deprived me of my arm, as long as it were not my sword arm. Know,
Sancho, that a mouth without teeth is like a mill without a
grindstone, and a tooth is more to be prized than a millstone. But all
this must we suffer who profess the stern rule of knights-errant.
Mount, friend, and lead the way, for I will follow thee what pace thou
pleasest."
DON QUIXOTE DOES PENANCE AS DID THE KNIGHTS OF OLD
Retold by Judge Parry
Don Quixote mounted once again on Rozinante, and commanded Sancho to
follow him. Dapple, the ass, had been stolen from them one night while
they slept, and Sancho was now obliged to walk. They travelled slowly
through the thickest and roughest part of the mountains. "What is it
that your worship intends to do in this out of the way spot?" asked
Sancho.
"I will keep you no longer in the dark," replied Don Quixote. "You
must know that Amadis of Gaul was the most perfect of all
knights-errant. And as he was the morning star and the sun of all
valiant knights, so am I wise in imitating all he did. And I remember
that when his lady Oriana disdained his love, he showed his wisdom,
virtue, and manhood by changing his name to Beltenebros and retiring
to a wild country, there to perform a penance. And as I may more
easily imitate him in this than in staying giants, beheading serpents,
killing monsters, destroying armies, and putting navies to flight, and
because this mountain seems fit for the purpose, I intend myself to do
penance here."
By this time they had arrived at the foot of a lofty mountain, which
stood like a huge rock apart from all the rest. Close by glided a
smooth river, hemmed in on every side by a green and fertile
meadow. Around were many fine trees and plants and flowers, which made
the spot a most delightful one.
"Here!" cried Don Quixote in a loud voice, "I elect to do my
penance. Here shall the tears from my eyes swell the limpid streams,
and here shall the sighs of my heart stir the leaves of every mountain
tree. O Dulcinea of Toboso, day of my night and star of my fortunes,
consider the pass to which I am come, and return a favourable answer
to my wishes!"
With this he alighted from Rozinante, and, taking off his saddle and
bridle, gave him a slap on his haunches, and said: "He gives thee
liberty that wants it himself, O steed, famous for thy swiftness and
the great works thou hast done!"
When Sancho heard all this he could not help saying: "I wish Dapple
were here, for he deserves at least as long a speech in his praise;
but truly, sir knight, if my journey with your letter, and your
penance here are really to take place, it would be better to saddle
Rozinante again, that he may supply the want of mine ass that was
stolen from me."
"As thou likest about that," said Don Quixote; "but thou must not
depart for three days as yet, during which time thou shalt see what I
will say and do for my lady's sake, that thou mayest tell her all
about it."
"But what more can I see," asked Sancho, "than what I have already
seen?"
"Thou art well up in the matter, certainly," replied his master, "for
as yet I have done nothing, and if I am to be a despairing lover, I
must tear my clothes, and throw away mine armour, and beat my head
against these rocks, with many other things that shall make thee
marvel."
"For goodness' sake," cried Sancho, "take care how you go knocking
your head against rocks, for you might happen to come up against so
ungracious a rock that it would put an end to the penance
altogether. If the knocks on the head are necessary, I should content
yourself, seeing that this madness is all make-believe, with striking
your head on some softer thing, and leave the rest to me, for I will
tell your lady that I saw you strike your head on the point of a rock
that was harder than a diamond."
"I thank thee, Sancho, for thy good will," replied the knight, "but
the rules of knighthood forbid me to act or to speak a lie, and
therefore the knocks of the head must be real solid knocks, and it
will be necessary for thee to leave me some lint to cure them, seeing
that fortune has deprived us of that precious balsam."
"It was worse to lose the ass," said Sancho, "seeing that with him we
lost lint and everything; but pray, your worship, never mention that
horrible balsam again, for the very name of it nearly turns me inside
out. And now write your letter, and let me saddle Rozinante and
begone, for I warrant when I once get to Toboso I will tell the Lady
Dulcinea such strange things of your follies and madness, that I shall
make her as soft as a glove even though I find her harder than a
cork-tree. And with her sweet and honied answer I will return as
speedily as a witch on a broom-stick, and release you from your
penance."
"But how shall we write a letter here?" said Don Quixote.
"And how can you write the order for the handing over to me of the
ass-colts?" asked Sancho.
"Seeing there is no paper," said the knight, "we might, like the
ancients, write on waxen tablets, but that wax is as hard to find as
paper. But now that I come to think of it, there is Cardenio's
pocket-book. I will write on that, and thou shalt have the matter of
it written out in a good round hand at the first village wherein thou
shalt find a schoolmaster."
"But what is to be done about the signature?" asked Sancho.
"The letters of Amadis were never signed," replied Don Quixote.
"That is all very well," said Sancho, "but the paper for the three
asses must be signed, for if it be copied out they shall say it is
false, and then I shall not get the ass-colts."
"Well, then, the order for the ass-colts shall be signed in the book,"
said Don Quixote; "and as for the love-letter, thou shalt put this
ending to it, 'Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance.' And it will be no great matter that it goes in a
strange hand, for as well as I remember Dulcinea can neither read nor
write, nor has she ever seen my handwriting. For indeed, during the
twelve years I have been loving her more dearly than the light of my
eyes, I have only seen her four times, and I doubt if she hath ever
noticed me at all, so closely have her father Lorenzo Corchuelo, and
her mother Aldonza brought her up."
"Ha! ha!" cried Sancho, "then the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso is the
daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, and is called Aldonza Corchuelo?"
"That is she," said Don Quixote, "and a lady worthy to be the empress
of this wide universe."
"I know her very well," replied Sancho, "and can tell you that she can
throw an iron bar with the strongest lad in our village. She is a girl
of mettle, tall and stout, and a sturdy lass that can hold her own
with any knight-errant in the world. Out upon her, what an arm she
hath! Why, I saw her one day stand on top of the church belfry, to
call her father's servants from the fields, and, though they were half
a league off, they heard her as though she were in the next field; and
the best of her is there is nothing coy about her, but she jokes with
all and makes game and jest of everybody. To be frank with you, Sir
Don Quixote, I have been living under a great mistake, for, really and
truly, I thought all this while that the lady Dulcinea was some great
princess with whom your worship was in love."
"I have told thee, Sancho, many times before now," said Don Quixote,
"that thou art a very great babbler. Understand, then, that my lady
Dulcinea is to me as good and beautiful as any princess in the world,
and that is enough."
With these words; he took out the pocket-book, and, going aside, began
to write with great gravity. When he had ended, he called Sancho to
him and read him the following letter:--
"SOVEREIGN LADY,
"The sere wounded one, O sweetest Dulcinea of Toboso, sends thee the
health which he wants himself. If thy beauty disdain me, I cannot
live. My good Squire Sancho will give thee ample account, O ungrateful
fair one, of the penance I do for love of thee. Should it be thy
pleasure to favour me, I am thine. If not, by ending my life I shall
satisfy both thy cruelty and my desires.
"Thine until death,
"KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE."
"By my father's life," said Sancho, "it is the noblest thing that ever
I heard in my life; and now will your worship write the order for the
three ass-colts?"
"With pleasure," answered Don Quixote, and he did as he was desired.
"And now," said Sancho, "let me saddle Rozinante and be off. For I
intend to start without waiting to see those mad pranks your worship
is going to play. There is one thing I am afraid of, though, and that
is, that on my return I shall not be able to find the place where I
leave you, it is so wild and difficult."
"Take the marks well, and when thou shouldst return I will mount to
the tops of the highest rocks. Also it will be well to cut down some
boughs and strew them after you as you go, that they may serve as
marks to find your way back."
Sancho did this, and, not heeding his master's request to stay and see
him go through some mad tricks in order that he might describe them to
Dulcinea, he mounted Rozinante and rode away.
He had not got more than a hundred paces when he returned and said:
"Sir, what you said was true, and it would be better for my conscience
if I saw the follies you are about to do before I describe them to
your lady."
"Did I not tell thee so?" said Don Quixote; "wait but a minute."
Then stripping himself in all haste of most of his clothes, Don
Quixote began cutting capers and turning somersaults in his shirt
tails, until even Sancho was satisfied that he might truthfully tell
the Lady Dulcinea that her lover was mad, and so, turning away, he
started in good earnest upon his journey.
SANCHO'S JOURNEY TO THE LADY DULCINEA
Retold by Judge Parry
Don Quixote, left to himself, climbed to the top of a high mountain,
and spent his days making poems about the beautiful Dulcinea, which he
recited to the rocks and trees around him. In this, and in calling
upon the nymphs of the streams, and the satyrs of the woods, to hear
his cries, did he pass his time while Sancho was away.
As for his squire, turning out on the highway, he took the road which
led to Toboso, and arrived the next day at the inn where he had been
tossed in a blanket. He no sooner saw it than he imagined that he was
once again flying through the air, and he half made up his mind that
he would not enter the inn, although it was now dinner-hour and he
felt a marvellous longing to taste some cooked meat again, as he had
eaten nothing but cold fare for a good many days.
This longing made him draw near to the inn, remaining still in some
doubt as to whether he should enter it or not.
As he stood musing, there came out of the inn two persons who
recognised him at once, and the one said to the other: "Tell me, sir
curate, is not that horseman riding there Sancho Panza, who departed
with Don Quixote to be his squire?"
"It is," said the curate, "and that is Don Quixote's horse."
They knew him well enough, for they were Don Quixote's friends, the
curate and the barber, who not so long ago had helped to burn his
books and wall up his library; so, wanting to learn news of Don
Quixote, they went up to him and said: "Friend Sancho Panza, where
have you left your master?"
Sancho Panza knew them instantly, but wanted to conceal the place and
manner in which the knight remained, and answered that his master was
kept in a certain place by affairs of the greatest importance of which
he must say nothing.
"That will not do, friend Sancho," said the barber. "If thou dost not
tell us where he is, we shall believe that thou hast robbed and slain
him, seeing that thou art riding his horse. Verily thou must find us
the owner of the steed, or it will be the worse for thee."
"Your threats do not trouble me, for I am not one who would rob or
murder anybody, and, for my master, he is enjoying himself doing
penance in the Brown Mountains, where I have just left him."
Then Sancho told them from beginning to end how his master was
carrying out his penance, and of the mad pranks he intended to
perform, and how he, Sancho, was bearing a letter to the Lady Dulcinea
of Toboso, who was none other than the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo,
with whom the knight was head and ears in love.
Both of them were amazed at what they heard, although they knew
something of Don Quixote's madness already. They asked Sancho to show,
them the letter he was carrying to the Lady Dulcinea. Sancho told
them it was written in the pocket-book, and that he was ordered to get
it copied out at the first village he came to.
The curate told him that if he would show it to them, he would make a
fair copy of it for him. Then Sancho thrust his hand into his bosom
to search for the little book, but he could not find it, nor would he
have found it if he had hunted until Doomsday, for he had left it with
Don Quixote, who had quite forgotten to give it to him, nor had he
remembered to ask for it when he came away. When Sancho discovered
that the book was lost, his face grew as pale as death, and feeling
all over his body he saw clearly that it was not to be found. Without
more ado he laid hold of his beard, and with both his fists plucked
out half his hair and gave himself half a dozen blows about his face
and nose, so that he was soon bathed in his own blood.
Seeing this, the curate and the barber asked him what was the matter,
that he should treat himself so ill.
"What is the matter?" cried poor Sancho. "Why, I have let slip
through my fingers three of the finest ass-colts you ever saw."
"How so?" asked the barber.
"Why, I have lost the pocket-book," replied Sancho, "which had in it
not only the letter for Dulcinea, but also a note of hand signed by my
master addressed to his niece, ordering her to give me three ass-colts
of the four or five that were left at his house." So saying, he told
them the story of his lost Dapple.
The curate comforted him by telling him that as soon as they had found
his master they would get him to write out the paper again in proper
form. With this Sancho took courage, and said if that could be done
all would be right, for he cared not much for the loss of Dulcinea's
letter, as he knew it by heart.
"Say it then, Sancho," said the barber, "and we will write it out."
Then Sancho stood still and began to scratch his head and try to call
the letter to memory. He stood first on one leg and then on the other,
and looked first to heaven and then to earth, while he gnawed off half
his nails, and at the end of a long pause said: "I doubt if I can
remember all, but it began, 'High and unsavoury lady.'"
"I warrant you," interrupted the barber, "it was not 'unsavoury' but
'sovereign lady.'"
"So it was," cried Sancho; "and then there was something about the
wounded one sending health and sickness and what not to the ungrateful
fair, and so it scrambled along until it ended in 'Yours till death,
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.'"
They were both much amused at Sancho's good memory, and praised it
highly, asking him to repeat the letter once or twice more to them, so
that they might be able to write it down when they got a chance. Three
times did Sancho repeat it, and each time he made as many new
mistakes. Then he told them other things about his master, but never a
word about being tossed in a blanket, although he refused, without
giving any reason, to enter the inn, though he begged them to bring
him something nice and hot to eat, and some barley for Rozinante, when
they had finished their own repast.
With that they went into the inn, and after a while the curate brought
him some meat, which Sancho was very glad to see.
Now whilst the curate and the barber were in the inn they discussed
together the best means of bringing Don Quixote back to his home, and
the curate hit upon a plan which fitted in well with Don Quixote's
humour, and seemed likely to be successful. This plan was, as he told
the barber, to dress himself like a wandering damsel, while the barber
took the part of her squire, and in this disguise they were to go to
where Don Quixote was undergoing his penance, and the curate,
pretending that he was an afflicted and sorely distressed damsel, was
to demand of him a boon, which as a valiant knight errant he could not
refuse.
The service which the damsel was to ask was that Don Quixote would
follow her where she should lead him, to right a wrong which some
wicked knight had done her. Besides this, she was to pray him not to
command her to unveil herself or inquire as to her condition, until he
had done her right against the wicked knight. And thus they hoped to
lead Don Quixote back to his own village, and afterwards to cure him
of his mad ideas.
The curate's notion pleased the barber well, and they resolved to
carry it out. They borrowed of the innkeeper's wife a gown and a
head-dress, leaving with her in exchange the curate's new cassock. The
barber made for himself a great beard of a red ox's tail in which the
innkeeper used to hang his horse-comb.
The innkeeper's wife asked them what they wanted these things for, and
the curate told her shortly all about Don Quixote's madness, and how
this disguise was necessary to bring him away from the mountains where
he had taken up his abode.
The innkeeper and his wife then remembered all about their strange
guest, and told the barber and the curate all about him and his
balsam, and how Sancho had fared with the blanket. Then the
innkeeper's wife dressed up the curate so cleverly that it could not
have been better done. She attired him in a stuff gown with bands of
black velvet several inches broad, and a bodice and sleeves of green
velvet trimmed with white satin, both of which might have been made in
the days of the Flood. The curate would not consent to wear a
headdress like a woman's, but put on a white quilted linen nightcap,
which he carried to sleep in. Then with two strips of black stuff he
made himself a mask and fixed it on, and this covered his face and
beard very neatly. He then put on his large hat, and, wrapping himself
in his cloak, seated himself like a woman sideways on his mule, whilst
the barber mounted his, with a beard reaching down to his girdle,
made, as was said, from a red ox's tail.
They now took their leave, and all at the inn wished them a good
success; but they had not gone very far when the curate began to dread
that he was not doing right in dressing up as a woman and gadding
about in such a costume, even on so good an errand. He therefore
proposed to the barber that he should be the distressed damsel, and
he, the curate, would take the part of the squire and teach him what
to say and how to behave. Sancho now came up to them, and, seeing them
in their strange dresses, could not contain his laughter.
The curate soon threw off his disguise, and the barber did the same,
and both resolved not to dress up any more until they should come
nearer to Don Quixote, when the barber should be the distressed damsel
and the curate should be the squire.
Then they pursued their journey towards the Brown Mountains, guided by
Sancho, to whom they explained that it was necessary that his master
should be led away from his penance, if he was ever to become an
emperor and be in a position to give Sancho his desired island.
THE STORY OF CARDENIO
Retold by Judge Parry
The next day they arrived at the place where Sancho had left the
boughs strewn along his path, and there he told them they were near to
Don Quixote, and that they had better get dressed. For they had told
Sancho part of their plan to take away his master from this wretched
penance he was performing, and warned him not to tell the knight who
they were. They also said that if Don Quixote asked, as they were sure
he would, whether he had delivered his letter to Dulcinea, he was to
say that he had done so; but as his lady could not read, she had sent
a message that he was to return to her. Sancho listened to all this
talk, and said he would remember everything, for he was anxious that
his master should give up penances and go forth again in search of
islands. He also suggested that it were best he should go on in
advance, as perhaps the message from Dulcinea would of itself be
enough to bring Don Quixote away from the mountains.
With that, Sancho went off into the mountain gorges, leaving the other
two behind by a stream overhung with pleasant trees and rocks.
It was one of the hottest days of August, when in those parts the heat
is very great, and it was about three in the afternoon when Sancho
left them. The two were resting in the shade at their ease when they
heard the sound of a voice, not accompanied by any instrument, but
singing very sweetly and melodiously. The song surprised them not a
little, for this did not seem the place in which to find so good a
singer.
The singer finished his song, and the barber and curate, in wonder and
delight, listened for more. But as silence continued, they agreed to
go in search of this strange musician. As they were moving away he
again burst into song, and at the end of this, uttered a deep sigh,
and the music was changed into sobs and heartrending moans.
They had not gone far in their search when, in turning the corner of a
rock, they saw a man with a black and matted beard, his hair long and
untangled, his feet unshod and his legs bare. The curate at once went
up to him and the man returned his greeting in a hoarse tone but with
great courtesy.
"Whoever you may be, good sirs, I see clearly that, unworthy as I am,
there are yet human beings who would show me kindness. My name is
Cardenio; the place of my birth one of the best cities in Andalusia;
my lineage noble, my parents rich, and my misfortunes so great that I
think no one was ever to be pitied as I am. A terrible madness masters
me to live in these mountains and many blame my outrageous conduct
rather than pity my misery. But if you will listen to my story, you
will know why I have been driven here, what has made me mad, and will
understand how far I ought to be blamed and how much I may be pitied."
The curate and the barber, who wanted nothing better than to learn the
cause of his woe from his own lips, asked him to tell his story.
Upon this Cardenio began in the middle of his story and progressed
rapidly in spite of repeated questioning until he came to the book
that his beloved Lucinda had borrowed about Amadis Gaul.
There was no interruption from any one on this occasion, so Cardenio
went on to tell them how, when Lucinda returned the book he found in
it a letter full of tender wishes beautifully expressed.
"It was this letter," continued Cardenio, "that moved me to again ask
Lucinda for wife; it was this letter also which made Don Fernando
determine to ruin me before my happiness could be complete. I told
Don Fernando how matters stood with me, and how her father expected
mine to ask for Lucinda, and how I dared not speak to my father about
it for fear he should refuse his consent; not because he was ignorant
of the beauty and worth of Lucinda, but because he did not wish me to
marry so soon, or at least not until he had seen what the Duke Ricardo
would do for me. I told Don Fernando that I could not venture to speak
to my father about it, and he offered to speak on my behalf, and
persuade my father to ask for Lucinda's hand.
"How could I imagine that with a gentleman like Fernando, my own
friend, such a thing as treachery was possible? But so it was! And my
friend, as I thought him, knowing that my presence was a
stumbling-block to his plans, asked me to go to his elder brother's to
borrow some money from him to pay for six horses which Fernando had
bought in the city. It never entered my thoughts to imagine his
villainy, and I went with a right good will to do his errand. That
night I spoke with Lucinda, and told her what had been arranged
between me and Fernando, telling her to hope that all would turn out
well. As I left her, tears filled her eyes, and we both seemed full of
misery and alarm, tokens, as I now think, of the dark fate that
awaited me. I reached the town to which I was sent, and delivered my
letters to Don Fernando's brother. I was well received, but there
seemed no haste to send me back again, and I was put off with many
excuses about the difficulty of raising the money that Don Fernando
needed. In this way I rested several days, much to my disgust, and it
seemed to me impossible to live apart from Lucinda for so long a time.