Bab Bab 27 · CHAPTER XXVII. OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER

. CHAPTER XXVII. OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER

CHAPTER XXVII.

OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER

WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY

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The curate’s plan did not seem a bad one to the barber, but on the

contrary so good that they immediately set about putting it in

execution. They begged a petticoat and hood of the landlady, leaving

her in pledge a new cassock of the curate’s; and the barber made a

beard out of a grey-brown or red ox-tail in which the landlord used to

stick his comb. The landlady asked them what they wanted these things

for, and the curate told her in a few words about the madness of Don

Quixote, and how this disguise was intended to get him away from the

mountain where he then was. The landlord and landlady immediately came

to the conclusion that the madman was their guest, the balsam man and

master of the blanketed squire, and they told the curate all that had

passed between him and them, not omitting what Sancho had been so

silent about. Finally the landlady dressed up the curate in a style

that left nothing to be desired; she put on him a cloth petticoat with

black velvet stripes a palm broad, all slashed, and a bodice of green

velvet set off by a binding of white satin, which as well as the

petticoat must have been made in the time of king Wamba. The curate

would not let them hood him, but put on his head a little quilted linen

cap which he used for a night-cap, and bound his forehead with a strip

of black silk, while with another he made a mask with which he

concealed his beard and face very well. He then put on his hat, which

was broad enough to serve him for an umbrella, and enveloping himself

in his cloak seated himself woman-fashion on his mule, while the barber

mounted his with a beard down to the waist of mingled red and white,

for it was, as has been said, the tail of a clay-red ox.

They took leave of all, and of the good Maritornes, who, sinner as she

was, promised to pray a rosary of prayers that God might grant them

success in such an arduous and Christian undertaking as that they had

in hand. But hardly had he sallied forth from the inn when it struck

the curate that he was doing wrong in rigging himself out in that

fashion, as it was an indecorous thing for a priest to dress himself

that way even though much might depend upon it; and saying so to the

barber he begged him to change dresses, as it was fitter he should be

the distressed damsel, while he himself would play the squire’s part,

which would be less derogatory to his dignity; otherwise he was

resolved to have nothing more to do with the matter, and let the devil

take Don Quixote. Just at this moment Sancho came up, and on seeing the

pair in such a costume he was unable to restrain his laughter; the

barber, however, agreed to do as the curate wished, and, altering their

plan, the curate went on to instruct him how to play his part and what

to say to Don Quixote to induce and compel him to come with them and

give up his fancy for the place he had chosen for his idle penance. The

barber told him he could manage it properly without any instruction,

and as he did not care to dress himself up until they were near where

Don Quixote was, he folded up the garments, and the curate adjusted his

beard, and they set out under the guidance of Sancho Panza, who went

along telling them of the encounter with the madman they met in the

Sierra, saying nothing, however, about the finding of the valise and

its contents; for with all his simplicity the lad was a trifle

covetous.

The next day they reached the place where Sancho had laid the

broom-branches as marks to direct him to where he had left his master,

and recognising it he told them that here was the entrance, and that

they would do well to dress themselves, if that was required to deliver

his master; for they had already told him that going in this guise and

dressing in this way were of the highest importance in order to rescue

his master from the pernicious life he had adopted; and they charged

him strictly not to tell his master who they were, or that he knew

them, and should he ask, as ask he would, if he had given the letter to

Dulcinea, to say that he had, and that, as she did not know how to

read, she had given an answer by word of mouth, saying that she

commanded him, on pain of her displeasure, to come and see her at once;

and it was a very important matter for himself, because in this way and

with what they meant to say to him they felt sure of bringing him back

to a better mode of life and inducing him to take immediate steps to

become an emperor or monarch, for there was no fear of his becoming an

archbishop. All this Sancho listened to and fixed it well in his

memory, and thanked them heartily for intending to recommend his master

to be an emperor instead of an archbishop, for he felt sure that in the

way of bestowing rewards on their squires emperors could do more than

archbishops-errant. He said, too, that it would be as well for him to

go on before them to find him, and give him his lady’s answer; for that

perhaps might be enough to bring him away from the place without

putting them to all this trouble. They approved of what Sancho

proposed, and resolved to wait for him until he brought back word of

having found his master.

Sancho pushed on into the glens of the Sierra, leaving them in one

through which there flowed a little gentle rivulet, and where the rocks

and trees afforded a cool and grateful shade. It was an August day with

all the heat of one, and the heat in those parts is intense, and the

hour was three in the afternoon, all which made the spot the more

inviting and tempted them to wait there for Sancho’s return, which they

did. They were reposing, then, in the shade, when a voice unaccompanied

by the notes of any instrument, but sweet and pleasing in its tone,

reached their ears, at which they were not a little astonished, as the

place did not seem to them likely quarters for one who sang so well;

for though it is often said that shepherds of rare voice are to be

found in the woods and fields, this is rather a flight of the poet’s

fancy than the truth. And still more surprised were they when they

perceived that what they heard sung were the verses not of rustic

shepherds, but of the polished wits of the city; and so it proved, for

the verses they heard were these:

What makes my quest of happiness seem vain?

Disdain.

What bids me to abandon hope of ease?

Jealousies.

What holds my heart in anguish of suspense?

Absence.

If that be so, then for my grief

Where shall I turn to seek relief,

When hope on every side lies slain

By Absence, Jealousies, Disdain?

What the prime cause of all my woe doth prove?

Love.

What at my glory ever looks askance?

Chance.

Whence is permission to afflict me given?

Heaven.

If that be so, I but await

The stroke of a resistless fate,

Since, working for my woe, these three,

Love, Chance and Heaven, in league I see.

What must I do to find a remedy?

Die.

What is the lure for love when coy and strange?

Change.

What, if all fail, will cure the heart of sadness?

Madness.

If that be so, it is but folly

To seek a cure for melancholy:

Ask where it lies; the answer saith

In Change, in Madness, or in Death.

The hour, the summer season, the solitary place, the voice and skill of

the singer, all contributed to the wonder and delight of the two

listeners, who remained still waiting to hear something more; finding,

however, that the silence continued some little time, they resolved to

go in search of the musician who sang with so fine a voice; but just as

they were about to do so they were checked by the same voice, which

once more fell upon their ears, singing this

SONNET

When heavenward, holy Friendship, thou didst go

Soaring to seek thy home beyond the sky,

And take thy seat among the saints on high,

It was thy will to leave on earth below

Thy semblance, and upon it to bestow

Thy veil, wherewith at times hypocrisy,

Parading in thy shape, deceives the eye,

And makes its vileness bright as virtue show.

Friendship, return to us, or force the cheat

That wears it now, thy livery to restore,

By aid whereof sincerity is slain.

If thou wilt not unmask thy counterfeit,

This earth will be the prey of strife once more,

As when primæval discord held its reign.

The song ended with a deep sigh, and again the listeners remained

waiting attentively for the singer to resume; but perceiving that the

music had now turned to sobs and heart-rending moans they determined to

find out who the unhappy being could be whose voice was as rare as his

sighs were piteous, and they had not proceeded far when on turning the

corner of a rock they discovered a man of the same aspect and

appearance as Sancho had described to them when he told them the story

of Cardenio. He, showing no astonishment when he saw them, stood still

with his head bent down upon his breast like one in deep thought,

without raising his eyes to look at them after the first glance when

they suddenly came upon him. The curate, who was aware of his

misfortune and recognised him by the description, being a man of good

address, approached him and in a few sensible words entreated and urged

him to quit a life of such misery, lest he should end it there, which

would be the greatest of all misfortunes. Cardenio was then in his

right mind, free from any attack of that madness which so frequently

carried him away, and seeing them dressed in a fashion so unusual among

the frequenters of those wilds, could not help showing some surprise,

especially when he heard them speak of his case as if it were a

well-known matter (for the curate’s words gave him to understand as

much) so he replied to them thus:

“I see plainly, sirs, whoever you may be, that Heaven, whose care it is

to succour the good, and even the wicked very often, here, in this

remote spot, cut off from human intercourse, sends me, though I deserve

it not, those who seek to draw me away from this to some better

retreat, showing me by many and forcible arguments how unreasonably I

act in leading the life I do; but as they know, that if I escape from

this evil I shall fall into another still greater, perhaps they will

set me down as a weak-minded man, or, what is worse, one devoid of

reason; nor would it be any wonder, for I myself can perceive that the

effect of the recollection of my misfortunes is so great and works so

powerfully to my ruin, that in spite of myself I become at times like a

stone, without feeling or consciousness; and I come to feel the truth

of it when they tell me and show me proofs of the things I have done

when the terrible fit overmasters me; and all I can do is bewail my lot

in vain, and idly curse my destiny, and plead for my madness by telling

how it was caused, to any that care to hear it; for no reasonable

beings on learning the cause will wonder at the effects; and if they

cannot help me at least they will not blame me, and the repugnance they

feel at my wild ways will turn into pity for my woes. If it be, sirs,

that you are here with the same design as others have come with, before

you proceed with your wise arguments, I entreat you to hear the story

of my countless misfortunes, for perhaps when you have heard it you

will spare yourselves the trouble you would take in offering

consolation to grief that is beyond the reach of it.”

As they, both of them, desired nothing more than to hear from his own

lips the cause of his suffering, they entreated him to tell it,

promising not to do anything for his relief or comfort that he did not

wish; and thereupon the unhappy gentleman began his sad story in nearly

the same words and manner in which he had related it to Don Quixote and

the goatherd a few days before, when, through Master Elisabad, and Don

Quixote’s scrupulous observance of what was due to chivalry, the tale

was left unfinished, as this history has already recorded; but now

fortunately the mad fit kept off, allowed him to tell it to the end;

and so, coming to the incident of the note which Don Fernando had found

in the volume of “Amadis of Gaul,” Cardenio said that he remembered it

perfectly and that it was in these words:

“_Luscinda to Cardenio._

“Every day I discover merits in you that oblige and compel me to hold

you in higher estimation; so if you desire to relieve me of this

obligation without cost to my honour, you may easily do so. I have a

father who knows you and loves me dearly, who without putting any

constraint on my inclination will grant what will be reasonable for you

to have, if it be that you value me as you say and as I believe you

do.”

“By this letter I was induced, as I told you, to demand Luscinda for my

wife, and it was through it that Luscinda came to be regarded by Don

Fernando as one of the most discreet and prudent women of the day, and

this letter it was that suggested his design of ruining me before mine

could be carried into effect. I told Don Fernando that all Luscinda’s

father was waiting for was that mine should ask her of him, which I did

not dare to suggest to him, fearing that he would not consent to do so;

not because he did not know perfectly well the rank, goodness, virtue,

and beauty of Luscinda, and that she had qualities that would do honour

to any family in Spain, but because I was aware that he did not wish me

to marry so soon, before seeing what the Duke Ricardo would do for me.

In short, I told him I did not venture to mention it to my father, as

well on account of that difficulty, as of many others that discouraged

me though I knew not well what they were, only that it seemed to me

that what I desired was never to come to pass. To all this Don Fernando

answered that he would take it upon himself to speak to my father, and

persuade him to speak to Luscinda’s father. O, ambitious Marius! O,

cruel Catiline! O, wicked Sylla! O, perfidious Ganelon! O, treacherous

Vellido! O, vindictive Julian! O, covetous Judas! Traitor, cruel,

vindictive, and perfidious, wherein had this poor wretch failed in his

fidelity, who with such frankness showed thee the secrets and the joys

of his heart? What offence did I commit? What words did I utter, or

what counsels did I give that had not the furtherance of thy honour and

welfare for their aim? But, woe is me, wherefore do I complain? for

sure it is that when misfortunes spring from the stars, descending from

on high they fall upon us with such fury and violence that no power on

earth can check their course nor human device stay their coming. Who

could have thought that Don Fernando, a highborn gentleman,

intelligent, bound to me by gratitude for my services, one that could

win the object of his love wherever he might set his affections, could

have become so obdurate, as they say, as to rob me of my one ewe lamb

that was not even yet in my possession? But laying aside these useless

and unavailing reflections, let us take up the broken thread of my

unhappy story.

“To proceed, then: Don Fernando finding my presence an obstacle to the

execution of his treacherous and wicked design, resolved to send me to

his elder brother under the pretext of asking money from him to pay for

six horses which, purposely, and with the sole object of sending me

away that he might the better carry out his infernal scheme, he had

purchased the very day he offered to speak to my father, and the price

of which he now desired me to fetch. Could I have anticipated this

treachery? Could I by any chance have suspected it? Nay; so far from

that, I offered with the greatest pleasure to go at once, in my

satisfaction at the good bargain that had been made. That night I spoke

with Luscinda, and told her what had been agreed upon with Don

Fernando, and how I had strong hopes of our fair and reasonable wishes

being realised. She, as unsuspicious as I was of the treachery of Don

Fernando, bade me try to return speedily, as she believed the

fulfilment of our desires would be delayed only so long as my father

put off speaking to hers. I know not why it was that on saying this to

me her eyes filled with tears, and there came a lump in her throat that

prevented her from uttering a word of many more that it seemed to me

she was striving to say to me. I was astonished at this unusual turn,

which I never before observed in her, for we always conversed, whenever

good fortune and my ingenuity gave us the chance, with the greatest

gaiety and cheerfulness, mingling tears, sighs, jealousies, doubts, or

fears with our words; it was all on my part a eulogy of my good fortune

that Heaven should have given her to me for my mistress; I glorified

her beauty, I extolled her worth and her understanding; and she paid me

back by praising in me what in her love for me she thought worthy of

praise; and besides we had a hundred thousand trifles and doings of our

neighbours and acquaintances to talk about, and the utmost extent of my

boldness was to take, almost by force, one of her fair white hands and

carry it to my lips, as well as the closeness of the low grating that

separated us allowed me. But the night before the unhappy day of my

departure she wept, she moaned, she sighed, and she withdrew leaving me

filled with perplexity and amazement, overwhelmed at the sight of such

strange and affecting signs of grief and sorrow in Luscinda; but not to

dash my hopes I ascribed it all to the depth of her love for me and the

pain that separation gives those who love tenderly. At last I took my

departure, sad and dejected, my heart filled with fancies and

suspicions, but not knowing well what it was I suspected or fancied;

plain omens pointing to the sad event and misfortune that was awaiting

me.

“I reached the place whither I had been sent, gave the letter to Don

Fernando’s brother, and was kindly received but not promptly dismissed,

for he desired me to wait, very much against my will, eight days in

some place where the duke his father was not likely to see me, as his

brother wrote that the money was to be sent without his knowledge; all

of which was a scheme of the treacherous Don Fernando, for his brother

had no want of money to enable him to despatch me at once.

“The command was one that exposed me to the temptation of disobeying

it, as it seemed to me impossible to endure life for so many days

separated from Luscinda, especially after leaving her in the sorrowful

mood I have described to you; nevertheless as a dutiful servant I

obeyed, though I felt it would be at the cost of my well-being. But

four days later there came a man in quest of me with a letter which he

gave me, and which by the address I perceived to be from Luscinda, as

the writing was hers. I opened it with fear and trepidation, persuaded

that it must be something serious that had impelled her to write to me

when at a distance, as she seldom did so when I was near. Before

reading it I asked the man who it was that had given it to him, and how

long he had been upon the road; he told me that as he happened to be

passing through one of the streets of the city at the hour of noon, a

very beautiful lady called to him from a window, and with tears in her

eyes said to him hurriedly, ‘Brother, if you are, as you seem to be, a

Christian, for the love of God I entreat you to have this letter

despatched without a moment’s delay to the place and person named in

the address, all which is well known, and by this you will render a

great service to our Lord; and that you may be at no inconvenience in

doing so take what is in this handkerchief;’ and said he, ‘with this

she threw me a handkerchief out of the window in which were tied up a

hundred reals and this gold ring which I bring here together with the

letter I have given you. And then without waiting for any answer she

left the window, though not before she saw me take the letter and the

handkerchief, and I had by signs let her know that I would do as she

bade me; and so, seeing myself so well paid for the trouble I would

have in bringing it to you, and knowing by the address that it was to

you it was sent (for, señor, I know you very well), and also unable to

resist that beautiful lady’s tears, I resolved to trust no one else,

but to come myself and give it to you, and in sixteen hours from the

time when it was given me I have made the journey, which, as you know,

is eighteen leagues.’

“All the while the good-natured improvised courier was telling me this,

I hung upon his words, my legs trembling under me so that I could

scarcely stand. However, I opened the letter and read these words:

The promise Don Fernando gave you to urge your father to speak to mine,

he has fulfilled much more to his own satisfaction than to your

advantage. I have to tell you, señor, that he has demanded me for a

wife, and my father, led away by what he considers Don Fernando’s

superiority over you, has favoured his suit so cordially, that in two

days hence the betrothal is to take place with such secrecy and so

privately that the only witnesses are to be the Heavens above and a few

of the household. Picture to yourself the state I am in; judge if it be

urgent for you to come; the issue of the affair will show you whether I

love you or not. God grant this may come to your hand before mine shall

be forced to link itself with his who keeps so ill the faith that he

has pledged.

“Such, in brief, were the words of the letter, words that made me set

out at once without waiting any longer for reply or money; for I now

saw clearly that it was not the purchase of horses but of his own

pleasure that had made Don Fernando send me to his brother. The

exasperation I felt against Don Fernando, joined with the fear of

losing the prize I had won by so many years of love and devotion, lent

me wings; so that almost flying I reached home the same day, by the

hour which served for speaking with Luscinda. I arrived unobserved, and

left the mule on which I had come at the house of the worthy man who

had brought me the letter, and fortune was pleased to be for once so

kind that I found Luscinda at the grating that was the witness of our

loves. She recognised me at once, and I her, but not as she ought to

have recognised me, or I her. But who is there in the world that can

boast of having fathomed or understood the wavering mind and unstable

nature of a woman? Of a truth no one. To proceed: as soon as Luscinda

saw me she said, ‘Cardenio, I am in my bridal dress, and the

treacherous Don Fernando and my covetous father are waiting for me in

the hall with the other witnesses, who shall be the witnesses of my

death before they witness my betrothal. Be not distressed, my friend,

but contrive to be present at this sacrifice, and if that cannot be

prevented by my words, I have a dagger concealed which will prevent

more deliberate violence, putting an end to my life and giving thee a

first proof of the love I have borne and bear thee.’ I replied to her

distractedly and hastily, in fear lest I should not have time to reply,

‘May thy words be verified by thy deeds, lady; and if thou hast a

dagger to save thy honour, I have a sword to defend thee or kill myself

if fortune be against us.’

“I think she could not have heard all these words, for I perceived that

they called her away in haste, as the bridegroom was waiting. Now the

night of my sorrow set in, the sun of my happiness went down, I felt my

eyes bereft of sight, my mind of reason. I could not enter the house,

nor was I capable of any movement; but reflecting how important it was

that I should be present at what might take place on the occasion, I

nerved myself as best I could and went in, for I well knew all the

entrances and outlets; and besides, with the confusion that in secret

pervaded the house no one took notice of me, so, without being seen, I

found an opportunity of placing myself in the recess formed by a window

of the hall itself, and concealed by the ends and borders of two

tapestries, from between which I could, without being seen, see all

that took place in the room. Who could describe the agitation of heart

I suffered as I stood there—the thoughts that came to me—the

reflections that passed through my mind? They were such as cannot be,

nor were it well they should be, told. Suffice it to say that the

bridegroom entered the hall in his usual dress, without ornament of any

kind; as groomsman he had with him a cousin of Luscinda’s and except

the servants of the house there was no one else in the chamber. Soon

afterwards Luscinda came out from an antechamber, attended by her

mother and two of her damsels, arrayed and adorned as became her rank

and beauty, and in full festival and ceremonial attire. My anxiety and

distraction did not allow me to observe or notice particularly what she

wore; I could only perceive the colours, which were crimson and white,

and the glitter of the gems and jewels on her head dress and apparel,

surpassed by the rare beauty of her lovely auburn hair that vying with

the precious stones and the light of the four torches that stood in the

hall shone with a brighter gleam than all. Oh memory, mortal foe of my

peace! why bring before me now the incomparable beauty of that adored

enemy of mine? Were it not better, cruel memory, to remind me and

recall what she then did, that stirred by a wrong so glaring I may

seek, if not vengeance now, at least to rid myself of life? Be not

weary, sirs, of listening to these digressions; my sorrow is not one of

those that can or should be told tersely and briefly, for to me each

incident seems to call for many words.”

To this the curate replied that not only were they not weary of

listening to him, but that the details he mentioned interested them

greatly, being of a kind by no means to be omitted and deserving of the

same attention as the main story.

“To proceed, then,” continued Cardenio: “all being assembled in the

hall, the priest of the parish came in and as he took the pair by the

hand to perform the requisite ceremony, at the words, ‘Will you, Señora

Luscinda, take Señor Don Fernando, here present, for your lawful

husband, as the holy Mother Church ordains?’ I thrust my head and neck

out from between the tapestries, and with eager ears and throbbing

heart set myself to listen to Luscinda’s answer, awaiting in her reply

the sentence of death or the grant of life. Oh, that I had but dared at

that moment to rush forward crying aloud, ‘Luscinda, Luscinda! have a

care what thou dost; remember what thou owest me; bethink thee thou art

mine and canst not be another’s; reflect that thy utterance of “Yes”

and the end of my life will come at the same instant. O, treacherous

Don Fernando! robber of my glory, death of my life! What seekest thou?

Remember that thou canst not as a Christian attain the object of thy

wishes, for Luscinda is my bride, and I am her husband!’ Fool that I

am! now that I am far away, and out of danger, I say I should have done

what I did not do: now that I have allowed my precious treasure to be

robbed from me, I curse the robber, on whom I might have taken

vengeance had I as much heart for it as I have for bewailing my fate;

in short, as I was then a coward and a fool, little wonder is it if I

am now dying shame-stricken, remorseful, and mad.

“The priest stood waiting for the answer of Luscinda, who for a long

time withheld it; and just as I thought she was taking out the dagger

to save her honour, or struggling for words to make some declaration of

the truth on my behalf, I heard her say in a faint and feeble voice, ‘I

will:’ Don Fernando said the same, and giving her the ring they stood

linked by a knot that could never be loosed. The bridegroom then

approached to embrace his bride; and she, pressing her hand upon her

heart, fell fainting in her mother’s arms. It only remains now for me

to tell you the state I was in when in that consent that I heard I saw

all my hopes mocked, the words and promises of Luscinda proved

falsehoods, and the recovery of the prize I had that instant lost

rendered impossible for ever. I stood stupefied, wholly abandoned, it

seemed, by Heaven, declared the enemy of the earth that bore me, the

air refusing me breath for my sighs, the water moisture for my tears;

it was only the fire that gathered strength so that my whole frame

glowed with rage and jealousy. They were all thrown into confusion by

Luscinda’s fainting, and as her mother was unlacing her to give her air

a sealed paper was discovered in her bosom which Don Fernando seized at

once and began to read by the light of one of the torches. As soon as

he had read it he seated himself in a chair, leaning his cheek on his

hand in the attitude of one deep in thought, without taking any part in

the efforts that were being made to recover his bride from her fainting

fit.

“Seeing all the household in confusion, I ventured to come out

regardless whether I were seen or not, and determined, if I were, to do

some frenzied deed that would prove to all the world the righteous

indignation of my breast in the punishment of the treacherous Don

Fernando, and even in that of the fickle fainting traitress. But my

fate, doubtless reserving me for greater sorrows, if such there be, so

ordered it that just then I had enough and to spare of that reason

which has since been wanting to me; and so, without seeking to take

vengeance on my greatest enemies (which might have been easily taken,

as all thought of me was so far from their minds), I resolved to take

it upon myself, and on myself to inflict the pain they deserved,

perhaps with even greater severity than I should have dealt out to them

had I then slain them; for sudden pain is soon over, but that which is

protracted by tortures is ever slaying without ending life. In a word,

I quitted the house and reached that of the man with whom I had left my

mule; I made him saddle it for me, mounted without bidding him

farewell, and rode out of the city, like another Lot, not daring to

turn my head to look back upon it; and when I found myself alone in the

open country, screened by the darkness of the night, and tempted by the

stillness to give vent to my grief without apprehension or fear of

being heard or seen, then I broke silence and lifted up my voice in

maledictions upon Luscinda and Don Fernando, as if I could thus avenge

the wrong they had done me. I called her cruel, ungrateful, false,

thankless, but above all covetous, since the wealth of my enemy had

blinded the eyes of her affection, and turned it from me to transfer it

to one to whom fortune had been more generous and liberal. And yet, in

the midst of this outburst of execration and upbraiding, I found

excuses for her, saying it was no wonder that a young girl in the

seclusion of her parents’ house, trained and schooled to obey them

always, should have been ready to yield to their wishes when they

offered her for a husband a gentleman of such distinction, wealth, and

noble birth, that if she had refused to accept him she would have been

thought out of her senses, or to have set her affection elsewhere, a

suspicion injurious to her fair name and fame. But then again, I said,

had she declared I was her husband, they would have seen that in

choosing me she had not chosen so ill but that they might excuse her,

for before Don Fernando had made his offer, they themselves could not

have desired, if their desires had been ruled by reason, a more

eligible husband for their daughter than I was; and she, before taking

the last fatal step of giving her hand, might easily have said that I

had already given her mine, for I should have come forward to support

any assertion of hers to that effect. In short, I came to the

conclusion that feeble love, little reflection, great ambition, and a

craving for rank, had made her forget the words with which she had

deceived me, encouraged and supported by my firm hopes and honourable

passion.

“Thus soliloquising and agitated, I journeyed onward for the remainder

of the night, and by daybreak I reached one of the passes of these

mountains, among which I wandered for three days more without taking

any path or road, until I came to some meadows lying on I know not

which side of the mountains, and there I inquired of some herdsmen in

what direction the most rugged part of the range lay. They told me that

it was in this quarter, and I at once directed my course hither,

intending to end my life here; but as I was making my way among these

crags, my mule dropped dead through fatigue and hunger, or, as I think

more likely, in order to have done with such a worthless burden as it

bore in me. I was left on foot, worn out, famishing, without anyone to

help me or any thought of seeking help: and so thus I lay stretched on

the ground, how long I know not, after which I rose up free from

hunger, and found beside me some goatherds, who no doubt were the

persons who had relieved me in my need, for they told me how they had

found me, and how I had been uttering ravings that showed plainly I had

lost my reason; and since then I am conscious that I am not always in

full possession of it, but at times so deranged and crazed that I do a

thousand mad things, tearing my clothes, crying aloud in these

solitudes, cursing my fate, and idly calling on the dear name of her

who is my enemy, and only seeking to end my life in lamentation; and

when I recover my senses I find myself so exhausted and weary that I

can scarcely move. Most commonly my dwelling is the hollow of a cork

tree large enough to shelter this miserable body; the herdsmen and

goatherds who frequent these mountains, moved by compassion, furnish me

with food, leaving it by the wayside or on the rocks, where they think

I may perhaps pass and find it; and so, even though I may be then out

of my senses, the wants of nature teach me what is required to sustain

me, and make me crave it and eager to take it. At other times, so they

tell me when they find me in a rational mood, I sally out upon the

road, and though they would gladly give it me, I snatch food by force

from the shepherds bringing it from the village to their huts. Thus do

pass the wretched life that remains to me, until it be Heaven’s will to

bring it to a close, or so to order my memory that I no longer

recollect the beauty and treachery of Luscinda, or the wrong done me by

Don Fernando; for if it will do this without depriving me of life, I

will turn my thoughts into some better channel; if not, I can only

implore it to have full mercy on my soul, for in myself I feel no power

or strength to release my body from this strait in which I have of my

own accord chosen to place it.

“Such, sirs, is the dismal story of my misfortune: say if it be one

that can be told with less emotion than you have seen in me; and do not

trouble yourselves with urging or pressing upon me what reason suggests

as likely to serve for my relief, for it will avail me as much as the

medicine prescribed by a wise physician avails the sick man who will

not take it. I have no wish for health without Luscinda; and since it

is her pleasure to be another’s, when she is or should be mine, let it

be mine to be a prey to misery when I might have enjoyed happiness. She

by her fickleness strove to make my ruin irretrievable; I will strive

to gratify her wishes by seeking destruction; and it will show

generations to come that I alone was deprived of that of which all

others in misfortune have a superabundance, for to them the

impossibility of being consoled is itself a consolation, while to me it

is the cause of greater sorrows and sufferings, for I think that even

in death there will not be an end of them.”

Here Cardenio brought to a close his long discourse and story, as full

of misfortune as it was of love; but just as the curate was going to

address some words of comfort to him, he was stopped by a voice that

reached his ear, saying in melancholy tones what will be told in the

Fourth Part of this narrative; for at this point the sage and sagacious

historian, Cid Hamete Benengeli, brought the Third to a conclusion.

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