‘I resolved, as I have already told you, to demand Lucinda in marriage,

upon the receipt of this letter, which not only confirmed Don Fernando’s

high opinion of her prudence and virtue, but also inflamed him with the

desire of ruining my hopes, before I should be able to bring them to

maturity. I told this faithless friend, Lucinda’s father expected that

mine should propose the match; and that I durst not communicate my

desire to him, lest he should refuse to comply with it: not that he was

ignorant of Lucinda’s rank, virtue, beauty, and qualifications, which

were sufficient to ennoble any other family in Spain; but, because I

understood he was averse to my being married, until he should see what

Duke Ricardo would do in my behalf; in short, I told him that I would

not venture to propose it, being afraid not only of this ill

consequence, but also of many others which I could not foresee; although

I had a strong impression upon my mind, that my wishes would never be

compleated. In answer to this declaration, Don Fernando undertook to

manage the affair, and prevail upon my father to propose the match to

Lucinda’s parents.——O villain! more ambitious than Marius, more cruel

than Catiline, more savage than Sylla, more fraudulent than Galalon,

more treacherous than Vellido[83], more vengeful than Julian, and more

covetous than Judas! cruel, false, vindictive traitor! what injuries

hast thou suffered from this poor credulous wretch, who with such

confidence disclosed to thee the most secret recesses of his soul! What

offence had he given? what words had he uttered, or what advice had he

offered, that did not directly tend to thy honour and advantage?——But,

unhappy that I am! wherefore should I complain? seeing it is a thing

certain, that when once the tide of misfortune, heaped up by one’s

malignant stars, begins to descend with violence and fury, no earthly

mound can oppose, nor human industry divert its course. Who could

imagine, that such an illustrious, accomplished young gentleman, as Don

Fernando, who lay under obligations for the services I had done him, and

was powerful enough to obtain the gratification of his wish,

whithersoever his amorous inclination pointed, should plague himself, as

I may say, in attempts to rob me of my single lamb, even before I had

possessed it?

‘But, let us lay aside these vain and unprofitable reflections, and

rejoin the broken thread of my unfortunate story. Well, then, Don

Fernando, perceiving that my presence would be an obstruction to the

execution of his false and perfidious design, resolved to send me back

to his elder brother, on pretence of getting money to pay for six

horses, which he purposely bought that very day he undertook to speak to

my father, in order to have an excuse for sending me away, that he

might, in my absence, the more easily succeed in his villainous

intention. Was it possible for me to prevent this treachery, or indeed

conceive his design! No, surely. On the contrary, I offered, with the

utmost alacrity, to set out forthwith, so pleased was I with the

purchase he had made. That very night I had a private conversation with

Lucinda, in which I told her the scheme I had concerted with Don

Fernando, and bade her rest assured in the hope that our just and

honourable desires would soon be gratified. She, as little suspicious of

Don Fernando’s perfidy as I was, entreated me to return with speed,

believing that our wishes would be compleated, as soon as my father

should mention the affair to hers. I don’t know upon what account, her

eyes were filled with tears when she pronounced these words; and

something that seemed to swell in her throat, prevented her from

uttering another syllable, though she looked as if she had something

more to say. I was confounded at this new circumstance, which had never

happened before; in all our former conversations, which my good fortune

offered, or my diligence effected, there had been nothing but joy and

satisfaction, without any mixture of tears, sighs, jealousy, dread, or

suspicion; all my discourse used to consist of acknowledgments to

Heaven, for having bestowed upon me such a mistress, whose beauty I

extolled, and whose virtue and good sense I admired; while she returned

the compliment, by praising those qualities in me, which she, in the

partiality of her fondness, deemed worthy of applause; besides, we used

to entertain each other with an account of a thousand trifling accidents

that happened among our neighbours and acquaintance: and the heighth of

my vivacity never amounted to more than the seizing of one of her

delicate white hands, and pressing it to my lips, through the narrow

distance betwixt the rails that divided us. But, on that night, which

preceded the fatal day of my departure, she wept, sighed, and sobbed,

and left me filled with confusion and surprize, and terrified at such

unusual and melancholy marks of grief and affliction in my Lucinda. But

I was flattered by my hopes, which ascribed the whole to the strength of

her passion, and that sorrow which is commonly produced by the absence

of a beloved object. In fine, I set out, pensive and sad, my imagination

tortured with suspicions and doubts, which my reflection could neither

digest nor explain: a sure presage of the melancholy fate that awaited

me.

‘I arrived at the place of my destination, and delivered my letters to

Don Fernando’s brother, who received me kindly; but, far from

dispatching me immediately, desired me, to my infinite regret, to wait

eight whole days in a place where his father should not see me, because

his brother had writ to him to send the money without the knowledge of

the duke. But this was altogether an invention of the false Fernando,

whose brother had money enough, and could have sent me back the very

same day on which I arrived. This was such an order as I was scarce able

to obey, for I thought it impossible to support life for so many days in

the absence of Lucinda, considering the sorrow in which I had left her.

Yet, notwithstanding, I resolved to do my duty like a faithful servant,

though I very well foresaw that my obedience must be at the expence of

my peace. Four days of the eight were not yet elapsed, when a man came

in search of me, and gave me a letter, the superscription of which I no

sooner beheld, than I knew it to be written by Lucinda’s own hand. I

opened it with fear and trembling, believing that there must be

something very extraordinary in the case, which induced her to write to

me in my absence; considering that while I was present, she had been so

sparing of her pen[84]. But, before I read a syllable, I asked the

messenger, who had put it into his hands, and how long he had been upon

his journey? He answered, that passing through a certain street, about

noon, he was stopped by a very beautiful young lady, who called to him

from a window, saying, with great earnestness, while the tears trickled

from her eyes, “Brother, if you are a Christian, as you seem to be, I

entreat you, for God’s sake, to carry this letter to the place and

person for whom it is directed; they are both well known; and in so

doing, you will render a piece of service acceptable to the Lord. That

you may not want conveniences upon the road, here is something to defray

the expence of your journey.”” So saying, she threw down a handkerchief,

in which were tied a hundred rials, this gold ring, and the letter I

have delivered. Then, without waiting for a reply, she went from the

window, after having seen me take up the handkerchief and the letter,

and make signs that I would do as she desired. Accordingly, finding

myself so well paid for the trouble I should be at, and seeing, by the

direction, that you was the person to whom it was sent, (and I know you

perfectly well;) induced, moreover, by the tears of that beautiful young

lady, I resolved to trust no other messenger, but come and deliver it

with my own hand; and in sixteen hours, which are past since I received

it, I have travelled to this place, which, as you know, is about

eighteen leagues from our town. While I listened attentively to the

information of this grateful and extraordinary courier, my legs shook

under me in such a manner, that I could scarce stand upright. At length,

however, I ventured to read the letter, which contained these words.

‘“The promise which Don Fernando made, to prevail upon your father

to propose a match to mine, hath been performed more to his

inclination than your advantage. Know, Cardenio, that your pretended

friend allied me in marriage for himself; and my father, swayed by

the advantage which he thinks Don Fernando has over you in point of

fortune, hath given his consent so much in earnest, that two days

hence the nuptials are to be celebrated so privately, that none but

Heaven, and some people in the family, are to be present at the

marriage. My situation you may guess. If it be in your power, return

with all speed, and the event of this affair will shew whether I

love you tenderly or not. Heaven grant that this may come to your

hand, before mine shall be presented to him who so ill performs the

duty of a friend!”

‘This, which was the sum of what the letter contained, made me set out

immediately, without waiting for any answer, or the money for which I

had come. For, by that time, I plainly perceived that it was not the

purchase of the horses, but his own treacherous intention, which had

induced Don Fernando to send me out of the way. The indignation I

conceived against him, together with the fear of losing the jewel which

I had acquired, and treasured up with such unwearied services and care,

added wings to my speed, and conveyed me to the place of my habitation,

just at the hour and minute proper for my going to visit Lucinda. I

entered the town privately, and leaving my mule at the house of the

honest man who brought the letter, I went to the rail, which was the

constant witness of our love, and there was so far favoured by fortune

as to find Lucinda.—We knew each other presently; though not as we ought

to have known each other. But, who is he who can arrogate praise to

himself, for having fathomed and discerned the capricious sentiments and

sickly disposition of woman? Surely no man on earth.—But this apart.

Lucinda perceiving me, “Cardenio,” said she, “I am now in my bridal

dress, and this moment expected in the hall by the traitor Don Fernando,

my covetous father, and some other people, who shall bear witness to my

death sooner than to my marriage. Be not confounded, my friend, but

endeavour to be present at the sacrifice, which, if I cannot prevent by

my declaration, I wear a dagger concealed, which can obstruct a more

vigorous determination; and, by putting an end to my life, begin to

convince thee of the sincere passion I have always entertained, and

shall retain for my Cardenio.” Afraid I should want time to answer her,

I replied with great hurry and confusion, “Let your words be verified by

your deeds, Madam. If you have a dagger to assert your love, I wear a

sword to defend it; or, should fortune prove our foe, to rid myself of

life.” I believe she did not hear all that I said, because she was

called away in a hurry, to the bridegroom, who waited for her.’

‘Thus deepened the night of my distress; thus set the sun of my

happiness! I remained without light to my eyes, or reflection to my

mind, for some time; I could neither resolve to enter her father’s

house, nor remove to any other place; at length, however, considering of

what consequence my presence might be, in case any thing extraordinary

should happen, I recollected myself, as well as I could, and went in,

without being perceived, as I was well acquainted with all the passages

and corners of the house, and was favoured by the confusion which then

prevailed in it on account of the nuptials. Thus entering, unseen, I

found means to conceal myself in the hollow of a window in the hall,

that was covered by the meeting of two pieces of tapestry, from behind

which I could, without being perceived, observe every thing that

happened.

‘How shall I describe the throbbings and palpitations of my heart, the

images that occurred to my fancy, the reflections that I made while I

remained in that situation! they were such as I neither can nor ought to

describe. Let it suffice to say, the bridegroom came into the hall,

without any other ornaments than his usual dress, attended by a first

cousin of Lucinda, in quality of bridesman, no other person being

present, except some servants of the family. A little while after

Lucinda came in from her closet, accompanied by her mother and two

waiting-women; and as richly dressed and adorned as her rank and beauty

deserved, or as the perfection of gaiety and gallantry could invent. The

suspence and transport of my soul would not allow me to observe and mark

the particulars of her dress; I could only take notice of the colours,

which were carnation and white; and the blaze of jewels that adorned

her, which was even excelled by the singular beauty of her golden locks,

that struck the eye with more splendor than all the precious stones,

together with the light of four torches that burned in the hall.—O

memory! thou mortal enemy of my repose! to what purpose dost thou now

represent to my fancy the unparalleled beauty of that adorable foe?

Cruel remembrance! rather recal to my view the particulars of what then

happened, that, incensed by such a manifest injury, I may take

vengeance, if not upon her, at least upon my own life. But you,

gentlemen, must be tired with these digressions; though my misfortune is

such as neither can, nor ought to be superficially or succinctly

related; because every circumstance, in my opinion, requires a full

discussion.’ The curate answered, that far from being tired, they were

very much entertained by those minute particulars, which he thought

deserved as much attention as the principal events of the story.

‘I say, then,’ resumed Cardenio, that the parties being assembled in the

hall, the curate of the parish entered, and taking them both by the

hands, in order to perform his function, he said, “Madam Lucinda, are

you willing to take Don Fernando here present for your lawful spouse, as

holy mother church ordains?” At this question, I thrust out my whole

head and neck from behind the tapestry, and, with the utmost attention

and disorder of soul, listened, to Lucinda’s answer, which I expected,

as either the sentence of my death or confirmation of my life.—O that I

had boldly advanced, and called aloud, “Ah Lucinda! Lucinda! take care

what you do; reflect upon your duty to me, remember you are mine, and

can never belong to any other husband. Consider, that my life must end

the moment you answer yes.—Ha! treacherous Don Fernando! robber of my

glory! death of my life! what are thy intentions! What wouldst thou

have! remember that, as a Christian, thou canst not fulfil thy desires;

for I am Lucinda’s husband, and she is my lawful wife!”—Fool that I am!

now, when I am absent, and far removed from the danger, I can reflect

upon what I ought to have done. Now that I am robbed of all that was

dear to my soul! accursed be the robber, on whom I might have taken

vengeance, had my heart supplied me with courage, as it now affords

inclination to complain. In fine, as I then acted like a booby and a

coward, it is but reasonable that I should now die of madness, sorrow,

and shame. The priest waited for the reply of Lucinda, who declined it a

good while; and when I expected she would either unsheath her dagger to

vindicate her love, employ her tongue in the cause of truth, or utter

some ingenious fraud that should tend to my advantage, I heard her

pronounce with a weak and faultering voice, “Yes, I will.” Don Fernando

repeated the same words, and the ring being put upon her finger, they

were united in the indissoluble bond of marriage; then he embraced his

new-married spouse, who, laying her hand on her heart, fainted away in

the arms of her mother. It now remains to describe my own situation,

when I heard and saw my hopes thus baffled by Lucinda’s breach of

promise; and found myself rendered incapable of ever retrieving the

happiness I had that instant lost. I remained without sense or

reflection, abandoned, as I thought, by Heaven, and a declared enemy to

that earth on which I lived. The air refused breath for my sighs, the

water denied moisture for my tears, fire alone increased within me, to

such a degree, that I was scorched with jealousy and rage! Lucinda’s

swooning threw the whole company into confusion; and her mother opening

her breast to give her air, found in it a folded paper, which Don

Fernando taking, read by the light of one of the torches, and then sat

down in a chair, and leaned one side of his head upon his hand, in a

pensive attitude, without minding the remedies they were applying for

the recovery of his spouse.

‘I, seeing the whole family in confusion, ventured to come out, cost

what it would; resolving, should I be seen, to do some desperate action

that would convince the whole world of my just indignation, in

chastising the false Don Fernando, and the fickle fainting traitress.

But fate, that reserved me, if possible, for greater misfortunes,

ordained that I should then abound in reflection, which hath since

failed me; and resolve, rather than take vengeance upon my greatest

enemies, who, as they had no suspicion of me, were then at my mercy, to

turn upon myself that resentment which they so justly deferred to feel;

and, perhaps, with more rigour than I should have exercised upon them,

had I at that time sacrificed them to my rage, because sudden death is

infinitely more easy than that which is lengthened out by lingering

torments. In short, I quitted the house, and went to the place where I

had left my mule, which being saddled, I mounted her, and without taking

leave of my host, sallied out of town, dreading, like another Lot, to

look behind me. When I found myself alone in the open field, shrouded by

the darkness of the night, and invited by the silence to complain,

without caution or fear of being overheard or known, I raised my voice,

and gave a loose to my indignation, in venting curses upon Lucinda and

Don Fernando, as if those vain exclamations could have atoned for the

injury they had done me. I bestowed upon her the epithets of cruel,

false, perfidious, and ungrateful; but, above all, avaricious; since the

wealth of my rival had shut the eyes of her love, detached her from me,

and swayed her inclination towards him to whom fortune had shewn herself

more kind and liberal. Yet, in the midst of these reproaches and

invectives, I could not help excusing her, observing, it was no wonder,

that a damsel educated under restraint, in the house of her parents,

bred up, and always accustomed to obey them, should comply with their

will and pleasure, in marrying a young gentleman of such wealth, rank,

and qualifications, that her refusal might have been thought to proceed

either from want of sense, or a passion for some other man, which would

have been a suspicion equally prejudicial to her virtue and reputation:

then I argued on the other side of the question; saying, had she owned

that I was her husband, her parents would have seen she had not

committed an unpardonable crime in making such a choice; since, before

the offer of Don Fernando, they themselves could not have desired, had

their desires been bounded by reason, a better match than me for their

daughter; and consequently, before she complied with that compulsive

injunction of giving her hand to another, she might have told them, that

she had already given it to me; in which case, I would have appeared and

confirmed the truth of every thing she should have feigned for the

occasion; in fine, I concluded, that superficial love, slender

understanding, vast ambition, and thirst after grandeur, had obliterated

in her memory those professions by which I had been deceived, cherished,

and supported, in the unshaken hope of my honourable desires.

‘In this exclamation and anxiety I travelled all night; and in the

morning found myself in one of the passages to this mountain, in which I

proceeded three days more, without high-road, or bye-path, till I

stopped at a small meadow, that lies either on the right or left of

these rocks; there I enquired of some goatherds whereabouts the most

craggy part of the mountain was; and, according to their directions,

thither I rode, resolving to put an end to my life. When I arrived among

those ragged rocks, my mule fell down dead of weariness and hunger; or,

as I rather believe, to disencumber herself of such a useless load as

then burdened her; and I remained on foot, quite spent and famished,

without having or desiring any support. In this situation, I know not

how long I continued stretched upon the ground: but, at length, I got up

without feeling any cravings or hunger, and found myself in the midst of

some shepherds, who, doubtless, had relieved my necessity. Indeed, they

told me in what condition I had been found, uttering such incoherent and

extravagant expressions, as clearly demonstrated that I had lost my

senses. Since that time, I have frequently perceived my intellects so

crazy and unsound, that I perform a thousand mad actions, tearing my

cloaths, bellowing through those unfrequented places, cursing my fate,

and repeating in vain the beloved name of my fair enemy, without any

connected sentences, or indeed any other intent than that of putting an

end to my life by violent outcries; and when I recover the use of my

senses, I find myself so weak and exhausted, that I scarce can move. My

usual habitation is the hollow of a cork tree, large enough to contain

this miserable carcase; the cow and goatherds who frequent these

mountains, maintain me out of charity, by leaving food upon the road, or

rocks, on which they think I may chance to find it; and, even while I am

deprived of my understanding, natural instinct teaches me to distinguish

this necessary nourishment, awakening my appetite and desire of seizing

it for my use. They tell me, too, when they meet with me in one of my

lucid intervals, that at other times I sally out by the highway, and

take it by force from the shepherds, as they are bringing it from their

cots, although they offer it of their own accord. In this manner I lead

my woeful and wretched life, until Heaven shall be pleased to put a

period to it, or give me grace to forget the beauty and falshood of

Lucinda, together with the wrong I have suffered from Don Fernando. If

this shall happen before I die, my intellects will return into their

right channel; otherwise there is nothing to be done, but to supplicate

Heaven to have mercy on my soul; for I find I have neither virtue nor

strength to extricate myself out of this extremity into which I was

voluntarily plunged.

‘This, gentlemen, is the bitter story of my misfortune; tell me, if you

think it could have been rehearsed with less concern than I have shewn;

and pray give yourselves no trouble in offering to me such persuasions

and advice, as your reason prompts you to think will do me service; for

they can have no other effect upon me, than the prescription of a

celebrated physician upon a patient who will not receive it. I will have

no health without Lucinda; and since she who is, or ought to be mine,

hath attached herself to another, I, who might have been the child of

happiness, am now the willing votary of woe. She, by her inconstancy,

wants to fix my perdition; and I welcome it, in order to gratify her

desire, and be an example to posterity, of one who wanted that

consolation, which almost all the wretched use! namely, the

impossibility of receiving comfort; a consideration that increases my

misery, which, I fear, will not end even with death.’

Thus did Cardenio wind up the long thread of his amorous and unfortunate

story; and just as the curate was about to give him his best advice and

consolation, he was prevented by a voice that saluted his ears, and in

mournful accents pronounced what will be rehearsed in the fourth book of

this narration; for, in this place, the third is concluded by the sage

and attentive historian Cid Hamet Benengeli.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Footnote 81:

Bamba, or Wamba, king of the Visigoths in Spain, mounted the throne in

the year 672, and was famous for his success against the Arabians, as

well as for his attachment to the Christian religion, as a proof of

which he retired into a monastery, and resigned the kingdom to Ervige.

Footnote 82:

There is no such letter mentioned in his conversation with Don

Quixote.

Footnote 83:

Who murdered Sancho I. king of Castile, while he was engaged in the

siege of Zamora.

Footnote 84:

The original _pues presente pocas vezes lo bazía_, signifies, ‘Since

while I was present she did it very seldom.’ This at first sight

appears a solecism, and the petulant critick will exclaim, ‘What

occasion had she to write to her lover who was present, unless she had

lost the faculty of speech!’ But the seeming absurdity will vanish,

when we reflect that by _present_, he means, in the same city with his

mistress; to whom, however, according to the custom of Spain, he had

little or no access but by a literary correspondence.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

PART I.

BOOK IV.

CHAP. I.

OF THE NEW AND AGREEABLE ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO THE CURATE AND

BARBER, IN THE BROWN MOUNTAIN.

Thrice happy and fortunate was that age which produced the most

audacious knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, in consequence of whose

honourable resolution to restore and revive the lost, and, as it were,

buried order of knight-errantry, we of these times, barren and

unfruitful of sprightly amusements, enjoy the agreeable entertainment,

not only of his own true and delightful adventures, but also the

intervening episodes, which are no less real, artful, and delicious,

than the main history itself, the twisted, reeled, and ravelled thread

of which is continued thus!

Just as the curate was ready to offer some consolation to Cardenio, he

was prevented by a voice that saluted his ears in these mournful

accents, ‘Would to God I could find a place to serve as a private tomb

for this wearisome burden of life, which I bear so much against my

inclination! this very spot will yield me what I ask, if I can trust the

solitary appearance of these mountains. Alas! how much more agreeable is

the company of these rocks and thickets, which give me opportunities of

complaining to Heaven, than that of faithless man! since nature hath not

created one of whom I could reasonably expect advice in difficulty,

comfort in affliction, or remedy in distress!’

This exclamation was distinctly overheard by the priest and his company,

who, concluding that the person who spoke must be hard by, arose to make

farther enquiry, and had not gone twenty paces, when behind the fragment

of a rock they perceived a boy sitting under an ash-tree, in the habit

of a peasant, whose face, as he stooped, in order to wash his feet in a

brook that murmured by him, they could not then survey. Their approach

they managed with softness and silence, while his whole attention was

employed in bathing his legs, that seemed two crystal pillars, which had

been produced among the pebbles in the rill. They were surprized at the

whiteness and beauty of his feet, which they could not believe had been

formed to tread the clods, and follow the cattle or plough, as his dress

would have seemed to intimate; and the curate, who went foremost,

finding himself still unperceived by the youth, made signs to the rest

to crouch down, or hide themselves behind a neighbouring rock. This

being done, all three stood gazing attentively at the apparition, which

was clad in a double-skirted grey jacket, girt about the middle with a

white napkin, and wore breeches and hose of the same cloth, with a grey

hunting-cap upon his head; the hose being pulled up to the middle of his

leg, which actually seemed of white alabaster. Having washed his

delicate feet, he wiped them with a handkerchief which he took out of

his cap, and in so doing, lifted up his head, shewing to the by-standers

a face of such exquisite beauty, that Cardenio said in a whisper to the

curate, ‘Since that is not Lucinda, it can be no earthly, but some

celestial being!’ The youth taking off his cap, and shaking his head, a

large quantity of hair, that Apollo himself might envy, flowed down upon

his shoulders, and discovered to the spectators, that the supposed

peasant was no other than a woman, the most delicate and handsome that

the curate and barber had ever beheld; or even Cardenio, had he not seen

and been acquainted with Lucinda, who alone, as he afterwards owned,

could contend with her in beauty. Her golden locks fell down in such

length and quantity, as not only covered her shoulders, but also

concealed every other part of her body except her feet: and, instead of

a comb, she made use of her hands, which, if her feet looked like

crystal in the brook, appeared among her hair like moulds of drifted

snow. All these circumstances increasing the desire of the by-standers

to know who she was, they resolved to shew themselves, and at the stir

they made in advancing, the beauteous phantom raised her head, and

parting her locks with both hands, to see what occasioned the noise she

heard, no sooner perceived them than the started up, and, without

staying to put on her shoes, or tie up her hair, seized a bundle that

lay by her, and betook herself to flight, full of consternation and

surprize: but she had not run six yards, when her delicate feet, unable

to bear the roughness of the stones, failed under her, and she fell to

the ground. This accident being perceived by the other three, they ran

to her assistance, and the curate approaching her first, ‘Stay, Madam,’

said he, ‘whosoever you are; those whom you see have no other design

than that of doing you service: therefore there is no necessity for your

attempting such a precipitate flight, which neither your own feet nor

our inclination will allow.’ To this address she made no reply, being

quite astonished and confused; but the priest taking her by the hand,

proceeded in this manner: ‘Madam, though your dress concealed, your hair

hath discovered manifest signs, that it must be no slight cause which

hath shrouded your beauty in such unworthy disguise, and brought you to

this solitude, where it is our fortune to find you; and to offer, if not

a certain remedy for your misfortune, at least our best advice; for no

grievance can harass or drive the afflicted to such extremity, while

life remains, as to make them shut their ears against that counsel which

is given with the most humane and benevolent intention. Wherefore,

Madam, or Sir, or what you please to be, recollect yourself from the

confusion in which the sight of us hath thrown you, and tell us the

particulars of your good or evil fortune, in full assurance of finding

us all together, or each by himself, disposed to sympathize with your

affliction.’

While the curate pronounced these words, the disguised damsel stood

wrapt in attention, gazing at them all round, without moving her lips,

or uttering one syllable, like a country villager gaping at rarities

which he had never seen before: but the priest enforcing what he had

said, with other arguments to the same effect, she heaved a profound

sigh, and broke silence, saying, ‘Since these solitary mountains have

not been able to conceal me, and my loose dishevelled hair allows me not

to disguise the truth, it would be in vain for me to feign such things

as your reason could not believe, though your courtesy might excuse

them. On that supposition, I thank you, gentlemen, for your humane

offer, which lays me under the obligation of giving you all the

satisfaction you desire; though I am afraid, that the relation I shall

make of my misfortunes will, instead of compassion, excite your disgust,

for you will find it impossible either to cure my woes, or teach me to

bear them with fortitude; but, nevertheless, that my reputation may not

suffer in your opinion, as you have discovered me to be a woman, and a

young one, alone, and in this disguise; circumstances which, considered

either together or apart, might prejudice my good name in this world; I

will freely disclose to you those things, which, if possible, I would

have willingly concealed.’

All this preamble was uttered in a breath by the beautiful apparition,

with such volubility of tongue, and sweetness of voice, that they

admired her good sense as much as her beauty; and repeating their

proffers of service, as well as their intreaties that she would perform

her promise; she, without farther importunity, put on her shoes with

great modesty, adjusted her hair, and sat down in the midst of her three

hearers, upon a seat in the rock, where, after having endeavoured to

repress a few tears that started in her eyes, she, with a clear and

deliberate voice, began the story of her life in this manner.

‘In this province of Andalusia, there is a place, from whence a certain

duke, one of those who are called grandees of Spain, derives his title:

he hath two sons, the eldest of whom is heir to his estate, and, in all

appearance, to his good qualities; but the younger inherits nothing that

I know, but the treachery of Vellido, and falshood of Galalon. To this

nobleman my parents are vassals; and though low in pedigree, so

considerable in wealth, that if their descent was equal to their

fortune, they would have nothing more to desire, nor I the mortification

of seeing myself in this distress; for, I believe, my misfortunes

proceed from their defect in point of birth, which though not so mean as

to make them ashamed of their origin, is not splendid enough to

overthrow my conjecture about the source of my affliction: in short,

they are farmers, of a plain honest family, without the least

intermixture of Moorish blood; but, as the saying is, old, rusty

Christians; aye, and so rusty, that by their riches and opulent way of

living, they are gradually acquiring the title of gentlefolks, nay, of

quality too; though what they prized above all riches and title, was

their happiness in having me for their daughter; and therefore, as they

had no other child to inherit their estate, and were naturally the most

affectionate of parents, I was beloved and indulged by them with the

utmost degree of parental fondness. I was the mirror in which they

beheld themselves, the staff of their age, and shared with Heaven their

whole attention and desires, with which, as they were pure and

unblemished, my own perfectly corresponded; and therefore, I was

mistress of their affection as well as their wealth. By my advice, they

received and dismissed their servants; the tale and account of what was

both sowed and reaped, passed through my hands; I managed the oil-mills,

the vineyards, the herds and the flocks, the bee-hives, and every thing

that such a rich farmer as my father may be supposed to possess: in

short, I was steward and mistress; and acted with such care and œconomy,

that I should not find it easy to exaggerate the pleasure and

satisfaction which my parents enjoyed. Those parts of the day that

remained, after I had given all due attention to the herdsmen,

overseers, and other day-labourers, I employed in exercises equally

decent and necessary for young women, such as lace-making, needle-work,

and spinning; and if, at any time, I interrupted these employments, in

order to recreate the mind, I entertained myself with some religious

book, or diversified my amusement with the harp; being convinced by

experience, that musick lulls the disordered thoughts, and elevates the

dejected spirits. Such was the life I led in my father’s house; and if I

have described it too minutely, it is not through ostentation, in order

to display our riches, but with a view of manifesting how innocently I

forfeited that happy situation, and incurred the misery of my present

state. While I passed my time in these occupations, my retirement was

such as almost equalled that of a nunnery, being seen by nobody, as I

thought, but the servants of the family; for I went to mass early in the

morning, accompanied by my mother and the maids, and veiled with such

reserve, that my eyes scarce beheld the ground on which I trod; yet,

nevertheless, I was perceived by those of love, or rather libertinism,

which even exceeds the lynx in penetration, and then possessed the

faculties of Don Fernando, younger son of the duke whom I have already

mentioned.’

She no sooner mentioned the name of Don Fernando, than Cardenio changed

colour, and began to sweat with such agitation, that the curate and

barber, perceiving it, were afraid he would be seized with one of those

fits of distraction which, as they had heard, assaulted him from time to

time; but, after some drops of sweat had burst out upon his skin, he

remained quiet, and looking earnestly at the farmer’s fair daughter,

immediately guessed who she was; while she, without observing the

emotions of Cardenio, went on with her story, in these words: ‘And he no

sooner beheld me, than, as he afterwards protested, he deeply felt the

power of love, which indeed his behaviour clearly evinced; but, to

shorten the account of my misfortune, which is lengthened beyond all

comfort, I will pass over in silence the industrious schemes that Don

Fernando planned, for opportunities of declaring his passion. He bribed

every servant in the family, and even made presents and proffers of

service to my relations: there was nothing but gaiety and rejoicing all

day long in our street; and all night, it was impossible to sleep for

serenades. The letters which, through an unknown channel, came to my

hand, were without number, filled with the most amorous flights and

professions, and vows and promises in every line; but all these efforts,

far from soothing, hardened me against him, as much as if he had been my

mortal foe; and all the stratagems he practised, in order to subdue my

coyness, had a quite contrary effect: not that I was disgusted at the

gallantry of Don Fernando, or enraged at his importunities, for I felt a

certain kind of pleasure in being courted and beloved by such a noble

cavalier; neither did I take umbrage at seeing myself praised in his

letters; for it is my opinion, that all women, let them be never so

homely, are pleased to hear themselves celebrated for beauty; but, to

all these artifices, I opposed my own virtue, together with the repeated

advices of my parents, who plainly perceived the passion of Don

Fernando, because he himself took no care to conceal it from the world.

They assured me, that in my virtue and prudence alone they confided and

deposited their own honour and reputation: they bade me consider the

inequality between Don Fernando and me, which was a convincing proof

that his love, though he himself asserted the contrary, tended more to

his gratification than my advantage; and said, if I could throw any

obstruction in his way, to make him quit his unjust pretensions, I

should be married immediately, according to my own choice, either to one

of the principal persons of our own town, or to some gentleman in the

neighbourhood, as I had abundance of lovers, attracted by their wealth,

and my reputation. With these assurances, the truth of which I could not

doubt, I fortified my integrity, and would never send any reply to Don

Fernando, that could in the most distant manner flatter him with the

hope of accomplishing his wish: but all my reserve, which he ought to

have looked upon as the effect of disdain, served only to whet his

libidinous appetite, which is the true name of the passion he professed;

for, had it been genuine love, you would not now be listening to my

story, which I should have had no occasion to recount.

‘In fine, Don Fernando got notice that my parents intended to bestow me

in marriage, that they might deprive him of all hope of possessing me,

or, at least, provide me with more guards to protect my virtue; and this

piece of news alarmed him so much, that he put in practice an expedient

to retard the dreaded match. One night, while I sat in my apartment,

attended by my maid only, the doors being all fast locked, that through

negligence my virtue might not be in danger, without knowing or

comprehending the means of his conveyance, he appeared before me, in the

midst of this reserve, precaution, solitude, silence, and retreat! At

sight of him, I was so much confounded, that the light forsook my eyes,

and my tongue denied its office; so that being deprived of the power of

utterance, I could not cry for help, neither, I believe, would he have

suffered me to exclaim; for he instantly seized me in his arms, my

confusion being such, that I had not strength to defend myself, and

began to pour forth such protestations, that I cannot conceive how

falshood is able to ape truth so exactly. The traitor’s tears gave

credit to his words, and his sighs confirmed the honesty of his

intention. I, being a poor young creature by myself, altogether

unexperienced in those affairs, began, I know not how, to believe his

false professions; but, not so as to be moved to weak compassion, either

by his vows or artful sorrow; on the contrary, my first surprize being

over, I recollected my dissipated spirits, and with more courage than I

thought myself possessed of, said to him, “Signior, if, instead of being

within your arms, as I now am, I was in the paws of a fierce lion, and

my deliverance entirely depended upon my doing or saying any thing

prejudicial to my virtue, it would be as impossible for me to comply

with these terms, as it as impossible for that which is, to lose its

existence; wherefore, though you keep my body confined within your arms,

I am in full possession of my soul, with all her chaste desires, which

are entirely opposite to yours, as you will plainly perceive, if you

resolve to proceed in gratifying your wishes by force. I am your vassal,

but not your slave; the nobility of your blood neither has, nor ought to

have, the power of dishonouring or despising the lowliness of mine; and

my character is as precious to me, though I am but a plebeian farmer’s

daughter, as yours can be to you, who are a nobleman and cavalier. All

your strength shall not effect your purpose, neither am I to be

influenced by your riches, deceived by your words, or melted by your

sighs and tears. Any of these expressions in a man, to whom my parents

should give me in marriage, would gain my consent and reciprocal

inclination; nay, if my honour were safe, I could sacrifice my

satisfaction, and voluntarily yield what you, Signior, now attempt to

obtain by force; this I observe, that you may rest assured, I will never

grant any favour to him who is not my lawful spouse.”

‘“If that be your sole objection, charming Dorothea,” (for that is the

name of this wretched creature) said the perfidious cavalier, “behold I

here present my hand, in pledge, of being yours for ever; and may

Heaven, from which nothing is concealed, together with that image of the

blessed Virgin, bear witness to the sincerity and truth of this

declaration!”’ Cardenio, when she called herself Dorothea, was surprized

anew, and confirmed in his first conjecture; but, unwilling to interrupt

the story in which he expected to hear the issue of what he already

knew, he only said, ‘Is your name Dorothea, Madam? I have heard of one

of that name, to whose misfortunes yours bear a great resemblance: but

pray proceed; the time will come when I shall tell you such things as

will equally excite your terror and affliction.’ Dorothea, surprized at

the discourse of Cardenio, as well as at his strange and ragged attire,

intreated him, if he knew any thing of her affairs, to communicate it

immediately; saying, that if fortune had left her any thing of value, it

was the courage to endure any disaster that might befal her; though she

was almost certain, that what she had already suffered could admit of no

addition. ‘Madam,’ replied Cardenio, ‘I would not be the means of

impairing that fortitude, by telling you what I know, if my conjecture

be right; neither is there any opportunity lost, nor is it of any

consequence to you, whether you hear it or not.’—‘Be that as it will,’

answered Dorothea, ‘I will go on with the sequel of my story. Don

Fernando, addressing himself to the image he found in my apartment,

invoked the blessed Virgin to bear witness to our nuptials, and avowed

himself my husband with the most binding and solemn oaths; though,

before he proceeded so far, I desired him to reflect upon what he was

going to do, and consider how much his father might be incensed at his

conduct, when he should find him married to the daughter of his own

farmer and vassal. I cautioned him against being blinded by my beauty,

such as it was, telling him it would be far from being a sufficient

excuse for his error; and begged, if he had any love and regard for me,

he would manifest it, in leaving me to a fate more adequate to my rank

and circumstances; observing, that such unequal matches were seldom

blessed with a long duration of those raptures with which they begin.

‘All these reflections I repeated to him, with many more which I do not

remember; but they had no effect in diverting him from the prosecution

of his purpose; for he was like a man, who, in making a bargain, never

boggles at the price of the commodity, because he never intends to pay

it. At the same time, I held a short conference with my own breast,

saying within myself, “Neither shall I be the first, who, by marriage,

has risen from a low station to rank, and grandeur; nor will Don

Fernando be the first nobleman whom beauty, or rather blind affection,

hath induced to share his greatness with a partner of unequal birth.

Since, therefore, I neither make a new world nor a new custom, it is but

reasonable in me to embrace this honour that fortune throws in my way;

and although the affection he professes should not survive the

accomplishment of his wish, I shall nevertheless, in the sight of God,

remain his true and lawful wife. Besides, should I treat him with

disdain, I see he is determined to transgress the bounds of duty, and

avail himself of force; in which case, I shall be dishonoured and

inexcusable in the opinion of those who do not know how innocently I

have incurred their censure; for where shall I find arguments to

persuade my parents, that this cavalier entered my apartment without my

knowledge and consent?”

‘All these reflections, which my imagination revolved in an instant,

began to sway me towards that which (though I little thought so) proved

my ruin; especially when aided and enforced by the oaths of Don

Fernando, the powers he called to witness, the tears he shed, and, in

short, by his genteel carriage and agreeable disposition accompanied by

such marks of real passion, as might have melted any other heart as soft

and unexperienced as mine. I called my maid to be a joint evidence with

the powers of Heaven: Don Fernando repeated and confirmed his oaths;

took other saints to witness his integrity; imprecated a thousand curses

on his head, in case he should fail to fulfil his promise; had recourse

to sighs and tears again, straining me still closer in his arms, from

which he had never released me. By these means, and the departure of my

maid, I forfeited that name, and he became a false and finished traitor.

‘The morning that succeeded this night of my misfortune, did not arrive

so soon, I believe, as Don Fernando could have wished; for, when once a

man hath satisfied his rage of appetite, his chief inclination is to

quit the scene of his success. This I observe, because Don Fernando

seemed impatient to be gone; and, by the industry of my maid, who had

conducted him to my chamber, found himself in the street before day:

when he took his leave, he told me, though not with such violence of

rapture as he expressed on his first coming, that I might depend upon

his honour, and the sincerity of the oaths he had sworn; as a farther

confirmation of which, he took a ring of value from his finger, and put

it upon mine. In short, he vanished, leaving me in a situation which I

can neither call joyful nor sad. This I know, that I remained in a state

of confusion and perplexity, and, as it were, beside myself, on account

of what had happened; but I either wanted courage or memory to quarrel

with my maid for the perfidy she had been guilty of, in conducting Don

Fernando to my apartment; indeed, I could not as yet determine, whether

the adventure would redound to my advantage or misfortune. I told him,

at parting, that now I was his wife, he might see me any night, by the

same means he had used to procure the first interview, until he should

think proper to make our marriage publick: but, except the following

night, I could never set eyes on him, either in the street or at church,

during a whole month, which I spent in the utmost anxiety of

expectation; although I knew he was in town, and almost every day

employed in the chace, an exercise to which he was greatly addicted.

Those were doleful and distracting hours and days to me; for then I

began to doubt, and afterwards to disbelieve the faith of Don Fernando;

then was my maid exposed to those rebukes for her presumption, which she

had never heard before; then was I obliged to husband my tears, and wear

composure on my countenance, that I might not give occasion to my

parents to ask the cause of my discontent, and be put to the trouble of

inventing falshoods to deceive them. But all this constraint was

banished by an event, the knowledge of which trod down all other

respects, put an end to all my prudent measures, and by destroying my

patience, published my misfortune to the world. This was no other than a

report that soon after prevailed in our town, by which I learned that

Don Fernando was married, in a neighbouring city, to a young lady of

exceeding beauty, and distinguished birth, though her parents could not

give her a portion suitable to such a noble alliance. I understood her

name was Lucinda, and that several surprizing accidents had happened at

their nuptials.’

Cardenio hearing Lucinda’s name, though he said nothing, shrugged up his

shoulders, bit his lips, contracted the skin of his forehead, and

discharged from his eyes two fountains of tears; but, notwithstanding,

Dorothea continued her story, saying, ‘This melancholy piece of news no

sooner reached my ears, than, instead of freezing, it inflamed my heart

with such rage and fury, that I had well-nigh run out into the streets,

and published aloud the falshood and treachery he had practised upon me:

but my rage was restrained for that time, by a plan which I conceived,

and actually put in execution that very night. I dressed myself in this

garb, which I received from one of the swains belonging to the house, to

whom I disclosed my whole misfortune, intreating him to attend me to the

city, where I understood my adversary was. After having disapproved of

the attempt, and blamed my resolution, seeing me determined, he offered

to keep me company, as he said, to the world’s end: that moment I packed

up my woman’s dress in a pillow-case, together with some jewels and

money, as a resource in time of need; and in the dead of that very

night, without giving the least hint to my perfidious maid, left my

father’s house, and accompanied by my servant, and a thousand strange

imaginations, set out for that city on foot, winged with the desire of

finding Don Fernando; and resolved, though I could not prevent what was

already done, to demand with what confidence he had done it.

‘In two days and an half I arrived at the city, and enquiring for the

house of Lucinda’s parents, the first person to whom I put the question,

told me more than I desired to hear. He directed me to the house, and

related every incident which had happened at his daughter’s wedding; a

story so publick, that it was the common town-talk. He said, that on the

night of their nuptials, after she had pronounced the “Yes,” by which he

became her husband, Lucinda was seized with a violent fit; that Don

Fernando opening her breast to give her fresh air, found in it a paper

written with her own hand, importing that she could not lawfully espouse

Fernando, being already the wife of Cardenio, who, as the man told me,

was one of the principal cavaliers of that town; and that she had now

pronounced the fatal “Yes,” merely because she would not swerve from the

obedience she owed to her parents; in short, he said, the contents of

the paper plainly gave them to understand, that she intended to make

away with herself, immediately after the ceremony, induced by the

reasons which were there contained; and this resolution was confirmed by

a poignard which they found concealed in some part of her dress. Don

Fernando perceiving, by what happened, that Lucinda had baffled,

scorned, and undervalued his addresses, ran to her before she had

recovered the use of her senses, and with the poignard they had found,

would have stabbed her to the heart, had he not been prevented by her

parents and the rest of the company. It was, moreover, reported that Don

Fernando immediately retired; and that Lucinda continued in a fit till

next day. When she recovered from her swoon, she declared to her father

and mother, that she was the true and lawful wife of that same Cardenio,

who, it seems, was present at the ceremony; and who, when he saw her

actually married, contrary to his former belief and firm expectation,

quitted the city in despair, having first left a writing that declared

the wrong she had done him, and signified his intention to banish

himself for ever from the society of mankind. All this transaction was

so notorious and publick in the city, as to furnish discourse for every

body; and the subject was not diminished, when it was known that Lucinda

was not to be found either in her father’s house, or in any other part

of the town, which were searched all over by her parents, who had almost

run distracted, not knowing what other method they should take to

retrieve her. This information revived my hopes a little; for I was

better pleased to have missed Don Fernando, than to have found him

married to another; thinking, that every gate of comfort was not yet

shut against me; and that Heaven, perhaps, had thrown that impediment in

the way of his second marriage, with a view of making him reflect upon

what he owed to the first; and reminding him of his being a Christian,

consequently more interested in the care of his soul than in any other

human concern. All these things I revolved in my imagination; and, as I

had no real comfort, consoled myself with the most feeble and distant

hope, in order to support a life which I now abhor.

‘While I remained in this city, undetermined what course to take, as I

could not find Don Fernando, I heard a publick crier describe my person

and dress, and offer a considerable reward to any one that should

discover where I was. Nay, it was said, that I had seduced from my

father’s house, the young man who attended me; a circumstance that

touched me to the very soul: finding my credit fallen so low, that they

were not satisfied with publishing my escape, but must needs also

mention my attendant, a creature so mean and unworthy of my attention

and regard, as soon as I heard myself proclaimed, I quitted the town,

accompanied by my servant, who already began to give marks of staggering

in his promised faith and fidelity, and that night reached the most

woody part of this mountain, urged by the fear of being discovered; but,

as it is commonly observed, one mischance invites another, and the end

of one misfortune is often the beginning of a worse, this was literally

my case: my trusty servant, who had hitherto behaved with such zeal and

fidelity, seeing me in this solitary place, and instigated by his own

villainy rather than any beauty of mine, attempted to avail himself of

the opportunity which he thought this desart offered; and with great

impudence, contempt of Heaven, and disregard to me, began to talk of

love; when, finding that I rejected his immodest proposals with just

indignation and disdain, he laid aside intreaties for the use of those

who might please to use them, and began to employ force for the

accomplishment of his will; but, just Heaven, who seldom or never

abandons the righteous intention, favoured and assisted mine so

effectually, that with the little strength I have, and no great trouble,

I pushed him over a precipice, unknowing whether or nor he survived the

fall; then, as nimbly as my weariness and terror would allow, I

penetrated farther into the mountain, without any other thought or

intention, than that of keeping myself concealed from my father, and

those whom he had employed to find me out.

‘I know not how many months I have lived in this place, where I met with

a grazier, who took me into his service, and carried me to his house,

which stands in the very heart of the mountain. Him I served all this

time, in quality of a cowherd, endeavouring to be always in the field,

that I might the more easily conceal that hair which now so unexpectedly

discovered my sex: yet, all my care and industry were vain; for, my

master having found me out to be a woman, was seized with the same

desire that took possession of my own servant. But fortune, with the

evil, does not always send the remedy; for, I could neither find rock

nor bog, by which I might have disabled my master, as I had before

punished my man; and therefore, as the least inconvenience, I have left

his house, and chosen to hide myself again among these thickets, rather

than try my strength against him, in defence of my innocence. I say, I

returned to these woods in hopes of finding a place in which I might,

without impediment, implore Heaven with sighs and tears, to have

compassion upon my misery, and give me industry and grace to overcome

it, or quit my being in this solitude, without leaving behind me the

least trace or remembrance of this forlorn wretch, who, without any

fault of her own, hath afforded so much matter for conversation and

censure both at home and abroad.

CHAP. II.

OF THE BEAUTIFUL DOROTHEA’S DISCRETION—WITH OTHER PLEASANT AND

ENTERTAINING PARTICULARS.

‘This, gentlemen, is the genuine detail of my tragick story; consider,

therefore, and judge whether or not I have sufficient cause to heave

more sighs than I have vented, utter more complaints than you have

heard, and shed more tears than have flowed from mine eyes; and when you

shall have deliberated upon the quality of my misfortune, you will

perceive how vain all consolation must be, as the disease admits of no

remedy. I only ask what you easily can, and ought to grant, namely, that

you would inform me where I can pass my life, without being harrassed by

the surprize and fear of being found by those who are in search of me.

For, though I am well assured, that my parents, out of their great love

and affection, would receive me again into their favour, such is the

shame and confusion I feel at the bare thought of their having altered

their opinion to my prejudice, that I would rather conceal myself from

their sight for ever, than appear in their presence under the suspicion

of having acted contrary to the expectations they entertained from my

virtue.’ So saying, she left off speaking, and her face was overspread

with a blush that plainly denoted the sentiments and confusion of her

soul. Those who had heard her story, were equally surprized and

afflicted at her misfortune; to which the curate was going to offer some

consolation and advice, when Cardenio took her by the hand, saying, ‘It

seems, then, Madam, you are the beauteous Dorothea, only daughter of

Cleonardo the rich!’ She was astonished to hear her father’s name

pronounced by one of such a miserable appearance, (for we have already

observed, how wretchedly Cardenio was cloathed) and said to him, ‘And

who are you, brother, who know so well my father’s name; which, if I

remember aright, I have not once mentioned in the whole course of my

unfortunate story?’

‘I am,’ replied Cardenio, ‘that unfortunate man, to whom, as you have

observed, Lucinda said she was married. I am that miserable Cardenio,

whom the villainy of him who reduced you to your present situation, hath

brought to this deplorable condition in which you now see me, ragged,

half-naked, destitute of all human comfort, and, which is still worse,

deprived of my understanding, except at certain short intervals, that I

enjoy by the permission of Heaven. I, Dorothea, am the person who was

present at the perfidy of Don Fernando, and heard Lucinda pronounce the

fatal “Yes,” by which she accepted him for a husband. I am he who wanted

resolution to wait the issue of her swoon, or stay and see the result of

that paper which was found in her bosom; for, my soul could not sustain

the shock of such accumulated misfortune; and therefore, I quitted the

house, already abandoned by my patience, and leaving a letter with my

host, whom I charged to deliver it into Lucinda’s own hand, betook

myself to these desarts, with an intention here to finish the life which

from that instant I have abhorred as my most inveterate foe. But fate

hath not been pleased to grant my wish, contenting itself with having

deprived me of my judgment, with a view, perhaps, of reserving me for

better fortune; which I begin to hope may proceed from this lucky

meeting with you, since, if that which you have recounted be true, as I

believe it is, there is a possibility that Heaven may have in store for

us both, a more favourable termination of our disasters than we imagine;

for, supposing that Lucinda, who is already my wife, as she hath openly

declared, cannot be married to Don Fernando, nor he lawfully wed her,

being already espoused to you, I think we have reason to hope, that

Heaven will one day restore what mutually belongs to us; as it is

neither alienated, ruined, nor irretrievable. And since this consolation

still remains, sprung from hopes that are not very remote, and founded

on expectations which are not the effects of a disordered imagination, I

entreat you, Madam, in the purity of your sentiments, to change your

present resolution, as I intend to alter mine, and accommodate yourself

to the hopes of better fortune; for, I swear upon the faith of a

gentleman and a Christian, that I will never abandon you, until I see

you in the arms of Don Fernando, whom, if I cannot by reasonable

arguments, bring to a true sense of his duty towards you, I will then

use that privilege to which every gentleman is intitled, and in single

combat demand satisfaction for the injury he has done you, without

minding my own wrongs, which I will leave to the vengeance of Heaven,

that I may the sooner revenge yours upon earth.’

This speech of Cardenio put an end to the surprize of Dorothea, who

being at a loss how to thank him for his kind and generous offer,

stooped in order to kiss his feet, but this piece of condescension he

would by no means allow. The priest answering for both, approved of

Cardenio’s declaration; and, in a particular manner, intreated, advised,

and persuaded them, to accompany him to the village where he lived, in

order to provide themselves with what they wanted; and there consult

some scheme either for finding Don Fernando, or for carrying Dorothea

back to her parents, or, in short, for doing that which should seem most

necessary and convenient. Cardenio and Dorothea thanked him for his

courteous offer, which they immediately embraced; and the barber, who

had been silent and attentive all this time, having joined the curate in

his compliments and hearty proffers of service, briefly recounted the

cause which had brought them thither; namely, the strange madness of Don

Quixote; observing, that they were then waiting for the return of his

squire, whom they had sent in quest of his master. Cardenio immediately,

as if it had been the faint impression of a dream, recollected and

related the quarrel which had happened between the knight and him,

though he could not remember the cause of the dispute.

At that instant they heard and recognized the voice of Sancho; who, not

finding them in the place where he had left them, hallooed aloud; upon

which they went to meet him, and enquiring about Don Quixote, were told

by the squire, that he found him naked to the shirt, wan, meagre, half

famished, and sighing for his mistress Dulcinea; that when he (Sancho)

told him she had commanded him to quit that place, and go immediately to

Toboso, where she waited with impatience to see him, he had answered,

that he was determined never to appear before her, until he should have

performed such atchievements as would render him worthy of her favour;

and Sancho observed, that if this resolution should hold, it was

possible he might never attain to the rank of an emperor, as he was in

duty bound, nor even to that of an archbishop, which was the least he

could expect. He desired them, therefore, to consider some means of

disengaging the knight from his solitude. The priest bade him be under

no concern, for they would fall upon a method to remove his master,

whether he would or no.

Then he explained to Cardenio and Dorothea, the plan they had laid to

cure Don Quixote of his madness, or at least bring him back to his own

house. This Dorothea no sooner understood, than she told him, that she

was more proper than the barber for acting the part of the distressed

damsel; especially, as she had cloaths along with her, that would answer

the purpose; and bade them trust to her, for representing every part of

the character which should be necessary towards the success of their

design, for she had read a great many books of chivalry, and was

perfectly well acquainted with the stile in which afflicted damsels were

wont to beg boons of knights-errant. ‘If that be the case,’ said the

curate, ‘let us not delay the execution of our scheme; for, without

doubt, Heaven seems to favour my endeavours; not only in opening a door

so unexpectedly, towards the cure of your misfortunes, but also in

making you subservient in facilitating our success.’ Dorothea then

pulled out of her pillow-case, a gown and petticoat of very rich stuff,

with a beautiful green mantelet, and opening a little casket, took out a

rich necklace and other jewels, with which she instantly dressed herself

to such advantage that she appeared like a lady of the first rank and

fortune. All these, and other ornaments, she said, she had carried off

from her father’s house, in case of what might happen; though hitherto

she had met with no opportunity of using them. Every one present was

charmed with her graceful mien, easy deportment, and exceeding beauty;

and passed sentence on Don Fernando, as a person of little taste and

discernment, for having abandoned such excellence. But the admiration of

Sancho was superior to that of all the rest; for he actually thought,

and indeed it was true, that in all the days of his life, he had never

seen such a beautiful creature; and, accordingly, asked the curate, with

great eagerness, who that handsome lady was, and what she looked for in

these bye places. ‘Friend Sancho,’ answered the curate, ‘that handsome

lady, to say no more of her, is heiress, in the direct male line, of the

kingdom of Micomicon[85], come hither to beg a boon of your master, that

he would redress a wrong and grievance done to her by a discourteous

giant; for such is the fame and reputation of that excellent knight, Don

Quixote, through the whole extent of Guinea, as to induce this princess

to come from thence in quest of him.’—‘Blessed quest!’ cried Sancho,

‘and happy finding, say I! especially if my master should be so

fortunate as to right the wrong, and redress the grievance, by killing

that son of a whore of a giant that your worship mentions; and kill him

he certainly will, if they should once meet, provided he be not a

phantom; for you must know, my master has no power over phantoms. But

one thing, among many others, I must beg of you, Mr. Licentiate, and

that is, to put my master out of conceit of an archbishoprick, for I am

afraid his inclination leans that way, and advise him to marry this

princess out of hand, a match which will make it impossible for him to

receive holy orders; and therefore he will the more easily arrive at the

seat of empire, and I at the end of my wish. For I have carefully

considered the affair, and by my reckoning, I shall not find my account

in his being an archbishop, as I am altogether unfit for the church, by

reason of my being married; and for me, who have a wife and children, to

be petitioning for dispensations to hold livings, would be an endless

task. Wherefore, Signior, the point is this: let my master immediately

take to wife the same lady, whose name I do not know; for, indeed, I

never saw her grace before this blessed minute.’—‘She is called the

princess Micomicona,’ replied the curate, ‘because her kingdom being

Micomicon, it is plain her name must be Micomicona.’—‘Yes, to be sure,’

said Sancho, ‘I have known several people take a surname and addition

from the place of their nativity, calling themselves, for example, Pedro

d’Alcala, Juna de Ubeda, Diego de Valladolid; and I suppose they have

the same custom in Guinea, where the queens take their names from the

kingdoms they rule.’ The priest confirmed Sancho’s opinion, and promised

to use his utmost influence to promote the marriage of the knight. With

this assurance Sancho rested as much satisfied as the other was

surprized at his simplicity, when he perceived how carefully he

cherished, in his imagination, the same extravagant whims that possessed

his master, who he firmly believed would one day become an emperor.

By this time, Dorothea being mounted on the curate’s mule, and the

barber’s face accommodated with the ox’s tail by way of beard, they

desired Sancho to guide them to the place where Don Quixote was, and

cautioned him against pretending to know the licentiate and his

companion, assuring him that his master’s becoming an emperor entirely

depended upon his professing ignorance of their persons. Yet neither the

curate nor Cardenio would accompany them; because the presence of this

last might recal to the knight’s memory the quarrel which had happened

between them; and it was not yet proper that the priest should appear;

for which reasons, they let the rest proceed by themselves, and they

followed at a small distance, after the curate had given her cue to

Dorothea; who desired him to make himself perfectly easy on her account,

for she would act the part assigned to her, without the least occasion

for a prompter, in the true stile and spirit of knight-errantry.

Having travelled about three quarters of a league, they discovered Don

Quixote already cloathed, though still unarmed, sitting in the midst of

a labyrinth of rocks: and Dorothea no sooner understood it was he, in

consequence of Sancho’s information, than she whipped up her palfrey,

close attended by the well-bearded barber, who, when she approached the

knight, threw himself from his mule, and ran to help his lady to alight.

But she, dismounting with great agility, went and fell upon her knees

before Don Quixote, whom, in spite of his repeated endeavours to raise

her, she accosted in these words.

‘Never will I rise from this posture, most valiant and invincible

knight, until your benevolence and courtesy grant me a boon, which will

not only redound to the honour and applause of your own person, but also

to the advantage of the most injured and disconsolate damsel that ever

the sun beheld; and if the valour of your mighty arm corresponds with

the voice of your immortal fame, you are obliged to favour the

unfortunate, who, attracted by the odour of your celebrated name, come

from far distant regions, in quest of your assistance.’—‘Beauteous

lady,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will not answer one word, nor hear one

circumstance of your affairs, until you rise from the ground.’—‘I will

not rise, Signior,’ answered the afflicted damsel, ‘until I shall have

obtained from your condescension, the boon I beg.’—‘I condescend and

grant it,’ resumed the knight, ‘provided, in so doing, I act neither to

the detriment nor derogation of my king, my country, and her who holds

my heart and liberty[86].’—‘Your compliance, worthy Signior,’ replied

the mourning lady, ‘shall in no ways affect the exceptions you have

made.’

At that instant Sancho came up, and whispered softly in his master’s

ear: ‘Your worship may safely grant the boon she asks, which is a mere

trifle; no more than slaying a giantish sort of a fellow; and she who

begs it, is the high and mighty princess Micomicona, queen of the great

empire of Micomicon in Ethiopia.’—‘Whosoever she is,’ answered Don

Quixote, ‘I will do what I am in duty bound to perform, and act

according to the dictates of my own conscience, and conformable to the

order I profess.’ Then turning to Dorothea, ‘Rise, most beautiful lady,’

said he, ‘the boon you ask is granted.’—‘Then, what I ask is this,’

resumed the damsel, ‘that your magnanimity would immediately accompany

me to the place from whence I came, and promise to attempt no other

adventure, nor grant any other request, until you shall have taken

vengeance on a traitor who hath usurped my crown, contrary to all right,

human and divine.’—‘I grant your request, Madam,’ answered Don Quixote;

‘henceforth you may dispel that melancholy with which you are depressed,

and let your fainting hope resume new strength and vigour; for, with the

assistance of God, and this my arm, you shall, in a short time, see

yourself restored to your kingdom, and seated on the throne of your

royal ancestors, in defiance and despite of all those evil-designing

persons who mean to oppose you: let us set hands to the work then; for,

according to the common observation, Delay breeds danger.’

The distressed damsel struggled with great perseverance, to kiss his

hand;

but Don Quixote, who was in all respects a well-bred knight, would by no

means allow such humiliation: on the contrary, raising her up, he

embraced her with great politeness and cordiality, ordering Sancho to

secure Rozinante’s girths, and help him to arm with all expedition. The

squire taking down the armour, which hung on a tree, in the manner of a

trophy, and adjusting the horse’s girths, in a twinkling, equipped his

master, who finding himself armed, ‘Now,’ said he, ‘let us go, in the

name of God, to the assistance of this high-born lady.’ The barber, who

was all this time on his knees, at infinite pains to preserve his

gravity and his beard, the fall of which, perhaps, would have utterly

ruined their laudable design, when he found the boon was granted, and

saw with what eagerness the knight undertook to fulfil it, rose up, and

with the assistance of Don Quixote, helped his lady upon her mule again;

then her protector bestrode Rozinante, and he himself mounted his own

beast, while Sancho Panza being left on foot, felt the loss of Dapple

anew: but this he contentedly bore, believing that his master was now in

the right road, and almost at the very point of being an emperor; for he

assured himself, that the knight would wed that princess, and so become

King of Micomicon at least; the only uneasiness he felt, was, on account

of that kingdom’s being in the land of negroes, so that all his servants

and vassals must be black; but, his imagination supplied him with a

remedy for this inconvenience, and he said within himself, ‘Suppose my

vassals are negroes, what else have I to do, but transport them to

Spain, where I can sell them for ready-money, with which I may purchase

some title or post that will maintain me at my ease all the days of my

life? No, to be sure! sleep on, void of all invention or ability to

dispose of your ware, and sell thirty, or ten thousand slaves in the

turning of a straw! Before God! I’ll make them fly, little and big, or

just as I may; and, blacks as they are, turn them all into whites and

yellows! Let me alone to suck my own fingers.’ With these conceits he

was so much engrossed, and so well satisfied, that he actually forgot

the pain of travelling on foot.

Cardenio and the curate saw every thing that passed, from behind some

bushes where they were hid, and could fall upon no method of joining

them conveniently, until the priest, who was an excellent schemer,

thought of an expedient for the purpose; having a pair of scissars about

him, he cut off the beard of Cardenio with infinite dispatch, and giving

him a grey jacket, with his own black cloak, he himself remaining in his

doublet and hose, the tattered cavalier was so much altered in point of

appearance, that he would scarce have known himself had he looked in a

glass. Although the others were jogging on, while they disguised

themselves in this manner, they easily reached the highway, before the

knight and his company, whose beasts were retarded by the bushes and

rockiness of the ground; and taking their station just at the mouth of

the entrance to the mountain, no sooner perceived the knight and his

attendants come forth, than the curate looked earnestly at him a good

while, as if he had been recollecting a person whom he knew, then ran to

him with open arms, crying aloud, ‘Blessed be this meeting with the

mirror of chivalry, my worthy compatriot Don Quixote de La Mancha, the

flower and cream of gentility, the protector and physician of the

distressed, and quintessence of knights-errant!’ So saying, he embraced

the left-knee of Don Quixote; who being astonished at the words and

action of the man, began to consider his features with great attention,

and at length, recollecting him, was struck dumb with admiration, at

seeing him in that place, and made many efforts to alight; which when

the priest opposed, ‘Give me leave, Mr. Licentiate,’ said he, ‘it is not

seemly that I should remain on horseback, when such a reverend person as

you travels on foot.’—‘I will by no means,’ answered the curate,

‘consent to your alighting; since, on horseback, your mighty arm hath

atchieved the greatest exploits and adventures that this age hath seen;

it shall suffice for me, who am but an unworthy priest, to get up, with

permission, behind this gentleman who travels in your worship’s company;

and then I shall imagine myself mounted upon Pegasus, a zebra, or that

fiery courser that carried the famous Moor Muzaraque, who still lies

inchanted in the vast mountain Zulema, at a little distance from the

great Compluto.’—‘I did not think of that expedient, Mr. Licentiate,’

resumed the knight; ‘but I know that my lady the princess will, out of

regard to me, be pleased to order her squire to accommodate you with the

saddle of his mule, and he himself may ride upon the crupper, if the

beast will carry double.’—‘I believe she will,’ said the princess; ‘and

I am sure, there will be no occasion to lay my commands upon my squire

who is too courteous and polite, to suffer an ecclesiastick to travel on

foot, when it is in his power to provide him with a beast.’—‘Your

majesty is in the right,’ answered the barber; who instantly alighting,

complimented the curate with the saddle, which was accepted without much

intreaty.

But the misfortune was, when the squire attempted to get up behind, the

mule, which was an hireling, consequently mischievous, lifted up her

hind legs, and kicked with such fury, that had they lighted on the head

or breast of Mr. Nicholas, he would have had reason to curse the hour on

which he set out in quest of Don Quixote: such, however, was his

confusion, that he came to the ground, and his beard being neglected,

fell off; so that he could find no other method to prevent a discovery,

than to clap both hands to his face, with great expedition, and roar out

that his teeth were demolished. Don Quixote, seeing that huge mass of

beard torn from the jaw, without blood, and lying at a good distance

from the squire’s face, ‘Good Heavens!’ cried he, ‘what a wonderful

phænomenon is this! The beard is taken off and shaved as clean by the

heel of the mule, as if it had been done by the hand of a barber.’ The

curate, seeing the risk he ran of being detected in his scheme, snatched

up the tail, and running with it to Mr. Nicholas, who still lay

bellowing for help, pulled his head to his breast with one jerk, and

clapping it on again, muttered some words, which he said were an

infallible charm for fixing on beards, as they should presently see;

accordingly, when the affair was adjusted, he quitted the squire, who

now seemed as well bearded and as sound as ever; a circumstance that,

above measure, surprized the knight, who begged that the curate, at a

proper opportunity, would impart to him the charm, which he imagined

must contain more virtues than that of cementing beards, because it was

plain, that where the hair was torn off, the skin and flesh must be

lacerated and hurt, and if the application could heal those wounded

parts, it was good for something more than mere mustachios. The curate

confirmed his conjecture, and promised to disclose the secret to him,

with the first proper opportunity; then it was agreed, that the priest

should mount the mule by himself, and, with the other two, ride her by

turns, until they should arrive at the inn, which was about two leagues

off.

Don Quixote, the princess, and the curate, being thus mounted, and

Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza following on foot, the knight

told the damsel, that her highness might conduct him whithersoever she

pleased; but, before she could make any reply, the priest interposed,

saying, ‘Towards what kingdom is your majesty journeying? I am much

mistaken in my notions of kingdoms, if you are not bound for Micomicon?’

She, who had been well instructed in her cue, concluding that the must

answer in the affirmative, said, ‘Yes, Signior, that is the place of my

destination.’—‘Then you must pass through our village,’ answered the

curate, ‘and take your route to Carthagena, where your highness may

happily embark; and if you meet with no hurricane, but be favoured with

a fair wind and smooth sea, in something less than nine years, you may

get sight of that vast Lake Meona, I mean, Meotis, which is a little

more than one hundred days journey from your majesty’s kingdom.’—‘Your

worship must be mistaken,’ said the princess, ‘for two years are not yet

elapsed since I set out from thence; and though the weather has always

been bad, I have already obtained what I so much longed after, namely,

the sight of Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose fame reached my

ears as soon as I landed in Spain, and induced me to come in quest of

him, that I might solicit his courtesy, and trust my righteous cause to

the valour of his invincible arm.’—‘Enough, Madam,’ said Don Quixote;

‘spare your encomiums; for I am an utter enemy to all sorts of

adulation; and, although you are not to be suspected of flattery, my

chaste ears are always offended at that kind of discourse. What I can

safely affirm, is this; whether I have valour or not, here is he,

valiant or pusillanimous, who will exert himself to the last drop of his

blood in the service of your highness. But, this apart——Pray, Mr.

Licentiate, what cause hath brought you hither alone, where I am really

astonished to find you so ill attended, and so slightly cloathed?’

‘In that particular you shall soon be satisfied,’ answered the curate:

‘your worship must know that I and our friend Mr. Nicholas the barber,

set out for Seville, to recover a sum of money, which was lent to me by

a relation of mine that went to the Indies, a good many years ago; no

less than sixty thousand pieces of eight in good silver, which make no

inconsiderable sum: and yesterday, passing through this place, we were

set upon by four highwaymen, who stripped us even to our very whiskers,

and that in such a manner as obliged the barber to wear artificial ones;

and you may see,’ pointing to Cardenio, ‘how they have despoiled the

face of this young man who accompanied us; and the cream of the story

is, that, according to the publick report, which prevails in this

neighbourhood, those who robbed us were galley-slaves, that, almost in

this very place, were set at liberty by a man so valiant, as to let them

all loose, in spite of the commissary and his guards. Without all doubt

he must have been deprived of his senses, or as great a villain as any

of those he freed, or some person void of all conscience and feeling,

who could thus turn loose the wolf among the lambs, the fox among the

poultry, and the flies among the honey-pots; defrauding justice, and

rebelling against his king and rightful sovereign, by acting contrary to

his just commands, in depriving the gallies of their hands, and putting

in confusion the holy brotherhood, which have continued so many years in

undisturbed repose: in short, he hath done a deed that may tend to the

perdition of his own soul as well as body.’

Sancho had before recounted to them the adventure of the galley-slaves,

which he had atchieved with so much glory; and therefore the curate

urged it home, in order to observe the behaviour of Don Quixote, who

changed colour at every word, without daring to own himself the

deliverer of that worthy crew. ‘Those,’ added the priest, ‘were the

persons who rifled us; and God of his infinite mercy forgive the man who

prevented the punishment they so richly deserved!’

Footnote 85:

As if he had said Ape-land, _mico_ signifying an ape.

Footnote 86:

When a knight had once granted a boon in this manner, it was

impossible for him to retract, let the request be never so

extravagant. We are told by Joinville, that the queen of St. Lewis,

being big with child, and in the utmost terror of falling alive into

the hands of the infidels at Damietta in Egypt, fell upon her knees

before an old knight turned of fourscore, and conjured him to grant

her boon: the old man having promised to comply, on the faith of his

knighthood, she told him the favour she so pressingly solicited, was,

that he would cut off her head before she should fall into the hands

of the enemy, provided the Saracens should become masters of the town.

The senior answered without hesitation, that she might depend upon his

sword; and owned he had taken that resolution even before she

signified her request.

CHAP. III.

THE PLEASANT ARTIFICE PRACTISED TO EXTRICATE OUR ENAMOURED KNIGHT

FROM THE MOST RIGOROUS PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF.

Scarce had the curate pronounced this apostrophe, when Sancho blundered

out—‘Then, in good faith, Mr. Licentiate, he who performed this exploit,

was no other than my master; not that I neglected to tell and advise him

beforehand, to consider what he was about, and think what a sin it would

be to let loose those who were going to the gallies for the most

grievous enormities.’—‘You blockhead,’ cried Don Quixote, incensed, ‘it

neither concerns, nor belongs to knights-errant, to examine whether the

afflicted, the enslaved, and oppressed, whom they meet on the highway,

are reduced, to these wretched circumstances by their crimes, or their

misfortunes; our business is only to assist them in their distress,

having an eye to their sufferings, and not to their demerits. I chanced

to light upon a string of miserable and discontented objects, in behalf

of whom I acted according to the dictates of my religion, without

minding the consequence; and he who takes umbrage at what I have done,

saving the sacred character and honourable person of Mr. Licentiate, is,

I insist upon it, utterly ignorant of chivalry, and lyes like the

base-born son of a whore; and this assertion I will make good with my

sword, in the most ample manner.’ So saying, he fixed himself in the

stirrups, and cocked his beaver; the barber’s bason, which he mistook

for Mambrino’s helmet, hanging useless at the saddle-bow, until the

damage it received from the galley-slaves could be repaired.

Dorothea, who was equally prudent and witty, understanding that every

body present, except Sancho, diverted themselves with the extravagant

humour of Don Quixote, was willing to have her share of the

entertainment; and accordingly, perceiving that his indignation was

raised, ‘Sir knight,’ said she, ‘I hope your worship will remember your

promise to me, by which you are restricted from engaging in any other

adventure, howsoever pressing it may be. Subdue your resentment

therefore, and be assured, that had Mr. Licentiate known the

galley-slaves were set at liberty by that invincible arm, he would have

taken three stitches in his mouth, and bit his tongue three times,

rather than have uttered one word that should redound to the prejudice

of your worship.’—‘That I swear I would have done,’ said the curate;

‘aye, and have plucked off one of my whiskers to boot.’—‘Madam,’

answered the knight, ‘I am silent. I will restrain the just indignation

which begins to rise within me, and proceed in the utmost peace and

quiet, until I shall have fulfilled the boon I promised to your

highness; but, in recompence for this my kind intention, I beseech you,

if it be not too much trouble, to make me acquainted with the nature of

your misfortune; and tell me the number, quality, and condition of those

persons on whom I am to take just satisfaction and full vengeance, in

your behalf.’—‘With all my heart,’ answered Dorothea; ‘though I am

afraid of tiring you with a recital of woes and misfortunes.’ The knight

assured her that would be impossible; and she resumed, ‘Well then, be so

good as to favour me with your attention.’

At these words, Cardenio and the barber went up close to her, in order

to hear what story she, in her discretion, would invent; and Sancho

Panza, who was as much deceived as his master, followed their example.

After she had seated herself firmly in the saddle, cleared her pipes

with a hem or two, and made other preliminary gestures, she with great

sprightliness thus began:

‘In the first place, gentlemen, you must know that my name is ——’ Here

she made a full stop, having forgot how the curate had christened her:

but this defect was soon remedied; for, immediately conceiving the cause

of her hesitation, he said, ‘It is no wonder, Madam, that your highness

is disturbed and disordered at the recollection of your misfortunes,

which are often so great, as to impair the memory to such a degree, that

the afflicted cannot even remember their own names: this effect they

have had upon you, Madam, who have forgot that you are the Princess

Micomicona, legitimate heiress of the great kingdom of Micomicon. With

the assistance of this hint, your highness will easily recal the whole

thread of your story to your sorrowful remembrance.’—‘You are in the

right,’ replied the damsel; ‘and I believe I shall be able to bring my

true narrative to a happy conclusion without farther prompting.

‘The king, my father, whose name was Tinacrio the sage, foresaw, by his

profound skill in magick, that my mother, who was called Queen

Zaramilla, would die before him; and that, as he himself must quit this

life soon after, I should be left an helpless orphan; but this

consideration, he said, did not give him so much pain and confusion, as

the certain foreknowledge that a monstrous giant, lord of a great island

that bordered on our kingdom, called Pandafilando of the Gloomy Aspect:

(for, it is affirmed, that although his eyes are, like any other

person’s, placed in the middle of his face, he always looks askance, as

if he squinted; and this obliquity the malicious tyrant practises, in

order to surprize and intimidate those who behold him;) I say, my father

foresaw by his art, that this giant, informed of my being an orphan,

would invade me with a great army, and deprive me of my whole kingdom,

without leaving so much as a village for my retreat; and that nothing

could prevent this my ruin and misfortune, unless I would consent to

marry him; though, so far as he could learn, it would never come into my

thoughts to make such an unequal match; and truly his conjecture was

well founded; for, it never entered into my head, to wed this giant, or

any other person, howsoever tall and unmeasurable he might be. My

father, therefore, advised me, that when, after his death, I should get

notice that Pandafilando was beginning to invade my kingdom, I should

not stay to put myself in a posture of defence, which would prove my

destruction, but freely leave him the possession of my realms, if I was

resolved to avoid my own death, and to prevent the total destruction of

my good and faithful subjects; for it would be impossible to defend

myself against the infernal force of the giant: but, that I should

immediately set out for Spain, where I would find a remedy for all my

misfortunes, in the person of a certain knight-errant, whose fame would

be at that time spread over the whole kingdom, and whose name, if I

right remember, would be Don Hackfot, or Kickfot.’—‘Don Quixote your

ladyship would say,’ cried Sancho, interposing, ‘alias the Knight of the

Rueful Countenance.’—‘The very same,’ replied Dorothea: ‘he told me,

moreover, that this knight would be a tall man, with a long meagre

visage, and have on his right-side, below his left-shoulder, or

thereabouts, a grey mole garnished with hairs, which bear some

resemblance to a hog’s bristles.’

Don Quixote hearing this circumstance, said to his squire, ‘Come hither,

son Sancho, and help me to strip; for I want to see if I am actually the

knight of whom that sage king foretold.’—‘Why should your worship

strip?’ said Dorothea. ‘In order to satisfy myself about that mole which

your royal father mentioned.’—‘You need not give yourself the trouble,’

said Sancho; ‘I know your worship hath just such a mole on the middle of

your back-bone, which is a sign of strength.’—‘That assurance is

sufficient,’ resumed Dorothea, ‘for, among friends, we ought not to

stand upon trifles; and it is of very little consequence whether the

mole be upon the shoulder or the back bone; provided there is really

such a mark on any part of your body, which is all composed of the same

flesh. Without doubt my worthy father was right in every thing he

prognosticated; and I have exactly followed his directions, in

recommending my cause to the protection of Signior Don Quixote, who is

certainly the individual knight my father described; since his features

correspond with his fame, which fills not only Spain, but likewise the

whole province of La Mancha[87]; for scarce had I landed at Ossuna, than

hearing of his vast exploits, my mind suggested that he must be the very

person I came in quest of.’—‘How could your highness,’ said Don Quixote,

‘land at Ossuna, which is not a sea-port?’

Before she had time to make a reply, the curate took the task upon

himself, saying, ‘The princess must mean, that after she landed at

Malaga, Ossuna was the first place in which she heard of your

worship.’—‘That was my meaning,’ said Dorothea. ‘There is nothing more

plain,’ answered the priest; ‘and now your majesty may proceed.’—‘I have

nothing more to say,’ resumed the princess, ‘but that, at length,

destiny has been so favourable to me, in my finding Don Quixote, I

reckon and look upon myself as queen again, and mistress of my whole

realms, since out of his great courtesy and magnificence, he hath

promised, in consequence of the boon I asked, to go with me

whithersoever I shall conduct him; and my intention is no other than to

bring him face to face with Pandafilando of the Gloomy Aspect, that he

may, by putting him to death, restore me to the possession of that which

he so unjustly usurps; and all this will literally happen, as it was

prophesied by my worthy father Tinacrio the Sage, who hath also left it

written in Chaldean or Greek characters, for I cannot read them, that if

the knight mentioned in the prophecy should, after having cut off the

giant’s head, demand me in marriage, I must instantly accept of him as

my lawful husband, without the least hesitation, and give him immediate

possession of my person and throne.’

Don Quixote hearing this circumstance, cried, ‘What do you think now,

friend Sancho? do you hear what passes? and did not I tell thee as much?

Observe now, whether or not we have not a queen to marry, and a kingdom

to govern.’—‘Adzookers, it is even so!’ cried the squire; ‘and plague

upon the son of a whore who refuses to marry her, as soon as Mr.

Pandahiladoe’s weazond is cut; then, what a delicate morsel the queen

is! odd, I wish all the fleas in my bed were such as she!’ So saying, he

cut a brace of capers, with marks of infinite satisfaction; then running

up, and taking hold of the bridle of Dorothea’s mule, made her halt,

while he, falling down on his knees before her, besought the princess to

let him kiss her hand, in token of his receiving her as his queen and

mistress. Which of the company could behold the madness of the master,

and the simplicity of the man, without laughing! Dorothea actually gave

him her hand, and promised to make him a grandee, as soon as, by the

favour of Heaven, she should be restored to the possession of her

kingdom; and he thanked her in terms which redoubled the mirth of all

present.

‘This, gentlemen,’ added the damsel, ‘is my story, and nothing now

remains but to tell you, that of all the people who attended me when I

left my own country, not one survives, except this well-bearded squire;

all the rest having perished in a dreadful storm that overtook us after

we were within sight of land: he and I miraculously floated to the shore

on two planks; and indeed the whole course of my life, as you may have

observed in my narration, hath been full of mystery and wonder. If I

have in any thing exceeded the bounds of credibility, or been less

accurate than I ought, I hope you will impute it to that cause assigned

by the licentiate, in the beginning of my story; namely, the continual

and extraordinary affliction, that often impairs the memory of the

unfortunate.’—‘But, mine shall not be impaired, most high and virtuous

lady!’ said Don Quixote, ‘by all the misfortunes I shall undergo in your

service, let them be never so great and unprecedented: therefore I again

confirm the boon I have promised, and swear to attend you even to the

world’s end, until I get sight of that ferocious adversary of yours,

whose proud head I hope to slice off, with the assistance of God, my own

arm, and the edge of this (I will not say good) sword; thanks to Gines

de Passamonte who run away with my own[88].’ This last apostrophe he

muttered between his teeth, and then proceeded aloud, saying—‘and after

I shall have deprived him of his head, and put you in peaceable

possession of your throne, you shall be at free liberty to dispose of

your person, according to your own will and pleasure; for, while my

memory is engrossed, my will enslaved, and my understanding subjected to

her who——I say no more; but, that it is impossible I should incline, or

have the least thought towards marrying any other person, though she

were a perfect phœnix.’

Sancho was so much disgusted at this last declaration of his master,

refusing the marriage, that raising his voice, he cried with great

indignation, ‘Signior Don Quixote, I vow and swear your worship is

crazy, else you would never boggle at marrying such a high-born princess

as this! Do you imagine that fortune will offer such good luck at every

turn, as she now presents? or pray, do you think my Lady Dulcinea more

handsome than the princess? I am sure she is not half so beautiful, and

will even venture to say, that she is not worthy to tie her majesty’s

shoe-strings. How the plague shall I ever obtain the earldom I expect,

if your worship goes thus a-fishing for mushrooms at sea? Marry her,

marry her, in the devil’s name, without much ado; lay hold on this

kingdom that drops, as it were, into your hand; and, after your

coronation, make me a marquis or lord-lieutenant, and then the devil, if

he will, may run away with the rest.’

Don Quixote was enraged, when he heard such blasphemies uttered against

his mistress Dulcinea, and lifting up his lance, without speaking a

syllable, or giving the least notice of his intention, discharged two

such hearty blows upon the squire, as brought him instantly to the

ground; and had not Dorothea called aloud, and begged of him to forbear,

would certainly have murdered poor Sancho on the spot. ‘Do you think,’

said he, after some pause, ‘you plebeian scoundrel, that I will always

stand with my hands in my pockets; and that there is nothing to be done,

but for you to misbehave, and for me to forgive you? I’ll teach you

better manners, you excommunicated rascal; for such to be sure you are,

else you would not wag your tongue against the peerless Dulcinea. Don’t

you know, you grovelling beggarly villain, that were it not for the

valour with which she inspires this arm, I should not have enough to

kill a flea? Tell me, you viperish scoffer, what you think hath won this

kingdom, cut off the giant’s head, and made you a marquis, for all this

I look upon as already done and determined? Is it not the valour of

Dulcinea that makes use of my arm as the instrument of her exploits? In

me she fights and overcomes; in her I live, breathe, and have my being.

O thou whoreson, ungrateful ruffian, who seest thyself raised from the

dust of the earth to the rank of nobility, and repayest the obligation

by slandering thy benefactress.’

Sancho was not so roughly handled but he heard every syllable that his

master spoke; and, starting up as nimbly as he could, ran behind

Dorothea’s palfrey, from whence he said to the knight, ‘Pray, Sir, if

your worship is determined against marrying this great princess, is it

not plain, that the kingdom cannot be yours; and if that be the case,

what favours can you bestow upon me? This is what I complain of. I would

your worship would, once for all, marry this queen, who is, as it were,

rained down from Heaven upon us; and then you may converse with my Lady

Dulcinea, according to the custom of some kings who keep concubines. As

to the affair of beauty, I will not intermeddle; but, if the truth may

be told, I like them both very well, though I never saw my Lady Dulcinea

in my life.’—‘How! not seen her, blasphemous traitor!’ cried Don

Quixote; ‘have you not just brought a message from her?’—‘I say,’

answered Sancho, ‘that when I saw her, I had not an opportunity of

examining the particulars of her beauty and good qualities one by one;

but all together she pleased me very much.’—‘Now, Sancho,’ said Don

Quixote, ‘I exculpate thee, and thou must forgive what I did in my

wrath; for no man can command the first emotions of his passion.’—‘That

I can plainly perceive,’ answered the squire, ‘and therefore, the desire

of speaking is always the first motion in me; and truly, when once my

tongue begins to itch, I cannot for my blood keep it within my

teeth.’—‘For all that, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I would have

you consider before you speak; for, though the pitcher goes often to the

well—I need not mention what follows.’—‘In good time,’ replied the

squire, ‘there is a God above, who sees the snare, and will judge which

of us is the more to blame; I in speaking, or your worship in doing

evil.’—‘Let there be no more of this, Sancho,’ said Dorothea, ‘but run

and kiss your master’s hand, and beg his pardon; and henceforth set a

better guard upon your praise and disparagement; above all things,

beware of saying any thing to the prejudice of that Lady Toboso, whom I

know by nothing else than my inclination to serve her: and if you put

your trust in God, you will not fail of acquiring some estate, by which

you will live like a prince.’

Sancho took her advice, and, hanging his head, went to beg a kiss of his

master’s hand, which was granted with great solemnity of deportment;

nay, the knight gave him his blessing also, desiring he would attend him

while he rode on a little before the rest of the company, that he might

have a better opportunity of asking a few questions, and conversing with

him about affairs of the utmost importance. Sancho obeyed the order; and

the two having advanced a good way before the rest, ‘Since thy return,’

said Don Quixote, ‘I have had neither time nor convenience, to enquire

about many particular circumstances of thy embassy, with the answer thou

hast brought: and now that fortune favours us with a fit opportunity,

thou must not deny me the pleasure I shall receive from thy agreeable

information.’—‘Your worship,’ answered the squire, ‘may ask as many

questions as you please: I shall make every thing come out as clear as

it went in; but I intreat your worship, dear Sir, not to be so

revengeful for the future.’—‘Why dost thou call me revengeful?’ said the

knight. ‘Because,’ resumed the squire, ‘those blows I was just now

honoured with, were more owing to the quarrel the devil picked between

us, t’other night, than to any thing I said against my Lady Dulcinea,

whom I love and reverence as a relick, though she be not one, merely,

because she appertains to your worship.’—‘No more of these reflections,

on thy life,’ said Don Quixote; ‘else thou wilt give me fresh umbrage: I

freely forgave thee at that time, and thou knowest, that, according to

the common observation, Every new fault deserves a new penance.’

While this conversation passed between them, they perceived a man riding

towards them on an ass; and, when he came a little nearer, discerned him

to be a gypsie; but Sancho Panza, who sent his soul abroad with his

eyes, to examine every ass that appeared, no sooner beheld the rider,

than he recognized Gines de Passamonte, and by the thread of the gypsie

discovered the clue of his own ass; for it was actually Dapple that

carried Passamonte, who, for the better convenience of selling the

beast, had disguised himself in the dress of a gypsie, whose language,

with many others, he could speak as fluently as his mother-tongue.

Sancho saw and recollected him, and no sooner had he seen and

recollected him, than he bellowed forth, ‘Ah, villain, Ginesillo!

restore my goods! give me back the comfort of my life! rob me not of my

heart’s content! give me my ass! give me my darling! Fly, thief! skip,

robber; and seek not to preserve that which is none of thy own.’

There was no need of all this exclamation and reproach; for Gines leaped

off at the first word, and at a pretty round trot, which might have

passed for a gallop, made the best of his way, and vanished in a

twinkling. Sancho running to his ass, embraced it with great affection,

saying, ‘How hast thou been, my dear Dapple? my trusty companion and joy

of my eyes!’ Then kissed and caressed it as if it had been a Christian;

while Dapple very peaceably received these demonstrations of love and

kindness, without answering one word. The whole company wished him joy

of his recovery; particularly Don Quixote, who assured him, that

although he had retrieved Dapple, the promise of the three colts should

not be annulled; and Sancho thanked him for his generosity.

While the master and man were conversing by themselves, the curate told

Dorothea, that she had behaved with great discretion in her story, both

with regard to the matter and brevity of it, as well as the resemblance

it bore to those legends that are found in books of chivalry. She

observed that she had employed a good part of her leisure time in

reading such romances; but, being ignorant of the situation of different

provinces and sea-ports, she had spoke at random, when she mentioned her

landing at Ossuna.’—‘I thought so,’ resumed the priest, ‘and made all

haste to adjust matters by what I said; but, is it not very strange, to

see with what facility this poor unfortunate gentleman swallows all

those lyes and fictions, merely, because they are delivered in the stile

and manner of his nonsensical books?’—‘So very strange and singular,’

said Cardenio, ‘that I question if there be any genius whatever, so

fertile as to frame such a character by the mere force of

invention.’—‘And what is a very remarkable circumstance,’ replied the

curate, ‘waving those extravagancies which this worthy gentleman utters

upon the subject of his disorder, he can discourse upon other topicks

with surprizing ability, and appears to be a man of great knowledge and

intellects; so that, if you do not touch upon chivalry, his hearers must

look upon him as a person of excellent understanding.’

While they were engaged in this conversation, Don Quixote proceeded in

his with Sancho; to whom he said, ‘Come, friend Panza, let us forget

what is past, with regard to animosity, and tell me, without any

ingredient of rancour and resentment, where and how you found Dulcinea?

What was she doing? What did she say? What answer did she make? How did

she look when she read my letter? Who transcribed it for her perusal?

These particulars, and every other circumstance of the affair, which you

think worthy to be known, asked, and answered, I expect you will

explain, without seeking to increase my pleasure with false additions,

much less to diminish it by malicious omission.’—‘Signior,’ said Sancho,

‘if the truth must be told, nobody transcribed the letter; because I had

no letter to be transcribed.’—‘That is very true,’ replied the knight;

‘for, two days after thy departure, I found the pocket-book in which it

was written; a circumstance that gave me infinite pain, as I could not

conceive what thou wouldst do when the mistake should appear; indeed I

always imagined thou wouldst have returned hither immediately upon the

discovery.’—‘That would certainly have been the case,’ said the squire,

‘if, when your worship read it to me, I had not retained it in my

memory, so perfect as to be able to dictate it to a parish clerk, who,

as I repeated, transcribed it so exactly, that he said, in all the days

of his life, though he had read many letters of excommunication, he had

never seen such a clever letter as yours.’—‘And dost thou still retain

it?’ said Don Quixote. ‘No, Sir’ replied Sancho, ‘For, after I had put

it into her hand, I thought there was no farther occasion to retain it,

and therefore let it slip out of my remembrance; or, if any part

remains, it is that of the subterrene, I mean sovereign lady, and the

conclusion Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; with

about three hundred souls, and lives, and pigsnies, which I set down in

the middle.’

Footnote 87:

This is a diverting example of the Bathos, not unlike that anticlimax

repeated in the art of sinking.

Nor Alps, nor Apennines could keep us out,

Nor fortified redoubt!

Footnote 88:

If the knight was robbed of his own sword by Gines, where did he find

that which he wore on this occasion?

CHAP. IV.

THE SAVOURY CONVERSATION

THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA,

WITH MANY OTHER INCIDENTS.

‘All this is pretty well; proceed!’ said Don Quixote: ‘how was that

queen of beauty employed, when you arrived? I dare say, you found her

stringing pearls, or embroidering some device for this her captive

knight, with threads of gold.’—‘No, truly,’ answered the squire; ‘I

found her winnowing two bushels of wheat in the yard.’—‘Then you may

depend upon it,’ resumed the knight, ‘the grains of that wheat were

converted into pearls by the touch of her hand; and didst thou observe,

my friend, whether it was of the finer or common sort?’—‘Why, neither!’

said Sancho; ‘it seemed to be, as it were, red wheat.’—‘But, since it

was winnowed by her fair hands,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I dare affirm,

it will make the whitest bread in Spain. Go on with thy information.

When the letter was delivered, did she not kiss it, and place it on the

crown of her head, in token of respect? Did she not perform some

ceremony worthy of such a letter? Pray, how did she receive it?’—‘When I

presented the letter,’ answered Sancho, ‘she was in a main hurry,

winnowing a large heap of wheat that was in her sieve; and said to me,

“Friend, lay down the letter on that sack; for I cannot pretend to read

it, until I have made an end of my work.”’—‘Discreet lady!’ cried the

knight; ‘her intention certainly was to read it at her leisure, that she

might recreate herself with the contents. Proceed, Sancho; and while she

was thus employed, what conversation passed between you? what questions

did she ask concerning me? and what answers didst thou make? Recount the

whole, without leaving one syllable untold.’

‘She asked me no questions,’ replied the squire; ‘but I told her, how I

had left your worship doing penance for love of her, skipping among

those rocks, naked from the waist upwards, like a mere savage, sleeping

on the bare ground; neglecting to eat your food like a Christian, or to

comb your beard like a decent man; but whining, and weeping, and cursing

your fortune.’—‘If you said I cursed my fortune, you misrepresented me,’

said Don Quixote; ‘for I bless my fate, and will bless it all the days

of my life, for having made me worthy to aspire to the love of such an

high lady as Dulcinea del Toboso.’—‘High indeed!’ answered Sancho, ‘for,

in faith, she is a good hand taller than I am.’—‘How hast thou been

measured with her, Sancho?’ said the knight. ‘I’ll tell you how,’

answered the squire; ‘while I was helping to lay a load of corn upon an

ass, we came so close together, that I could easily perceive she

over-topped me by a full hand.’—‘That may be true,’ said Don Quixote;

‘though her tallness is accompanied and adorned by a myriad of mental

graces. But this you will not deny, Sancho, that while you was so near

her, your nostrils were regaled by a Sabæan odour, an aromatick

fragrance, a certain delicious sensation, for which there is no name. I

mean, a scent, a perfume, such as fills the shop of some curious

glover.’—‘All that I can say,’ answered Sancho, ‘is, that I was sensible

of a sort of rammish smell, which I believe was owing to her being in a

muck sweat with hard work.’—‘That is impossible,’ cried the knight; ‘thy

sense must have been depraved, or that smell must have proceeded from

thy own body; for I am perfectly well acquainted with the odour of that

rose among briars, that lily of the valley, that liquid amber.’—‘It may

be so,’ said Sancho: ‘I have often known such smells come from myself,

as then seemed to come from my Lady Dulcinea: but that is not to be

wondered at; because, as the saying is, every fiend may stink of

brimstone.’—‘Well, then,’ added Don Quixote, ‘she hath now winnowed the

wheat and sent it to the mill; how did she behave after she had read my

letter?’—‘The letter,’ answered Sancho, ‘was not read at all; for, as

she could neither read nor write, she chose to rend and tear it to

pieces, rather than give it to any body who might publish her secrets in

the village, saying, she was very well satisfied with the information I

gave her by word of mouth, concerning your worship’s love for her, and

the extraordinary penance I left you doing on her account. Finally, she

bade me tell you, that she kissed your worship’s hands, being much more

desirous of seeing than writing to you; and therefore she entreated and

commanded your worship, by these presents, to quit this desart, and

leave off playing the fool, and forthwith set out on your journey to

Toboso, provided that something else of greater importance should not

happen, for she longed very much for a sight of your worship, and

laughed heartily when I told her, that you had taken the name of the

Knight with the Rueful Countenance. When I asked if the Biscayan had

been lately with her, she answered, “Yes;” and that he was very much of

a gentleman; but, when I enquired about the galley-slaves, she said she

had as yet seen none of them.’

‘Hitherto all goes well,’ said the knight, ‘but pray tell me what jewel

she gave you at parting, for the news you had brought of me her lover;

for, it is an ancient practice and custom among knights-errant and their

mistresses, to bestow upon their squires, damsels, or dwarfs, who bring

them news of each other, some rich jewel, as a reward and acknowledgment

for the message.’—‘It may be so,’ said Sancho; ‘and I think it an

excellent custom, but that must have been in time past; for in this age

it is customary to give nothing but a piece of bread and cheese, which

was all the present I received from my Lady Dulcinea, who reached it

over the yard wall, when I took my leave; by this token, that the cheese

was made of ewe’s milk.’—‘She is liberal to excess,’ said the knight;

‘and if she omitted giving thee a jewel, it must certainly have been

owing to her not having any by her; but all in good time[89]; I shall

see her soon, and then every thing will be set to rights. Yet there is

one thing, Sancho, which overwhelms me with astonishment. You seem to

have travelled through the air; for you have spent little more than

three days in your journey; though Toboso is more than thirty leagues

distant from hence. From this extraordinary expedition, I conjecture,

that the sage, who is my friend, and interests himself in my affairs,

and such there certainly is, and must be, else I should be no true

knight-errant; I say, this inchanter must have assisted thee in thy

journey, though thou didst not perceive it; for some there are of that

class, who will take up a knight-errant while he is asleep in his bed,

and without his knowing any thing of the matter, he shall awake next

morning in some place more than a thousand leagues from the house where

he took up his lodging the night before; and without such sudden

transportations, it would be impossible for knights to succour each

other in distress, as they frequently do. A knight errant, for example,

happens to be fighting in the desarts of Armenia, with some fierce

dragon, dreadful goblin, or rival knight; and being worsted, and just at

the point of being slain, behold, when he least expects it, there

suddenly appears in a cloud or fiery chariot, another knight, a friend

of his, who but a minute before resided in England, and who assists and

delivers him from death; and that same night, he finds himself supping

at his ease at his own house, which is often two or three thousand

leagues from the field of battle; and all this is effected by the

industry and art of sage inchanters, who take those valiant knights

under their protection.

‘Wherefore, friend Sancho, I can easily believe that thou hast in so

little time travelled from hence to Toboso and back again; because, as I

have already observed, some friendly sage must have carried thee through

the air, though thou didst not perceive it.’—‘Not unlikely,’ replied the

squire, ‘for, in good faith, Rozinante went like a gypsy’s ass, with

quicksilver in his ears.’—‘With quicksilver,’ cried the knight; ‘ay, and

a legion of dæmons to boot, who are beings that travel themselves, and

make other people travel as fast as they please, without tiring.

‘But, waving this subject, how doest thou think I ought to regulate my

conduct, now that my mistress commands me to appear in her presence!

for, although I find myself obliged to comply with her orders, I am

utterly incapacitated by the boon I have granted to this princess: and I

am bound by the laws of chivalry to fulfil my promise, before I indulge

my inclination. On one hand, I am persecuted and harrassed by the desire

of seeing Dulcinea; on the other, I am incited and invited by my honour

and the glory I shall acquire in this enterprize. I am therefore

determined to travel with all expedition, until I arrive at the place

where the giant resides; and, when I shall have restored the princess to

the peaceful possession of her kingdom, after having shortened the

usurper by the head, I will return to the rays of that beauty which

enlightens my thoughts, and excuse myself in such a manner as to obtain

her forgiveness, as she will plainly perceive that my delay tended to

the increase of her glory and fame; seeing all my reputation in arms,

past, present, or to come, proceeds from her favour and

inspiration.’—‘Lord!’ cried Sancho ‘how your worship is concerned about

a parcel of potsherds. Pray tell me, Sir, do you intend to make this

journey for nothing, and to let such a rich and noble marriage as this

slip through your fingers; while the dowry is no less than a kingdom,

which I have actually heard is more than twenty thousand leagues round,

plentifully stored with every thing that is needful for the sustenance

of mortal man, and larger than Portugal and Castile put together? Hold

your tongue, a God’s name, and take shame to yourself, for what you have

said; pardon my freedom, take my advice, and marry in the first place

where we can find a curate, or make use of our friend the licentiate,

who will buckle you handsomely. Take notice, therefore, that I am of an

age to give good counsel, and this that I offer will fit you to a hair,

for a bird in hand is worth two in the bush; and, as the saying is, He

that hath good in his view, and yet will not evil eschew, his folly

deserveth to rue.’

‘Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘if thou advisest me to marry, with a

view of seeing me king, after I shall have killed the giant, that I may

have an opportunity of rewarding thee with what I have promised, thou

must know that I can easily gratify thy wishes, without wedding the

princess; for, before I engage in the combat, I will covenant, that,

provided I come off conqueror, and decline the marriage, I shall have it

in my power to dispose of one part of the kingdom, as I shall think

proper; and to whom should I give it but to thee?’—‘That is very plain,’

replied the squire; ‘but I beseech your worship to make choice of the

sea-coast, because if I should happen to dislike the country, I may ship

off my black slaves, and sell them, as I have already hinted. Wherefore,

without troubling yourself at present, about my Lady Dulcinea, I would

have you go and slay the giant, and conclude that affair from which,

before God! we shall certainly reap much honour and advantage.’—‘I tell

thee, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou art in the right, and I will

follow thy advice, so far as it regards my attendance upon the princess,

before I visit Dulcinea. But say not a word to any body, even those of

our company not excepted, of this conversation; for, as she is so

reserved and careful of concealing her sentiments, it would be

inexcusable in me, if I, or any other through my means, should disclose

them.’—‘Since this is the case,’ said the squire, ‘why does your worship

command all those that are vanquished by your arm to go and present

themselves before my Lady Dulcinea? you may as well give it under your

hand, that you are her true and trusty lover; for, if you compel them to

fall upon their knees before her, and say they are sent by your worship

to pay homage to her, how is it possible that the sentiments of either

you or her can be concealed?’

‘What an ignorant and simple fellow thou art!’ resumed the knight;

‘canst thou not see that all this redounds to her praise and exaltation?

Thou must know, that in our stile of chivalry, it is deemed a great

honour for a lady to be admired by a great many knights, whose wishes

extend no farther than to the desire of serving her for her own sake,

without expecting any other reward for their great and manifold

services, than the glory of being admitted into the number of her

knights.’—‘In like manner,’ said Sancho, ‘I have heard a priest in the

pulpit observe, that we must love our Saviour for his own sake, without

being moved thereto, by any fear of punishment or hopes of applause,

though, for my own part, I am inclined to love and serve him on account

of his power.’—‘Now, the devil take the clown!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘he

sometimes makes such shrewd observations that one would think he had

actually studied!’—‘And yet, upon my conscience,’ answered the squire,

‘I know not so much as my letters.’ At that instant Master Nicholas

calling aloud to them to stop a little, that the rest might have time to

drink at a spring which they found in the way; Don Quixote turned back,

to the no small satisfaction of Sancho, who was already tired with

telling lyes, and afraid of being detected by his master; for, although

he knew that Dulcinea was the daughter of a peasant at Toboso, he had

never seen her in his life. By this time Cardenio had put on the cloaths

which Dorothea wore when they found her; and, though they were none of

the most elegant, he made a much better figure than with his tattered

dress, which he now threw away. The whole company sat down, by the

spring, where, while they appeased the keen hunger that possessed them

all, with what the curate had brought from the inn, a lad chanced to

pass that way, who, looking earnestly at the whole company, at length

run up to Don Quixote, and embracing his knees, began to blubber most

heartily, saying, ‘Ah! Signior, don’t you know me? look at me again; I

am that same individual young man called Andrew, whom your worship

delivered from the tree to which I was tied.’ The knight recollected his

features, and taking him by the hand, addressed himself to the company

in these words.

‘That you may see of what importance knight-errantry is, to redress the

wrongs and grievances which are daily committed by the insolent and

wicked wretches who live upon this earth; know, that as I passed by a

wood some time ago, I heard the screams and woeful cries of some

afflicted creature in the utmost distress: and in consequence of my oath

and obligation, riding towards the place from which the lamentation

seemed to come, I found this very young man tied to an oak tree; and I

am glad from my soul that he is here in person, to bear witness to the

truth. I say, he was bound to an oak, naked, from the waist upwards; and

a peasant, who I afterwards understood was his master, stood scourging

him with the reins of a bridle. When I enquired into the cause of this

barbarous treatment, the rustick answered, that he only whipped his own

servant for being guilty of some neglect that savoured more of

knavishness than simplicity. The boy protested he had done nothing but

asked his wages: to this affirmation the master replied, by some

asseverations which I have forgot; but though I heard his excuses, I

would not admit of them. In short, I ordered the peasant to untie the

youth, and made him swear that he would carry him home and pay him his

wages in ready cash, nay, and pay him in rials that should be perfumed.

Is not this literally true, son Andrew? Didst thou not observe with what

authority I commanded, and with what humility he promised to comply with

every thing that I imposed, suggested, and desired? Answer without

perturbation or doubt, and tell this honourable company what passed,

that they may see and be convinced of what use it is, as I said, to have

knights-errant continually upon duty.’