第 二十三 章 · CHAPTER XXIII. OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE
. CHAPTER XXIII. OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE
CHAPTER XXIII.
OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE
RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY
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Seeing himself served in this way, Don Quixote said to his squire, “I
have always heard it said, Sancho, that to do good to boors is to throw
water into the sea. If I had believed thy words, I should have avoided
this trouble; but it is done now, it is only to have patience and take
warning for the future.”
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“Your worship will take warning as much as I am a Turk,” returned
Sancho; “but, as you say this mischief might have been avoided if you
had believed me, believe me now, and a still greater one will be
avoided; for I tell you chivalry is of no account with the Holy
Brotherhood, and they don’t care two maravedis for all the
knights-errant in the world; and I can tell you I fancy I hear their
arrows whistling past my ears this minute.”
“Thou art a coward by nature, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but lest thou
shouldst say I am obstinate, and that I never do as thou dost advise,
this once I will take thy advice, and withdraw out of reach of that
fury thou so dreadest; but it must be on one condition, that never, in
life or in death, thou art to say to anyone that I retired or withdrew
from this danger out of fear, but only in compliance with thy
entreaties; for if thou sayest otherwise thou wilt lie therein, and
from this time to that, and from that to this, I give thee lie, and say
thou liest and wilt lie every time thou thinkest or sayest it; and
answer me not again; for at the mere thought that I am withdrawing or
retiring from any danger, above all from this, which does seem to carry
some little shadow of fear with it, I am ready to take my stand here
and await alone, not only that Holy Brotherhood you talk of and dread,
but the brothers of the twelve tribes of Israel, and the Seven
Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux, and all the brothers and brotherhoods
in the world.”
“Señor,” replied Sancho, “to retire is not to flee, and there is no
wisdom in waiting when danger outweighs hope, and it is the part of
wise men to preserve themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not risk all
in one day; and let me tell you, though I am a clown and a boor, I have
got some notion of what they call safe conduct; so repent not of having
taken my advice, but mount Rocinante if you can, and if not I will help
you; and follow me, for my mother-wit tells me we have more need of
legs than hands just now.”
Don Quixote mounted without replying, and, Sancho leading the way on
his ass, they entered the side of the Sierra Morena, which was close
by, as it was Sancho’s design to cross it entirely and come out again
at El Viso or Almodóvar del Campo, and hide for some days among its
crags so as to escape the search of the Brotherhood should they come to
look for them. He was encouraged in this by perceiving that the stock
of provisions carried by the ass had come safe out of the fray with the
galley slaves, a circumstance that he regarded as a miracle, seeing how
they pillaged and ransacked.
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That night they reached the very heart of the Sierra Morena, where it
seemed prudent to Sancho to pass the night and even some days, at least
as many as the stores he carried might last, and so they encamped
between two rocks and among some cork trees; but fatal destiny, which,
according to the opinion of those who have not the light of the true
faith, directs, arranges, and settles everything in its own way, so
ordered it that Gines de Pasamonte, the famous knave and thief who by
the virtue and madness of Don Quixote had been released from the chain,
driven by fear of the Holy Brotherhood, which he had good reason to
dread, resolved to take hiding in the mountains; and his fate and fear
led him to the same spot to which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had been
led by theirs, just in time to recognise them and leave them to fall
asleep: and as the wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity leads to
evildoing, and immediate advantage overcomes all considerations of the
future, Gines, who was neither grateful nor well-principled, made up
his mind to steal Sancho Panza’s ass, not troubling himself about
Rocinante, as being a prize that was no good either to pledge or sell.
While Sancho slept he stole his ass, and before day dawned he was far
out of reach.
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Aurora made her appearance bringing gladness to the earth but sadness
to Sancho Panza, for he found that his Dapple was missing, and seeing
himself bereft of him he began the saddest and most doleful lament in
the world, so loud that Don Quixote awoke at his exclamations and heard
him saying, “O son of my bowels, born in my very house, my children’s
plaything, my wife’s joy, the envy of my neighbours, relief of my
burdens, and lastly, half supporter of myself, for with the
six-and-twenty maravedis thou didst earn me daily I met half my
charges.”
Don Quixote, when he heard the lament and learned the cause, consoled
Sancho with the best arguments he could, entreating him to be patient,
and promising to give him a letter of exchange ordering three out of
five ass-colts that he had at home to be given to him. Sancho took
comfort at this, dried his tears, suppressed his sobs, and returned
thanks for the kindness shown him by Don Quixote. He on his part was
rejoiced to the heart on entering the mountains, as they seemed to him
to be just the place for the adventures he was in quest of. They
brought back to his memory the marvellous adventures that had befallen
knights-errant in like solitudes and wilds, and he went along
reflecting on these things, so absorbed and carried away by them that
he had no thought for anything else.
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Nor had Sancho any other care (now that he fancied he was travelling in
a safe quarter) than to satisfy his appetite with such remains as were
left of the clerical spoils, and so he marched behind his master laden
with what Dapple used to carry, emptying the sack and packing his
paunch, and so long as he could go that way, he would not have given a
farthing to meet with another adventure.
While so engaged he raised his eyes and saw that his master had halted,
and was trying with the point of his pike to lift some bulky object
that lay upon the ground, on which he hastened to join him and help him
if it were needful, and reached him just as with the point of the pike
he was raising a saddle-pad with a valise attached to it, half or
rather wholly rotten and torn; but so heavy were they that Sancho had
to help to take them up, and his master directed him to see what the
valise contained. Sancho did so with great alacrity, and though the
valise was secured by a chain and padlock, from its torn and rotten
condition he was able to see its contents, which were four shirts of
fine holland, and other articles of linen no less curious than clean;
and in a handkerchief he found a good lot of gold crowns, and as soon
as he saw them he exclaimed:
“Blessed be all Heaven for sending us an adventure that is good for
something!”
Searching further he found a little memorandum book richly bound; this
Don Quixote asked of him, telling him to take the money and keep it for
himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the favour, and cleared the valise
of its linen, which he stowed away in the provision sack. Considering
the whole matter, Don Quixote observed:
“It seems to me, Sancho—and it is impossible it can be otherwise—that
some strayed traveller must have crossed this sierra and been attacked
and slain by footpads, who brought him to this remote spot to bury
him.”
“That cannot be,” answered Sancho, “because if they had been robbers
they would not have left this money.”
“Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, “and I cannot guess or explain what
this may mean; but stay; let us see if in this memorandum book there is
anything written by which we may be able to trace out or discover what
we want to know.”
He opened it, and the first thing he found in it, written roughly but
in a very good hand, was a sonnet, and reading it aloud that Sancho
might hear it, he found that it ran as follows:
SONNET
Or Love is lacking in intelligence,
Or to the height of cruelty attains,
Or else it is my doom to suffer pains
Beyond the measure due to my offence.
But if Love be a God, it follows thence
That he knows all, and certain it remains
No God loves cruelty; then who ordains
This penance that enthrals while it torments?
It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name;
Such evil with such goodness cannot live;
And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame,
I only know it is my fate to die.
To him who knows not whence his malady
A miracle alone a cure can give.
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“There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme,” said Sancho, “unless
by that clue there’s in it, one may draw out the ball of the whole
matter.”
“What clue is there?” said Don Quixote.
“I thought your worship spoke of a clue in it,” said Sancho.
“I only said Chloe,” replied Don Quixote; “and that no doubt, is the
name of the lady of whom the author of the sonnet complains; and,
faith, he must be a tolerable poet, or I know little of the craft.”
“Then your worship understands rhyming too?”
“And better than thou thinkest,” replied Don Quixote, “as thou shalt
see when thou carriest a letter written in verse from beginning to end
to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for I would have thee know, Sancho,
that all or most of the knights-errant in days of yore were great
troubadours and great musicians, for both of these accomplishments, or
more properly speaking gifts, are the peculiar property of
lovers-errant: true it is that the verses of the knights of old have
more spirit than neatness in them.”
“Read more, your worship,” said Sancho, “and you will find something
that will enlighten us.”
Don Quixote turned the page and said, “This is prose and seems to be a
letter.”
“A correspondence letter, señor?”
“From the beginning it seems to be a love letter,” replied Don Quixote.
“Then let your worship read it aloud,” said Sancho, “for I am very fond
of love matters.”
“With all my heart,” said Don Quixote, and reading it aloud as Sancho
had requested him, he found it ran thus:
Thy false promise and my sure misfortune carry me to a place whence the
news of my death will reach thy ears before the words of my complaint.
Ungrateful one, thou hast rejected me for one more wealthy, but not
more worthy; but if virtue were esteemed wealth I should neither envy
the fortunes of others nor weep for misfortunes of my own. What thy
beauty raised up thy deeds have laid low; by it I believed thee to be
an angel, by them I know thou art a woman. Peace be with thee who hast
sent war to me, and Heaven grant that the deceit of thy husband be ever
hidden from thee, so that thou repent not of what thou hast done, and I
reap not a revenge I would not have.
When he had finished the letter, Don Quixote said, “There is less to be
gathered from this than from the verses, except that he who wrote it is
some rejected lover;” and turning over nearly all the pages of the book
he found more verses and letters, some of which he could read, while
others he could not; but they were all made up of complaints, laments,
misgivings, desires and aversions, favours and rejections, some
rapturous, some doleful. While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho
examined the valise, not leaving a corner in the whole of it or in the
pad that he did not search, peer into, and explore, or seam that he did
not rip, or tuft of wool that he did not pick to pieces, lest anything
should escape for want of care and pains; so keen was the covetousness
excited in him by the discovery of the crowns, which amounted to near a
hundred; and though he found no more booty, he held the blanket
flights, balsam vomits, stake benedictions, carriers’ fisticuffs,
missing alforjas, stolen coat, and all the hunger, thirst, and
weariness he had endured in the service of his good master, cheap at
the price; as he considered himself more than fully indemnified for all
by the payment he received in the gift of the treasure-trove.
The Knight of the Rueful Countenance was still very anxious to find out
who the owner of the valise could be, conjecturing from the sonnet and
letter, from the money in gold, and from the fineness of the shirts,
that he must be some lover of distinction whom the scorn and cruelty of
his lady had driven to some desperate course; but as in that
uninhabited and rugged spot there was no one to be seen of whom he
could inquire, he saw nothing else for it but to push on, taking
whatever road Rocinante chose—which was where he could make his
way—firmly persuaded that among these wilds he could not fail to meet
some rare adventure. As he went along, then, occupied with these
thoughts, he perceived on the summit of a height that rose before their
eyes a man who went springing from rock to rock and from tussock to
tussock with marvellous agility. As well as he could make out he was
unclad, with a thick black beard, long tangled hair, and bare legs and
feet, his thighs were covered by breeches apparently of tawny velvet
but so ragged that they showed his skin in several places.
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He was bareheaded, and notwithstanding the swiftness with which he
passed as has been described, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance
observed and noted all these trifles, and though he made the attempt,
he was unable to follow him, for it was not granted to the feebleness
of Rocinante to make way over such rough ground, he being, moreover,
slow-paced and sluggish by nature. Don Quixote at once came to the
conclusion that this was the owner of the saddle-pad and of the valise,
and made up his mind to go in search of him, even though he should have
to wander a year in those mountains before he found him, and so he
directed Sancho to take a short cut over one side of the mountain,
while he himself went by the other, and perhaps by this means they
might light upon this man who had passed so quickly out of their sight.
“I could not do that,” said Sancho, “for when I separate from your
worship fear at once lays hold of me, and assails me with all sorts of
panics and fancies; and let what I now say be a notice that from this
time forth I am not going to stir a finger’s width from your presence.”
“It shall be so,” said he of the Rueful Countenance, “and I am very
glad that thou art willing to rely on my courage, which will never fail
thee, even though the soul in thy body fail thee; so come on now behind
me slowly as well as thou canst, and make lanterns of thine eyes; let
us make the circuit of this ridge; perhaps we shall light upon this man
that we saw, who no doubt is no other than the owner of what we found.”
To which Sancho made answer, “Far better would it be not to look for
him, for, if we find him, and he happens to be the owner of the money,
it is plain I must restore it; it would be better, therefore, that
without taking this needless trouble, I should keep possession of it
until in some other less meddlesome and officious way the real owner
may be discovered; and perhaps that will be when I shall have spent it,
and then the king will hold me harmless.”
“Thou art wrong there, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for now that we have
a suspicion who the owner is, and have him almost before us, we are
bound to seek him and make restitution; and if we do not see him, the
strong suspicion we have as to his being the owner makes us as guilty
as if he were so; and so, friend Sancho, let not our search for him
give thee any uneasiness, for if we find him it will relieve mine.”
And so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and Sancho followed him on
foot and loaded, and after having partly made the circuit of the
mountain they found lying in a ravine, dead and half devoured by dogs
and pecked by jackdaws, a mule saddled and bridled, all which still
further strengthened their suspicion that he who had fled was the owner
of the mule and the saddle-pad.
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As they stood looking at it they heard a whistle like that of a
shepherd watching his flock, and suddenly on their left there appeared
a great number of goats and behind them on the summit of the mountain
the goatherd in charge of them, a man advanced in years. Don Quixote
called aloud to him and begged him to come down to where they stood. He
shouted in return, asking what had brought them to that spot, seldom or
never trodden except by the feet of goats, or of the wolves and other
wild beasts that roamed around. Sancho in return bade him come down,
and they would explain all to him.
The goatherd descended, and reaching the place where Don Quixote stood,
he said, “I will wager you are looking at that hack mule that lies dead
in the hollow there, and, faith, it has been lying there now these six
months; tell me, have you come upon its master about here?”
“We have come upon nobody,” answered Don Quixote, “nor on anything
except a saddle-pad and a little valise that we found not far from
this.”
“I found it too,” said the goatherd, “but I would not lift it nor go
near it for fear of some ill-luck or being charged with theft, for the
devil is crafty, and things rise up under one’s feet to make one fall
without knowing why or wherefore.”
“That’s exactly what I say,” said Sancho; “I found it too, and I would
not go within a stone’s throw of it; there I left it, and there it lies
just as it was, for I don’t want a dog with a bell.”
“Tell me, good man,” said Don Quixote, “do you know who is the owner of
this property?”
“All I can tell you,” said the goatherd, “is that about six months ago,
more or less, there arrived at a shepherd’s hut three leagues, perhaps,
away from this, a youth of well-bred appearance and manners, mounted on
that same mule which lies dead here, and with the same saddle-pad and
valise which you say you found and did not touch. He asked us what part
of this sierra was the most rugged and retired; we told him that it was
where we now are; and so in truth it is, for if you push on half a
league farther, perhaps you will not be able to find your way out; and
I am wondering how you have managed to come here, for there is no road
or path that leads to this spot. I say, then, that on hearing our
answer the youth turned about and made for the place we pointed out to
him, leaving us all charmed with his good looks, and wondering at his
question and the haste with which we saw him depart in the direction of
the sierra; and after that we saw him no more, until some days
afterwards he crossed the path of one of our shepherds, and without
saying a word to him, came up to him and gave him several cuffs and
kicks, and then turned to the ass with our provisions and took all the
bread and cheese it carried, and having done this made off back again
into the sierra with extraordinary swiftness. When some of us goatherds
learned this we went in search of him for about two days through the
most remote portion of this sierra, at the end of which we found him
lodged in the hollow of a large thick cork tree. He came out to meet us
with great gentleness, with his dress now torn and his face so
disfigured and burned by the sun, that we hardly recognised him but
that his clothes, though torn, convinced us, from the recollection we
had of them, that he was the person we were looking for. He saluted us
courteously, and in a few well-spoken words he told us not to wonder at
seeing him going about in this guise, as it was binding upon him in
order that he might work out a penance which for his many sins had been
imposed upon him. We asked him to tell us who he was, but we were never
able to find out from him: we begged of him too, when he was in want of
food, which he could not do without, to tell us where we should find
him, as we would bring it to him with all good-will and readiness; or
if this were not to his taste, at least to come and ask it of us and
not take it by force from the shepherds. He thanked us for the offer,
begged pardon for the late assault, and promised for the future to ask
it in God’s name without offering violence to anybody. As for fixed
abode, he said he had no other than that which chance offered wherever
night might overtake him; and his words ended in an outburst of weeping
so bitter that we who listened to him must have been very stones had we
not joined him in it, comparing what we saw of him the first time with
what we saw now; for, as I said, he was a graceful and gracious youth,
and in his courteous and polished language showed himself to be of good
birth and courtly breeding, and rustics as we were that listened to
him, even to our rusticity his gentle bearing sufficed to make it
plain.
“But in the midst of his conversation he stopped and became silent,
keeping his eyes fixed upon the ground for some time, during which we
stood still waiting anxiously to see what would come of this
abstraction; and with no little pity, for from his behaviour, now
staring at the ground with fixed gaze and eyes wide open without moving
an eyelid, again closing them, compressing his lips and raising his
eyebrows, we could perceive plainly that a fit of madness of some kind
had come upon him; and before long he showed that what we imagined was
the truth, for he arose in a fury from the ground where he had thrown
himself, and attacked the first he found near him with such rage and
fierceness that if we had not dragged him off him, he would have beaten
or bitten him to death, all the while exclaiming, ‘Oh faithless
Fernando, here, here shalt thou pay the penalty of the wrong thou hast
done me; these hands shall tear out that heart of thine, abode and
dwelling of all iniquity, but of deceit and fraud above all; and to
these he added other words all in effect upbraiding this Fernando and
charging him with treachery and faithlessness.
“We forced him to release his hold with no little difficulty, and
without another word he left us, and rushing off plunged in among these
brakes and brambles, so as to make it impossible for us to follow him;
from this we suppose that madness comes upon him from time to time, and
that someone called Fernando must have done him a wrong of a grievous
nature such as the condition to which it had brought him seemed to
show. All this has been since then confirmed on those occasions, and
they have been many, on which he has crossed our path, at one time to
beg the shepherds to give him some of the food they carry, at another
to take it from them by force; for when there is a fit of madness upon
him, even though the shepherds offer it freely, he will not accept it
but snatches it from them by dint of blows; but when he is in his
senses he begs it for the love of God, courteously and civilly, and
receives it with many thanks and not a few tears. And to tell you the
truth, sirs,” continued the goatherd, “it was yesterday that we
resolved, I and four of the lads, two of them our servants, and the
other two friends of mine, to go in search of him until we find him,
and when we do to take him, whether by force or of his own consent, to
the town of Almodóvar, which is eight leagues from this, and there
strive to cure him (if indeed his malady admits of a cure), or learn
when he is in his senses who he is, and if he has relatives to whom we
may give notice of his misfortune. This, sirs, is all I can say in
answer to what you have asked me; and be sure that the owner of the
articles you found is he whom you saw pass by with such nimbleness and
so naked.”
For Don Quixote had already described how he had seen the man go
bounding along the mountainside, and he was now filled with amazement
at what he heard from the goatherd, and more eager than ever to
discover who the unhappy madman was; and in his heart he resolved, as
he had done before, to search for him all over the mountain, not
leaving a corner or cave unexamined until he had found him. But chance
arranged matters better than he expected or hoped, for at that very
moment, in a gorge on the mountain that opened where they stood, the
youth he wished to find made his appearance, coming along talking to
himself in a way that would have been unintelligible near at hand, much
more at a distance. His garb was what has been described, save that as
he drew near, Don Quixote perceived that a tattered doublet which he
wore was amber-tanned, from which he concluded that one who wore such
garments could not be of very low rank.
Approaching them, the youth greeted them in a harsh and hoarse voice
but with great courtesy. Don Quixote returned his salutation with equal
politeness, and dismounting from Rocinante advanced with well-bred
bearing and grace to embrace him, and held him for some time close in
his arms as if he had known him for a long time. The other, whom we may
call the Ragged One of the Sorry Countenance, as Don Quixote was of the
Rueful, after submitting to the embrace pushed him back a little and,
placing his hands on Don Quixote’s shoulders, stood gazing at him as if
seeking to see whether he knew him, not less amazed, perhaps, at the
sight of the face, figure, and armour of Don Quixote than Don Quixote
was at the sight of him. To be brief, the first to speak after
embracing was the Ragged One, and he said what will be told farther on.
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