Chap. XI Of the Strange Adventures That Happened to the Valiant Knight of La Mancha in the Sierra Morena, Where He Did Penance, in Imitation of Beltenebros
Don Quixote, having taken leave of the goatherd, and mounted Rozinante again, commanded Sancho to follow him; and the squire, bestriding his ass, obeyed with great reluctance. As they advanced at leisure, into the most rocky part of the mountain, Sancho longed to death for an opportunity of talking, and waited impatiently till his master should begin, that he might not transgress his orders; but, being utterly unable to keep silence any longer, ‘Sir Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘be pleased to give me your blessing, and grant me leave to return immediately to my wife and children, with whom, at least, I can talk and prattle my fill; for in commanding me to travel with you, through these desarts, night and day, without opening my lips when I am disposed to speak, your worship buries me alive; if it were the will of Heaven, that beasts spoke as they did in the days of Hyssop, I should be the less uneasy, because I would converse with my ass at pleasure; and that would be some comfort to me in my misfortunes; but it is a very hard case, and what I cannot bear with patience, to travel in search of adventures all my life, and find nought but rib-roastings, blankettings, robberies, and fisty-cuffs; and, after all, be obliged to sew up our mouths, without daring to bring up what lies upon our stomachs, more than if we were dumb.’
‘I understand thee, Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘thou art impatient until I take off the interdiction I have laid upon thy tongue. I take it off, then; say what you please, on condition that this repeal shall last no longer than our stay in this mountain.’—‘Be it so,’ said Sancho; ‘to-day I will speak, to-morrow God’s will be done; and the first use I make of this safe conduct, is to ask why your worship was in such a passion about that Queen Magimasa, or how d’ye call her; or of what signification was it to you, whether that same Abat was her sweetheart or not? Had your worship overlooked that circumstance, that you had no concern in, I firmly believe the madman would, have gone on with his story, and you would have saved yourself the pebble-shot, with more than half a dozen kicks and cuffs.’
‘In faith, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘If thou knewest, as I do, what an honourable and princely lady that Queen Madasima was, thou wouldst say, I had great patience in forbearing to demolish the mouth from whence such blasphemy proceeded; for sure, ’tis no less to say, or even think, that a queen should take a surgeon to her bed. The truth of the story is, that Master Elisabat, whom the lunatick mentioned, was a man of prudence and discernment, and served the queen in quality of tutor and physician; but to suppose that there was any indecent familiarity between them, is a piece of folly that deserves to be severely chastised: and to convince thee that Cardenio knew not what he said, thou mayest remember he was deprived of his senses, when he took notice of that circumstance.’—‘This I’ll venture to say,’ replied the squire, ‘that the words of a madman are not to be minded; for, if fortune had not stood your worship’s friend, and directed to your breast the pebble that was aimed at your head, we should have been in a fine condition, for your having quarrelled about that lady, whom Heaven confound! you may depend upon it, Cardenio would have been acquitted on account of his madness.’
‘Every knight-errant,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is obliged to quarrel with those who are out of their senses, as well as those who are in them, if they asperse the honour of women, whatsoever they might be. How much more, then, in behalf of princesses of such high quality and accomplishments as adorned Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular affection, on account of her admirable qualifications; for, over and above her beauty, she had a great share of prudence and resignation in her calamities, which were manifold: and the advice and company of Master Elisabat were of great service in encouraging her to bear her afflictions with patience and equanimity. From hence, the ignorant and malicious vulgar took occasion to say and suppose, that she admitted of his caresses; but they lye. I say again, all those who either say or think so, lye in their throats, and I will tell them so two hundred times over.’—‘As for my own part,’ said Sancho, ‘I neither say nor think any such thing; those that do may dine upon it: if they were too familiar, by this time they have answered for it to God. I prune my own vine, and know nothing about thine. I never meddle with other people’s concerns. He that buys and denies, his own purse belyes, as the saying is. Bare I was born, and bare I remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain. If he did lie with her, that is no matter of mine. Many people hunt the hare without ever finding the scut; for, Till you hedge in the sky, the starlings will fly. And evil tongues will not refrain from God himself.’
‘Good Heaven,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what fooleries art thou stringing together, Sancho? Pray, what relation have these old saws to the subject of our conversation? I charge thee to hold thy peace, and henceforth entertain thyself with spurring up thy ass, and leave off talking of things which do not concern thee: or let thy whole five senses be convinced, that every thing I have done, am doing, or will do, is highly reasonable, and in exact conformity with the laws of chivalry, which I understand better than any knight that ever professed the order.’—‘Yes Sir,’ replied Sancho, ‘to be sure it is an excellent law of chivalry, to stroll about bewildered in these mountains, where there is neither high road nor bye path, in search of a madman, who, after we have found him, will perhaps take it in his head to finish what he left undone; not of his story, but of your worship’s pate and my ribs, which he may chance to break in a thousand shivers.’
‘I say again, Sancho,’ resumed the knight, ‘hold thy peace; for I would have thee know, that I am not detained in this place, so much by the desire of finding the lunatick, as of performing in it an exploit by which I shall acquire everlasting renown throughout the whole known world; and put the stamp of perfection upon the wonderful efforts of knight-errantry?’—’And will this exploit be attended with much danger?’ said Sancho. ‘No,’ answered he of the rueful countenance, ‘though the dice may run so as to produce bad instead of good fortune; but the whole will depend upon thy diligence.’—‘Upon my diligence!’ cried the squire. ‘Without doubt,’ answered his master; ‘for, if thou wilt return speedily, from the place to which thou must be sent, my affliction will soon be at an end, and my glory will speedily begin: and, that I may no longer keep thee in suspence about the meaning of my words, know, Sancho, that the celebrated Amadis de Gaul was one of the most perfect knights-errant; one of them, said I? he alone was the only, single, chief, and superior of all his cotemporaries. Contempt and shame upon Bellianis, and all those who say he equalled him in any one particular; for, by this light, they are all egregiously deceived! I say, moreover, when a painter desires to become famous in his art, he endeavours to imitate the originals painted by the most noted artists; and the same maxim holds in every other science and exercise that adorns a commonwealth: therefore, he who wants to attain the virtues of prudence and equanimity, must endeavour to imitate the character of Ulysses, in whose person and sufferings Homer has drawn an excellent picture of wisdom and patience, as Virgil, in the person of Æneas, represents the piety of an affectionate son, and the sagacity of a wise and valiant general; not that they are described and set forth exactly as they were, but as they ought to have been, as examples of virtue to posterity. In the same manner, Amadis shone like the north-star, the Lucifer and sun of all valiant and amorous knights; and therefore must be imitated as a pattern, by all those who serve under the banners of love and chivalry. Now, this being the case, friend Sancho, I find that the knight-errant who approaches the nearest to this great original, will bid fairest for attaining the perfection of chivalry: and one of the circumstances in which that knight gave the highest proofs of his worth, prudence, valour, patience, constancy, and love, was his retiring to the poor rock, when he was in disgrace with his mistress Oriana, there to do penance under the feigned name Beltenebros78; an appellation certainly very significant and proper to the way of life he had voluntarily chosen. As it is therefore more easy for me to imitate him in this than in cleaving giants, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, overthrowing armies, scattering navies, and dissolving inchantments; and as this solitude is so well adapted to such designs, I am resolved to seize occasion by the forelock, which she now so complaisantly presents.’
‘In reality,’ said Sancho, ‘what is your worship resolved to do in this remote place?’—‘Have I not already told thee,’ replied the knight, ‘that I am determined to imitate Amadis, in acting the desperado, the lunatick, the madman: to copy also after the valiant Don Roldan, when he discovered, in a fountain, certain marks by which he was convinced that Angelica the fair had committed uncleanness with Medoro. A piece of information attended with such grief and anxiety, that he ran mad, tore up the trees by the root, sullied the waters of the transparent springs, slew shepherds, destroyed flocks, set fire to cottages, demolished houses, dragged mares along the ground, and performed a thousand other insolent feats worthy to be inserted in Fame’s eternal record; and because I do not propose to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Rotolando, for he went by all these names, literally in all the extravagancies he thought, said, and did, I will copy his outlines as well as I can, in the most essential parts of his character; nay, perhaps, I may content myself with the sole imitation of Amadis, who, by his tears and sighs alone, acquired as much fame as the other with all the mischief he did.’—‘If I apprehend the matter aright,’ said Sancho, ‘the knights who played such mad pranks were provoked, and had some reason to act these fooleries and penance: but what cause hath your worship to turn madman? With what lady are you in disgrace? or by what signs are you given to understand that the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso has been playing the rogue either with Moor or Christian!’—‘This is the point,’ answered Don Quixote, ’and refinement of my design; a knight who turns madman, because he cannot help it, can claim no merit from his misfortune; but the great matter is to run distracted without cause, and give my lady reason to conceive what I could do were I moistened, when I can do so much being dry. More especially, as I have sufficient cause in the long absence to which I am doomed by my ever-darling mistress Dulcinea del Toboso; for, according to the words of the shepherd Matias Ambrosio, which thou mayest have heard,
“In absence of my charming fair,
“I suffer all those ills I fear.”
‘Wherefore, friend Sancho, you need not throw away your time unprofitably, in advising me to refrain from an imitation at once so admirable, rare, and happy: mad I am, and mad I shall be until thou returnest with the answer of a letter which I propose to send by thee to my Lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as I am entitled to by my love and fidelity, my distraction and penance will end; but, should it be otherwise, I shall run mad in earnest, and consequently be insensible of my misfortune: wherefore, let her answer be as it may, it will extricate me from the doubts and affliction in which thou leaved me; because, if it be favourable, I shall enjoy it in my right senses; and if it be unfavourable, my frenzy will not feel it.
‘But tell me, Sancho, hast thou taken care of Mambrino’s helmet, which I saw thee take up, after that ungrateful vagabond endeavoured in vain to break it in pieces; a circumstance that proves the excellency of its temper?’ To this exclamation, Sancho replied, ‘’Fore God! Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I cannot suffer, nor bear with patience, some things which your worship says; for they make me imagine, that all you have mentioned about chivalry, and acquiring kingdoms and empires, and giving away islands, with other favours and presents, according to the practice of knights-errant, is nothing but puffs of falshood, and the mere effect of piction or fiction, or what do you call it: for who that hears your worship call a barber’s bason the helmet of Mambrino, and sees you continue in that error so many days, but will believe, that he who affirms such nonsense must be very much crazed in his understanding? The bason, which is all bruised and battered, I have put up in my bag, in order to be mended at home, and used for the service of my own beard, if ever, by the grace of God, I come to see my wife and family.’—‘Hark ye, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘by the same oath you swore, I swear again, that thou hast the most slender understanding that any squire in this world does or ever did possess! Is it possible, that after all thy travelling in my company, thou art not convinced that every thing belonging to knights-errant, appears chimera, folly, and distraction, being metamorphosed into the reverse of what it is, by the power of a tribe of inchanters who attend us, changing, converting, and restoring each particular, according to their pleasure, and the inclination they have to favour or annoy us: for which reason, what seems a barber’s bason to thee, I can easily discern to be the helmet of Mambrino, and perhaps to a third, it will assume a quite different appearance; and I cannot but admire the providence of the sage who is my friend, in making that which is really and truly Mambrino’s helmet, appear a bason to the rest of mankind, because it is of such inestimable value, that if it was known, the whole world would combine to ravish it from me; but as it appears to them no more than a barber’s bason, they never attempt to obtain it. This was plainly the case with the villain, who, having endeavoured to break it in pieces, left it on the ground, when he went off; whereas, had he known what it was, in good faith he would not have quitted it so easily. Keep it therefore with care, my friend, for at present there is no occasion for it; on the contrary, I shall strip off all my armour, and remain naked as I was born, in case I be inclined to imitate the penance of Roldan, rather than that of Amadis.’
Conversing in this manner, they arrived at the foot of a high mountain that stood alone, as if it had been cut out from the rest that surrounded it. A gentle rill murmured by the skirts of it, winding along a meadow, so green and fertile, that it ravished the spectator’s eye; while a number of forest trees that grew around, together with some delicious herbs and flowers, conspired to make the place inchanting. This was the scene in which the knight of the rueful countenance chose to do penance; and therefore he no sooner perceived it, than he began to exclaim aloud, as if he had actually lost his senses, ‘This is the spot, ye heavens! which I chuse and appoint my residence, while I bewail that misfortune to which you yourselves have reduced me. This is the place where the tears from these eyes will increase the waters of that little brook; and where my profound and uninterrupted sighs will incessantly move the leaves of these mountain-oaks, in witness and testimony of the pangs which my tormented heart endures. O ye rural deities, whosoever ye are, who take up your mansion in this uninhabited place, give ear to the complaints of an unhappy lover, whom a tedious absence and imaginary doubts have brought to lament among these craggy hills, and bemoan the cruel disposition of that ungrateful fair, who is the end and perfection of all human beauty? O ye nymphs and dryads, who were wont to inhabit the hills and groves, (so may no nimble and lascivious satyrs, by whom you are beloved, though loved in vain, disturb your sweet repose) help me to bewail my mishap: or at least disdain not to hear my moan!—O Dulcinea del Toboso! light of my darkness! glory of my affliction! north-star of my inclinations! and planet of my fortune! as Heaven shall pour upon you the blessings which you ask; consider the place and condition to which your absence hath exiled me, and put such a period to my woe, as my fidelity shall seem to deserve! O ye solitary trees, who henceforth are to bear me company in this retreat, convince me, by the gentle waving of your boughs, that my presence gives you no disgust.—And thou, my squire, the agreeable companion of my good and evil fortune, faithfully retain in thy remembrance what thou shalt see me do, that thou mayest recount and rehearse every circumstance to the lovely cause of all my distraction!’ So saying, he alighted; and, taking off the bridle and saddle from Rozinante, gave him a slap on the buttocks, pronouncing these words: ‘He who is a slave himself, bestows freedom upon thee, O steed, as excellent in thy qualities as unlucky in thy fate! go wheresoever thou wilt; thou bearest engraven on thy forehead, that thou wast never equalled in swiftness, either by Astolpho’s Hypogriff, or the renowned Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear.’
Sancho, hearing this apostrophe, ‘My blessing,’ cried he, ‘be upon him whose industry now saves us the trouble of taking the halter from the head of Dapple79, who, in good faith, should not want slaps on the buttocks, nor abundance of fine things said in his praise; but, if he was here, I would not consent to his being turned loose, there being no reason for so doing; for he was never acquainted with love and despair, no more than I, who was his master, while it pleased God I should be so: and truly, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if this departure of mine, and distraction of your worship, are really to take place, you had better saddle Rozinante again, to supply the want of Dapple; by which means a great deal of time will be saved in my going and coming; whereas, if I make the journey on foot, I know not when it will be performed; for, in short, I am a very sorry walker.’—‘I say, be it so, then, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘I approve of thy proposal; and assure thee, that thou shalt set out in three days, during which I would have thee take notice of what I shall do for her sake, that thou mayest be able to give her a full account of my behaviour.’—‘What more can I see,’ said Sancho, ‘than I have seen already?’—‘You are pretty perfect in your story,’ answered the knight; ‘but, as yet, I have not torn my cloaths, scattered my armour, and dashed my head against the rocks, nor performed many other things of this sort, which thou wilt behold with admiration.’—‘For the love of God, Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘take care how you dash your head against the rocks; for you may chance to meet with such a one as will, at the first push, put the finishing stroke to this whole scheme of penance; and I should think, that as knocks of the head are absolutely necessary to compleat the work, your worship might content yourself, seeing the whole affair is a sham, a counterfeit, and a joke; I say, your worship might content yourself with ramming your skull against water, or some soft thing, like a cotton bag; and leave it to my care to tell my lady, that your worship went to loggerheads with the point of a rock a thousand times harder than adamant.’—‘Friend Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘I am obliged to thee, for thy kind intention; but, thou must know, that what I do is not a sham, but a very serious matter; for, to behave otherwise, were to transgress the orders of chivalry, which forbid us to lye, under pain of being degraded; and you know, that to substitute one thing instead of another, is downright telling a lye: wherefore, my knocks on the head must be real, hard, and effectual, and not sophisticated or imaginary; and it will be necessary to leave me some lint for my wounds, since it was the will of fate that we should lose the balsam.’
‘It was a much greater misfortune,’ said the squire, ‘to lose the ass, and with him the lint and all; but I beseech your worship, not to talk of that accursed drench, the sole mention of which not only turns my stomach, but even my very soul; and I beseech you, moreover, to suppose we have passed those three days, which you have appointed for shewing me your mad pranks; for I take them all for granted, and will tell wonders of them to my lady. Write the letter, therefore, and dispatch me forthwith: because I am impatient till I return and deliver your worship from that purgatory in which I leave you.’—‘Purgatory! call you it, Sancho?’ replied Don Quixote: ‘it rather deserves the name of hell, or something worse, if worse can be.’—‘I have heard,’ said the squire, ‘that from hell there is no retention.’—‘I know not,’ replied the knight, ‘what you mean by retention.’—‘Retention,’ answered Sancho, ‘signifies, that whosoever goeth to hell, neither will nor can come back again. The contrary of which shall happen to your worship, or my feet will misgive me, provided I carry spurs to quicken Rozinante: and set me once face to face before my Lady Dulcinea, at Toboso, I will tell her such stories of the folly and madness, for they are both the same thing, which your worship has committed, and will then be committing, that though I should find her harder than a cork-tree, I will make her as pliant as a glove; and, with her sweet and honied answer, return through the air, like a witch, and deliver your worship from this purgatory, that appears like hell, though it be not really so, because there are some hopes of getting out of it; whereas those who are actually in hell can have no such expectation; and I dare say, your worship will not advance any thing to the contrary.’
‘That is all very true,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ‘but how shall we make shift to write this letter?’—‘Aye, and the bill for the colts?’ added Sancho. ‘That shall be inserted in the letter,’ answered his master; ’and I think, as there is no paper to be had in this place, the best thing we can do, will be to write in the manner of the ancients, on the leaf of a tree, or on waxen tables; though, I believe, those will be as difficult to be found as the paper. But, now I remember what will do well, and excellently well, for our purpose: I will write it in the pocket-book which belonged to Cardenio, and thou shalt take care to have it fairly transcribed in the first place where thou canst find a school-master or a parish-clerk to copy it. But, by no means employ a scrivener, who way write it in such an unintelligible court-hand, that Satan himself could not understand it.’—‘But what is to be done about the signing of it?’ said Sancho. ‘Love-letters are never signed,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘True,’ resumed the squire; ‘but all bills must be subscribed: and if this of yours were to be copied, they would say the subscription was counterfeit, and I might go whistle for my colts.’—‘The bill shall be subscribed with my own hand in the pocket-book; which my niece shall no sooner see, than she will comply with the order, without any farther objection: and with regard to the letter, instead of my subscription, thou shalt cause to be inserted, “Yours, till death; the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” And though it be written by another hand, it is of small importance, because, now I remember, Dulcinea can neither read nor write, nor ever set eyes on any writing or letter of mine: for our mutual love has been altogether platonick, without extending farther than a modest glance; and even that so seldom, that I can safely swear, in twelve years, during which I have loved her more than the light of these eyes, which will one day be closed in dust, I have not seen her more than four times, and even in these four times, perhaps, she hath not perceived me looking at her more than once. Such is the restraint and reserve in which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza Nogales, have brought her up!’
‘Ah, ha!’ cried Sancho, ‘is the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, whose other name is Aldonza Lorenza, the same with the Lady Dulcinea?’—‘Yes,’ answered the knight; ‘and she deserves to be lady of the whole universe.’—‘I know her perfectly well,’ said Sancho; ‘and this will venture to say in her behalf, that she will pitch the bar as well as e’er a lusty young fellow in the village. Bless the sender! she is a strapper, tall, and hale wind and limb; and can lift out of the mire any squire or knight errant, who shall chuse her for his sweetheart. Ah! the whore’s chick! what a pair of lungs and voice has she got! I heard her one day halloo from the belfray to some young fellows of her acquaintance, who were at work in a corn-field of her father’s; and, though it was at the distance of half a league, they heard her as plain as if they had been right under the steeple; and what is better still, she is not at all coy, but behaves herself civilly; and jokes and romps, and plays the rogue with any body. Now, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I say that your worship not only has cause to run mad for her, but even to despair and hang yourself, and I am sure nobody that heard it, but would say you had done extremely well; even though the devil should run away with you; and truly, I wish I were now upon my way, merely to see her; for I have not beheld her these many days: and, surely, she must be greatly altered; for the sun and weather does very much damage to the face of a woman who is always at work in the field. To tell you the truth, Sir Don Quixote, I have hitherto lived in great ignorance with respect to my Lady Dulcinea, whom I verily believed to be some princess, that your worship was in love with; or a person of such rank as to deserve the rich presents you sent to her; namely, the Biscayan and galley-slaves, with many others whom you conquered in the course of your numberless victories, both before and since I have been your squire, But, when one considers the affair, what benefits can my Lady Aldonza Lorenzo—I mean, my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, reap from your worship’s sending, or having sent those whom you overcome in battle, to fall upon their knees before her? especially as they might chance to come at a time when she is busy, carding flax and threshing corn; in which case, they would be ashamed to see her, and she laugh and be out of humour at their arrival.’—‘I have frequently observed before now, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that thou art an everlasting babbler; and, though of a shallow understanding, thy bluntness borders often on severity; but, to convince thee of thy own ignorance and my discretion, thou shalt give ear to a short story which I will relate.
‘Know, then, that once upon a time a certain handsome widow, young, free, wealthy, and, above all, good-humoured, fell in love with a thick, squat, brawny, lay-brother, belonging to a neighbouring convent; the superior of which being informed of the affair, said to the widow, one day, by way of brotherly reproof, “I am amazed, Madam, and not without cause, that a lady of your rank, beauty, and fortune, should bestow your affection upon such a low, simple, clownish fellow; when there are so many masters, graduates, and divines, in the convent, among whom your ladyship may chuse, as one picks pears, saying, ‘This I like, that I loath.’” The lady answered, with great freedom and vivacity, “Signior, you are very much deceived, and very old-fashioned in your opinion, if you think I have made a bad choice in that fellow who seems so simple: for, in that particular which I admire, he is as much of a philosopher, nay, more than Aristotle himself.” In like manner, Sancho, Dulcinea del Toboso is as proper for my occasions as the highest princess upon earth. All the poets, who have celebrated ladies, under names which they invented at pleasure, had not really such mistresses as they describe. Dost thou imagine, that all the Amaryllis’s, Silvia’s, Phillis’s, Diana’s, Galatea’s, Alida’s, and other names so often met with in romances, poems, barbers shops, and on the stage, actually belonging to ladies of flesh and blood, who were adored by those who sing, and have sung their praises? No, surely; but, on the contrary, are, for the most part, feigned and adopted as the subjects of verse, that the poets may be thought men of amorous and gallant dispositions. Wherefore, let it suffice, that I imagine and believe the worthy Aldonza Lorenzo to be beautiful and modest: and, as to her pedigree, it is a matter of small importance; there is no necessity for taking information on that head, as if she were to be invested with some order of knighthood; and I take it for granted, that she is the noblest princess in the universe; for, thou must know, Sancho, if it be a thing of which thou art ignorant, that the two qualities, which, above all others, inspire love, are beauty and reputation: and these two is Dulcinea in consummate possession of; for in beauty she excels all women, and is equalled by very few in point of reputation. And, to conclude, I imagine that all I have said is true, without exaggeration or diminution. I paint her in my fancy according to my wish, as well in beauty as in rank; unexcelled by Helen, unrivalled by Lucretia, or any other heroine of ages past, whether Grecian, Roman, or Barbarian; and let people say what they will, if I am blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the most rigid of those who are proper judges of the case.’—‘I say,’ answered Sancho, ‘that your worship is very much in the right, and I am no better than an ass: but I know not why I should mention the word ass; for one ought not to talk of halters in the house of a man who was hanged. But give me the letter, and farewel till I return.’
Don Quixote pulled out the memorandum-book, and, stepping aside, with great composure, began to write the letter; which, when he had finished, he called to Sancho, saying he wanted to read it to him, that he might retain it in his memory, in case he should lose it by the way; for every thing was to be feared from his evil fortune. ‘Your worship,’ answered Sancho, ‘may write it down two or three times in the book, and I will take special care to convey it safely; but it is folly to suppose that I can retain it in my memory, which is so bad, that I have many a time forgot my own name; but, notwithstanding, pray, Sir, read it to me; I shall be hugely rejoiced to hear it; for it must certainly be curiously penned.’—‘Listen then, and I will read it,’ said Don Quixote; who began as follows.
Don Quixote’s Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso.
‘SOVEREIGN AND SUBLIME PRINCESS,
‘He who is wounded by the edge of absence, and whose heart is stuck full of the darts of affliction, most divine Dulcinea del Toboso! wishes thee that health which he is not doomed to enjoy. If I am scorned by thy beauty, if thy virtue affords me no relief, if thy disdain compleats my misfortune; albeit, I am inured to suffering, I can ill support the misery I bear; which hath not only been excessive, but also of long duration. My trusty squire Sancho will give thee an ample relation, O ungrateful beauty and lovely foe! of the situation in which I remain on thy account: if it be thy will to succour me, I am thy slave: if not, use thy pleasure; for the end of my life will satisfy thy cruelty and my desire. Thine till death,
‘THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.’
‘By my father’s soul!’ cried Sancho, ‘this is the highest thing I ever heard. Odds-niggers! how your worship writes whatsoever you please, and how curiously you conclude, “The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” I verily believe your worship is the devil himself, and knows every thing.’—‘All that knowledge,’ replied the knight, ’is necessary for the employment I profess.’—‘Why, then,’ said the squire, ‘be so good as to write on the other leaf the order for the three colts, and be sure to subscribe distinctly, that when it is presented, your hand-writing may be known.’—‘With all my heart!’ said Don Quixote, who having written the order, read it aloud in these terms.
‘DEAR NIECE,
‘Please deliver to Sancho Panza, my squire, or order, at sight of this my first bill of colts, three of the five which I left at home in your custody; which three colts I order you to pay, in return for the like number received of him: and this bill, together with his receipt, shall be a sufficient acquittance to you.
‘Given in the heart of the brown mountain, the twentieth and second of August, this present year.’
Sancho liked the form, and desired his master to sign it. ‘There is no occasion for my signing it,’ said Don Quixote, ‘with any thing but my cypher, which is sufficient not only for three, but three hundred asses.’—’As to that, I will take your worship’s word; and now give me leave to go and saddle Rozinante, which when I have done, and received your blessing, I intend forthwith to depart, without staying to see you play any foolish tricks, though I will affirm, I have beheld you perform so many, that she will desire to hear no more of the matter.’—‘At least, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I would have thee, because there is a necessity for it, stay and see me strip, and perform a dozen or two of mad pranks, which I can easily finish in half an hour; for, when thine eyes shall have been witnesses of some things I will act, thou mayest safely swear to what additions thou shalt make in thy report; and I assure thee, thou wilt not relate the half of what I intend to atchieve.’—‘For the love of God, dear Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘let me not see your worship naked; for it will give me so much uneasiness, that I shall not be able to refrain from weeping; and my head aches already with the sorrow I felt last night about Dapple; so that I cannot bear to be set a mourning again; wherefore, if it be your worship’s pleasure that I should see some of your mad actions, pray dispatch them in your cloaths; and let them be such as will stand you in most stead: for my own part, I think there is no occasion for any such thing; and if you dispense with them, it will save time, and send me back the sooner with such news as your worship desires and deserves. For, if my Lady Dulcinea is not prepared to send a reasonable answer, I solemnly protest, I will extract a favourable reply out of her maw, by kicking and cussing. What! is it to be borne, that such a renowned knight-errant as your worship, should run mad without why or wherefore, on account of a —— I would not have her ladyship compel me to speak; or, egad, I shall blab things by the dozen, even though they should spoil the market. I am a rare fellow at that sport. I find she knows a little of my temper, otherwise i’faith! she would take care to give me no offence.’—‘In good faith, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou seemest to be as mad as myself.’—‘Not quite so mad,’ replied the squire, ‘but a little more cholerick; but enough of that. What eatables has your worship got to live upon till my return? will you go to the high-road, and rob the shepherds, like Cardenio?’—‘Let not that give thee any concern,’ answered the knight; ‘though I had store of provisions by me, I should eat nothing but the herbs and fruits which this meadow and these trees afford; the perfection of my design consisting in abstaining from food, and in encountering other hardships.’—‘Your worship must know,’ said Sancho, ‘that I am afraid I shall not find my way back again to this concealed and unfrequented place, in which I leave your worship.’—‘Take good notice of the marks,’ answered the knight, ’and I shall endeavour to remain always near this very spot: nay, I will take care to ascend the highest rocks hereabouts, that I may have a chance of descrying thee afar off, in thy return. But, the best scheme for preventing thy being bewildered, will be, to cut down some of the furze that grows here in great plenty, and drop bunches of it, at small distances on the way, until thou shalt reach the flat country: and they will serve as land-marks to guide thee hither on thy return, like the clue of Theseus, in the labyrinth of Crete.’
‘I will take your advice,’ said Sancho; who accordingly cutting a large bundle, begged his master’s blessing, and took his leave, not without many tears on both sides. Then mounting Rozinante, whom Don Quixote strongly recommended to his care, commanding him to pay as much regard to the steed as he would shew for his own person; he set out for the plain, scattering, by the way, the furze he had cut, according to the direction of his master. In this manner then, did he begin his journey, notwithstanding the incessant importunities of Don Quixote, who solicited him to stay and see some of his extravagancies: but, he had not travelled above an hundred yards, when he returned, saying, ‘I confess your worship was in the right, when you observed, that, in order to my swearing with a safe conscience that I have seen you perform mad pranks, it would be necessary for you to play some in my presence; although, in my opinion, I have seen a pretty good sample already in your staying here by yourself.’—‘Did not I tell thee so, Sancho?’ said Don Quixote: ‘wait a little, and I will finish them in a twinkling.’ So saying, he stripped off his breeches in a great hurry, leaving his posteriors covered by the tail of his shirt alone, and without farther ceremony, cut a couple of capers, and a like number of tumbles, with his head down and his heels up, disclosing particulars, which shocked the modesty of Sancho so much, that in order to avoid the sight of them a second time, he turned Rozinante, fully satisfied and pleased, that he might now honestly swear he had left his master distracted. We will therefore let him pursue his journey, till his return, which was more speedy than could be expected.