me to the heart, showing how low my good name had fallen, since it was
not enough that I should lose it by my flight, but they must add with
whom I had fled, and that one so much beneath me and so unworthy of my
consideration. The instant I heard the notice I quitted the city with
my servant, who now began to show signs of wavering in his fidelity to
me, and the same night, for fear of discovery, we entered the most
thickly wooded part of these mountains. But, as is commonly said, one
evil calls up another and the end of one misfortune is apt to be the
beginning of one still greater, and so it proved in my case; for my
worthy servant, until then so faithful and trusty when he found me in
this lonely spot, moved more by his own villainy than by my beauty,
sought to take advantage of the opportunity which these solitudes
seemed to present him, and with little shame and less fear of God and
respect for me, began to make overtures to me; and finding that I
replied to the effrontery of his proposals with justly severe language,
he laid aside the entreaties which he had employed at first, and began
to use violence.

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“But just Heaven, that seldom fails to watch over and aid good
intentions, so aided mine that with my slight strength and with little
exertion I pushed him over a precipice, where I left him, whether dead
or alive I know not; and then, with greater speed than seemed possible
in my terror and fatigue, I made my way into the mountains, without any
other thought or purpose save that of hiding myself among them, and
escaping my father and those despatched in search of me by his orders.
It is now I know not how many months since with this object I came
here, where I met a herdsman who engaged me as his servant at a place
in the heart of this Sierra, and all this time I have been serving him
as herd, striving to keep always afield to hide these locks which have
now unexpectedly betrayed me. But all my care and pains were
unavailing, for my master made the discovery that I was not a man, and
harboured the same base designs as my servant; and as fortune does not
always supply a remedy in cases of difficulty, and I had no precipice
or ravine at hand down which to fling the master and cure his passion,
as I had in the servant’s case, I thought it a lesser evil to leave him
and again conceal myself among these crags, than make trial of my
strength and argument with him. So, as I say, once more I went into
hiding to seek for some place where I might with sighs and tears
implore Heaven to have pity on my misery, and grant me help and
strength to escape from it, or let me die among the solitudes, leaving
no trace of an unhappy being who, by no fault of hers, has furnished
matter for talk and scandal at home and abroad.”

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CHAPTER XXIX.
WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR
LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON
HIMSELF

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“Such, sirs, is the true story of my sad adventures; judge for
yourselves now whether the sighs and lamentations you heard, and the
tears that flowed from my eyes, had not sufficient cause even if I had
indulged in them more freely; and if you consider the nature of my
misfortune you will see that consolation is idle, as there is no
possible remedy for it. All I ask of you is, what you may easily and
reasonably do, to show me where I may pass my life unharassed by the
fear and dread of discovery by those who are in search of me; for
though the great love my parents bear me makes me feel sure of being
kindly received by them, so great is my feeling of shame at the mere
thought that I cannot present myself before them as they expect, that I
had rather banish myself from their sight for ever than look them in
the face with the reflection that they beheld mine stripped of that
purity they had a right to expect in me.”

With these words she became silent, and the colour that overspread her
face showed plainly the pain and shame she was suffering at heart. In
theirs the listeners felt as much pity as wonder at her misfortunes;
but as the curate was just about to offer her some consolation and
advice Cardenio forestalled him, saying, “So then, señora, you are the
fair Dorothea, the only daughter of the rich Clenardo?” Dorothea was
astonished at hearing her father’s name, and at the miserable
appearance of him who mentioned it, for it has been already said how
wretchedly clad Cardenio was; so she said to him:

“And who may you be, brother, who seem to know my father’s name so
well? For so far, if I remember rightly, I have not mentioned it in the
whole story of my misfortunes.”

“I am that unhappy being, señora,” replied Cardenio, “whom, as you have
said, Luscinda declared to be her husband; I am the unfortunate
Cardenio, whom the wrong-doing of him who has brought you to your
present condition has reduced to the state you see me in, bare, ragged,
bereft of all human comfort, and what is worse, of reason, for I only
possess it when Heaven is pleased for some short space to restore it to
me. I, Dorothea, am he who witnessed the wrong done by Don Fernando,
and waited to hear the ‘Yes’ uttered by which Luscinda owned herself
his betrothed: I am he who had not courage enough to see how her
fainting fit ended, or what came of the paper that was found in her
bosom, because my heart had not the fortitude to endure so many strokes
of ill-fortune at once; and so losing patience I quitted the house, and
leaving a letter with my host, which I entreated him to place in
Luscinda’s hands, I betook myself to these solitudes, resolved to end
here the life I hated as if it were my mortal enemy. But fate would not
rid me of it, contenting itself with robbing me of my reason, perhaps
to preserve me for the good fortune I have had in meeting you; for if
that which you have just told us be true, as I believe it to be, it may
be that Heaven has yet in store for both of us a happier termination to
our misfortunes than we look for; because seeing that Luscinda cannot
marry Don Fernando, being mine, as she has herself so openly declared,
and that Don Fernando cannot marry her as he is yours, we may
reasonably hope that Heaven will restore to us what is ours, as it is
still in existence and not yet alienated or destroyed. And as we have
this consolation springing from no very visionary hope or wild fancy, I
entreat you, señora, to form new resolutions in your better mind, as I
mean to do in mine, preparing yourself to look forward to happier
fortunes; for I swear to you by the faith of a gentleman and a
Christian not to desert you until I see you in possession of Don
Fernando, and if I cannot by words induce him to recognise his
obligation to you, in that case to avail myself of the right which my
rank as a gentleman gives me, and with just cause challenge him on
account of the injury he has done you, not regarding my own wrongs,
which I shall leave to Heaven to avenge, while I on earth devote myself
to yours.”

Cardenio’s words completed the astonishment of Dorothea, and not
knowing how to return thanks for such an offer, she attempted to kiss
his feet; but Cardenio would not permit it, and the licentiate replied
for both, commended the sound reasoning of Cardenio, and lastly,
begged, advised, and urged them to come with him to his village, where
they might furnish themselves with what they needed, and take measures
to discover Don Fernando, or restore Dorothea to her parents, or do
what seemed to them most advisable. Cardenio and Dorothea thanked him,
and accepted the kind offer he made them; and the barber, who had been
listening to all attentively and in silence, on his part some kindly
words also, and with no less good-will than the curate offered his
services in any way that might be of use to them. He also explained to
them in a few words the object that had brought them there, and the
strange nature of Don Quixote’s madness, and how they were waiting for
his squire, who had gone in search of him. Like the recollection of a
dream, the quarrel he had had with Don Quixote came back to Cardenio’s
memory, and he described it to the others; but he was unable to say
what the dispute was about.

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At this moment they heard a shout, and recognised it as coming from
Sancho Panza, who, not finding them where he had left them, was calling
aloud to them. They went to meet him, and in answer to their inquiries
about Don Quixote, he told them how he had found him stripped to his
shirt, lank, yellow, half dead with hunger, and sighing for his lady
Dulcinea; and although he had told him that she commanded him to quit
that place and come to El Toboso, where she was expecting him, he had
answered that he was determined not to appear in the presence of her
beauty until he had done deeds to make him worthy of her favour; and if
this went on, Sancho said, he ran the risk of not becoming an emperor
as in duty bound, or even an archbishop, which was the least he could
be; for which reason they ought to consider what was to be done to get
him away from there. The licentiate in reply told him not to be uneasy,
for they would fetch him away in spite of himself. He then told
Cardenio and Dorothea what they had proposed to do to cure Don Quixote,
or at any rate take him home; upon which Dorothea said that she could
play the distressed damsel better than the barber; especially as she
had there the dress in which to do it to the life, and that they might
trust to her acting the part in every particular requisite for carrying
out their scheme, for she had read a great many books of chivalry, and
knew exactly the style in which afflicted damsels begged boons of
knights-errant.

“In that case,” said the curate, “there is nothing more required than
to set about it at once, for beyond a doubt fortune is declaring itself
in our favour, since it has so unexpectedly begun to open a door for
your relief, and smoothed the way for us to our object.”

Dorothea then took out of her pillow-case a complete petticoat of some
rich stuff, and a green mantle of some other fine material, and a
necklace and other ornaments out of a little box, and with these in an
instant she so arrayed herself that she looked like a great and rich
lady. All this, and more, she said, she had taken from home in case of
need, but that until then she had had no occasion to make use of it.
They were all highly delighted with her grace, air, and beauty, and
declared Don Fernando to be a man of very little taste when he rejected
such charms. But the one who admired her most was Sancho Panza, for it
seemed to him (what indeed was true) that in all the days of his life
he had never seen such a lovely creature; and he asked the curate with
great eagerness who this beautiful lady was, and what she wanted in
these out-of-the-way quarters.

“This fair lady, brother Sancho,” replied the curate, “is no less a
personage than the heiress in the direct male line of the great kingdom
of Micomicon, who has come in search of your master to beg a boon of
him, which is that he redress a wrong or injury that a wicked giant has
done her; and from the fame as a good knight which your master has
acquired far and wide, this princess has come from Guinea to seek him.”

“A lucky seeking and a lucky finding!” said Sancho Panza at this;
“especially if my master has the good fortune to redress that injury,
and right that wrong, and kill that son of a bitch of a giant your
worship speaks of; as kill him he will if he meets him, unless, indeed,
he happens to be a phantom; for my master has no power at all against
phantoms. But one thing among others I would beg of you, señor
licentiate, which is, that, to prevent my master taking a fancy to be
an archbishop, for that is what I’m afraid of, your worship would
recommend him to marry this princess at once; for in this way he will
be disabled from taking archbishop’s orders, and will easily come into
his empire, and I to the end of my desires; I have been thinking over
the matter carefully, and by what I can make out I find it will not do
for me that my master should become an archbishop, because I am no good
for the Church, as I am married; and for me now, having as I have a
wife and children, to set about obtaining dispensations to enable me to
hold a place of profit under the Church, would be endless work; so
that, señor, it all turns on my master marrying this lady at once—for
as yet I do not know her grace, and so I cannot call her by her name.”

“She is called the Princess Micomicona,” said the curate; “for as her
kingdom is Micomicon, it is clear that must be her name.”

“There’s no doubt of that,” replied Sancho, “for I have known many to
take their name and title from the place where they were born and call
themselves Pedro of Alcalá, Juan of Úbeda, and Diego of Valladolid; and
it may be that over there in Guinea queens have the same way of taking
the names of their kingdoms.”

“So it may,” said the curate; “and as for your master’s marrying, I
will do all in my power towards it:” with which Sancho was as much
pleased as the curate was amazed at his simplicity and at seeing what a
hold the absurdities of his master had taken of his fancy, for he had
evidently persuaded himself that he was going to be an emperor.

By this time Dorothea had seated herself upon the curate’s mule, and
the barber had fitted the ox-tail beard to his face, and they now told
Sancho to conduct them to where Don Quixote was, warning him not to say
that he knew either the licentiate or the barber, as his master’s
becoming an emperor entirely depended on his not recognising them;
neither the curate nor Cardenio, however, thought fit to go with them;
Cardenio lest he should remind Don Quixote of the quarrel he had with
him, and the curate as there was no necessity for his presence just
yet, so they allowed the others to go on before them, while they
themselves followed slowly on foot. The curate did not forget to
instruct Dorothea how to act, but she said they might make their minds
easy, as everything would be done exactly as the books of chivalry
required and described.

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They had gone about three-quarters of a league when they discovered Don
Quixote in a wilderness of rocks, by this time clothed, but without his
armour; and as soon as Dorothea saw him and was told by Sancho that
that was Don Quixote, she whipped her palfrey, the well-bearded barber
following her, and on coming up to him her squire sprang from his mule
and came forward to receive her in his arms, and she dismounting with
great ease of manner advanced to kneel before the feet of Don Quixote;
and though he strove to raise her up, she without rising addressed him
in this fashion:

“From this spot I will not rise, valiant and doughty knight, until your
goodness and courtesy grant me a boon, which will redound to the honour
and renown of your person and render a service to the most disconsolate
and afflicted damsel the sun has seen; and if the might of your strong
arm corresponds to the repute of your immortal fame, you are bound to
aid the helpless being who, led by the savour of your renowned name,
hath come from far distant lands to seek your aid in her misfortunes.”

“I will not answer a word, beauteous lady,” replied Don Quixote, “nor
will I listen to anything further concerning you, until you rise from
the earth.”

“I will not rise, señor,” answered the afflicted damsel, “unless of
your courtesy the boon I ask is first granted me.”

“I grant and accord it,” said Don Quixote, “provided without detriment
or prejudice to my king, my country, or her who holds the key of my
heart and freedom, it may be complied with.”

“It will not be to the detriment or prejudice of any of them, my worthy
lord,” said the afflicted damsel; and here Sancho Panza drew close to
his master’s ear and said to him very softly, “Your worship may very
safely grant the boon she asks; it’s nothing at all; only to kill a big
giant; and she who asks it is the exalted Princess Micomicona, queen of
the great kingdom of Micomicon of Ethiopia.”

“Let her be who she may,” replied Don Quixote, “I will do what is my
bounden duty, and what my conscience bids me, in conformity with what I
have professed;” and turning to the damsel he said, “Let your great
beauty rise, for I grant the boon which you would ask of me.”

“Then what I ask,” said the damsel, “is that your magnanimous person
accompany me at once whither I will conduct you, and that you promise
not to engage in any other adventure or quest until you have avenged me
of a traitor who against all human and divine law, has usurped my
kingdom.”

“I repeat that I grant it,” replied Don Quixote; “and so, lady, you may
from this day forth lay aside the melancholy that distresses you, and
let your failing hopes gather new life and strength, for with the help
of God and of my arm you will soon see yourself restored to your
kingdom, and seated upon the throne of your ancient and mighty realm,
notwithstanding and despite of the felons who would gainsay it; and now
hands to the work, for in delay there is apt to be danger.”

The distressed damsel strove with much pertinacity to kiss his hands;
but Don Quixote, who was in all things a polished and courteous knight,
would by no means allow it, but made her rise and embraced her with
great courtesy and politeness, and ordered Sancho to look to
Rocinante’s girths, and to arm him without a moment’s delay. Sancho
took down the armour, which was hung up on a tree like a trophy, and
having seen to the girths armed his master in a trice, who as soon as
he found himself in his armour exclaimed:

“Let us be gone in the name of God to bring aid to this great lady.”

The barber was all this time on his knees at great pains to hide his
laughter and not let his beard fall, for had it fallen maybe their fine
scheme would have come to nothing; but now seeing the boon granted, and
the promptitude with which Don Quixote prepared to set out in
compliance with it, he rose and took his lady’s hand, and between them
they placed her upon the mule. Don Quixote then mounted Rocinante, and
the barber settled himself on his beast, Sancho being left to go on
foot, which made him feel anew the loss of his Dapple, finding the want
of him now. But he bore all with cheerfulness, being persuaded that his
master had now fairly started and was just on the point of becoming an
emperor; for he felt no doubt at all that he would marry this princess,
and be king of Micomicon at least. The only thing that troubled him was
the reflection that this kingdom was in the land of the blacks, and
that the people they would give him for vassals would be all black; but
for this he soon found a remedy in his fancy, and said he to himself,
“What is it to me if my vassals are blacks? What more have I to do than
make a cargo of them and carry them to Spain, where I can sell them and
get ready money for them, and with it buy some title or some office in
which to live at ease all the days of my life? Not unless you go to
sleep and haven’t the wit or skill to turn things to account and sell
three, six, or ten thousand vassals while you would be talking about
it! By God I will stir them up, big and little, or as best I can, and
let them be ever so black I’ll turn them into white or yellow. Come,
come, what a fool I am!” And so he jogged on, so occupied with his
thoughts and easy in his mind that he forgot all about the hardship of
travelling on foot.

Cardenio and the curate were watching all this from among some bushes,
not knowing how to join company with the others; but the curate, who
was very fertile in devices, soon hit upon a way of effecting their
purpose, and with a pair of scissors he had in a case he quickly cut
off Cardenio’s beard, and putting on him a grey jerkin of his own he
gave him a black cloak, leaving himself in his breeches and doublet,
while Cardenio’s appearance was so different from what it had been that
he would not have known himself had he seen himself in a mirror. Having
effected this, although the others had gone on ahead while they were
disguising themselves, they easily came out on the high road before
them, for the brambles and awkward places they encountered did not
allow those on horseback to go as fast as those on foot. They then
posted themselves on the level ground at the outlet of the Sierra, and
as soon as Don Quixote and his companions emerged from it the curate
began to examine him very deliberately, as though he were striving to
recognise him, and after having stared at him for some time he hastened
towards him with open arms exclaiming, “A happy meeting with the mirror
of chivalry, my worthy compatriot Don Quixote of La Mancha, the flower
and cream of high breeding, the protection and relief of the
distressed, the quintessence of knights-errant!” And so saying he
clasped in his arms the knee of Don Quixote’s left leg. He, astonished
at the stranger’s words and behaviour, looked at him attentively, and
at length recognised him, very much surprised to see him there, and
made great efforts to dismount. This, however, the curate would not
allow, on which Don Quixote said, “Permit me, señor licentiate, for it
is not fitting that I should be on horseback and so reverend a person
as your worship on foot.”

“On no account will I allow it,” said the curate; “your mightiness must
remain on horseback, for it is on horseback you achieve the greatest
deeds and adventures that have been beheld in our age; as for me, an
unworthy priest, it will serve me well enough to mount on the haunches
of one of the mules of these gentlefolk who accompany your worship, if
they have no objection, and I will fancy I am mounted on the steed
Pegasus, or on the zebra or charger that bore the famous Moor,
Muzaraque, who to this day lies enchanted in the great hill of Zulema,
a little distance from the great Complutum.”

“Nor even that will I consent to, señor licentiate,” answered Don
Quixote, “and I know it will be the good pleasure of my lady the
princess, out of love for me, to order her squire to give up the saddle
of his mule to your worship, and he can sit behind if the beast will
bear it.”

“It will, I am sure,” said the princess, “and I am sure, too, that I
need not order my squire, for he is too courteous and considerate to
allow a Churchman to go on foot when he might be mounted.”

“That he is,” said the barber, and at once alighting, he offered his
saddle to the curate, who accepted it without much entreaty; but
unfortunately as the barber was mounting behind, the mule, being as it
happened a hired one, which is the same thing as saying
ill-conditioned, lifted its hind hoofs and let fly a couple of kicks in
the air, which would have made Master Nicholas wish his expedition in
quest of Don Quixote at the devil had they caught him on the breast or
head. As it was, they so took him by surprise that he came to the
ground, giving so little heed to his beard that it fell off, and all he
could do when he found himself without it was to cover his face hastily
with both his hands and moan that his teeth were knocked out. Don
Quixote when he saw all that bundle of beard detached, without jaws or
blood, from the face of the fallen squire, exclaimed:

“By the living God, but this is a great miracle! it has knocked off and
plucked away the beard from his face as if it had been shaved off
designedly.”

The curate, seeing the danger of discovery that threatened his scheme,
at once pounced upon the beard and hastened with it to where Master
Nicholas lay, still uttering moans, and drawing his head to his breast
had it on in an instant, muttering over him some words which he said
were a certain special charm for sticking on beards, as they would see;
and as soon as he had it fixed he left him, and the squire appeared
well bearded and whole as before, whereat Don Quixote was beyond
measure astonished, and begged the curate to teach him that charm when
he had an opportunity, as he was persuaded its virtue must extend
beyond the sticking on of beards, for it was clear that where the beard
had been stripped off the flesh must have remained torn and lacerated,
and when it could heal all that it must be good for more than beards.

“And so it is,” said the curate, and he promised to teach it to him on
the first opportunity. They then agreed that for the present the curate
should mount, and that the three should ride by turns until they
reached the inn, which might be about six leagues from where they were.

Three then being mounted, that is to say, Don Quixote, the princess,
and the curate, and three on foot, Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho
Panza, Don Quixote said to the damsel:

“Let your highness, lady, lead on whithersoever is most pleasing to
you;” but before she could answer the licentiate said:

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“Towards what kingdom would your ladyship direct our course? Is it
perchance towards that of Micomicon? It must be, or else I know little
about kingdoms.”

She, being ready on all points, understood that she was to answer
“Yes,” so she said “Yes, señor, my way lies towards that kingdom.”

“In that case,” said the curate, “we must pass right through my
village, and there your worship will take the road to Cartagena, where
you will be able to embark, fortune favouring; and if the wind be fair
and the sea smooth and tranquil, in somewhat less than nine years you
may come in sight of the great lake Meona, I mean Meotides, which is
little more than a hundred days’ journey this side of your highness’s
kingdom.”

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“Your worship is mistaken, señor,” said she; “for it is not two years
since I set out from it, and though I never had good weather,
nevertheless I am here to behold what I so longed for, and that is my
lord Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose fame came to my ears as soon as I
set foot in Spain and impelled me to go in search of him, to commend
myself to his courtesy, and entrust the justice of my cause to the
might of his invincible arm.”

“Enough; no more praise,” said Don Quixote at this, “for I hate all
flattery; and though this may not be so, still language of the kind is
offensive to my chaste ears. I will only say, señora, that whether it
has might or not, that which it may or may not have shall be devoted to
your service even to death; and now, leaving this to its proper season,
I would ask the señor licentiate to tell me what it is that has brought
him into these parts, alone, unattended, and so lightly clad that I am
filled with amazement.”

“I will answer that briefly,” replied the curate; “you must know then,
Señor Don Quixote, that Master Nicholas, our friend and barber, and I
were going to Seville to receive some money that a relative of mine who
went to the Indies many years ago had sent me, and not such a small sum
but that it was over sixty thousand pieces of eight, full weight, which
is something; and passing by this place yesterday we were attacked by
four footpads, who stripped us even to our beards, and them they
stripped off so that the barber found it necessary to put on a false
one, and even this young man here”—pointing to Cardenio—“they
completely transformed. But the best of it is, the story goes in the
neighbourhood that those who attacked us belong to a number of galley
slaves who, they say, were set free almost on the very same spot by a
man of such valour that, in spite of the commissary and of the guards,
he released the whole of them; and beyond all doubt he must have been
out of his senses, or he must be as great a scoundrel as they, or some
man without heart or conscience to let the wolf loose among the sheep,
the fox among the hens, the fly among the honey. He has defrauded
justice, and opposed his king and lawful master, for he opposed his
just commands; he has, I say, robbed the galleys of their feet, stirred
up the Holy Brotherhood which for many years past has been quiet, and,
lastly, has done a deed by which his soul may be lost without any gain
to his body.” Sancho had told the curate and the barber of the
adventure of the galley slaves, which, so much to his glory, his master
had achieved, and hence the curate in alluding to it made the most of
it to see what would be said or done by Don Quixote; who changed colour
at every word, not daring to say that it was he who had been the
liberator of those worthy people. “These, then,” said the curate, “were
they who robbed us; and God in his mercy pardon him who would not let
them go to the punishment they deserved.”

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