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 Mancha87; 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 own88.’ 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.’