It was the custom of knights to wear a coat of arms made of some rich

stuff figured in a particular manner. The Duke of Brabant being called

in a hurry to the battle of Agincourt, took a trumpeter’s banner, and

making a hole through the middle, put it over his head, and wore it as

his coat of arms.

CHAP. IX.

OF WHAT BEFEL THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE IN THE BROWN MOUNTAIN;

BEING ONE OF THE MOST SURPRIZING ADVENTURES

WHICH IS RECOUNTED IN THIS TRUE HISTORY.

Don Quixote, finding himself so evil entreated, said to his squire, ‘I

have always heard it observed, Sancho, that benefits conferred on

base-minded people are like drops of water thrown into the sea. Had I

taken thy advice, I might have avoided this vexation: but, now the

affair is over, we must have recourse to patience, and take warning for

the future.’—‘Yes,’ replied Sancho, ‘your worship will take warning as

sure as I am a Turk; but, since you allow, that if you had taken my

advice, you would have avoided this misfortune, take my advice now, and

you avoid a greater still! for I give you notice, that all your errantry

will stand you in little stead against the holy brotherhood, who don’t

value all the knights-errant in the universe three farthings: and, in

faith, this minute methinks I hear their arrows buzzing about my

ears.’—‘Thou art naturally a coward, Sancho,’ said the knight; ‘but that

thou mayest have no reason to say I am obstinate, and never follow thy

counsel, for once thou shalt prevail; I will retreat from the danger

thou dreadest so much; but it shall be on condition, that thou shalt

never, either in life or death, hint to any person whatsoever, that I

retired and avoided this peril through fear, but merely in compliance

with thy earned request; for to say otherwise would be to propagate

falsehood; and from this hour to that, and from that hour to this, I

give thee the lye, and affirm thou lyest, and wilt lye as often as thou

shalt say or think any such thing: make no reply, therefore; the very

thought of my being supposed to abscond, or retreat from danger,

especially from this, as it implies some sort of shadow of fear,

inspires me with such courage, that here am I alone, ready to remain,

and expect not only the holy brotherhood, which thou hast mentioned with

fear and trembling, but also the brothers of the twelve tribes of

Israel, those of the seven Maccabees, with Castor and Pollux, and all

the brethren and brotherhoods in the universe.’—‘Sir,’ replied Sancho,

‘to retreat is not to fly; nor is it prudent to tarry when the danger

overbalances the hope, and it is always the practice of wise people, to

reserve something for to-morrow, without venturing all upon one cast;

and you must know, that though I be a rustick and a clown, I have all my

life-time had a small share of what is called good conduct; wherefore

you need not repent of having taken my advice, but mount Rozinante, if

you can; if not, I will lend you my assistance, and follow me; for this

noddle of mine tells me, that, at present, we have more need of heels

than of hands.’

Don Quixote accordingly mounted, without the least reply; and Sancho

leading the way upon his ass, they took refuge in that part of the brown

mountain which was nearest, the squire intending to go quite across to

Viso or Almodavar del Campo, after they should have lurked for some days

amongst the rocks, that they might not be found, in case the holy

brotherhood should come in search of them: he was encouraged to this

resolution, by seeing, that in the scuffle with the galley slaves, the

provisions his ass carried had escaped untouched[72]; a circumstance

that, in his opinion, amounted to a miracle, considering what the

thieves had taken, and how narrowly they had searched.

That evening they arrived in the very heart of the Sierra Morena[73],

where Sancho proposed to spend the night, and even to pass a few days,

at least to stay as long as their store should last: accordingly they

took up their lodging between two rocks in the midst of a great number

of cork-trees; but fate, which, according to the opinion of those who do

not enjoy the light of the true faith, guides, conducts, and disposes

all things after its own way, ordained that Gines de Passamonte, that

famous robber and cheat, who had been delivered from the chain by the

valour and madness of Don Quixote; I say, fate ordained that he,

impelled by the fear of the holy brotherhood, which he did not dread

without good reason happened likewise to take refuge in those mountains;

and even to be carried by this fear to the same place whither the same

principle had directed Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, just time enough to

know who they were, notwithstanding their being gone to sleep. As the

wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity puts them to their shifts,

and the present convenience overcomes the prospect of future quiet;

Gines, who was neither grateful nor good-natured, resolved to steal

Sancho’s ass, undervaluing Rozinante, as a subject that he could neither

pawn nor sell: accordingly, while the squire was asleep, he stole

Dapple; and, before morning, was gone far enough to elude all pursuit.

[Illustration: Sancho’s Ass Stolen As They Sleep.]

The appearance of Aurora that rejoices the earth, had a quite contrary

effect upon Sancho Panza; who, missing his Dapple, and searching for him

in vain, began to utter the most woeful lamentation that ever was heard;

and Don Quixote, waked by the noise, heard him exclaiming in this

manner: ‘O son of my bowels! born in my house, the play fellow of my

children, the delight of my spouse, the envy of my neighbours, and

comforter of my cares! in short, the half of my sustenance: for with six

and twenty maravedis, which thou hast daily earned, did I defray one

half of my family-expence!’ Don Quixote hearing this complaint, and

being informed of the cause, consoled Sancho with all the arguments in

his power; and, begging him to have patience, promised to give him a

bill of exchange, on sight of which he should receive three asses out of

five, which the knight had left at home. Sancho being comforted with

this declaration, dried up his tears, moderated his sighs, and returned

a thousand thanks to Don Quixote for his generosity. As they sauntered

among the rocks, the knight’s heart was rejoiced to see places so well

adapted to those adventures he was in quest of; for they recalled to his

remembrance those wonderful events which had happened to knights-errant

among such rocks and solitudes: he went on, musing on these subjects,

and indeed so wrapped up and engrossed by them, that he minded nothing

else; while Sancho’s only care, now that he thought he travelled in

safety, was to satisfy his appetite with what remained of the spoils of

the clergy; he therefore jogged on leisurely after his master, sitting

side-ways on his ass[74], and replenishing his own bags out of that

which contained the provision; and while he was thus employed, would not

have given a farthing for the best adventure that could happen.

Chancing, however, to lift up his eyes, he perceived his master had

stopped, and was endeavouring, with the point of his lance to raise some

bundle that lay upon the ground; he therefore hastened up to him, in

order to lend his assistance, should it be found necessary; and arrived

just as the knight had turned up with his lance, a pillion with a

portmanteau fixed to it, all rotted and consumed by the weather; but so

heavy, that Sancho was obliged to alight, in order to take them up. His

master having ordered him to examine the contents of the portmanteau, he

obeyed with great alacrity, and though it was shut with a chain and

padlock, there were so many holes in it, that he soon reached the

inside, where he found four shirts of fine holland, with other provision

of linen, equally fashionable and clean, together with a pretty large

heap of crowns of gold, wrapped up in a rag; which he no sooner

perceived, than he cried in a rapture, ‘Blessed be Heaven for granting

us one advantageous adventure!’ then continuing his search, he found a

pocket-book richly garnished, which Don Quixote desired to have, bidding

him keep the money for his own use. Sancho kissed his hand for the

favour, and taking the linen out of the portmanteau, crammed it into the

bag that held their provision.

The knight having considered the whole affair, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘I am

of opinion, and I cannot possibly be mistaken, that some bewildered

traveller, in his passage over these mountains, has been set upon by

robbers, who having slain him, must have dragged his body to be buried

in this unfrequented place.’—‘That cannot be the case,’ answered the

squire; ‘for if they had been robbers, they would not have left the

money behind them.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and I

cannot guess nor conceive what the matter can have been. Let us see if

there be any thing written in this pocket-book, by which we may trace

out and come to the certainty of what we want to know.’ He opened it

accordingly, and the first thing he found was the rough draught, though

very legible, of a sonnet, which he read aloud for the benefit of

Sancho, in these words.

I.

Love either cruel is or blind;

Or still unequal to the cause,

Is this distemper of the mind,

That with infernal torture gnaws.

II.

But Love’s a god, and cruelty

In heavenly breasts can never dwell:

Then say by what authority,

I’m doom’d to feel the pains of hell?

III.

Of all my sufferings and my woe,

Is Chloe then the fatal source?

Sure ill from good can never flow,

Nor so much beauty gild a curse.

IV.

With hopeless misery weigh’d down,

I’ll seek for quiet in the grave;

For when the malady’s unknown,

A miracle alone can save.

‘From such rhyme,’ said Sancho, ‘there is no information to be

got, unless by that Clue we could come to the bottom of the

affair[75].’—‘What clue dost thou mean?’ said the knight. ‘The

Clue your worship mentioned just now in the sonnet,’ answered the

squire. ‘I mentioned no clue,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘but Chloe,

which is without doubt the name of the lady of whom the author of

these verses complains; and really he must have been a very

ingenious poet, or else I know very little of the art.’—‘Then your

worship understands crambo?’ said the squire. ‘Better than you

imagine,’ answered the knight, ‘as you will see when you carry

from me a letter to my mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, written in

verse from top to bottom; for thou must know, Sancho, that all, or

the greatest part of the knights-errant who lived in former ages,

were very much addicted to poetry and musick; these two qualities,

or rather gifts of nature, being annexed to all errants in love;

though the truth is, their couplets were rather sprightly than

elegant.’—‘I wish your worship would read on,’ said Sancho;

‘perhaps you may find something more to our satisfaction.’

Accordingly the knight having turned over the leaf, ‘Here is

prose,’ said he; ‘and seems to be a letter.’ Sancho asking if it

was upon business, his master replied, ‘In the beginning there was

nothing but love.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ cried Sancho, ‘read it aloud; for

I am highly delighted with matters of love.’—‘With all my heart,’

answered Don Quixote; who raising his voice, in compliance with

the squire’s request, read what follows.

‘Thy false promises, together with the certainty of my misfortune,

have exiled me to a corner of the world, from whence thou wilt hear

an account of my death, before this my complaint shall reach thine

ears. Thou hast cast me off, ungrateful as thou art, in favour of

one who, though he is richer, is not a more deserving lover than me:

for if virtue were the wealth that is most esteemed, I should have

no cause to envy the happiness of others, or to bewail my own

mishap. What thy beauty had raised, thy behaviour has overthrown: by

the first I mistook thee for an angel; by the last I discovered thee

to be a woman. Mayest thou live in peace, fair authoress of my

misfortunes; and Heaven grant that the deceit of thy husband may

never be disclosed, that thou mayest never repent of what thou hast

done, nor I enjoy the revenge I do not desire!’

Don Quixote having read this letter, observed that nothing else could be

inferred either from it, or the verses, but that the author was some

despairing lover. Then perusing the rest of the book, he found more

verses and letters, some legible, and others not intelligible; but the

substance of them all was composed of complaints, lamentations,

suspicions, desires, disgusts, favours, and disdain, some of which were

extolled, and others deplored. While Don Quixote examined the book,

Sancho rummaged the portmanteau, without leaving a corner in that of the

pillion which he did not search, pry into, and overhaul; no seam was

left unripped, no lock of wool unpicked, that nothing might be lost

through negligence and want of care; so much was his cupidity awakened,

by finding the money, which amounted to more than a hundred crowns; and

though he reaped no other fruit from his industry, he thought himself

abundantly requited for his capers in the blanket, his vomit of the

balsam, the benediction of the pack-staves, the fisty-cuffs of the

carrier, the loss of his bags, the robbery of his great coat, with all

the hunger, thirst, and fatigue he had undergone in the service of his

worthy master, who had made him more than amends by his generous present

of this windfall.

The knight of the rueful countenance was impatient to know the owner of

the portmanteau; conjecturing by the sonnet, the letter, the gold, and

the fine linen, that he must be some lover of quality, whom the disdain

and barbarity of his mistress had driven to some desperate end: but, as

in that uninhabited and rocky place, there was nobody who could give him

the information he wanted, he resolved to penetrate still farther into

the mountain, without taking any other road than what Rozinante should

chuse for his own conveniency, still confident of meeting with some

strange adventure among these briars and brambles.

As he went on, entertaining himself with these reflections, he perceived

upon the top of a hill right before him, a man skipping from bush to

bush, and rock to rock, with wonderful agility; his body seemed naked,

his beard black and bushy, his hair long and matted, his feet unshod,

his legs bare, and his thighs covered with breeches, which to all

appearance were of crimson, but so ragged, that his skin appeared

through many different holes, while his head was without any sort of

covering. Notwithstanding the nimbleness with which he passed, all these

minute circumstances were seen and remarked by the knight of the rueful

countenance, who in vain attempted to follow him; those rough roads

being quite unpassable by the feeble Rozinante, who was naturally

phlegmatick and tender-footed. However, Don Quixote concluded that this

must be the owner of the pillion and portmanteau, and determined within

himself to find him out, although he should travel a whole year through

the mountains for that very purpose. With this view he ordered Sancho to

alight, and take a short cut over one part of the mountain, while he

should go round the other; and by this expedient they might come up with

the man who had so suddenly vanished from their sight. ‘That proposal I

can by no means comply with,’ answered the squire; ‘for if I stir but an

inch from your worship, fear instantly lays hold on me, and assaults me

in a thousand horrid shapes and visions; and let this serve to apprize

you, that henceforward, I will not budge a finger’s breadth from your

presence.’—‘Be it so,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ‘and I am very

glad that thou canst avail thyself of my courage, which shall never fail

thee, even if thy soul should fail thy body; follow me, therefore, step

by step, or at thy own leisure; and use thine eyes like two spy glasses;

we will take a compass round this little mountain, and perhaps we may

meet again with that man, who is certainly no other than the owner of

what we found.’ To this observation Sancho replied, ‘Methinks we may

save ourselves that trouble; for if, upon finding him, he should prove

to be the owner of the money, I must of course make restitution;

therefore we had better spare all this fruitless search; and keep it

_bona fide_, until the true owner appear of himself, without all this

intricate enquiry: and before that happens, perhaps I shall have spent

the whole, and then I shall be discharged by law.’—‘In that notion thou

art mistaken, Sancho,’ resumed the knight; ‘for as we have already good

grounds to believe he is the owner, it is our duty to find him out, and

restore what we have taken; and though we should not find him, the

strong reason we have to believe that it belongs to him will make us

equally guilty in detaining it, as we should be if it really did.

Wherefore, friend Sancho, do not give thyself any uneasiness about the

enquiry; because if we find him, I shall be freed from a great deal of

anxiety.’ So saying, he put spurs to Rozinante, and Sancho followed him

in his usual manner. Having surrounded part of the mountain, they found

in a brook that watered the foot of it, a dead mule saddled and bridled,

and half consumed by the dogs and crows; another circumstance which

confirmed them in the opinion, that he who fled from them was master

both of the mule and portmanteau.

While they were looking at this object, they heard a shepherd’s whistle,

and presently on the left appeared a good number of goats, and behind

them, on the top of the mountain, they descried the goatherd, who seemed

to be a man in years. Don Quixote calling aloud, entreated him to come

down; and he, in the same tone, asked what had brought them to that

place, which was seldom trodden, except by the feet of goats, wolves,

and other wild beasts that harboured thereabouts? Sancho bade him come

down, and they would tell him what had brought them thither; upon which

the goatherd descended, and coming up to Don Quixote, ‘I will wager,’

said he, ‘that you are looking at the hireling mule, which lies dead in

that bottom, where in good sooth it hath lain full six months. Pray,

have you met with its master?’—‘We have met with nothing,’ answered the

knight, ‘but a pillion and portmanteau, which we found not far from

hence.’—‘I have often seen the same things,’ replied the goatherd, ‘but

would never touch nor go near them, being afraid of some misfortune, or

of being questioned for theft; for the devil is very cunning, and raises

blocks under our feet, over which we stumble, and very often fall,

without knowing how or wherefore.’—‘That is the very thing I say,’

answered Sancho, ‘though I saw them also, I would not go within a

stone’s throw of them; there I left them, and there they remain as they

were; for I don’t chuse to steal a dog with a collar about his

neck[76].’—‘Pr’ythee, honest friend,’ said Quixote, ‘dost thou know who

the owner of these things is?’—‘All that I can say of the matter,’

answered the goatherd, ‘is, that it may be about six months, more or

less, since there came to our hut, which is about three leagues from

hence, a very genteel young man of a comely appearance, riding upon that

very mule that now lies dead, with the same pillion and portmanteau

which you say you found. He asked what part of the mountain was the most

woody and concealed, and we told him, that it was this very spot where

we now are; and it is so, for if you go half a league farther into the

mountain, you will perhaps find it a very difficult matter to return:

and I marvel much how you have got so far, for there is neither

high-road nor by-path that leads to this place. But as I was saying, the

young man hearing our reply, turned his mule, and rode towards the place

to which we had directed him, leaving us all very much pleased with his

appearance, though not a little surprized at his question, and the speed

with which we saw him ride back, into the heart of the mountain: from

that time we saw no more of him, till a few days after; when he sprung

upon one of our shepherds on the road; and, without saying why or

wherefore, beat and bruised him unmercifully; after which he went to the

sumpter ass, and carrying off all the bread and cheese that was on his

back, with surprizing nimbleness, ran back again to the thicket. As soon

as we understood this particular, several of us goatherds went in search

of him, through the most wild and unfrequented part of the mountain, for

the space of two days, at the end of which we found him lying in the

hollow of a large cork-tree. He came out to us in a very civil manner,

with his cloaths all torn, and his face so tanned and disfigured by the

sun, that we should scarce have known him, had not his cloaths, tattered

as they were, which we had before taken particular notice of, assured us

that he was the person we went in search of. He saluted us very

courteously, and in a few words, though very well chosen, bade us not

wonder at seeing him in that condition; for he was obliged in that

manner to do penance, which had been enjoined him, on account of his

manifold sins and transgressions. We earnestly begged to know who he

was; but that he never could be prevailed upon to tell: we desired him

also, whenever he should have occasion for food, without which he could

not live, to tell us where we should find him, and we would bring it to

him with great care and affection; or if that was not to his liking, we

desired him to ask it civilly, without taking it by force. He thanked us

kindly for our tenders of service, begged pardon for the assaults he had

committed, and promised for the future, to ask it for God’s sake,

without giving offence to any person whatsoever. With regard to the

place of his habitation, he said, he had no other than that which chance

presented every night when it grew dark; and concluded his discourse

with such piteous lamentation, that our hearts must have been made of

flint, if we could have heard it without shedding tears, considering the

woeful change he had undergone since we saw him at first: for as I have

already observed, he was a genteel, comely youth, and by his courteous

and polite discourse, shewed himself to be a person of good birth and

excellent breeding; and though we who heard him were only home-bred

country people, the gentility of his carriage was easily perceived by

our clownish ignorance. In the midst of this conversation that passed

between him and us, he grew silent all of a sudden, and nailed, as it

were, his eyes to the ground, for a considerable space of time, during

which we remained in suspense and no small concern, to see the effect of

this stupefaction; for by his staring at the ground for a good while,

without moving his eye-lids, then shutting them close and biting his

lips, and then drawing up the skin of his forehead, we could easily

perceive that he was seized with some fit of madness; and he soon

confirmed the truth of our opinion, for he sprung up with surprizing

force from the ground on which he had thrown himself, and attacked the

person who was next to him with such rage and resolution, that if we had

not taken him off, he would have beaten and bit him to death; crying

aloud all the time, “Ha, treacherous Fernando! now shalt thou pay for

the injury thou hast done me. These hands shall tear out thy heart, in

which all kinds of wickedness, particularly fraud and deceit, are

harboured and dwell!” To these he added other expressions, tending to

reproach that Fernando with treachery and baseness. When we had got our

friend out of his clutches, with no small trouble, he went off without

speaking another word, and ran at full speed among these shrubs and

brambles, so as that it was impossible for us to follow him. From these

things we conjectured that his madness came upon him by fits, and that

some person of the name of Fernando must have done him some deadly

wrong, which hath driven him to distraction. Indeed, this conjecture has

been since confirmed by his different behaviour on divers occasions,

when he hath met with our shepherds, from whom he hath sometimes begged

part of their provision, and at other times hath taken it by force; for

when the fit of lunacy is upon him, though they offer it of their own

free will, he will not accept of it peaceably, without coming to blows;

but when he is in his right senses, he begs it for God’s sake, in a very

courteous and civil manner, and returns many thanks for the favour,

accompanied with abundance of tears. And truly, gentlemen,’ added the

goatherd, ‘I and four more country lads, two of them my own servants,

and the other two friends of mine, yesterday resolved to go in search of

him, and after having found him, to carry him, either by force or fair

means, to the city of Almodavar, which is about eight leagues from

hence, and there have him cured, if he be curable; or learn of him, when

he is in his senses, who he is, or whether or not he has any relations

to whom we may give an account of his misfortune. This, gentlemen, is

all I can say, in answer to the questions you asked; and you may take it

for granted, that the owner of the goods you found, is the very same

person whom you saw skip about half-naked, with such agility:’ for Don

Quixote had said that they had seen a man in that condition, leaping

from rock to rock.

The knight was very much surprized at this information of the goatherd,

which making him still more impatient to know who this unfortunate

lunatick was, he determined with himself to put his former design in

execution, and go in quest of him, through the whole mountain, without

leaving a cave or corner unsearched until he should find him. But

accident was more his friend on this occasion than he could either

imagine or expect; for at that instant, the young man of himself

appeared in the cleft of a rock hard by the place where they stood; and

came towards them, muttering something to himself, which they could not

have understood had he been near, much less as he was at some distance

from them. His equipage was just as it has been described; but, as he

approached, Don Quixote perceived that his buff doublet, though torn to

rags, still retained the perfume: from whence he concluded, that the

person who wore such dress, could not be a man of the lowest rank. When

he came up, he saluted them very politely, though with a hoarse,

mistuned voice; and the salutation was returned with no less courtesy by

Don Quixote, who alighting from Rozinante, with genteel and graceful

deportment, went and embraced the stranger, whom he strained within his

arms a good while, as if he had been a very old acquaintance. The other,

who might have been called the tatterdemalion of the distracted, as Don

Quixote was stiled the knight of the rueful countenance, after having

submitted to this embrace, stepped back, and laying his hands on the

shoulders of the knight, stood looking attentively in his face, in order

to recollect him; no less astonished, perhaps, at the figure, mien, and

armour of Don Quixote, than this last was surprized at his forlorn

appearance. At length, the first who broke silence after the embrace,

was the ragged youth, who spoke what you may read in the following

chapter.

Footnote 72:

This is an oversight of the author, who seems to have forgot that

Sancho lost his wallet at the inn, and was robbed by the galley-slaves

of the great coat or cloak, in which he carried the remains of that

provision he had taken from those who attended the dead body towards

Segovia.

Footnote 73:

A chain of dusky mountains that divide Castile from Andalusia.

Footnote 74:

Here Cervantes hath been caught napping by the criticks; who observe,

that Sancho could not be mounted on the ass, which was but just now

stolen by Gines de Passamonte.

Footnote 75:

As it is impossible to preserve the original blunders of Sancho, who

mistakes Fili or Phillis, for Hilo, that signifies a thread, we are

obliged to substitute another, by changing Phillis into Chloe, which

Sancho, in English, might have as naturally mistaken for a clue; and

by this expedient the sense of the passage is not hurt, and but very

little altered.

Footnote 76:

Methinks it is inconsistent with the character of the knight, to allow

Sancho to tell such a fraudulent untruth in his hearing; nor is

Panza’s behaviour on this occasion much for the honour of his

simplicity.

CHAP. X.

THE CONTINUATION OF THE ADVENTURE IN THE SIERRA MORENA.

The history relates, that Don Quixote listened with vast attention to

the shabby knight of the mountain, who began the conversation thus:

‘Assuredly, Signior, though I have not the honour to know who you are, I

thank you heartily for those expressions of kindness with which you

treat me; and wish I were in such a situation as would enable me to

repay this courteous reception with something more than mere good-will:

but my hapless fortune affords me nothing to offer in return for the

civilities that are shewn me, except a hearty inclination to make a more

adequate satisfaction.’—‘My will and desire,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘to

serve you is so strong, that I was determined not to quit these

mountains until I had found you, and learned of yourself whether or not

the grief you manifest in this strange course of life, could be

alleviated by any kind of remedy, for which, had need required, I would

have searched with all possible diligence; and had your misfortune been

such as shut up all the avenues to advice and redress, I was resolved to

join your lamentations, and bemoan your misery to the utmost of my

power: for, in all misfortunes, the greatest consolation is a

sympathizing friend; and if this my friendly intention deserves the

least return of civility, I entreat you, Signior, by that courtesy which

I see you so eminently possess, and moreover conjure you by that object,

which of all others in this life you have most loved, or are most in

love with, to tell me who you are, and inform me of the cause that

brings you to live and die in this solitude, like the brute beasts among

which you dwell, so different from that rank and situation to which your

appearance and person declare you are entitled. And I swear by the order

of chivalry which I have received, unworthy sinner that I am! and by the

profession of a knight-errant, that if you comply with this my request,

I will serve you with that earnestness which my duty obliges me to

express; either in remedying your mishap, if it admits of remedy, or in

condoling with you, as I have already promised.’ The knight of the wood,

hearing him of the rueful countenance talk in this manner, could do

nothing for some time but gaze, and stare, and survey him from head to

foot; at length, having examined him thoroughly, he said, ‘If you have

got any food, for God’s sake spare me a little; and after I shall have

eaten it, I will do as you desire, in return for the civility you now

shew me.’

Sancho immediately pulled from his bag, and the goatherd from his scrip,

some victuals to appease the hunger of the tatterdemalion, who swallowed

what they gave him like a frantick person, with such hurry, that he left

not the interval of an instant between one mouthful and another, but

seemed to devour rather than eat, without either speaking or being spoke

to by the spectators. His repast being ended, he beckoned them to

follow, and conducted them to a verdant spot of grass, at the turning of

a rock, a little way from the place where they were; and sitting down on

the green turf, they followed his example; not a word being spoke all

the time, until the ragged knight, after having adjusted himself in his

seat, began in this manner. ‘If you desire, gentlemen, that I should, in

a few words, inform you of the immensity of my misfortunes, you must

give me your promise that you will not by any question, or otherwise,

interrupt the thread of my doleful story; for if you should, that

instant I will break off the narration.’ This warning recalled to the

knight’s memory the story recounted by his squire, which still remained

unfinished, because he had not kept an exact account of the goats, as

they passed the river. But, to return to the tattered knight: ‘I give

you this precaution,’ added he, ‘because I would briefly pass over the

detail of my misfortunes, the remembrance of which brings fresh addition

to my woe; and the fewer questions you ask, the sooner shall I have

finished the relation; although, in order to satisfy your curiosity to

the full, I will not fail to mention every material circumstance.’ Don

Quixote promised, in behalf of himself and the company, to avoid all

manner of interruption; and the stranger, thus assured, began in these

words:

[Illustration: The Tattered Gentleman Tells His Tale.]

‘My name is Cardenio, the place of my nativity one of the best cities in

this province of Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, and my

misfortunes so great, that no doubt they have been lamented by them, and

even felt through my whole kindred, though all their wealth would not

alleviate my woe; for the goods of fortune are but of little service

against those ills inflicted by the hand of Heaven. In the same country

lived, shall I call her, a paradise, which love had adorned with all the

charms I could desire to possess; such was the beauty of Lucinda, a

young lady as well-born and rich as I, though more fortunate and endowed

with less constancy than what was due to my honourable intentions. This

Lucinda did I admire, love, and adore, even from my most tender years;

and she made me all the returns of love and inclination that I could

expect from her infant age. Our parents were not ignorant of our mutual

affection, which gave them no offence, because they foresaw that if it

should increase with our years, it could have no other issue than

marriage; an union which the equality of our age and fortune seemed to

point out. Meanwhile, our passion growing up with our age, Lucinda’s

father thought himself obliged to forbid me his house, imitating in that

particular, the parents of Thisbe, whom the poets have celebrated so

much. This prohibition added flame to flame, and wish to wish, for

though our tongues were restrained, they could not silence our pens,

which commonly express the sentiments of the heart with more liberty,

because the presence of the beloved object often confounds the most

determined intention, and puts to silence the most undaunted tongue.

‘Good Heaven! what letters did I write! what chaste endearing answers

did I receive! what songs did I compose, inspired by love that displayed

the soul unmasked, inflamed each soft desire, regaled the fancy, and

indulged the wish! in fine, my patience being exhausted, and my heart

almost consumed with the desire of seeing her, I resolved to execute the

scheme which seemed most favourable for my love and pretensions; and

this I put in practice, by demanding her in marriage of her father, who

thanked me for the honour I intended him, by this proposal of marrying

into his family; but said, as my own father was alive, it was properly

his business to make the demand; for, unless his consent and inclination

were obtained, Lucinda was not a person either to be given or taken in

marriage by stealth. I thanked him in my turn, for his politeness; and

thinking there was a great deal of reason in what he said, assured

myself that my father would readily agree to the proposal whenever I

should make it. I therefore flew instantly to disclose my sentiments to

him on that subject; and entering the closet where he was, found him

reading a letter, which, before I could speak a syllable, he put into my

hands saying, “By this letter, Cardenio, you will see how much Duke

Ricardo is inclined to do you service.” This Duke Ricardo, as you must

know, gentlemen, is a grandee of Spain, whose estate lies in the best

part of this province. I took and read this letter, which was so

extremely kind, that I myself should have blamed my father, had he

refused to comply with what he requested in it: this was to send me

immediately to this house, he being desirous that I should live as the

companion, not the servant, of the eldest son; and he would take care of

my fortune in such a manner as should manifest the esteem he had for me.

Having read the letter, I was struck dumb at knowing the contents;

especially when I heard my father pronounce, “Two days hence, Cardenio,

you shall set out, according to the pleasure of the duke; and you ought

to thank God for having opened an avenue, through which you may arrive

at that fortune I know you deserve.” To this declaration he added other

services, as became a prudent father; and I, the night before I

departed, finding means to speak with Lucinda, told her what had

happened; nay, I even imparted it to her father, entreating him to wait

a few days, without disposing of her to any other, until I should know

in what manner Ricardo wanted to employ me. He gave me his promise

accordingly, and she confirmed it by a thousand vows and anxious sighs.

‘I at length arrived at the seat of Duke Ricardo, by whom I was so well

received and kindly entertained, that Envy presently began to do her

office, possessing the old servants with the opinion, that every

expression of favour I received from the duke was prejudicial to their

interest. But he who was most rejoiced at my residing there, was the

duke’s second son, Fernando, a gay, genteel, liberal, and amorous youth,

who in a short time was pleased to honour me with such intimacy of

friendship as became the subject of every body’s discourse; and though

the eldest brother loved and favoured me also, he did not carry his

favour and affection to such a pitch. Now, as all secrets are

communicated between friends, and the confidence in which I lived with

Fernando was soon changed into friendship, he imparted to me his most

secret thoughts, and among other things, a love affair that gave him a

good deal of disquiet. In short, he had an inclination for a

country-maid, who was his father’s vassal; her parents were very rich,

and she herself so beautiful, reserved, modest and discreet, that nobody

who knew her could determine in which of these qualifications she most

excelled. These accomplishments of this fair maiden inflamed the desires

of Don Fernando to such a pitch, that he resolved, as the easiest

conquest over her virtue, to promise he would marry her; for he found it

impossible to gratify his wish in any other way. I, prompted and bound

by my friendship, endeavoured to dissuade and divert him from his

purpose, by the strongest arguments and most lively examples I could

produce; but finding them all ineffectual, I resolved to communicate the

whole affair to his father Duke Ricardo.

‘Don Fernando, having abundance of cunning and discernment, suspected my

intention; and was afraid, that the obligation he saw I was under, as a

faithful servant, would not allow me to conceal an affair so prejudicial

to the honour of the duke my master; he therefore, in order to divert

and deceive me, observed that he could find no better remedy to remove

the beauty that enslaved him from his remembrance, than that of absence

for a few months; and therefore desired that we should go to my father’s

house, upon pretence, as he would tell the duke, of seeing and

purchasing some fine horses in our town, which produces the best in the

world. Scarce had he uttered this proposal, when prompted by my love,

exclusive of his prudent intention, I approved of it, as one of the best

concerted schemes that could be imagined; and was rejoiced at meeting

with such a fair conjuncture and occasion of returning to my dear

Lucinda. Induced by this motive and desire, I applauded his pretence,

and enforced his proposal, advising him to execute his plan with all

speed; for absence would certainly do its office, in spite of the most

established inclination. At that very time, as I afterwards understood,

he had enjoyed the country-maid, under the title of her husband, and

waited for an opportunity of owning it with safety to himself, being

afraid of the duke’s resentment, in case he should discover his folly.

It happened afterwards, that as love in young people is, for the most

part, nothing but appetite, whose only aim is pleasure, and this being

enjoyed, what seemed love vanishes, because it cannot exceed the bounds

of nature; whereas real love is bounded by no such limits: I say, as

soon as Don Fernando enjoyed the country girl, his desires were

appeased, and his raptures abated; and if at first he pretended to seek

a cure for them in absence, he now earnestly desired to be absent, that

he might avoid any farther gratification.

‘The duke having given him leave, and ordered me to attend him, we

arrived at our habitation, where he was received by my father in a

manner suitable to his rank and family. I went instantly to visit

Lucinda, whose presence in a moment rekindled all my desires, which

indeed were neither dead nor decayed within me: and, to my infinite

misfortune, I made Don Fernando acquainted with my love, because I

thought, by the laws of that intimate friendship with which he honoured

me, I ought to conceal nothing from him. I therefore praised the beauty,

grace, and discretion of Lucinda, in such a manner, as excited his

curiosity to see such an accomplished young lady. Prompted by my evil

genius, I gratified his desire, shewing her to him one night by the

light of a taper at the window from which I used to converse with her.

At sight of her he absolutely forgot all the beauties he had formerly

seen; he was struck dumb with wonder; he seemed to lose all sense,

became absent and pensive; and in short, enamoured of her to that

degree, which you will perceive in the course of my unhappy story: and

the more to inflame his desire, which he concealed from me, and

disclosed to Heaven alone, he happened one day to find a letter which

she had written, desiring me to ask her in marriage of her father, so

prudent, modest, and tender, that upon perusing it, he said, “In Lucinda

alone are concentered all the charms of beauty and understanding, which

are divided among the rest of her sex.” True it is, and I will now

confess it, and although I knew how justly Fernando applauded Lucinda, I

was vexed at hearing these praises proceed from his mouth, and began to

dread and suspect his inclination; for he was eternally talking of her,

and always turned the discourse upon her, even when he was obliged to

bring her in by the head and shoulders; a circumstance that waked a sort

of jealousy within me; not that I imagined ought could alter the faith

and affection of Lucinda; yet, notwithstanding, my destiny made me dread

the very thing that confidence insured. Don Fernando always contrived

means to read the letters I sent to Lucinda, together with her answers,

on pretence of being highly pleased with the good sense they contained;

and it once happened, that she having desired me to send her a book of

knight-errantry, in which she took great delight, called Amadis de

Gaul——’

Don Quixote no sooner heard him mention this book, than he said, ‘Had

you told me in the beginning of your story, that your mistress Lucinda

was an admirer of books of chivalry, you would have had no occasion to

use any other argument to convince me of her sublime understanding;

which I should not have deemed quite so extraordinary as you have

represented it, had she wanted relish for that sort of reading:

wherefore you need not spend any more words with me, in extolling her

beauty, virtue, and good sense; for, upon the knowledge of her taste

only, I pronounce her to be the most beautiful and discreet lady in the

universe. I wish, however, that you had sent along with Amadis de Gaul,

the worthy Don Rugel of Greece; for I know your mistress Lucinda would

have been greatly pleased with Darayra and Garaya, together with the

judicious sayings of the shepherd Darinel, and those admirable verses of

his eclogues, sung and represented by him with such grace, spirit, and

discretion; but the time will come when that omission may be rectified;

indeed, the fault may be repaired as soon as you shall please to

accompany me to the place of my habitation, where I can supply you with

more than three hundred books, which are the feast of my soul, and

entertainment of my life; though now I recollect, not one of them

remains in my possession; thanks to the malice of wicked and envious

inchanters. But I hope you will be so good as to forgive me for having

contradicted my promise of not interrupting your story; for when the

subject turns upon chivalry or knights-errant, I can no more forbear

interposing, than the rays of the sun can cease to warm, or those of the

moon to wet: but I ask pardon; pray proceed with your story; for that is

most to the purpose at present.’

While Don Quixote was talking in this manner, Cardenio hung his head,

and fell into a profound reverie; and though the knight repeated his

request, would neither lift up his head, nor answer one word. At length,

after a long pause, looking up, ‘You cannot,’ said he, ‘beat it out of

my thoughts; nor is there any person upon earth, who can persuade me to

the contrary; and he must be a blockhead, who imagines or believes

otherwise, than that the villain Master Elisabat carried on a criminal

correspondence with Queen Madasima.’—‘By Heaven, ’tis false,’ cried Don

Quixote, with great indignation and impetuosity, as usual; ‘that report

is the effect of malice, or rather mere wantonness. Queen Madasima was a

most royal dame, and it is not to be presumed, that a princess of her

rank would confer favours upon a mere quack doctor. Whosoever thinks

otherwise, lyes like a very great scoundrel; and I will prove him such

either on horseback or a foot, armed or disarmed, by night or by day, as

will most suit his inclination.’ Cardenio stood all the while looking

attentively at him, and being by this time seized with the paroxism of

his madness, could not proceed with his story; neither, if he had

proceeded, would Don Quixote have listened to it, for he was offended at

what he had heard to the prejudice of Queen Madasima[77], whose

reputation interested him as much as if she had been actually his own

mistress: such wonderful impression had those profane books made on his

imagination!

I say, then, Cardenio being by this time under the influence of his

distraction, and hearing himself called lyar and scoundrel, with other

terms of reproach, could not relish the joke; but, snatching up a large

pebble that lay near him, aimed it so successfully at Don Quixote’s

breast, that he fell fairly on his back with the blow. Sancho Panza,

seeing his master treated in this manner, attacked the madman with his

clenched fist; but the lunatick received him with such a blow, as

knocked him down to the ground at once, and then getting upon him,

mauled his carcase to his heart’s content; while the goatherd, who

attempted to defend him, met with the same fate. Having thus mastered

and pummelled them all round, he left off, and with great composure

retreated to the thickets from whence he came. Sancho then arose; and,

enraged to find himself handled in this manner for nothing, ran to take

vengeance on the goatherd, saying that he was to blame for the whole,

because he had not informed him, that the man had intervals of madness;

which had they known, they might have guarded against them. The goatherd

affirmed, that he had apprized them of what might happen; and if they

had not heard him, it was no fault of his. The squire replied; the

goatherd retorted; and, in conclusion, they went by the ears together,

and pulled each other’s beards with such fury, that there would not have

been a single hair left on either chin, had not Don Quixote interposed.

Sancho, grappling stoutly with his adversary, cried, ‘Give me leave, Sir

Knight of the Rueful Countenance; this is no armed knight, but a

plebeian like myself, of whom I can securely take satisfaction for the

injury he has done me, by fighting with him hand to hand, like a man of

honour.’—‘True,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but the cause of what hath happened,

cannot be justly imputed to him.’ Peace accordingly ensued, and the

knight asked the goatherd again, if there was a possibility of finding

Cardenio; for he was extremely desirous of hearing the conclusion of his

story. The goatherd repeated what he had said before, that he did not

certainly know whereabouts he resided; but, if they should stay long in

these parts, they could not fail of finding him either mad or sober.

Footnote 77:

Queen Madasima, a lady in Amadis de Gaul, attended by one Elisabat, a

surgeon with whom she travels, and lies in woods and desarts.

CHAP. XI.

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURES THAT HAPPENED TO THE VALIANT KNIGHT OF LA

MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHERE HE DID PENANCE, IN IMITATION OF

BELTENEBROS.

Don Quixote, having taken leave of the goatherd, and mounted Rozinante

again, commanded Sancho to follow him; and the squire, bestriding his

ass, obeyed with great reluctance. As they advanced at leisure, into the

most rocky part of the mountain, Sancho longed to death for an

opportunity of talking, and waited impatiently till his master should

begin, that he might not transgress his orders; but, being utterly

unable to keep silence any longer, ‘Sir Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘be

pleased to give me your blessing, and grant me leave to return

immediately to my wife and children, with whom, at least, I can talk and

prattle my fill; for in commanding me to travel with you, through these

desarts, night and day, without opening my lips when I am disposed to

speak, your worship buries me alive; if it were the will of Heaven, that

beasts spoke as they did in the days of Hyssop, I should be the less

uneasy, because I would converse with my ass at pleasure; and that would

be some comfort to me in my misfortunes; but it is a very hard case, and

what I cannot bear with patience, to travel in search of adventures all

my life, and find nought but rib-roastings, blankettings, robberies, and

fisty-cuffs; and, after all, be obliged to sew up our mouths, without

daring to bring up what lies upon our stomachs, more than if we were

dumb.’

‘I understand thee, Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘thou art impatient

until I take off the interdiction I have laid upon thy tongue. I take it

off, then; say what you please, on condition that this repeal shall last

no longer than our stay in this mountain.’—‘Be it so,’ said Sancho;

‘to-day I will speak, to-morrow God’s will be done; and the first use I

make of this safe conduct, is to ask why your worship was in such a

passion about that Queen Magimasa, or how d’ye call her; or of what

signification was it to you, whether that same Abat was her sweetheart

or not? Had your worship overlooked that circumstance, that you had no

concern in, I firmly believe the madman would, have gone on with his

story, and you would have saved yourself the pebble-shot, with more than

half a dozen kicks and cuffs.’

‘In faith, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘If thou knewest, as I do,

what an honourable and princely lady that Queen Madasima was, thou

wouldst say, I had great patience in forbearing to demolish the mouth

from whence such blasphemy proceeded; for sure, ’tis no less to say, or

even think, that a queen should take a surgeon to her bed. The truth of

the story is, that Master Elisabat, whom the lunatick mentioned, was a

man of prudence and discernment, and served the queen in quality of

tutor and physician; but to suppose that there was any indecent

familiarity between them, is a piece of folly that deserves to be

severely chastised: and to convince thee that Cardenio knew not what he

said, thou mayest remember he was deprived of his senses, when he took

notice of that circumstance.’—‘This I’ll venture to say,’ replied the

squire, ‘that the words of a madman are not to be minded; for, if

fortune had not stood your worship’s friend, and directed to your breast

the pebble that was aimed at your head, we should have been in a fine

condition, for your having quarrelled about that lady, whom Heaven

confound! you may depend upon it, Cardenio would have been acquitted on

account of his madness.’

‘Every knight-errant,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is obliged to quarrel with

those who are out of their senses, as well as those who are in them, if

they asperse the honour of women, whatsoever they might be. How much

more, then, in behalf of princesses of such high quality and

accomplishments as adorned Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular

affection, on account of her admirable qualifications; for, over and

above her beauty, she had a great share of prudence and resignation in

her calamities, which were manifold: and the advice and company of

Master Elisabat were of great service in encouraging her to bear her

afflictions with patience and equanimity. From hence, the ignorant and

malicious vulgar took occasion to say and suppose, that she admitted of

his caresses; but they lye. I say again, all those who either say or

think so, lye in their throats, and I will tell them so two hundred

times over.’—‘As for my own part,’ said Sancho, ‘I neither say nor think

any such thing; those that do may dine upon it: if they were too

familiar, by this time they have answered for it to God. I prune my own

vine, and know nothing about thine. I never meddle with other people’s

concerns. He that buys and denies, his own purse belyes, as the saying

is. Bare I was born, and bare I remain; and if I lose nothing, as little

I gain. If he did lie with her, that is no matter of mine. Many people

hunt the hare without ever finding the scut; for, Till you hedge in the

sky, the starlings will fly. And evil tongues will not refrain from God

himself.’

‘Good Heaven,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what fooleries art thou stringing

together, Sancho? Pray, what relation have these old saws to the subject

of our conversation? I charge thee to hold thy peace, and henceforth

entertain thyself with spurring up thy ass, and leave off talking of

things which do not concern thee: or let thy whole five senses be

convinced, that every thing I have done, am doing, or will do, is highly

reasonable, and in exact conformity with the laws of chivalry, which I

understand better than any knight that ever professed the order.’—‘Yes

Sir,’ replied Sancho, ‘to be sure it is an excellent law of chivalry, to

stroll about bewildered in these mountains, where there is neither high

road nor bye path, in search of a madman, who, after we have found him,

will perhaps take it in his head to finish what he left undone; not of

his story, but of your worship’s pate and my ribs, which he may chance

to break in a thousand shivers.’

‘I say again, Sancho,’ resumed the knight, ‘hold thy peace; for I would

have thee know, that I am not detained in this place, so much by the

desire of finding the lunatick, as of performing in it an exploit by

which I shall acquire everlasting renown throughout the whole known

world; and put the stamp of perfection upon the wonderful efforts of

knight-errantry?’—‘And will this exploit be attended with much danger?’

said Sancho. ‘No,’ answered he of the rueful countenance, ‘though the

dice may run so as to produce bad instead of good fortune; but the whole

will depend upon thy diligence.’—‘Upon my diligence!’ cried the squire.

‘Without doubt,’ answered his master; ‘for, if thou wilt return

speedily, from the place to which thou must be sent, my affliction will

soon be at an end, and my glory will speedily begin: and, that I may no

longer keep thee in suspence about the meaning of my words, know,

Sancho, that the celebrated Amadis de Gaul was one of the most perfect

knights-errant; one of them, said I? he alone was the only, single,

chief, and superior of all his cotemporaries. Contempt and shame upon

Bellianis, and all those who say he equalled him in any one particular;

for, by this light, they are all egregiously deceived! I say, moreover,

when a painter desires to become famous in his art, he endeavours to

imitate the originals painted by the most noted artists; and the same

maxim holds in every other science and exercise that adorns a

commonwealth: therefore, he who wants to attain the virtues of prudence

and equanimity, must endeavour to imitate the character of Ulysses, in

whose person and sufferings Homer has drawn an excellent picture of

wisdom and patience, as Virgil, in the person of Æneas, represents the

piety of an affectionate son, and the sagacity of a wise and valiant

general; not that they are described and set forth exactly as they were,

but as they ought to have been, as examples of virtue to posterity. In

the same manner, Amadis shone like the north-star, the Lucifer and sun

of all valiant and amorous knights; and therefore must be imitated as a

pattern, by all those who serve under the banners of love and chivalry.

Now, this being the case, friend Sancho, I find that the knight-errant

who approaches the nearest to this great original, will bid fairest for

attaining the perfection of chivalry: and one of the circumstances in

which that knight gave the highest proofs of his worth, prudence,

valour, patience, constancy, and love, was his retiring to the poor

rock, when he was in disgrace with his mistress Oriana, there to do

penance under the feigned name Beltenebros[78]; an appellation certainly

very significant and proper to the way of life he had voluntarily

chosen. As it is therefore more easy for me to imitate him in this than

in cleaving giants, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, overthrowing

armies, scattering navies, and dissolving inchantments; and as this

solitude is so well adapted to such designs, I am resolved to seize

occasion by the forelock, which she now so complaisantly presents.’

‘In reality,’ said Sancho, ‘what is your worship resolved to do in this

remote place?’—‘Have I not already told thee,’ replied the knight, ‘that

I am determined to imitate Amadis, in acting the desperado, the

lunatick, the madman: to copy also after the valiant Don Roldan, when he

discovered, in a fountain, certain marks by which he was convinced that

Angelica the fair had committed uncleanness with Medoro. A piece of

information attended with such grief and anxiety, that he ran mad, tore

up the trees by the root, sullied the waters of the transparent springs,

slew shepherds, destroyed flocks, set fire to cottages, demolished

houses, dragged mares along the ground, and performed a thousand other

insolent feats worthy to be inserted in Fame’s eternal record; and

because I do not propose to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Rotolando,

for he went by all these names, literally in all the extravagancies he

thought, said, and did, I will copy his outlines as well as I can, in

the most essential parts of his character; nay, perhaps, I may content

myself with the sole imitation of Amadis, who, by his tears and sighs

alone, acquired as much fame as the other with all the mischief he

did.’—‘If I apprehend the matter aright,’ said Sancho, ‘the knights who

played such mad pranks were provoked, and had some reason to act these

fooleries and penance: but what cause hath your worship to turn madman?

With what lady are you in disgrace? or by what signs are you given to

understand that the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso has been playing the rogue

either with Moor or Christian!’—‘This is the point,’ answered Don

Quixote, ‘and refinement of my design; a knight who turns madman,

because he cannot help it, can claim no merit from his misfortune; but

the great matter is to run distracted without cause, and give my lady

reason to conceive what I could do were I moistened, when I can do so

much being dry. More especially, as I have sufficient cause in the long

absence to which I am doomed by my ever-darling mistress Dulcinea del

Toboso; for, according to the words of the shepherd Matias Ambrosio,

which thou mayest have heard,

“In absence of my charming fair,

“I suffer all those ills I fear.”

‘Wherefore, friend Sancho, you need not throw away your time

unprofitably, in advising me to refrain from an imitation at once so

admirable, rare, and happy: mad I am, and mad I shall be until thou

returnest with the answer of a letter which I propose to send by thee to

my Lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as I am entitled to by my love and

fidelity, my distraction and penance will end; but, should it be

otherwise, I shall run mad in earnest, and consequently be insensible of

my misfortune: wherefore, let her answer be as it may, it will extricate

me from the doubts and affliction in which thou leaved me; because, if

it be favourable, I shall enjoy it in my right senses; and if it be

unfavourable, my frenzy will not feel it.

‘But tell me, Sancho, hast thou taken care of Mambrino’s helmet, which I

saw thee take up, after that ungrateful vagabond endeavoured in vain to

break it in pieces; a circumstance that proves the excellency of its

temper?’ To this exclamation, Sancho replied, ‘’Fore God! Sir Knight of

the Rueful Countenance, I cannot suffer, nor bear with patience, some

things which your worship says; for they make me imagine, that all you

have mentioned about chivalry, and acquiring kingdoms and empires, and

giving away islands, with other favours and presents, according to the

practice of knights-errant, is nothing but puffs of falshood, and the

mere effect of piction or fiction, or what do you call it: for who that

hears your worship call a barber’s bason the helmet of Mambrino, and

sees you continue in that error so many days, but will believe, that he

who affirms such nonsense must be very much crazed in his understanding?

The bason, which is all bruised and battered, I have put up in my bag,

in order to be mended at home, and used for the service of my own beard,

if ever, by the grace of God, I come to see my wife and family.’—‘Hark

ye, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘by the same oath you swore, I swear

again, that thou hast the most slender understanding that any squire in

this world does or ever did possess! Is it possible, that after all thy

travelling in my company, thou art not convinced that every thing

belonging to knights-errant, appears chimera, folly, and distraction,

being metamorphosed into the reverse of what it is, by the power of a

tribe of inchanters who attend us, changing, converting, and restoring

each particular, according to their pleasure, and the inclination they

have to favour or annoy us: for which reason, what seems a barber’s

bason to thee, I can easily discern to be the helmet of Mambrino, and

perhaps to a third, it will assume a quite different appearance; and I

cannot but admire the providence of the sage who is my friend, in making

that which is really and truly Mambrino’s helmet, appear a bason to the

rest of mankind, because it is of such inestimable value, that if it was

known, the whole world would combine to ravish it from me; but as it

appears to them no more than a barber’s bason, they never attempt to

obtain it. This was plainly the case with the villain, who, having

endeavoured to break it in pieces, left it on the ground, when he went

off; whereas, had he known what it was, in good faith he would not have

quitted it so easily. Keep it therefore with care, my friend, for at

present there is no occasion for it; on the contrary, I shall strip off

all my armour, and remain naked as I was born, in case I be inclined to

imitate the penance of Roldan, rather than that of Amadis.’

Conversing in this manner, they arrived at the foot of a high mountain

that stood alone, as if it had been cut out from the rest that

surrounded it. A gentle rill murmured by the skirts of it, winding along

a meadow, so green and fertile, that it ravished the spectator’s eye;

while a number of forest trees that grew around, together with some

delicious herbs and flowers, conspired to make the place inchanting.

This was the scene in which the knight of the rueful countenance chose

to do penance; and therefore he no sooner perceived it, than he began to

exclaim aloud, as if he had actually lost his senses, ‘This is the spot,

ye heavens! which I chuse and appoint my residence, while I bewail that

misfortune to which you yourselves have reduced me. This is the place

where the tears from these eyes will increase the waters of that little

brook; and where my profound and uninterrupted sighs will incessantly

move the leaves of these mountain-oaks, in witness and testimony of the

pangs which my tormented heart endures. O ye rural deities, whosoever ye

are, who take up your mansion in this uninhabited place, give ear to the

complaints of an unhappy lover, whom a tedious absence and imaginary

doubts have brought to lament among these craggy hills, and bemoan the

cruel disposition of that ungrateful fair, who is the end and perfection

of all human beauty? O ye nymphs and dryads, who were wont to inhabit

the hills and groves, (so may no nimble and lascivious satyrs, by whom

you are beloved, though loved in vain, disturb your sweet repose) help

me to bewail my mishap: or at least disdain not to hear my moan!—O

Dulcinea del Toboso! light of my darkness! glory of my affliction!

north-star of my inclinations! and planet of my fortune! as Heaven shall

pour upon you the blessings which you ask; consider the place and

condition to which your absence hath exiled me, and put such a period to

my woe, as my fidelity shall seem to deserve! O ye solitary trees, who

henceforth are to bear me company in this retreat, convince me, by the

gentle waving of your boughs, that my presence gives you no disgust.—And

thou, my squire, the agreeable companion of my good and evil fortune,

faithfully retain in thy remembrance what thou shalt see me do, that

thou mayest recount and rehearse every circumstance to the lovely cause

of all my distraction!’ So saying, he alighted; and, taking off the

bridle and saddle from Rozinante, gave him a slap on the buttocks,

pronouncing these words: ‘He who is a slave himself, bestows freedom

upon thee, O steed, as excellent in thy qualities as unlucky in thy

fate! go wheresoever thou wilt; thou bearest engraven on thy forehead,

that thou wast never equalled in swiftness, either by Astolpho’s

Hypogriff, or the renowned Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear.’

Sancho, hearing this apostrophe, ‘My blessing,’ cried he, ‘be upon him

whose industry now saves us the trouble of taking the halter from the

head of Dapple[79], who, in good faith, should not want slaps on the

buttocks, nor abundance of fine things said in his praise; but, if he

was here, I would not consent to his being turned loose, there being no

reason for so doing; for he was never acquainted with love and despair,

no more than I, who was his master, while it pleased God I should be so:

and truly, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if this departure of

mine, and distraction of your worship, are really to take place, you had

better saddle Rozinante again, to supply the want of Dapple; by which

means a great deal of time will be saved in my going and coming;

whereas, if I make the journey on foot, I know not when it will be

performed; for, in short, I am a very sorry walker.’—‘I say, be it so,

then, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘I approve of thy proposal; and

assure thee, that thou shalt set out in three days, during which I would

have thee take notice of what I shall do for her sake, that thou mayest

be able to give her a full account of my behaviour.’—‘What more can I

see,’ said Sancho, ‘than I have seen already?’—‘You are pretty perfect

in your story,’ answered the knight; ‘but, as yet, I have not torn my

cloaths, scattered my armour, and dashed my head against the rocks, nor

performed many other things of this sort, which thou wilt behold with

admiration.’—‘For the love of God, Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘take care how

you dash your head against the rocks; for you may chance to meet with

such a one as will, at the first push, put the finishing stroke to this

whole scheme of penance; and I should think, that as knocks of the head

are absolutely necessary to compleat the work, your worship might

content yourself, seeing the whole affair is a sham, a counterfeit, and

a joke; I say, your worship might content yourself with ramming your

skull against water, or some soft thing, like a cotton bag; and leave it

to my care to tell my lady, that your worship went to loggerheads with

the point of a rock a thousand times harder than adamant.’—‘Friend

Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘I am obliged to thee, for thy kind

intention; but, thou must know, that what I do is not a sham, but a very

serious matter; for, to behave otherwise, were to transgress the orders

of chivalry, which forbid us to lye, under pain of being degraded; and

you know, that to substitute one thing instead of another, is downright

telling a lye: wherefore, my knocks on the head must be real, hard, and

effectual, and not sophisticated or imaginary; and it will be necessary

to leave me some lint for my wounds, since it was the will of fate that

we should lose the balsam.’

‘It was a much greater misfortune,’ said the squire, ‘to lose the ass,

and with him the lint and all; but I beseech your worship, not to talk

of that accursed drench, the sole mention of which not only turns my

stomach, but even my very soul; and I beseech you, moreover, to suppose

we have passed those three days, which you have appointed for shewing me

your mad pranks; for I take them all for granted, and will tell wonders

of them to my lady. Write the letter, therefore, and dispatch me

forthwith: because I am impatient till I return and deliver your worship

from that purgatory in which I leave you.’—‘Purgatory! call you it,

Sancho?’ replied Don Quixote: ‘it rather deserves the name of hell, or

something worse, if worse can be.’—‘I have heard,’ said the squire,

‘that from hell there is no retention.’—‘I know not,’ replied the

knight, ‘what you mean by retention.’—‘Retention,’ answered Sancho,

‘signifies, that whosoever goeth to hell, neither will nor can come back

again. The contrary of which shall happen to your worship, or my feet

will misgive me, provided I carry spurs to quicken Rozinante: and set me

once face to face before my Lady Dulcinea, at Toboso, I will tell her

such stories of the folly and madness, for they are both the same thing,

which your worship has committed, and will then be committing, that

though I should find her harder than a cork-tree, I will make her as

pliant as a glove; and, with her sweet and honied answer, return through

the air, like a witch, and deliver your worship from this purgatory,

that appears like hell, though it be not really so, because there are

some hopes of getting out of it; whereas those who are actually in hell

can have no such expectation; and I dare say, your worship will not

advance any thing to the contrary.’

‘That is all very true,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ‘but how

shall we make shift to write this letter?’—‘Aye, and the bill for the

colts?’ added Sancho. ‘That shall be inserted in the letter,’ answered

his master; ‘and I think, as there is no paper to be had in this place,

the best thing we can do, will be to write in the manner of the

ancients, on the leaf of a tree, or on waxen tables; though, I believe,

those will be as difficult to be found as the paper. But, now I remember

what will do well, and excellently well, for our purpose: I will write

it in the pocket-book which belonged to Cardenio, and thou shalt take

care to have it fairly transcribed in the first place where thou canst

find a school-master or a parish-clerk to copy it. But, by no means

employ a scrivener, who way write it in such an unintelligible

court-hand, that Satan himself could not understand it.’—‘But what is to

be done about the signing of it?’ said Sancho. ‘Love-letters are never

signed,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘True,’ resumed the squire; ‘but all bills

must be subscribed: and if this of yours were to be copied, they would

say the subscription was counterfeit, and I might go whistle for my

colts.’—‘The bill shall be subscribed with my own hand in the

pocket-book; which my niece shall no sooner see, than she will comply

with the order, without any farther objection: and with regard to the

letter, instead of my subscription, thou shalt cause to be inserted,

“Yours, till death; the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” And though it

be written by another hand, it is of small importance, because, now I

remember, Dulcinea can neither read nor write, nor ever set eyes on any

writing or letter of mine: for our mutual love has been altogether

platonick, without extending farther than a modest glance; and even that

so seldom, that I can safely swear, in twelve years, during which I have

loved her more than the light of these eyes, which will one day be

closed in dust, I have not seen her more than four times, and even in

these four times, perhaps, she hath not perceived me looking at her more

than once. Such is the restraint and reserve in which her father Lorenzo

Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza Nogales, have brought her up!’

‘Ah, ha!’ cried Sancho, ‘is the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, whose

other name is Aldonza Lorenza, the same with the Lady Dulcinea?’—‘Yes,’

answered the knight; ‘and she deserves to be lady of the whole

universe.’—‘I know her perfectly well,’ said Sancho; ‘and this will

venture to say in her behalf, that she will pitch the bar as well as

e’er a lusty young fellow in the village. Bless the sender! she is a

strapper, tall, and hale wind and limb; and can lift out of the mire any

squire or knight errant, who shall chuse her for his sweetheart. Ah! the

whore’s chick! what a pair of lungs and voice has she got! I heard her

one day halloo from the belfray to some young fellows of her

acquaintance, who were at work in a corn-field of her father’s; and,

though it was at the distance of half a league, they heard her as plain

as if they had been right under the steeple; and what is better still,

she is not at all coy, but behaves herself civilly; and jokes and romps,

and plays the rogue with any body. Now, Sir Knight of the Rueful

Countenance, I say that your worship not only has cause to run mad for

her, but even to despair and hang yourself, and I am sure nobody that

heard it, but would say you had done extremely well; even though the

devil should run away with you; and truly, I wish I were now upon my

way, merely to see her; for I have not beheld her these many days: and,

surely, she must be greatly altered; for the sun and weather does very

much damage to the face of a woman who is always at work in the field.

To tell you the truth, Sir Don Quixote, I have hitherto lived in great

ignorance with respect to my Lady Dulcinea, whom I verily believed to be

some princess, that your worship was in love with; or a person of such

rank as to deserve the rich presents you sent to her; namely, the

Biscayan and galley-slaves, with many others whom you conquered in the

course of your numberless victories, both before and since I have been

your squire, But, when one considers the affair, what benefits can my

Lady Aldonza Lorenzo—I mean, my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, reap from your

worship’s sending, or having sent those whom you overcome in battle, to

fall upon their knees before her? especially as they might chance to

come at a time when she is busy, carding flax and threshing corn; in

which case, they would be ashamed to see her, and she laugh and be out

of humour at their arrival.’—‘I have frequently observed before now,

Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that thou art an everlasting babbler; and,

though of a shallow understanding, thy bluntness borders often on

severity; but, to convince thee of thy own ignorance and my discretion,

thou shalt give ear to a short story which I will relate.

‘Know, then, that once upon a time a certain handsome widow, young,

free, wealthy, and, above all, good-humoured, fell in love with a thick,

squat, brawny, lay-brother, belonging to a neighbouring convent; the

superior of which being informed of the affair, said to the widow, one

day, by way of brotherly reproof, “I am amazed, Madam, and not without

cause, that a lady of your rank, beauty, and fortune, should bestow your

affection upon such a low, simple, clownish fellow; when there are so

many masters, graduates, and divines, in the convent, among whom your

ladyship may chuse, as one picks pears, saying, ‘This I like, that I

loath.’” The lady answered, with great freedom and vivacity, “Signior,

you are very much deceived, and very old-fashioned in your opinion, if

you think I have made a bad choice in that fellow who seems so simple:

for, in that particular which I admire, he is as much of a philosopher,

nay, more than Aristotle himself.” In like manner, Sancho, Dulcinea del

Toboso is as proper for my occasions as the highest princess upon earth.

All the poets, who have celebrated ladies, under names which they

invented at pleasure, had not really such mistresses as they describe.

Dost thou imagine, that all the Amaryllis’s, Silvia’s, Phillis’s,

Diana’s, Galatea’s, Alida’s, and other names so often met with in

romances, poems, barbers shops, and on the stage, actually belonging to

ladies of flesh and blood, who were adored by those who sing, and have

sung their praises? No, surely; but, on the contrary, are, for the most

part, feigned and adopted as the subjects of verse, that the poets may

be thought men of amorous and gallant dispositions. Wherefore, let it

suffice, that I imagine and believe the worthy Aldonza Lorenzo to be

beautiful and modest: and, as to her pedigree, it is a matter of small

importance; there is no necessity for taking information on that head,

as if she were to be invested with some order of knighthood; and I take

it for granted, that she is the noblest princess in the universe; for,

thou must know, Sancho, if it be a thing of which thou art ignorant,

that the two qualities, which, above all others, inspire love, are

beauty and reputation: and these two is Dulcinea in consummate

possession of; for in beauty she excels all women, and is equalled by

very few in point of reputation. And, to conclude, I imagine that all I

have said is true, without exaggeration or diminution. I paint her in my

fancy according to my wish, as well in beauty as in rank; unexcelled by

Helen, unrivalled by Lucretia, or any other heroine of ages past,

whether Grecian, Roman, or Barbarian; and let people say what they will,

if I am blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the most rigid

of those who are proper judges of the case.’—‘I say,’ answered Sancho,

‘that your worship is very much in the right, and I am no better than an

ass: but I know not why I should mention the word ass; for one ought not

to talk of halters in the house of a man who was hanged. But give me the

letter, and farewel till I return.’

Don Quixote pulled out the memorandum-book, and, stepping aside, with

great composure, began to write the letter; which, when he had finished,

he called to Sancho, saying he wanted to read it to him, that he might

retain it in his memory, in case he should lose it by the way; for every

thing was to be feared from his evil fortune. ‘Your worship,’ answered

Sancho, ‘may write it down two or three times in the book, and I will

take special care to convey it safely; but it is folly to suppose that I

can retain it in my memory, which is so bad, that I have many a time

forgot my own name; but, notwithstanding, pray, Sir, read it to me; I

shall be hugely rejoiced to hear it; for it must certainly be curiously

penned.’—‘Listen then, and I will read it,’ said Don Quixote; who began

as follows.

Don Quixote’s Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso.

‘SOVEREIGN AND SUBLIME PRINCESS,

‘He who is wounded by the edge of absence, and whose heart is stuck

full of the darts of affliction, most divine Dulcinea del Toboso!

wishes thee that health which he is not doomed to enjoy. If I am

scorned by thy beauty, if thy virtue affords me no relief, if thy

disdain compleats my misfortune; albeit, I am inured to suffering, I

can ill support the misery I bear; which hath not only been

excessive, but also of long duration. My trusty squire Sancho will

give thee an ample relation, O ungrateful beauty and lovely foe! of

the situation in which I remain on thy account: if it be thy will to

succour me, I am thy slave: if not, use thy pleasure; for the end of

my life will satisfy thy cruelty and my desire. Thine till death,

‘THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.’

‘By my father’s soul!’ cried Sancho, ‘this is the highest thing I ever

heard. Odds-niggers! how your worship writes whatsoever you please, and

how curiously you conclude, “The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” I

verily believe your worship is the devil himself, and knows every

thing.’—‘All that knowledge,’ replied the knight, ‘is necessary for the

employment I profess.’—‘Why, then,’ said the squire, ‘be so good as to

write on the other leaf the order for the three colts, and be sure to

subscribe distinctly, that when it is presented, your hand-writing may

be known.’—‘With all my heart!’ said Don Quixote, who having written the

order, read it aloud in these terms.

‘DEAR NIECE,

‘Please deliver to Sancho Panza, my squire, or order, at sight of

this my first bill of colts, three of the five which I left at home

in your custody; which three colts I order you to pay, in return for

the like number received of him: and this bill, together with his

receipt, shall be a sufficient acquittance to you.

‘Given in the heart of the brown mountain, the twentieth and second

of August, this present year.’

Sancho liked the form, and desired his master to sign it. ‘There is no

occasion for my signing it,’ said Don Quixote, ‘with any thing but my

cypher, which is sufficient not only for three, but three hundred

asses.’—‘As to that, I will take your worship’s word; and now give me

leave to go and saddle Rozinante, which when I have done, and received

your blessing, I intend forthwith to depart, without staying to see you

play any foolish tricks, though I will affirm, I have beheld you perform

so many, that she will desire to hear no more of the matter.’—‘At least,

Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I would have thee, because there is a

necessity for it, stay and see me strip, and perform a dozen or two of

mad pranks, which I can easily finish in half an hour; for, when thine

eyes shall have been witnesses of some things I will act, thou mayest

safely swear to what additions thou shalt make in thy report; and I

assure thee, thou wilt not relate the half of what I intend to

atchieve.’—‘For the love of God, dear Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘let me not

see your worship naked; for it will give me so much uneasiness, that I

shall not be able to refrain from weeping; and my head aches already

with the sorrow I felt last night about Dapple; so that I cannot bear to

be set a mourning again; wherefore, if it be your worship’s pleasure

that I should see some of your mad actions, pray dispatch them in your

cloaths; and let them be such as will stand you in most stead: for my

own part, I think there is no occasion for any such thing; and if you

dispense with them, it will save time, and send me back the sooner with

such news as your worship desires and deserves. For, if my Lady Dulcinea

is not prepared to send a reasonable answer, I solemnly protest, I will

extract a favourable reply out of her maw, by kicking and cussing. What!

is it to be borne, that such a renowned knight-errant as your worship,

should run mad without why or wherefore, on account of a —— I would not

have her ladyship compel me to speak; or, egad, I shall blab things by

the dozen, even though they should spoil the market. I am a rare fellow

at that sport. I find she knows a little of my temper, otherwise

i’faith! she would take care to give me no offence.’—‘In good faith,

Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou seemest to be as mad as myself.’—‘Not

quite so mad,’ replied the squire, ‘but a little more cholerick; but

enough of that. What eatables has your worship got to live upon till my

return? will you go to the high-road, and rob the shepherds, like

Cardenio?’—‘Let not that give thee any concern,’ answered the knight;

‘though I had store of provisions by me, I should eat nothing but the

herbs and fruits which this meadow and these trees afford; the

perfection of my design consisting in abstaining from food, and in

encountering other hardships.’—‘Your worship must know,’ said Sancho,

‘that I am afraid I shall not find my way back again to this concealed

and unfrequented place, in which I leave your worship.’—‘Take good

notice of the marks,’ answered the knight, ‘and I shall endeavour to

remain always near this very spot: nay, I will take care to ascend the

highest rocks hereabouts, that I may have a chance of descrying thee

afar off, in thy return. But, the best scheme for preventing thy being

bewildered, will be, to cut down some of the furze that grows here in

great plenty, and drop bunches of it, at small distances on the way,

until thou shalt reach the flat country: and they will serve as

land-marks to guide thee hither on thy return, like the clue of Theseus,

in the labyrinth of Crete.’

‘I will take your advice,’ said Sancho; who accordingly cutting a large

bundle, begged his master’s blessing, and took his leave, not without

many tears on both sides. Then mounting Rozinante, whom Don Quixote

strongly recommended to his care, commanding him to pay as much regard

to the steed as he would shew for his own person; he set out for the

plain, scattering, by the way, the furze he had cut, according to the

direction of his master. In this manner then, did he begin his journey,

notwithstanding the incessant importunities of Don Quixote, who

solicited him to stay and see some of his extravagancies: but, he had

not travelled above an hundred yards, when he returned, saying, ‘I

confess your worship was in the right, when you observed, that, in order

to my swearing with a safe conscience that I have seen you perform mad

pranks, it would be necessary for you to play some in my presence;

although, in my opinion, I have seen a pretty good sample already in

your staying here by yourself.’—‘Did not I tell thee so, Sancho?’ said

Don Quixote: ‘wait a little, and I will finish them in a twinkling.’ So

saying, he stripped off his breeches in a great hurry, leaving his

posteriors covered by the tail of his shirt alone, and without farther

ceremony, cut a couple of capers, and a like number of tumbles, with his

head down and his heels up, disclosing particulars, which shocked the

modesty of Sancho so much, that in order to avoid the sight of them a

second time, he turned Rozinante, fully satisfied and pleased, that he

might now honestly swear he had left his master distracted. We will

therefore let him pursue his journey, till his return, which was more

speedy than could be expected.

Footnote 78:

The Beautiful Obscure.

Footnote 79:

Lo! Sancho’s ass hath disappeared again.

CHAP. XII.

A CONTINUATION OF THE REFINEMENTS IN LOVE,

PRACTISED BY DON QUIXOTE IN THE BROWN MOUNTAIN.

But, to return to the account of what the Knight of the Rueful

Countenance executed when he found himself alone. The history relates,

that, having performed the capers and the tumbles, naked, from the waist

downward, and perceived that Sancho was gone, without waiting to see

more of his extravagancies, he climbed to the top of a high rock, and

there revolved what he had often reflected upon without coming to any

conclusion; namely, whether it was better and more fit for his purpose,

to imitate Orlando in his outrageous, or Amadis in his melancholy

madness. ‘It is not to be wondered at,’ said he within himself, ‘if

Orlando was such a stout and valiant knight as he is represented; for he

was actually inchanted, and invulnerable by every weapon but the point

of a pin, thrust into his foot, upon which he always wore a shoe with

seven soles of iron: though that precaution did not avail him against

Bernardo del Carpeio, who being informed of the contrivance, strangled

him in his arms at the battle of Roncevalles: but the circumstance of

his valour apart, let us consider that of his losing his senses, which

actually happened, when he found the tokens in the fountain, and

received the information of the shepherd, by which he learned that

Angelica had slept more than two afternoons with Modero, the little Moor

with curled locks, who was Agramante’s page; and, truly, if he was

convinced in his own mind, that his mistress had misbehaved in that

manner, it was no great feat to run mad upon the discovery. But why

should I imitate him in his madness, when the occasion is not similar;

for, my Dulcinea del Toboso, I dare swear, never in all the days of her

life, beheld one Moor in his own likeness; and is this day as much a

virgin as the mother that bore her; I should therefore do her a manifest

injury, in imagining otherwise, and adopting that kind of madness which

possessed Orlando Furioso. On the other hand, I am sensible that Amadis

de Gaul, without losing his senses, or acting the madman, acquired as

much, or more fame than he, in the character of a lover; for, according

to the history, all that he did, when he found himself in disgrace with

his mistress Oriana, who banished him from her presence during pleasure,

was to retire, in company of a hermit, to the poor rock, where he

contented himself with bemoaning his misfortune, until Heaven sent him

succour, in the midst of his great necessity and affliction. If this

circumstance, therefore, be true, as I know it is, why should I now take

the trouble of stripping myself naked, or give umbrage to these trees,

which have done me no harm! or what reason have I to defile the pure

stream of these rivulets, which, when I want it, will yield me pleasant

drink! Flourish, then, the memory of Amadis! and let him be imitated as

much as possible, by Don Quixote de La Mancha, of whom may be said, that

which is recorded of another[80], “If he did not atchieve great things,

at least he died in attempting.” And, though I am not banished nor

disdained by my Dulcinea, let it suffice, as I have already said, that I

am absent from her. Come, then, let us begin: recur to my remembrance,

ye feats of Amadis, and initiate me in the imitation of your fame. I

know his chief exercise was prayer, and in that too will I follow his

example.’ So saying, he composed a rosary of the large galls of a cork

tree, which he strung together instead of beads; but, he found an

unsurmountable difficulty in the want of an hermit to confess and

console him: wherefore, he entertained himself in strolling about the

meadow, writing and engraving verses on the barks of trees, and the

smooth sand; all of them on the subject of his own melancholy, or in

praise of his mistress Dulcinea; but, after he was found in this place,

none, except the following, remained intelligible and entire.

I.

Ye trees and herbs, so green and tall,

That shade this meadow, and adorn,

If you rejoice not at my thrall,

Give ear unto a wretch forlorn;

Nor let my grief, though loud, invade

Your peace; but, by Don Quixote, be a

Self-offer’d tax of sorrow, paid

In absence of his Dulcinea

del Toboso.

II.

These are the rocks to which he’s driven

By her who seems not much to care for

The truest lover under heaven:

And yet he knows not why nor wherefore.

By love toss’d like a tennis-ball,

A cask of tears will not defray a

Whole day’s expence of grief and gall,

In absence of his Dulcinea

del Toboso.

III.

Among these craggy rocks and brambles,

He hangs, alas! on sorrow’s tenters;

Or curses, as alone he rambles,

The cruel cause of his misventures.

Unpitying love about his ears,

With scourge severe began to play a

Most dreadful game, that made his tears

Flow for his absent Dulcinea

del Toboso.

These verses, with the addition of del Toboso, to the name of Dulcinea,

afforded infinite diversion to those who found them: for, they concluded

Don Quixote had imagined, that, if he named her without this title, the

stanza could not possibly be understood; and this was really the case,

as he afterwards owned. Many other ditties did he compose; but, as we

have already observed, none but these three stanzas could be decyphered

and read. In this amusement, in sighing, invoking the fauns and sylvans

of those woods, the nymphs of the brooks, with the damp and doleful echo

to hear, console, and resound his complaints; and, in culling plants to

sustain nature, he employed himself till the return of Sancho, who, had

he stayed three weeks, instead of three days, the knight of the rueful

countenance would have been so emaciated and disfigured, that he could

not have been known by the mother who bore him.

However, it will not be amiss to leave him, engrossed by his sighs and

poetry; in order to recount what happened to Sancho Panza, in the

execution of his embassy. Having reached the highway, this trusty

messenger took the road to Toboso, and next day arrived at the very inn

where he had met with the disgraceful adventure of the blanketting. He

no sooner perceived the unlucky house, than he fancied himself cutting

capers in the air again; and was very lothe to enter, although it was

then dinner time, and he was very much instigated by the desire of

tasting something hot, as he had lived for a great many days past on

cold victuals only. This inclination compelled him to ride close up to

the inn, where, while he was sitting in suspence, and hesitating whether

or not he should enter, two persons happened to come to the door, and

knowing him immediately, the one said to the other, ‘Pray, Mr.

Licentiate, is not that man on horseback our neighbour Sancho Panza;

who, as the housekeeper told us, went out with our adventurer in quality

of squire?’—‘The very same,’ answered the licentiate, ‘and that is the

individual horse of our friend Don Quixote.’ And no wonder they should

know him so easily; for they were no other than the curate and barber of

the knight’s town, by whom the scrutiny and trial of his books were

held. Having therefore recognized Sancho Panza and Rozinante, and being

impatient to hear news of Don Quixote, they ran up to the squire, and

the curate called him by name, saying, ‘Friend Sancho, where is your

master?’ Sancho, who recollected them also, resolved to conceal the

place and condition in which he had left his master; and therefore

answered, that the knight was in a certain place, employed about a

certain affair of the utmost importance, which he durst not disclose for

the eyes that stood in his head. ‘That pretence will not do, Sancho,’

said the barber; ‘if you refuse to tell where he is, we shall imagine,

as indeed we do, that you have robbed and murdered him, and taken

possession of his horse; so that in good sooth, you must either produce

him, or in this very spot, we will——’ ‘You have no occasion,’ cried

Sancho, interrupting him, ‘to threaten people in this manner; I am not

the man to rob and murder any person; every man must fall by his own

fortune, or by the will of God that created him: my master is sound and

safe, doing penance in the midst of that mountain, to his heart’s

content.’ He then, without pausing, in a breath informed them of the

condition in which he left him, recounted all the adventures which had

happened to him, and told them of the letter he was carrying to my Lady

Dulcinea del Toboso, who was no other than Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter,

with whom his master was up to his ears in love.

They were astonished at what the squire related, and though well

acquainted with the particular species of Don Quixote’s madness, this

instance afforded fresh admiration: they desired Sancho to shew them the

letter for the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and he told them it was only a

rough draught, written on the leaf of a pocket-book; and that his master

had ordered him to get it transcribed on a sheet of paper, with the

first convenient opportunity. The curate promised to transcribe it in a

fair legible hand, and again desiring a sight of it, Sancho put his hand

in his bosom, in search of the book, which, however, he could not find;

and indeed, had he fumbled till this time, it would have been to no

purpose; for he had left it with Don Quixote, who had forgot to give, as

he to ask it of him, before he set out. Sancho missing his charge, grew

pale as death, and searching again his whole body with great eagerness,

could find nothing; upon which, without more ado, he laid hold of his

beard with both hands, and plucked one half of it from his chin; then,

with vast dispatch and precipitation, belaboured his face and nose in

such a manner, as left the whole covered with blood. The curate and

barber seeing him make so free with his own person, asked what had

happened to him, that made him handle himself so roughly. ‘What has

happened to me?’ cried the squire, ‘I have lost and let slip through my

fingers in an instant, three ass colts, each of which was as tall as a

tower.’—‘By what means?’ resumed the barber. ‘I have lost,’ answered

Sancho, ‘the pocket-book, in which was written the letter for Dulcinea,

together with an order, signed by my master’s own hand, desiring his

niece to deliver to me three colts out of four or five which he has at

home.’ At the same time he told them how he had lost Dapple. The curate

comforted him, by saying, that when he returned, his master would renew

the order, and give him a bill upon paper, as the custom is, for those

written in pocket-books are never accepted or paid.

With this assurance Sancho consoled himself, observing, since that was

the case, he should not give himself much uneasiness about the loss of

the letter, which, as he retained it by heart, he could cause to be

transcribed where and when he pleased. The barber desired him to repeat

it, telling him they would transcribe it; upon which Sancho began to

scratch his head, in order to recollect it, standing sometimes on one

foot, sometimes on the other. One while he fixed his eyes upon the

ground, then lifted them up to Heaven; at last, after a most tedious

pause, during which he gnawed off the half of one of his nails, and kept

his hearers in the most impatient suspence; ‘‘Fore God, Mr. Licentiate,’

said he, ‘I believe the devil has run away with every word that I

remembered of this letter; though I am positive it began with subterrene

and sublime princess!’—‘It could not be subterrene,’ said the barber,

‘but superterrene or sovereign.’—‘You are in the right,’ resumed Sancho;

‘then, if my memory does not fail me, it went on with the smitten, the

sleepless, and the sore, kisses your hands, most ungrateful and

unregarded beauty; and something or other of health and distemper which

he wished her; running on at this rate, till he concluded with, “yours,

till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”’

The hearers were not a little diverted with this specimen of Sancho’s

memory, which they applauded very much; desiring him to repeat the

letter again, twice over, that they might retain it, until they could

have an opportunity of transcribing it. He accordingly renewed his

efforts, repeated it three times; and as often recited three thousand

other absurdities. He likewise gave them an account of every thing which

had befallen his master; but mentioned not a syllable of the blanketting

that had happened to himself, in that very inn which he refused to

enter; nay, he gave them to understand that his master, as soon as he

could bring him a favourable dispatch from my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,

would put himself in the way of becoming an emperor or monarch at least,

according to the plan settled between them. This he represented as a

very easy matter, considering the valour of his person, and strength of

his arm; and told them, that this design would be no sooner

accomplished, than the knight would bestow upon him in marriage, (for by

that time, he must of necessity be a widower) one of the maids of honour

to the empress; a fine young lady, and heiress of a vast and wealthy

estate upon the main land, without any oilands or islands, which he did

not much care for.

Sancho uttered this piece of wrong-headed information with such

composure, wiping his nose from time to time, that his townsmen could

not help admiring anew the madness of Don Quixote; which, like a

whirlpool, had sucked in and swept along with it the understanding of

this poor simpleton. They did not chuse to fatigue themselves with

endeavours to convince him of his error; but, as they believed it was

not prejudicial to his conscience, resolved, for their amusement, to

encourage him in his folly; with this view they advised him to pray to

God for long life and health to his master; and observed, that it was a

thing both likely and feasible that he should, in process of time,

become an emperor, at least an archbishop, or attain some station of

equal dignity. To this encouragement Sancho replied, ‘Gentlemen, if

fortune should bring matters about, so as that my master should incline

to be an archbishop rather than an emperor, I should be glad to know

what archbishops-errant bestow upon their squires?’ The curate told him,

that they commonly gave him some simple benefice, curacy, or the office

of sacristan, with a good yearly income, besides the fees of the altar,

which are usually reckoned at as much more. ‘In order to fill an

employment of that kind,’ answered Sancho, ‘the squire must be

unmarried, and at least capable of assisting at mass; and if that be the

case, what will become of me, who have not only the misfortune to be

married, but am also ignorant of the first letter of the A, B, C; should

my master take it in his head to be an archbishop, rather than an

emperor, according to the custom of knights-errant?’—‘Don’t make

yourself uneasy about that matter, friend Sancho,’ said the barber; ‘for

we will intreat and advise your master, nay, even make it an affair of

conscience, for him to become an emperor rather than archbishop, as a

station more suited to his disposition, which is more war-like than

studious.’—‘I was of the same opinion,’ resumed Sancho; ‘but now, I’ll

venture to say, he has a capacity for every thing; and what I intend to

do, is to beseech our Lord to direct his choice to that station which

will be most for his own honour and my advantage.’—‘You speak like a

sensible man,’ said the curate; ‘and in so doing will act the part of a

good Christian; but, our present business is to think on some means of

putting an end to this useless penance your master has imposed upon

himself; and in the mean time go in to dinner.’ Sancho desired them to

enter, saying he would wait for them at the door, and afterwards tell

them why he did not go in, and wherefore it was not proper for him so to

do; but begged they would be so good as to bring out something hot for

himself, and some barley for Rozinante. They accordingly went in, and in

a little time the barber brought him out a mess of hot victuals. After

they had both maturely deliberated about the means of accomplishing

their design, the curate fell upon a scheme, extremely well-adapted to

the taste of the knight, as well as to their purpose. He proposed to

clothe himself in the dress of a lady-errant, and that the barber should

disguise himself as well as he could, in the likeness of a squire; which

being done, they should go to the place where Don Quixote was, and the

priest, on pretence of being a damsel in distress, should beg a boon,

which he, as a valiant knight-errant, could not help granting. This boon

should be a request, that he would accompany her to a certain place

whither she would conduct him, there to redress an injury she had

received from a discourteous knight; and the boon should be attended

with an humble supplication, that he would not desire her to take off

her mask, nor ask any question about her affairs, until he should have

done her justice upon her adversary. And as he firmly believed that Don

Quixote would comply with any request made in that stile, he hoped, by

these means, to withdraw him from the mountain, and conduct him to his

own habitation, where they would endeavour to find some remedy for his

strange disorder.

Footnote 80:

Probably alluding to the epitaph of Phaeton.

_Hic situs est Phaeton, currus auriga paterni,_

_Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis._

CHAP. XIII.

HOW THE CURATE AND BARBER SET OUT

ON THE EXECUTION OF THEIR PLAN;

WITH OTHER EVENTS WORTHY TO BE RECORDED IN THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

This scheme of the curate was so well relished by the barber, that they

began to put it in execution immediately; by borrowing of the landlady a

petticoat and tucker, for which the priest lent a new cassock in pawn;

while the barber made an artificial beard of the tail of a pied ox, in

which the innkeeper used to stick his comb. When the hostess asked what

occasion they had for these things, the curate gave her a brief account

of Don Quixote’s madness, and explained the use to which they intended

to put the disguise, in order to disengage him from the mountain where

he then was. The innkeeper and his wife immediately discovered that this

lunatick was no other than their quondam guest, who was author of the

balsam, and master of the blanketted squire; and recounted to the curate

every thing that had happened, not even forgetting the circumstance

which Sancho was at such pains to conceal. In short, the landlady

dressed up the curate in a most curious manner; she put upon him a cloth

petticoat flounced and furbelowed, with a broad border of black velvet,

and a close jerkin of green velvet, garnished with robings of white

sattin, which, together with the petticoat, seemed to have been made in

the reign of King Bamba[81]; he would not suffer himself to be coifed,

but covered his head with a quilted linen night-cap, which he always

carried about with him; and bound his forehead with a garter of black

taffety, making a sort of mask with the other, which effectually

concealed his countenance and beard. Over all, he slapped his beaver,

which was so broad that it might have served for an umbrella; and,

wrapping himself up in his cloak, mounted his mule, sitting sideways

like a woman; while the barber bestrid his own beast, with his beard

flowing down to his girdle, of a white and red colour, being made, as we

have before observed, of a pied ox’s tail.

Thus equipped, they took leave of every body present, even the kind

Maritornes, who promised, though a sinner, to mumble a whole rosary over

in prayers to God, for the good success of that arduous and Christian

design they had undertaken; but scarce had they sallied from the inn,

when the curate began to think he was to blame for disguising himself;

it being, in his opinion, indecent for a priest to appear in such a

manner, how much soever depended upon their success. He therefore

proposed that he should exchange characters with the barber, who might

act the part of the damsel in distress, while he took that of the

squire, which he thought did not so much profane the dignity of the

cloth; and unless his neighbour would agree to this proposal, he assured

him that he was resolved to go no farther, even if the devil himself

should carry off Don Quixote. At that instant Sancho chanced to come up,

and seeing them in such a garb, could not refrain from laughing; in

short, the barber assented to every thing the other proposed; and the

plan being thus altered, the curate began to instruct him touching his

behaviour and speech to Don Quixote, in order to move and induce him to

accompany them, and quit that place he had chosen for the scene of his

vain and extravagant penance. The barber told him, that without his

lessons, he knew very well how to demean himself in the character; and

as he did not chuse to put on the dress till they should be near Don

Quixote, he folded it up with great care; the priest adjusted his beard;

and both together proceeded, on their journey, under the direction, of

Sancho Panza, who by the way related to them what happened between his

master and the madman whom they met with in the Brown Mountain;

concealing, nevertheless, the circumstance of the portmanteau, and its

contents; for, notwithstanding his simplicity, our youth was as covetous

as wiser people.

Next day they came to the broom boughs, which Sancho had strewed, in

order to ascertain the place where he had left his master: he no sooner,

therefore, perceived his marks, than he told them, that was the entrance

into the mountain; and desired them to put on their dresses, if they

were necessary towards the deliverance of his master: for they had

already assured him, that their travelling in such disguise was of the

utmost importance, in disengaging the knight from that disagreeable

course of life he had chosen: and they charged him not to tell his

master that he knew who they were; and if he should ask, as doubtless he

would, whether or not he had delivered the letter to Dulcinea, they

advised him to answer in the affirmative, and tell him, that as she

could not read it, she had sent her answer by word of mouth, commanding

him, on pain of her displeasure, to appear in her presence with all

convenient speed, on an affair of the utmost consequence to him: for,

with this answer, and other speeches they intended to make, they did not

at all doubt of reconciling him to a better way of life, and prevail

upon him immediately to begin his career towards being an emperor or

king; and as to the office of archbishop, Sancho had nothing to fear.

The squire listened to these directions, which he carefully deposited in

his memory, thanking them heartily for their intention to advise his

master to accept of an emperor’s crown, rather than an archbishop’s

mitre; as he was very sensible that emperors could do more for their

squires than archbishops-errant. He also proposed to go before, in

search of his master, and impart to him this answer of his lady, which,

he assured them, would be sufficient to bring him out of the mountain,

without their being put to any farther trouble. They approved of his

opinion, and resolved to stay where they were until he should return

with the news of his having found Don Quixote: accordingly, Sancho

proceeded towards the heart of the mountain, leaving them in a spot

watered by a small purling brook, and shaded in a most cool and

agreeable manner by some rocks and trees that grew round it.

It being then the month of August, when the heat in those parts is

excessive, and three in the afternoon, which is the hottest time of the

day, they were the more charmed with the situation, which was so

inviting, that they chose it for the place of their residence, until

Sancho should return. While they lay at their ease, under the covert of

this shade, their ears were saluted with the sound of a voice, which,

though unaccompanied by any instrument, sung so sweet and melodiously,

that they were struck with astonishment; little expecting to meet with

such a delicious warbler in that unfrequented place; for though it is

usually said, that the woods and mountains abound with shepherds, who

sing most inchantingly, that report is rather the fiction of poets than

the voice of truth: besides, the verses which they heard were not

composed in the rustick phrase of clowns, but in a polite and courtly

strain; as may be perceived by the song itself, which follows:

I.

Ah! what inspires my woeful strain?

Unkind disdain!

Ah what augments my misery?

Fell jealousy!

Or say, what hath my patience worn?

An absent lover’s scorn.

The torments, then, that I endure,

No mortal remedy can cure:

For every languid hope is slain,

By absence, jealousy, disdain!

II.

From Love, my unrelenting foe,

These sorrows flow!

My infant glory’s overthrown,

By Fortune’s frown;

Confirm’d in this my wretched state,

By the decrees of Fate.

In Death alone I hope release

From this compounded, dire disease;

Whole cruel pangs to aggravate,

Fortune and Love conspire with Fate!

III.

Ah, what will mitigate my doom?

The silent tomb!

Ah! what retrieve departed joy?

Inconstancy!

Or say, can aught but frenzy, bear

This tempest of despair?

All other efforts, then, are vain,

To cure this soul-tormenting pain,

That owns no other remedy

Than madness, death, inconstancy.

The hour, the season, and the solitude, conspired with the agreeable

voice of the singer, to increase the wonder and satisfaction of the

hearers, who listened for some time in expectation of something else;

but the silence having continued a good while, they resolved to go in

quest of the person who sung so enchantingly, and were just going to set

out on this design, when they were arrested by the same voice, which

again saluted their ears with this other song:

I.

O sacred Friendship! mild and gay,

Who to the regions of the bless’d

Hath soar’d, and left mankind a prey

To fraud, in thy resemblance dress’d:

II.

Auspicious hear, and hither send

Thy sister Truth, with radiant eyes,

To brand the false professing friend,

Detected in the fair disguise.

III.

Or come thyself, and re-inspire

The purpose candid and humane;

Else Peace and Order will retire,

While Horror and Confusion reign.

This sonnet was concluded with a most profound sigh, and the curate and

barber began again to listen for more; but, finding the musick converted

into mournful sobs and interjections, they were determined to know who

this melancholy person was, who sung so well, and groaned so piteously.

They had not gone many paces with this intent, when turning the point of

a rock, they perceived a man of the same make and appearance that Sancho

described, when he related the story of Cardenio: he did not seem

surprized at sight of them, but stood with his head reclining upon his

breast, in a very pensive posture, without lifting his eyes to look at

them, after their first sudden appearance. The curate, who was a

well-spoken man, concluding, from the description, that this must be he

whose misfortune he had been apprized of, went up, and in a short, but

pathetick address, exhorted and entreated him to quit that miserable

course of life, which was the greatest of all misfortunes, and

altogether perverted the end of his being. Cardenio being at that time

in one of his lucid intervals, entirely free of that frantick paroxism

which used so utterly to deprive him of his senses, and seeing two

people so differently dressed from those he commonly met with in that

solitude, could not help being somewhat surprized; especially, when he

heard him talk of his misfortune as a circumstance with which they were

well acquainted; for the curate had mentioned it in the course of his

expostulation: and therefore he answered in this manner: ‘I plainly

perceive, gentlemen, that Heaven, which is careful in succouring the

good, and sometimes even the bad, hath sent, though I little deserve

such favour and condescension, divers people into this unfrequented

solitude, so remote from all commerce and society, in order to convince

me by just and various arguments, how unreasonably I act in leading this

kind of life, which they have endeavoured to make me exchange for a

better; and, as they know not the reasons I have to think that, in

quitting this situation, I shall be plunged into a worse; they have

perhaps looked upon me as a person of very shallow understanding, or,

which is still a conjecture more unfavourable, a downright madman: and

truly, it is not to be wondered at, if that was really the case; for I

can easily conceive, that my misfortunes operate so intensely upon my

imagination, and impair my faculties so much, that sometimes, in spite

of all my endeavours to the contrary, I become, like that rock, void of

all sentiment and knowledge; and am convinced of my infirmity too late,

when people shew me the marks of what I have done, while I was under the

influence of that terrible transport: then, all that I can do, is to

bewail my distemper; curse my lot in vain; and, in excuse of my madness,

relate my sufferings to all who express the least desire of hearing

them; that those of sounder judgment, knowing the cause, may not wonder

at the effects; and if they cannot prevent, at least pardon my frenzy;

converting their indignation at my extravagance into compassion for my

woes; and if you, gentlemen, are come with that intention, which hath

brought others to this place, before you proceed with your prudent

admonitions, I intreat you to hear the detail of my misfortunes, which

you do not yet know, and then, perhaps, you will save yourselves the

trouble which you might otherwise take, in consoling an affliction that

admits of no consolation.’

The two friends, who desired nothing else than to hear from his own

mouth the cause of his misfortune, earnestly begged he would recount it,

and promised to attempt nothing contrary to his own inclination in the

way of remedy or comfort. Thus assured, the melancholy gentleman began

his distressful story, nearly in the same words and circumstances which

he had used a few days before, to Don Quixote and the goatherd, when he

was interrupted in the affair of, Mr. Elisabat, by the knight’s

punctuality in asserting the decorum of chivalry, as the particulars of

that quarrel have been already related: but now he remained fortunately

free from his paroxism, and of consequence, had time to finish the

narration, which was imperfect before. When he therefore came to the

circumstances of the letter which Don Fernando had found between the

leaves of Amadis de Gaul[82], he said he remembered the contents, and

accordingly repeated them in these terms.

‘“LUCINDA TO CARDENIO.

‘“I every day discover new qualities in Cardenio, which oblige and

compel me to esteem him the more. If you are inclined to extricate

me out of all suspence, you may effectuate your purpose, without the

least prejudice to my honour; for my father, who is, well acquainted

with your virtues, loves me dearly, and far from tyrannizing over my

affections, will chearfully grant that which is so justly your due,

if your passion is such as I wish and believe it to be.”