of me with a letter, which, by the handwriting, I knew to be
Lucinda's. I opened it, not without fear, knowing that it must be some
serious matter which would lead her to write to me, seeing she did it
so rarely. I asked the bearer, before I read the letter, who had given
it to him, and how long it had been on the way. He answered that,
passing by chance at midday through a street in my native city, a very
beautiful lady had called to him from a window. Poor thing, said he,
her eyes were all bedewed with tears, and she spoke hurriedly, saying:
'Brother, if thou art a good man, as thou seemest to be, I pray thee
take this letter to the person named in the address, and in so doing
thou shalt do me a great service. And that thou mayest not want money
to do it, take what thou shalt find wrapped in that handkerchief.'
"'So saying she threw out of the window a handkerchief in which was
wrapped a hundred _reals_, this ring of gold which I carry here,
and this letter which I have given you. I made signs to her that I
would do what she bade, and as I knew you very well I made up my mind
not to trust any other messenger, but to come myself, and so I have
travelled this journey, which you know is some eighteen leagues, in
but sixteen hours.'
"Whilst the kind messenger was telling his story, I remained trembling
with the letter in my hand, until at last I took courage and opened
it, when these words caught my eyes:--
"'The promise Don Fernando made to you to persuade your father to
speak to mine, he has kept after his own fashion. Know, then, that he
has himself asked me for wife, and my father, carried away by his rank
and position, has agreed to his wishes, so that in two days we are to
be privately married. Imagine how I feel, and consider if you should
not come at once. Let me hope that this reaches your hand ere mine be
joined to his who keeps his promised faith so ill.'
"Such were the words of her letter, and they caused me at once to set
out on my journey without waiting for the despatch of Don Fernando's
business, for now I knew that it was not a matter of buying horses,
but the pursuit of his own wretched pleasure, that had led to my being
sent to his brother. The rage which I felt for Don Fernando, joined to
the fear I had of losing the jewel I had won by so many years of
patient love, seemed to lend me wings, and I arrived at my native city
as swiftly as though I had flown, just in time to see and speak with
Lucinda. I entered the city secretly, and left my mule at the house of
the honest man who had brought my letter, and went straight to the
little iron gate where I had so often met Lucinda.
"There I found her, and as soon as she saw me she said in deep
distress: 'Cardenio, I am attired in wedding garments, and in the hall
there waits for me the traitor, Don Fernando, and my covetous father,
with other witnesses, who shall see my death rather than my wedding.
Be not troubled, dear friend, for if I cannot persuade them to give me
my freedom, I can at least end my life with this dagger.'
"I answered her in great distress, saying: 'Sweet lady, if thou
carriest a dagger, I also carry a sword to defend thy life, or to kill
myself, should fortune be against us.'
"I believe she did not hear all I said, for she was hastily called
away, and I aroused myself from my grief, as best I could, and went
into the house, for I knew well all the entrances and exits. Then,
without being seen, I managed to place myself in a hollow formed by
the window of the great hall, which was covered by two pieces of
tapestry drawn together, whence I could see all that went on in the
hall without any one seeing me.
"The bridegroom entered the hall, wearing his ordinary dress. His
groomsman was a first cousin of Lucinda's, and no one else was in the
room but the servants of the house. In a little while Lucinda came out
of her dressing-room with her mother and two of her maids. My anxiety
gave me no time to note what she wore. I was only able to mark the
colours, which were crimson and white; and I remember the glimmer with
which the jewels and precious stones shone in her head-dress. But all
this was as nothing to the singular beauty of her fair golden hair.
"When they were all stood in the hall, the priest of the parish
entered, and, taking each by the hand, asked: 'Will you, Lady Lucinda,
take the Lord Don Fernando for your lawful husband?' I thrust my head
and neck out of the tapestry to hear what Lucinda answered. The priest
stood waiting for a long time before she gave it, and then, when I
expected, nay, almost hoped, that she would take out the dagger to
stab herself, or unloose her tongue to speak the truth, or make some
confession of her love for me, I heard her say in a faint and
languishing voice, 'I will.'
"Then Don Fernando said the same, and, giving her the ring, the knot
was tied. But when the bridegroom approached to embrace her, she put
her hand to her heart and fell fainting in her mother's arms.
"It remains only for me to tell in what a state I was, when in that
'Yes!' I saw all my hopes at an end. I burned with rage and jealousy.
All the house was in a tumult when Lucinda fainted, and, her mother
unclasping her dress to give her air, found in her bosom a paper,
which Fernando seized and went aside to read by the light of a torch.
Whilst he read it he fell into a chair and covered his face with his
hands in melancholy discontent.
"Seeing every one was in confusion I ventured forth, not caring where
I went, not having even a desire to take vengeance on my enemies. I
left the house, and came to where I had left my mule, which I caused
to be saddled. Then without a word of farewell to any one I rode out
of the city, and never turned my head to look back at it again.
"All night I travelled, and about dawn I came to one of the entrances
to these mountains, through which I wandered three days at random. I
then left my mule, and such things as I had, and took to living in
these wilds. My most ordinary dwelling is in the hollow of a
cork-tree, which is large enough to shelter this wretched body. The
goatherds who live among these mountains give me food out of charity.
They tell me, when they meet me in my wits, that at other times I rush
out at them and seize with violence the food they would offer me in
kindness.
"I know that I do a thousand mad things, but without Lucinda I shall
never recover my reason, and I feel certain that my misery can only be
ended by death."
THE STORY OF DOROTHEA
Retold by Judge Parry
As soon as Cardenio had finished his melancholy story, the curate was
about to offer him some consolation, when he was stopped by hearing a
mournful voice calling out: "Oh that I could find an end to this life
of misery! Alas, how much more agreeable to me is the company of these
rocks and thickets than the society of faithless man! Would that I had
any one to advise me in difficulty, to comfort me in distress, or to
avenge my wrongs!" This was overheard by the curate and all who were
with him, and thinking that the person who spoke must be hard by, they
went to search, and had not gone twenty paces when they saw behind a
large rock a boy sitting under an ash-tree. He wore a peasant's dress,
but as he was bending down to wash his feet in the brook, his head was
turned from them. They approached softly and without speaking, while
his whole attention was employed in bathing his legs in the stream.
They wondered at the whiteness and beauty of his feet, that did not
seem formed to tread the furrows, or follow the cattle or the plough,
as his dress seemed to suggest. The curate, who was ahead of the rest,
made signs to them to crouch down, or hide themselves behind a rock.
This done, they all gazed at the beautiful youth, who was clad in a
grey jacket, and wore breeches and hose of the same cloth, with a grey
hunting-cap on his head. Having washed his delicate feet, he wiped
them with a handkerchief which he took out of his cap, and in doing so
he raised his head, showing to those who were looking at him a face of
such exquisite beauty that Cardenio murmured: "Since this is not
Lucinda, it can be no earthly but some celestial being."
The youth took off his cap, and, shaking his head, a wealth of hair,
that Apollo might have envied, fell down upon his shoulders, and
discovered to them all that the peasant was not only a woman, but one
of the most delicate and handsome women they had ever seen. Even
Cardenio had to admit to himself that only Lucinda could rival her in
beauty. Her golden locks fell down in such length and quantity that
they not only covered her shoulders, but concealed everything except
her feet, and the bystanders more than ever desired to know who this
mysterious beauty might be. Some one advanced, and at the noise the
beauteous phantasy raised her head, and thrust aside her locks with
both hands, to see what it was that had startled her. No sooner did
she perceive them than she started up, and, without staying to put on
her shoes or tie up her hair, seized her bundle, and took to flight
full of alarm, but she had not run six yards when her delicate feet,
unable to bear the roughness of the stones, failed her, and she fell
to the ground.
They all ran to her assistance, and the curate, who was first, said:
"Stay, madam, whosoever you are; those you see here have no desire to
harm you, and there is therefore no necessity whatever for flight."
To this she made no reply, being ashamed and confused, but the curate,
taking her hand, continued in a kindly manner: "Madam, it can be no
slight cause that has hidden your beauty in such an unworthy disguise,
and brought you to this lonely place where we have found you. Let us
at least offer you our advice and counsel in your distress, for no
sorrow can be so great that kind words may not be of service. Therefore,
madam, tell us something of your good or evil fortune, that we may
help you in your troubles as best we can."
At first, while the curate spoke, the disguised damsel stood rapt in
attention, and gaped and gazed at them all as if she were some stupid
villager, who did not understand what was said; but finding that the
curate understood something of her secret, she sighed deeply, and
said: "Since these mountains cannot conceal me, and my poor hair
betrays my secret, it would be vain for me to pretend things which you
could not be expected to believe. Therefore I thank you all,
gentlemen, for your kindness and courtesy, and I will tell you
something of my misfortunes, not to win your pity, but that you may
know why it is I wander here alone and in this strange disguise."
All this was said in such a sweet voice, and in so sensible a manner,
that they again assured her of their wish to serve her, and begged
that she would tell them her story.
To this she replied by putting on her shoes and binding up her hair,
and seating herself upon a rock in the midst of her three hearers.
Then, brushing away a few tears from her eyes, she began in a clear
voice the story of her life.
"In the Province of Andalusia there is a certain town from which a
great duke takes his name, which makes him one of our grandees, as
they are called in Spain. He has two sons. The elder is heir to his
estates, the younger is heir to I know not what, unless it be his
father's evil qualities. To this nobleman my parents are vassals, of
humble and low degree, but still so rich that if nature had gifted
them with birth equal to their wealth, I should have been nobly born,
nor should I now have suffered these strange misfortunes. They are but
farmers and plain people, and what they mostly prized was their
daughter, whom they thought to be the best treasure they had. As they
had no other child, they were almost too affectionate and indulgent,
and I was their spoilt child. And as I was the mistress of their
affection, so also was I mistress of all their goods. I kept the
reckoning of their oil-mills, their wine-presses, their cattle and
sheep, their beehives--in a word, of all that a rich farmer like my
father could possess. I engaged and dismissed the servants, and was
the stewardess of the estate. The spare hours that were left from the
management of the farm I spent with the needle, the lace cushion, and
the distaff, or else I would read some good hook or practise upon my
harp.
"This was the life that I led in my father's house. And though I
seldom went abroad except to church, yet it seems I had attracted the
eyes of the duke's younger son, Don Fernando, for so he was called."
No sooner did she mention the name of Don Fernando than Cardenio's
face changed colour, and the curate and barber noticing it, feared
that he would burst out into one of his mad fits. But he did nothing
but tremble and remain silent, and the girl continued her story.
"No sooner, then, had Don Fernando seen me than he was smitten with
love for me, and from that moment I had no peace. I could not sleep
for his serenades. I had numerous letters from him, full of
declarations of love, and at last at his earnest entreaty we had many
meetings. But though he talked much of love, yet I knew that his
father would not allow him to marry the daughter of one of his own
vassals, and my parents both assured me that the duke would never
consent to our marriage.
"One evening Don Fernando gave me a beautiful ring, and promised that
he would always be true to me, and from that moment I felt that I was
betrothed to him, and that he really intended, in spite of the duke's
opposition, to make me his wife. For some days I lived in the
greatest joy, and Don Fernando came constantly to see me, but after a
while his visits grew less frequent, and at last ceased altogether,
and I heard that he had gone on a visit to another city.
"I waited in hopes of receiving a letter from him, but none came. Ah,
how sad and bitter those days and hours were to me, when I first began
to doubt and even to disbelieve in my lover's faith! I had to keep
watch on my tears, and wear a happy face for fear my parents should
find out the reason of my unhappiness. All this time of doubt,
however, came to an end at an instant. For at last it was announced in
the town that Don Fernando had married, in the city where he was
visiting, a damsel of exceeding beauty and of very noble birth called
Lucinda, and there were many strange tales told of their wedding."
Cardenio, hearing the name of Lucinda, did nothing but shrug his
shoulders, bow his head, and shed bitter tears. But yet, for all that,
Dorothea, for such was the maiden's name, did not interrupt the thread
of her story, but continued.
"When this doleful news reached my ears, I was inflamed with rage and
fury. I ordered one of my father's shepherds to attend me, and without
saying a word to my parents, I packed up some dresses and some money
and jewels, and set off on foot for the city where Don Fernando had
gone, that I might get from him at least some explanation of his
wickedness. In two days and a half I arrived at my journey's end, and
the first person I asked told me the whole story of Don Fernando's
wedding. He told me that at the time of the wedding, after Lucinda
had uttered her consent to be Fernando's wife, she had fainted, and
there fell from her bosom a letter written in her own hand, in which
she said that she could not be the wife of Don Fernando, because she
was betrothed to Cardenio, a gentleman of that city. The letter went
on to say that she intended to kill herself at the end of the
ceremony, and upon her was found a dagger, which seemed to bear out
what she said. Don Fernando seeing this, and thinking that Lucinda had
mocked him, would have stabbed her with the dagger had her parents not
prevented him. After this, I was told, Don Fernando fled, and I
learned that this Cardenio had been present at the wedding, and,
hearing her words, had vanished from the city in despair, leaving a
letter behind, declaring the wrongs Lucinda had done to him. The whole
city were talking of these terrible things, and they talked the more
when it was known that Lucinda was missing from her father's house,
and that her parents had almost lost their reason in their distress.
When I heard all these things I made up my mind I would find Don
Fernando, married or unmarried. But before I left the city on my
search, I was told there was a proclamation made by the public crier,
offering a large reward for any one who should bring me back to my
parents. Fearing that this might tempt the shepherd to betray my
whereabouts, I made my escape from the city, and in this disguise came
to the Brown Mountains, where I have lived for some months with an old
goatherd, and I help him to tend his goats. Here I have managed to
pass as a peasant lad until my hair betrayed me to you gentlemen as
what I am, a distressed and unfortunate maiden. This is indeed the
true story of my tragedy, for which consolation is in vain, and
relief, I fear me, impossible."
THE END OF THE PENANCE
Retold by Judge Parry
When the unfortunate Dorothea had finished her story, she remained
silent, her face flushed with sorrow; and as the priest was about to
comfort her, Cardenio took her by the hand and said: "Lady, thou art
the beautiful Dorothea, daughter unto rich Cleonardo."
Dorothea was amazed when she heard her father's name spoken by a
person of such wretched appearance as Cardenio, and answered: "Who art
thou, friend, that knowest so well my father's name? For, unless I am
mistaken, I did not once name him throughout all my story."
"I am," said Cardenio, "the unlucky one to whom Lucinda was betrothed;
and I, too, had thought that I was without hope of comfort. But now I
hear that Lucinda will not marry Fernando because she is mine, and
Fernando cannot marry Lucinda because he is yours, it seems to me that
there is yet some consolation for both of us. And I vow, on the faith
of a gentleman, not to forsake you until I see you in the possession
of Don Fernando."
The curate now told them both the nature of his errand, and begged
that they would join him in his travels, and stay as long as they
pleased at his village. By this time they heard the voice of Sancho
Panza, who, not finding them where he had left them, was calling out
as loudly as he might.
They went to meet him, and asked for Don Quixote. Sancho told them
that he had found him almost naked to his shirt, lean and yellow, half
dead with hunger, and sighing for the Lady Dulcinea; and although he
had told him that she commanded him to journey to Tohoso, yet he
declared that he had made up his mind not to appear before her until
he had done feats worthy of her great beauty.
The curate now returned and told Dorothea of their plan, and she at
once offered to act the part of the distressed damsel, for she had a
lady's dress in the bundle which she carried.
"The sooner, then, we set about our work the better," said the barber.
Dorothea retired to put on her robe of a fine rich woollen cloth, a
short mantle of another green stuff, and a collar and many rich jewels
which she took from a little casket. With these things she adorned
herself so gorgeously that she appeared to be a princess at
least. When Sancho saw her he was amazed, and asked the curate with
great eagerness to tell him who the lady was, and what she was doing
in these out of the way places.
"This beautiful lady, brother Sancho," replied the curate, "is the
heiress in direct line of the mighty Kingdom of Micomicon, who has
come in search of thy master, to ask of him a boon, which is to avenge
her of a wrong done by a wicked giant. And, owing to the great fame
of thy master which has spread through all lands, this beautiful
princess has come to find him out."
"A happy searcher and a happy finding," cried Sancho; "my master shall
soon slay the great lubber of a giant, unless he turn out to be a
phantom, for he has no power over those things. And when this is done,
my lord shall marry the princess, whose name, by the bye, you have not
yet told me, and by this means shall he become an emperor, and have
islands to give away."
"Her name," replied the curate, "is the Princess Micomicona, and as to
your master's marriage, I will do what I can to help."
Sancho was quite satisfied with these answers, and, when Dorothea had
mounted the mule, he guided them towards the spot where Don Quixote
was to be found. And as they went along, the barber told Sancho he
must in no way pretend to know who he was, for if he did, Don Quixote
would never leave the mountains and would never become an emperor. The
curate and Cardenio remained behind, promising to join them again on
the first opportunity.
Having travelled about three-quarters of a league, they found Don
Quixote clothed, though still unarmed, sitting amidst the rocks. No
sooner did Sancho tell Dorothea that this was his master than she
whipped up her palfrey, closely followed by the well-bearded barber,
who jumped from his mule, and ran to help his lady alight.
Quickly dismounting, she threw herself on her knees before Don
Quixote, and refusing his efforts to raise her, spoke as follows:
"Never will I rise from this position, most valiant and invincible
knight, until you grant me a boon which will not only add to your
honour and renown, but also assist the most injured and unfortunate
damsel that ever the sun beheld. And if the valour of your mighty arm
be equal to what I have heard of your immortal fame, you can indeed
render aid to a miserable being who comes from a far-distant land to
seek your help."
"Beauteous lady," replied Don Quixote, "I will not answer one word,
nor hear a jot of your affairs, until you rise from the ground."
"I will not rise, my lord," answered the unfortunate maiden, "until I
have obtained from you the boon I beg."
"Dear lady," replied Don Quixote, "it is granted, so that it be not
anything that touches my duty to my king, my country, or the chosen
queen of my heart."
"Your kindness shall in no way affect them," replied Dorothea.
At this moment Sancho came up and whispered softly in his master's
ear: "Sir, you may very well grant the request she asketh, for it is a
mere nothing; it is only to kill a monstrous giant, and she that
demands it is the Princess Micomicona, Queen of the great Kingdom of
Micomicon in Ethiopia."
"Let her be what she will," said Don Quixote, "I will do my duty
towards her." And then turning to the damsel, he said: "Rise, most
beautiful lady, for I grant you any boon you shall please to ask of
me."
"Why, then," said Dorothea, "what I ask of you is, that you will at
once come away with me to the place where I shall guide you, and that
you promise me not to undertake any new adventure, until you have
revenged me on a traitor who has driven me out of my kingdom."
"I grant your request," said Don Quixote, "and therefore, lady, you
may cast away from this day forward all the melancholy that troubles
you, for this mighty arm shall restore you to your kingdom."
The distressed damsel strove with much ado to kiss his hand, but Don
Quixote, who was a most courteous knight, would not permit it, and,
making her arise, treated her with the greatest respect.
He now commanded Sancho to saddle Rozinante and help him to arm
himself, and this done the knight was ready to depart. The barber, who
had been kneeling all the while, had great difficulty to stop laughing
aloud at all this, and his beard was in danger of falling off. He was
glad to get up and help his lady to mount the mule, and when Don
Quixote was mounted, and the barber himself had got upon his beast,
they were ready to start. As for Sancho, who trudged along on foot,
he could not help grieving for the loss of his Dapple; but he bore it
all with patience, for now he saw his master on the way to marry a
princess, and so become at least King of Micomicon, though it grieved
him to think that that country was peopled by blackamoors, and that
when he became a ruler his vassals would all be black.
While this was going on, the curate and Cardenio had not been
idle. For the curate was a cunning plotter, and had hit on a bright
idea. He took from his pocket a pair of scissors, and cut off
Cardenio's rugged beard and trimmed his hair very cleverly. And when
he had thrown his riding-cloak over Cardenio's shoulders, he was so
unlike what he was before, that he would not have known himself in a
looking-glass. This finished, they went out to meet Don Quixote and
the others.
When they came towards them, the curate looked earnestly at the knight
for some time, and then ran towards him with open arms, saying: "In a
good hour is this meeting with my worthy countryman, the mirror of
knighthood, Don Quixote of the Mancha, the champion of the
distressed."
Don Quixote did not at first know him, but when he remembered the
curate he wanted to alight, saying: "It is not seemly, reverend sir,
that I should ride whilst you travel on foot."
But the curate would not allow him to dismount and give him his horse,
but suggested that he might ride behind the lady's squire on his mule.
"I did not think of that, good master curate," said Don Quixote; "but
I know my lady the princess will for my sake order her squire to lend
you the use of his saddle."