_A continuation of the adventure in the Sierra Morena._
Don Quixote listened to the Tattered Knight of the mountain, who thus
addressed himself to him: "Assuredly, signor, whoever you are, I am
obliged to you for the courtesy you have manifested towards me; and I
wish it were in my power to serve you with more than my good-will,
which is all that my fate allows me to offer in return for your
civility." "So great is my desire to do you service," answered Don
Quixote, "that I had determined to learn from yourself whether your
affliction, which is evident by the strange life you lead, may admit
of any remedy, and, if so, make every possible exertion to procure it;
I conjure you also by whatever in this life you love most, to tell me
who you are, and what has brought you hither, to live and die like a
brute beast amidst these solitudes: an abode, if I may judge from your
person and attire, so unsuitable to you. And I swear," added Don
Quixote, "by the order of knighthood I have received, though unworthy
and a sinner, to remedy your misfortune, or assist you to bewail it,
as I have already promised." The Knight of the Mountain, hearing him
talk thus, could only gaze upon him, viewing him from head to foot;
and, after surveying him again and again, he said to him, "If you have
anything to give me to eat, for God's sake let me have it; and when I
have eaten, I will do all you desire, in return for the good wishes
you have expressed towards me."
Sancho immediately took from his wallet some provisions, wherewith the
wretched wanderer satisfied his hunger, eating what they gave him like
a distracted person, so ravenously that he made no interval between
one mouthful and another. When he had finished, he made signs to them
to follow him; and having conducted them to a little green plot, he
there laid himself down, and the rest did the same. When the Tattered
Knight had composed himself, he said, "If you desire that I should
tell you the immensity of my misfortunes, you must promise not to
interrupt the thread of my doleful history; for in the instant you do
so, my narrative will break off." These words brought to Don Quixote's
memory the tale related by his squire, which, because he had not
reckoned the number of goats that had passed the river, remained
unfinished. Don Quixote, in the name of all the rest, promised not to
interrupt him, and upon this assurance he began in the following
manner:
"My name is Cardenio; the place of my birth one of the best cities of
Andalusia; my family noble; my parents wealthy; my wretchedness so
great that it must have been deplored by my parents, although not to
be alleviated by all their wealth--for riches are of little avail in
many of the calamities to which mankind are liable. In that city there
existed a heaven, wherein love had placed all the joy I could desire:
such is the beauty of Lucinda, a damsel as well-born and as rich as
myself, though more fortunate and less constant than my honourable
intentions deserved. This Lucinda I loved and adored from my
childhood; and she, on her part, loved me with that innocent affection
proper to her age. Our parents were not unacquainted with our
attachment, nor was it displeasing to them. Our love increased with
our years, insomuch that Lucinda's father thought it prudent to
restrain my wonted freedom of access to his house; thus imitating the
parents of the unfortunate Thisbe, so celebrated by the poets. This
restraint served only to increase the ardour of our affection; for
though it was in their power to impose silence on our tongues, they
could not do the same on our pens, which reveal the secrets of the
soul more effectually than even the speech; for the presence of a
beloved object often so bewilders and confounds its faculties that the
tongue cannot perform its office. O heavens, how many billet-doux did
I write to her! What charming, what modest answers did I receive! How
many sonnets did I pen! At length, my patience being exhausted, I
resolved at once to demand her for my lawful wife; which I immediately
did. In reply, her father thanked me for the desire I expressed to
honour him by an alliance with his family, but that, as my father was
living, it belonged more properly to him to make this demand; for
without his entire concurrence the act would appear secret and
unworthy of his Lucinda. I went therefore directly to him, and found
him with a letter open in his hand, which he gave me, saying, 'By this
letter you will see, Cardenio, the inclination Duke Ricardo has to do
you service.' I read the letter, which was so extremely kind that I
thought it would be wrong in my father not to comply with its request,
which was, that I should be sent immediately to the duke, who was
desirous of placing me as a companion to his eldest son.
"The time fixed for my departure came. I conversed the night before
with Lucinda, and told her all that had passed; and also entreated her
father to wait a few days, and not to dispose of her until I knew what
Duke Ricardo's pleasure was with me. He promised me all I desired, and
she confirmed it with a thousand vows and a thousand faintings. I
arrived at the residence of the duke, who treated me with so much
kindness that envy soon became active, by possessing his servants with
an opinion that every favour the duke conferred upon me was
prejudicial to their interest. But the person most pleased at my
arrival was a second son of the duke, called Fernando, a sprightly
young gentleman, of a gallant, liberal, and loving disposition, who
contracted so intimate a friendship with me that it became the subject
of general conversation; and though I was treated with much favour by
his elder brother, it was not equal to the kindness and affection of
Don Fernando.
"Now as unbounded confidence is always the effect of such intimacy, he
revealed to me all his thoughts, and particularly a love matter, which
gave him some disquiet. He loved a country girl, the daughter of one
of his father's vassals. Her parents were rich, and she herself was so
beautiful, discreet, and modest, that no one could determine in which
of these qualities she most excelled. Don Fernando's passion for this
lovely maiden was so excessive that he resolved to promise her
marriage. Prompted by friendship, I employed the best arguments I
could suggest to divert him from such a purpose; but finding it was
all in vain, I resolved to acquaint his father, the duke, with the
affair. Don Fernando, being artful and shrewd, suspected and feared no
less, knowing that I could not, as a faithful servant, conceal from my
lord and master so important a matter: and therefore, to amuse and
deceive me, he said that he knew no better remedy for effacing the
remembrance of the beauty that had so captivated him than to absent
himself for some months; which he said might be effected by our going
together to my father's house, under pretence, as he would tell the
duke, of purchasing horses in our town, which is remarkable for
producing the best in the world. No sooner had he made this proposal
than, prompted by my own love, I expressed my approbation of it, as
the best that possibly could be devised, and should have done so, even
had it been less plausible, since it afforded me so good an
opportunity of returning to see my dear Lucinda. At the very time he
made this proposal to me he had already, as appeared afterwards, been
married to the maiden, and only waited for a convenient season to
divulge it with safety to himself, being afraid of what the duke his
father might do when he should hear of his folly. Now love in young
men too often expires with the attainment of its object; and what
seems to be love vanishes, because it has nothing of the durable
nature of true affection. In short, Don Fernando, having obtained
possession of the country girl, his love grew faint, and his fondness
abated; so that, in reality, that absence which he proposed as a
remedy for his passion, he only chose in order to avoid what was now
no longer agreeable to him. The duke consented to his proposal, and
ordered me to bear him company.
"We reached our city, and my father received him according to his
quality. I immediately visited Lucinda; my passion revived (though, in
truth, it had been neither dead nor asleep), and unfortunately for me,
I revealed it to Don Fernando; thinking that, by the laws of
friendship, nothing should be concealed from him. I expatiated so much
on the beauty, grace, and discretion of Lucinda, that my praises
excited in him a desire of seeing a damsel endowed with such
accomplishments. Unhappily I consented to gratify him, and shewed her
to him one night by the light of a taper at a window, where we were
accustomed to converse together. He beheld her, and every beauty he
had hitherto seen was cast into oblivion. From that time I began to
fear and suspect him; for he was every moment talking of Lucinda, and
would begin the subject himself, however abruptly, which awakened in
me I know not what jealousy; and though I feared no change in the
goodness and fidelity of Lucinda, yet I could not but dread the very
thing against which they seemed to secure me. He also constantly
importuned me to shew him the letters I wrote to Lucinda, as well as
her answers, which I did, and he pretended to be extremely delighted
with both.
"Now it happened that Lucinda, having desired me to lend her a book of
chivalry, of which she was very fond, entitled Amadis de Gaul----"
Scarcely had Don Quixote heard him mention a book of chivalry, when he
said, "Had you told me, sir, at the beginning of your story, that the
Lady Lucinda was fond of reading books of chivalry, no more would have
been necessary to convince me of the sublimity of her understanding.
I pronounce her to be the most beautiful and the most ingenious woman
in the world. Pardon me, sir, for having broken my promise by this
interruption; but when I hear of matters appertaining to
knights-errant and chivalry I can as well forbear talking of them as
the beams of the sun can cease to give heat, or those of the moon to
moisten. Pray, therefore, excuse me and proceed; for that is of most
importance to us at present."
While Don Quixote was saying all this, Cardenio hung down his head
upon his breast, apparently in profound thought; and although Don
Quixote twice desired him to continue his story, he neither lifted up
his head nor answered a word. But after some time he raised it, and
uttering some disloyalty against Queen Madasima, one of the heroines
of the Don's books of chivalry, "It is false, I swear," answered Don
Quixote in great wrath; "it is extreme malice, or rather villany, to
say so; and whoever asserts it lies like a very rascal, and I will
make him know it, on foot or on horseback, armed or unarmed, by night
or by day, or how he pleases."
Cardenio, being now mad, and hearing himself called liar and villain,
with other such opprobrious names, did not like the jest; and catching
up a stone that lay close by him, he threw it with such violence at
Don Quixote's breast that it threw him on his back. Sancho Panza,
seeing his master treated in this manner, attacked the madman with his
clenched fist; and the Tattered Knight received him in such sort that,
with one blow, he laid him at his feet, and then trampled upon him to
his heart's content. The goatherd, who endeavoured to defend him,
fared little better; and when the madman had sufficiently vented his
fury upon them all, he left them, and quietly retired to his rocky
haunts among the mountains. Sancho got up in a rage to find himself so
roughly handled, and was proceeding to take revenge on the goatherd,
telling him the fault was his, for not having given them warning that
this man was subject to these mad fits; for had they known it, they
might have been upon their guard. The goatherd answered that he had
given them notice of it, and that the fault was not his. Sancho Panza
replied, the goatherd rejoined; and the replies and rejoinders ended
in taking each other by the beard, and coming to such blows that, if
Don Quixote had not interposed, they would have demolished each other.
But Sancho still kept fast hold of the goatherd, and said, "Let me
alone, sir knight, for this fellow being a bumpkin like myself, and
not a knight, I may very safely revenge myself by fighting with him
hand to hand, like a man of honour." "True," said Don Quixote; "but I
know that he is not to blame for what has happened." Hereupon Sancho
was pacified; and Don Quixote again inquired of the goatherd whether
it were possible to find out Cardenio; for he had a vehement desire to
learn the end of his story. The goatherd told him, as before, that he
did not exactly know his haunts, but that, if he waited some time
about that part, he would not fail to meet him, either in or out of
his senses.
Don Quixote took his leave of the goatherd, and, mounting Rozinante,
commanded Sancho to follow him; which he did very unwillingly. They
proceeded slowly on, making their way into the most difficult recesses
of the mountain; in the mean time Sancho was dying to converse with
his master, but would fain have had him begin the discourse, that he
might not disobey his orders. Being, however, unable to hold out any
longer, he said to him, "Signor Don Quixote, be pleased to give me
your worship's blessing, and my dismission; for I will get home to my
wife and children, with whom I shall at least have the privilege of
talking and speaking my mind; for it is very hard, and not to be borne
with patience, for a man to ramble about all his life in quest of
adventures, and to meet with nothing but kicks and cuffs, tossings in
a blanket, and bangs with stones, and, with all this, to have his
mouth sewed up, not daring to utter what he has in his heart, as if he
were dumb." "I understand thee, Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "thou
art impatient until I take off the embargo I have laid on thy tongue.
Suppose it, then, removed, and thou art permitted to say what thou
wilt, upon condition that this revocation is to last no longer than
whilst we are wandering among these rocks." "Be it so," said Sancho;
"let me talk now, for we know not what will be hereafter. And now,
taking the benefit of this license, I ask what had your worship to do
with standing up so warmly for that same Queen Magimasa, or what's her
name? for had you let that pass, I verily believe the madman would
have gone on with his story, and you would have escaped the thump with
the stone, the kicks, and above half a dozen buffets."
"In faith, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "if thou didst but know, as
I do, how honourable and how excellent a lady Queen Madasima was, I am
certain thou wouldst acknowledge that I had a great deal of patience
in forbearing to dash to pieces that mouth out of which such
blasphemies issued; and to prove that Cardenio knew not what he spoke,
thou mayest remember that when he said it he was not in his senses."
"That is what I say," quoth Sancho; "and therefore no account should
have been made of his words; for if good fortune had not befriended
your worship, and directed the flint-stone at your breast instead of
your head, we had been in a fine condition for standing up in defence
of that dear lady; and Cardenio would have come off unpunished, being
insane." "Against the sane and insane," answered Don Quixote, "it is
the duty of a knight-errant to defend the honour of women,
particularly that of a queen of such exalted worth as Queen Madasima,
for whom I have a particular affection, on account of her excellent
qualities; for, besides being extremely beautiful, she was very
prudent, and very patient in her afflictions, which were numerous. But
prythee, Sancho, peace; and henceforward attend to our matters, and
forbear any interference with what doth not concern thee. Be
convinced, that whatever I have done, do, or shall do, is highly
reasonable, and exactly conformable to the rules of chivalry, which I
am better acquainted with than all the knights who ever professed it
in the world." "Sir," replied Sancho, "is it a good rule of chivalry
for us to go wandering through these mountains, without either path or
road, in quest of a madman who, perhaps, when he is found, will be
inclined to finish what he began,--not his story, but the breaking of
your worship's head and my ribs?"
"Peace, Sancho, I repeat," said Don Quixote; "for know that it is not
only the desire of finding the madman that brings me to these parts,
but an intention to perform in them an exploit whereby I shall acquire
perpetual fame and renown over the face of the whole earth; and it
shall be such an one as shall set the seal to make an accomplished
knight-errant." "And is this exploit a very dangerous one?" quoth
Sancho. "No," answered the knight; "although the die may chance to run
unfortunately for us, yet the whole will depend upon thy diligence."
"Upon my diligence!" exclaimed Sancho. "Yes," said Don Quixote; "for
if thy return be speedy from the place whither I intend to send thee,
my pain will soon be over, and my glory forthwith commence; and that
thou mayest no longer be in suspense with regard to the tendency of my
words, I inform thee, Sancho, that the famous Amadis de Gaul was one
of the most perfect of knights-errant--I should not say one, for he
was the sole, the principal, the unique--in short, the prince of all
his contemporaries. A fig for Don Belianis, and all those who say that
he equalled Amadis in any thing; for I swear they are mistaken. I say,
moreover, that if a painter would be famous in his art he must
endeavour to copy after the originals of the most excellent masters.
The same rule is also applicable to all the other arts and sciences
which adorn the commonwealth; thus, whoever aspires to a reputation
for prudence and patience must imitate Ulysses, in whose person and
toils Homer draws a lively picture of those qualities; so also Virgil,
in the character of AEneas, delineates filial piety, courage, and
martial skill, being representations not of what they really were, but
of what they ought to be, in order to serve as models of virtue to
succeeding generations. Thus was Amadis the polar, the morning-star,
and the sun of all valiant and enamoured knights, and whom all we, who
militate under the banners of love and chivalry, ought to follow. This
being the case, friend Sancho, that knight-errant who best imitates
him will be most certain of arriving at pre-eminence in chivalry. And
an occasion upon which this knight particularly displayed his
prudence, worth, courage, patience, constancy, and love, was his
retiring, when disdained by the Lady Oriana, to do penance on the
poor rock, changing his name to that of Beltenebros; a name most
certainly significant and proper for the life he had voluntarily
chosen. Now it is easier for me to imitate him in this than in
cleaving giants, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, routing armies,
shattering fleets, and dissolving enchantments; and since this place
is so well adapted for the purpose, I ought not to neglect the
opportunity which is now so commodiously offered to me."
"What is it your worship really intends to do in so remote a place as
this?" demanded Sancho. "Have I not told thee," answered Don Quixote,
"that I design to imitate Amadis, acting here the desperate, raving,
and furious lover; at the same time following the example of the
valiant Don Orlando with respect to Angelica the fair: he ran mad,
tore up trees by the roots, disturbed the waters of the crystal
springs, slew shepherds, destroyed flocks, fired cottages, and an
hundred thousand other extravagances worthy of eternal record. And
although it is not my design to imitate Orlando in all his frantic
actions, words, and thoughts, yet I will give as good a sketch as I
can of those which I deem most essential; or I may, perhaps, be
content to imitate only Amadis, who, without committing any
mischievous excesses, by tears and lamentations alone attained as much
fame as all of them." "It seems to me," quoth Sancho, "that the
knights who acted in such manner were provoked to it, and had a reason
for these follies and penances; but pray what cause has your worship
to run mad? What lady has disdained you? or what have you discovered
to convince you that the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso has done you any
wrong?" "There lies the point," answered Don Quixote, "and in this
consists the refinement of my plan. A knight-errant who runs mad with
just cause deserves no thanks; but to do so without this is the point;
giving my lady to understand how much more I should perform were there
a good reason on her part. But I have cause enough given me by so long
an absence from my ever-honoured Lady Dulcinea del Toboso. Therefore,
friend Sancho, counsel me not to refrain from so rare, so happy, and
so unparalleled an imitation. Mad I am, and mad I must be, until thy
return with an answer to a letter I intend to send by thee to my Lady
Dulcinea; for if good, I shall enjoy it in my right senses; if
otherwise, I shall be mad, and consequently insensible of my
misfortune."
While they were thus discoursing, they arrived at the foot of a high
mountain, which stood separated from several others that surrounded
it, as if it had been hewn out from them. Near its base ran a gentle
stream, that watered a verdant and luxurious vale, adorned with many
wide-spreading trees, plants, and wild flowers of various hues. This
was the spot in which the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure chose to
perform his penance; and while contemplating the scene, he thus broke
forth in a loud voice: "This is the place, O ye heavens! which I
select and appoint for bewailing the misfortune in which I am so
cruelly involved. This is the spot where my flowing tears shall
increase the waters of this crystal stream, and my sighs, continual
and deep, shall incessantly move the foliage of these lofty trees, in
testimony and token of the pain my persecuted heart endures. O ye
rural deities, whoever ye be that inhabit these remote deserts, give
ear to the complaints of an unhappy lover, whom long absence and some
pangs of jealousy have driven to bewail himself among these rugged
heights, and to complain of the cruelty of that ungrateful fair, the
utmost extent and ultimate perfection of human beauty! And, O thou my
squire, agreeable companion in my prosperous and adverse fortune,
carefully imprint on thy memory what thou shalt see me here perform,
that thou mayest recount and recite it to her who is the sole cause of
all!" Thus saying, he alighted from Rozinante, and in an instant took
off his bridle and saddle, and clapping him on the back, said to him,
"O steed, as excellent for my performances as unfortunate in thy fate,
he gives thee liberty who is himself deprived of it. Go whither thou
wilt; for thou hast it written on thy forehead that neither Astolpho's
Hippogriff, nor the famous Frontino, which cost Bradamante so dear,
could match thee in speed."
Sancho, observing all this, said, "Blessings be with him who saved us
the trouble of unharnessing Dapple; for truly he should have wanted
neither slaps nor speeches in his praise. Yet if he were here, I would
not consent to his being unpannelled, there being no occasion for it;
for he had nothing to do with love or despair any more than I, who was
once his master, when it so pleased God. And truly, Sir Knight of the
Sorrowful Figure, if it be so that my departure and your madness take
place in earnest, it will be well to saddle Rozinante again, that he
may supply the loss of my Dapple, and save me time in going and
coming; for if I walk, I know not how I shall be able either to go or
return, being, in truth, but a sorry traveller on foot." "Be that as
thou wilt," answered Don Quixote; "for I do not disapprove thy
proposal; and I say thou shalt depart within three days, during which
time I intend thee to bear witness of what I do and say for her, that
thou mayest report it accordingly." "What have I more to see," quoth
Sancho, "than what I have already seen?" "So far thou art well
prepared," answered Don Quixote; "but I have now to rend my garments,
scatter my arms about, and dash my head against these rocks; with
other things of the like sort, which will strike thee with
admiration." "Good master," said Sancho, "content yourself, I pray
you, with running your head against some soft thing, such as cotton;
and leave it to me to tell my lady that you dashed your head against
the point of a rock harder than a diamond." "I thank thee for thy good
intentions, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "but I would have
thee to know, that all these actions of mine are no mockery, but done
very much in earnest." "As for the three days allowed me for seeing
your mad pranks," interrupted Sancho, "I beseech you to reckon them as
already passed; for I take all for granted, and will tell wonders to
my lady: do you write the letter, and despatch me quickly, for I long
to come back and release your worship from this purgatory, in which I
leave you."
"But how," said Don Quixote, "shall we contrive to write the letter?"
"And the ass-colt bill?" added Sancho. "Nothing shall be omitted,"
said Don Quixote; "and since we have no paper, we shall do well to
write it as the ancients did, on the leaves of trees, or on tablets of
wax; though it will be as difficult at present to meet with these as
with paper. But, now I recollect, it may be as well, or indeed better,
to write it in Cardenio's pocket-book, and you will take care to get
it fairly transcribed upon paper in the first town you reach where
there is a schoolmaster." "But what must we do about the signing it
with your own hand?" said Sancho. "The letters of Amadis were never
subscribed," answered Don Quixote. "Very well," replied Sancho; "but
the order for the colts must needs be signed by yourself; for if that
be copied, they will say it is a false signature, and I shall be
forced to go without the colts." "The order shall be signed in the
same pocket-book; and, at sight of it, my niece will make no
difficulty in complying with it. As to the love-letter, let it be
subscribed thus: 'Yours until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful
Figure.' And it is of little importance whether it be written in
another hand; for I remember, Dulcinea has never seen a letter or
writing of mine in her whole life; for our loves have always been of
the platonic kind, extending no farther than to modest glances at each
other; such is the reserve and seclusion in which she is brought up by
her father Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza Nogales!"
"Ah!" quoth Sancho, "the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo! Is she the
Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?" "It is
even she," said Don Quixote, "and she deserves to be mistress of the
universe." "I know her well," quoth Sancho; "and I can assure you she
will pitch the bar with the lustiest swain in the parish; straight and
vigorous, and I warrant can make her part good with any knight-errant
that shall have her for his lady. Oh, what a pair of lungs and a voice
she has! I remember she got out one day upon the bell-tower of the
church, to call some young ploughmen, who were in a field of her
father's; and though they were half a league off, they heard her as
plainly as if they had stood at the foot of the tower; and the best of
her is, that she is not at all coy, but as bold as a court lady, and
makes a jest and a may-game of every body. I say, then, Sir Knight of
the Sorrowful Figure, that you not only may and ought to run mad for
her, but also you may justly despair and hang yourself; and nobody
that hears it but will say you did extremely well. However, I am
anxious to see her; for I have not met with her this many a day, and
by this time she must needs be altered; for it mightily spoils women's
faces to be abroad in the field, exposed to the sun and weather. But,
all things considered, what good can it do to the Lady Aldonza
Lorenzo--I mean the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso--to have the vanquished
whom your worship sends or may send falling upon their knees before
her? For perhaps at the time they arrive she may be carding flax, or
threshing in the barn, and they may be confounded at the sight of her,
and she may laugh and care little for the present." "I have often told
thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou art an eternal babbler,
and though void of wit, thy bluntness often stings; but, to convince
thee at once of thy folly and my discretion, I will tell thee a short
tale.
"Know, then, that a certain widow, handsome, young, gay, and rich, and
withal no prude, fell in love with a young man, handsome, well-made,
and active. A relative heard of it, and one day took occasion to speak
to the good widow in the way of brotherly reprehension. 'I wonder,
madam,' said he, 'that a woman of your quality, so beautiful and so
rich, should fall in love with such a despicable, mean, silly fellow;
when there are, in this house, so many graduates, scholars, and
dignitaries, among whom you might pick and choose, and say, this I
like and this I leave, as you would among pears.' But she answered him
with great frankness and gaiety, 'You are much mistaken, worthy sir,
and your sentiments are very antiquated, if you imagine that I have
made an ill choice in that fellow, silly as he may appear, since, for
aught that I desire of him, he knows as much of philosophy as
Aristotle himself, if not more.' In like manner, Sancho, Dulcinea del
Toboso deserves as highly as the greatest princess on earth. For of
those poets who have celebrated the praises of ladies under fictitious
names many had no such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the Amaryllises,
the Phyllises, the Silvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the Alidas, and
the like, famous in books, ballads, barbers' shops, and stage-plays,
were really ladies of flesh and blood, and beloved by those who have
celebrated them? Certainly not: they are mostly feigned, to supply
subjects for verse, and to make the authors pass for men of gallantry.
It is therefore sufficient that I think and believe that the good
Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and modest; and as to her lineage, it
matters not, for no inquiry concerning it is requisite; and to me it
is unnecessary, as I regard her as the greatest princess in the world.
For thou must know, Sancho, that two things, above all others, incite
to love; namely, beauty and a good name. Now both these are to be
found in perfection in Dulcinea; for in beauty none can be compared to
her, and for purity of reputation few can equal her. In fine, I
conceive she is exactly what I have described, and every thing that I
can desire, both as to beauty and quality, unequalled by Helen, or by
Lucretia, or any other of the famous women of antiquity, whether
Grecian, Roman, or Goth; and I care not what be said, since, if upon
this account I am blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the
wise." "Your worship," replied Sancho, "is always in the right, and I
am an ass--why do I mention an ass?--one should not talk of halters in
the house of the hanged. But I am off--give me the letter, sir, and
peace be with you."
Don Quixote took out the pocket-book to write the letter; and having
finished, he called Sancho, and said he would read it to him, that he
might have it by heart, lest he might perchance lose it by the way;
for every thing was to be feared from his evil destiny. To which
Sancho answered: "Write it, sir, two or three times in the book, and
give it me, and I will take good care of it; but to suppose that I can
carry it in my memory is a folly; for mine is so bad that I often
forget my own name. Your worship, however, may read it to me; I shall
be glad to hear it, for it must needs be very much to the purpose."
"Listen, then," said Don Quixote, "this is what I have written:
_Don Quixote's Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso._
"High and sovereign lady,--He who is stabbed by the point of absence,
and pierced by the arrows of love, O sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso,
greets thee with wishes for that health which he enjoys not himself.
If thy beauty despise me, if thy worth favour me not, and if thy
disdain still pursue me, although inured to suffering, I shall ill
support an affliction which is not only severe but lasting. My good
squire Sancho will tell thee, O ungrateful fair and most beloved foe,
to what a state I am reduced on thy account. If it be thy pleasure to
relieve me, I am thine; if not, do what seemeth good to thee: for by
my death I shall at once appease thy cruelty and my own passion.
Until death thine,
THE KNIGHT OF THE SORROWFUL FIGURE."
"By the life of my father," quoth Sancho, after hearing the letter,
"it is the finest thing I ever heard. How choicely your worship
expresses whatever you please! and how well you close all with 'the
Knight of the Sorrowful Figure!' Verily, there is nothing but what you
know." "The profession which I have embraced," answered Don Quixote,
"requires a knowledge of everything." "Well, then," said Sancho, "pray
put on the other side the order for the three ass-colts, and sign it
very plain, that people may know your hand at first sight." "With all
my heart," said the knight; and having written it, he read as
follows:--
"Dear niece,--at sight of this, my first bill of ass-colts, give order
that three out of the five I left at home in your custody be delivered
to Sancho Panza, my squire; which three colts I order to be delivered
and paid for the like number received of him here in tale; and this,
with his acquittance, shall be your discharge. Done in the heart of
the Sierra Morena, the twenty-second of August, this present year----"
"It is mighty well," said Sancho; "now you have only to sign it." "It
wants no signing," said Don Quixote; "I need only put my cipher to it,
which is the same thing, and is sufficient, not only for three, but
for three hundred asses." "I rely upon your worship," answered Sancho;
"let me go and saddle Rozinante, and prepare to give me your blessing;
for I intend to depart immediately, without staying to see the frolics
you are about to commit; and I will tell quite enough to satisfy her.
But in the mean time, setting that aside, what has your worship to eat
until my return? Are you to go upon the highway, to rob the shepherds,
like Cardenio?" "Trouble not yourself about that," answered Don
Quixote; "for were I otherwise provided, I should eat nothing but the
herbs and fruits which here grow wild: for abstinence and other
austerities are essential in this affair." "Now I think of it, sir,"
said Sancho, "how shall I be able to find my way back again to this
bye-place?" "Observe and mark well the spot, and I will endeavour to
remain near it," said Don Quixote; "and will, moreover, ascend some of
the highest ridges to discover thee upon thy return. But the surest
way not to miss me, or lose thyself, will be to cut down some of the
broom that abounds here, and scatter it here and there, on thy way to
the plain, to serve as marks and tokens to guide thee on thy return,
in imitation of Theseus's clue to the labyrinth."
Sancho Panza followed this counsel; and having provided himself with
branches, he begged his master's blessing, and, not without many tears
on both sides, took his leave of him; and mounting upon Rozinante,
with an especial charge from Don Quixote to regard him as he would his
own proper person, he rode towards the plain, strewing the boughs at
intervals, as his master had directed him.