Part 1 / Book 3 — BOOK III. (continued 4)

They were astonished at what the squire related, and though well acquainted with the particular species of Don Quixote’s madness, this instance afforded fresh admiration: they desired Sancho to shew them the letter for the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and he told them it was only a rough draught, written on the leaf of a pocket-book; and that his master had ordered him to get it transcribed on a sheet of paper, with the first convenient opportunity. The curate promised to transcribe it in a fair legible hand, and again desiring a sight of it, Sancho put his hand in his bosom, in search of the book, which, however, he could not find; and indeed, had he fumbled till this time, it would have been to no purpose; for he had left it with Don Quixote, who had forgot to give, as he to ask it of him, before he set out. Sancho missing his charge, grew pale as death, and searching again his whole body with great eagerness, could find nothing; upon which, without more ado, he laid hold of his beard with both hands, and plucked one half of it from his chin; then, with vast dispatch and precipitation, belaboured his face and nose in such a manner, as left the whole covered with blood. The curate and barber seeing him make so free with his own person, asked what had happened to him, that made him handle himself so roughly. ‘What has happened to me?’ cried the squire, 142‘I have lost and let slip through my fingers in an instant, three ass colts, each of which was as tall as a tower.’—‘By what means?’ resumed the barber. ‘I have lost,’ answered Sancho, ‘the pocket-book, in which was written the letter for Dulcinea, together with an order, signed by my master’s own hand, desiring his niece to deliver to me three colts out of four or five which he has at home.’ At the same time he told them how he had lost Dapple. The curate comforted him, by saying, that when he returned, his master would renew the order, and give him a bill upon paper, as the custom is, for those written in pocket-books are never accepted or paid.

With this assurance Sancho consoled himself, observing, since that was the case, he should not give himself much uneasiness about the loss of the letter, which, as he retained it by heart, he could cause to be transcribed where and when he pleased. The barber desired him to repeat it, telling him they would transcribe it; upon which Sancho began to scratch his head, in order to recollect it, standing sometimes on one foot, sometimes on the other. One while he fixed his eyes upon the ground, then lifted them up to Heaven; at last, after a most tedious pause, during which he gnawed off the half of one of his nails, and kept his hearers in the most impatient suspence; ‘‘Fore God, Mr. Licentiate,’ said he, ‘I believe the devil has run away with every word that I remembered of this letter; though I am positive it began with subterrene and sublime princess!’—‘It could not be subterrene,’ said the barber, ‘but superterrene or sovereign.’—‘You are in the right,’ resumed Sancho; ‘then, if my memory does not fail me, it went on with the smitten, the sleepless, and the sore, kisses your hands, most ungrateful and unregarded beauty; and something or other of health and distemper which he wished her; running on at this rate, till he concluded with, “yours, till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”’

The hearers were not a little diverted with this specimen of Sancho’s memory, which they applauded very much; desiring him to repeat the letter again, twice over, that they might retain it, until they could have an opportunity of transcribing it. He accordingly renewed his efforts, repeated it three times; and as often recited three thousand other absurdities. He likewise gave them an account of every thing which had befallen his master; but mentioned not a syllable of the blanketting that had happened to himself, in that very inn which he refused to enter; nay, he gave them to understand that his master, as soon as he could bring him a favourable dispatch from my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, would put himself in the way of becoming an emperor or monarch at least, according to the plan settled between them. This he represented as a very easy matter, considering the valour of his person, and strength of his arm; and told them, that this design would be no sooner accomplished, than the knight would bestow upon him in marriage, (for by that time, he must of necessity be a widower) one of the maids of honour to the empress; a fine young lady, and heiress of a vast and wealthy estate upon the main land, without any oilands or islands, which he did not much care for.

Sancho uttered this piece of wrong-headed information with such composure, wiping his nose from time to time, that his townsmen could not help admiring anew the madness of Don Quixote; which, like a whirlpool, had sucked in and swept along with it the understanding of this poor simpleton. They did not chuse to fatigue themselves with endeavours to convince him of his error; but, as they believed it was not prejudicial to his conscience, resolved, for their amusement, to encourage him in his folly; with this view they advised him to pray to God for long life and health to his master; and observed, that it was a thing both likely and feasible that he should, in process of time, become an emperor, at least an archbishop, or attain some station of equal dignity. To this encouragement Sancho replied, ‘Gentlemen, if fortune should bring matters about, so as that my master should incline to be an archbishop rather than an emperor, I should be glad to know what archbishops-errant bestow upon their squires?’ The curate told him, that they commonly gave him some simple benefice, curacy, or the office of sacristan, with a good yearly income, besides the fees of the altar, which are usually reckoned at as much more. 143‘In order to fill an employment of that kind,’ answered Sancho, ‘the squire must be unmarried, and at least capable of assisting at mass; and if that be the case, what will become of me, who have not only the misfortune to be married, but am also ignorant of the first letter of the A, B, C; should my master take it in his head to be an archbishop, rather than an emperor, according to the custom of knights-errant?’—‘Don’t make yourself uneasy about that matter, friend Sancho,’ said the barber; ‘for we will intreat and advise your master, nay, even make it an affair of conscience, for him to become an emperor rather than archbishop, as a station more suited to his disposition, which is more war-like than studious.’—‘I was of the same opinion,’ resumed Sancho; ‘but now, I’ll venture to say, he has a capacity for every thing; and what I intend to do, is to beseech our Lord to direct his choice to that station which will be most for his own honour and my advantage.’—‘You speak like a sensible man,’ said the curate; ‘and in so doing will act the part of a good Christian; but, our present business is to think on some means of putting an end to this useless penance your master has imposed upon himself; and in the mean time go in to dinner.’ Sancho desired them to enter, saying he would wait for them at the door, and afterwards tell them why he did not go in, and wherefore it was not proper for him so to do; but begged they would be so good as to bring out something hot for himself, and some barley for Rozinante. They accordingly went in, and in a little time the barber brought him out a mess of hot victuals. After they had both maturely deliberated about the means of accomplishing their design, the curate fell upon a scheme, extremely well-adapted to the taste of the knight, as well as to their purpose. He proposed to clothe himself in the dress of a lady-errant, and that the barber should disguise himself as well as he could, in the likeness of a squire; which being done, they should go to the place where Don Quixote was, and the priest, on pretence of being a damsel in distress, should beg a boon, which he, as a valiant knight-errant, could not help granting. This boon should be a request, that he would accompany her to a certain place whither she would conduct him, there to redress an injury she had received from a discourteous knight; and the boon should be attended with an humble supplication, that he would not desire her to take off her mask, nor ask any question about her affairs, until he should have done her justice upon her adversary. And as he firmly believed that Don Quixote would comply with any request made in that stile, he hoped, by these means, to withdraw him from the mountain, and conduct him to his own habitation, where they would endeavour to find some remedy for his strange disorder.

CHAP. XIII. HOW THE CURATE AND BARBER SET OUT ON THE EXECUTION OF THEIR PLAN; WITH OTHER EVENTS WORTHY TO BE RECORDED IN THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

This scheme of the curate was so well relished by the barber, that they began to put it in execution immediately; by borrowing of the landlady a petticoat and tucker, for which the priest lent a new cassock in pawn; while the barber made an artificial beard of the tail of a pied ox, in which the innkeeper used to stick his comb. When the hostess asked what occasion they had for these things, the curate gave her a brief account of Don Quixote’s madness, and explained the use to which they intended to put the disguise, in order to disengage him from the mountain where he then was. The innkeeper and his wife immediately discovered that this lunatick was no other than their quondam guest, who was author of the balsam, and master of the blanketted squire; and recounted to the curate every thing that had happened, not even forgetting the circumstance which Sancho was at such pains to conceal. In short, the landlady dressed up the curate in a most curious manner; she put upon him a cloth petticoat flounced and furbelowed, with a broad border of black velvet, and a close jerkin of green velvet, garnished with robings of white sattin, which, together with the petticoat, seemed to have been made in 144the reign of King Bamba^[81]; he would not suffer himself to be coifed, but covered his head with a quilted linen night-cap, which he always carried about with him; and bound his forehead with a garter of black taffety, making a sort of mask with the other, which effectually concealed his countenance and beard. Over all, he slapped his beaver, which was so broad that it might have served for an umbrella; and, wrapping himself up in his cloak, mounted his mule, sitting sideways like a woman; while the barber bestrid his own beast, with his beard flowing down to his girdle, of a white and red colour, being made, as we have before observed, of a pied ox’s tail.

Thus equipped, they took leave of every body present, even the kind Maritornes, who promised, though a sinner, to mumble a whole rosary over in prayers to God, for the good success of that arduous and Christian design they had undertaken; but scarce had they sallied from the inn, when the curate began to think he was to blame for disguising himself; it being, in his opinion, indecent for a priest to appear in such a manner, how much soever depended upon their success. He therefore proposed that he should exchange characters with the barber, who might act the part of the damsel in distress, while he took that of the squire, which he thought did not so much profane the dignity of the cloth; and unless his neighbour would agree to this proposal, he assured him that he was resolved to go no farther, even if the devil himself should carry off Don Quixote. At that instant Sancho chanced to come up, and seeing them in such a garb, could not refrain from laughing; in short, the barber assented to every thing the other proposed; and the plan being thus altered, the curate began to instruct him touching his behaviour and speech to Don Quixote, in order to move and induce him to accompany them, and quit that place he had chosen for the scene of his vain and extravagant penance. The barber told him, that without his lessons, he knew very well how to demean himself in the character; and as he did not chuse to put on the dress till they should be near Don Quixote, he folded it up with great care; the priest adjusted his beard; and both together proceeded, on their journey, under the direction, of Sancho Panza, who by the way related to them what happened between his master and the madman whom they met with in the Brown Mountain; concealing, nevertheless, the circumstance of the portmanteau, and its contents; for, notwithstanding his simplicity, our youth was as covetous as wiser people.

Next day they came to the broom boughs, which Sancho had strewed, in order to ascertain the place where he had left his master: he no sooner, therefore, perceived his marks, than he told them, that was the entrance into the mountain; and desired them to put on their dresses, if they were necessary towards the deliverance of his master: for they had already assured him, that their travelling in such disguise was of the utmost importance, in disengaging the knight from that disagreeable course of life he had chosen: and they charged him not to tell his master that he knew who they were; and if he should ask, as doubtless he would, whether or not he had delivered the letter to Dulcinea, they advised him to answer in the affirmative, and tell him, that as she could not read it, she had sent her answer by word of mouth, commanding him, on pain of her displeasure, to appear in her presence with all convenient speed, on an affair of the utmost consequence to him: for, with this answer, and other speeches they intended to make, they did not at all doubt of reconciling him to a better way of life, and prevail upon him immediately to begin his career towards being an emperor or king; and as to the office of archbishop, Sancho had nothing to fear. The squire listened to these directions, which he carefully deposited in his memory, thanking them heartily for their intention to advise his master to accept of an emperor’s crown, rather than an archbishop’s mitre; as he was very sensible that emperors could do more for their squires than archbishops-errant. He also proposed to go before, in search of his master, and impart to him this answer of his lady, which, he assured them, 145would be sufficient to bring him out of the mountain, without their being put to any farther trouble. They approved of his opinion, and resolved to stay where they were until he should return with the news of his having found Don Quixote: accordingly, Sancho proceeded towards the heart of the mountain, leaving them in a spot watered by a small purling brook, and shaded in a most cool and agreeable manner by some rocks and trees that grew round it.

It being then the month of August, when the heat in those parts is excessive, and three in the afternoon, which is the hottest time of the day, they were the more charmed with the situation, which was so inviting, that they chose it for the place of their residence, until Sancho should return. While they lay at their ease, under the covert of this shade, their ears were saluted with the sound of a voice, which, though unaccompanied by any instrument, sung so sweet and melodiously, that they were struck with astonishment; little expecting to meet with such a delicious warbler in that unfrequented place; for though it is usually said, that the woods and mountains abound with shepherds, who sing most inchantingly, that report is rather the fiction of poets than the voice of truth: besides, the verses which they heard were not composed in the rustick phrase of clowns, but in a polite and courtly strain; as may be perceived by the song itself, which follows:

I.

Ah! what inspires my woeful strain?

Unkind disdain!

Ah what augments my misery?

Fell jealousy!

Or say, what hath my patience worn?

An absent lover’s scorn.

The torments, then, that I endure,

No mortal remedy can cure:

For every languid hope is slain,

By absence, jealousy, disdain!

II.

From Love, my unrelenting foe,

These sorrows flow!

My infant glory’s overthrown,

By Fortune’s frown;

Confirm’d in this my wretched state,

By the decrees of Fate.

In Death alone I hope release

From this compounded, dire disease;

Whole cruel pangs to aggravate,

Fortune and Love conspire with Fate!

III.

Ah, what will mitigate my doom?

The silent tomb!

Ah! what retrieve departed joy?

Inconstancy!

Or say, can aught but frenzy, bear

This tempest of despair?

All other efforts, then, are vain,

To cure this soul-tormenting pain,

That owns no other remedy

Than madness, death, inconstancy.

The hour, the season, and the solitude, conspired with the agreeable voice of the singer, to increase the wonder and satisfaction of the hearers, who listened for some time in expectation of something else; but the silence having continued a good while, they resolved to go in quest of the person who sung so enchantingly, and were just going to set out on this design, when they were arrested by the same voice, which again saluted their ears with this other song:

I.

O sacred Friendship! mild and gay,

Who to the regions of the bless’d

Hath soar’d, and left mankind a prey

To fraud, in thy resemblance dress’d:

II.

Auspicious hear, and hither send

Thy sister Truth, with radiant eyes,

To brand the false professing friend,

Detected in the fair disguise.

III.

Or come thyself, and re-inspire

The purpose candid and humane;

Else Peace and Order will retire,

While Horror and Confusion reign.

This sonnet was concluded with a most profound sigh, and the curate and barber began again to listen for more; but, finding the musick converted into mournful sobs and interjections, they were determined to know who this melancholy person was, who sung so well, and groaned so piteously. They had not gone many paces with this intent, when turning the point of a rock, they perceived a man of the same make and appearance that Sancho described, when he related the story of Cardenio: he did not seem surprized at sight of them, but stood with his head reclining upon his breast, in a very pensive posture, without lifting his eyes to look at them, after their first sudden appearance. The 146curate, who was a well-spoken man, concluding, from the description, that this must be he whose misfortune he had been apprized of, went up, and in a short, but pathetick address, exhorted and entreated him to quit that miserable course of life, which was the greatest of all misfortunes, and altogether perverted the end of his being. Cardenio being at that time in one of his lucid intervals, entirely free of that frantick paroxism which used so utterly to deprive him of his senses, and seeing two people so differently dressed from those he commonly met with in that solitude, could not help being somewhat surprized; especially, when he heard him talk of his misfortune as a circumstance with which they were well acquainted; for the curate had mentioned it in the course of his expostulation: and therefore he answered in this manner: ‘I plainly perceive, gentlemen, that Heaven, which is careful in succouring the good, and sometimes even the bad, hath sent, though I little deserve such favour and condescension, divers people into this unfrequented solitude, so remote from all commerce and society, in order to convince me by just and various arguments, how unreasonably I act in leading this kind of life, which they have endeavoured to make me exchange for a better; and, as they know not the reasons I have to think that, in quitting this situation, I shall be plunged into a worse; they have perhaps looked upon me as a person of very shallow understanding, or, which is still a conjecture more unfavourable, a downright madman: and truly, it is not to be wondered at, if that was really the case; for I can easily conceive, that my misfortunes operate so intensely upon my imagination, and impair my faculties so much, that sometimes, in spite of all my endeavours to the contrary, I become, like that rock, void of all sentiment and knowledge; and am convinced of my infirmity too late, when people shew me the marks of what I have done, while I was under the influence of that terrible transport: then, all that I can do, is to bewail my distemper; curse my lot in vain; and, in excuse of my madness, relate my sufferings to all who express the least desire of hearing them; that those of sounder judgment, knowing the cause, may not wonder at the effects; and if they cannot prevent, at least pardon my frenzy; converting their indignation at my extravagance into compassion for my woes; and if you, gentlemen, are come with that intention, which hath brought others to this place, before you proceed with your prudent admonitions, I intreat you to hear the detail of my misfortunes, which you do not yet know, and then, perhaps, you will save yourselves the trouble which you might otherwise take, in consoling an affliction that admits of no consolation.’

The two friends, who desired nothing else than to hear from his own mouth the cause of his misfortune, earnestly begged he would recount it, and promised to attempt nothing contrary to his own inclination in the way of remedy or comfort. Thus assured, the melancholy gentleman began his distressful story, nearly in the same words and circumstances which he had used a few days before, to Don Quixote and the goatherd, when he was interrupted in the affair of, Mr. Elisabat, by the knight’s punctuality in asserting the decorum of chivalry, as the particulars of that quarrel have been already related: but now he remained fortunately free from his paroxism, and of consequence, had time to finish the narration, which was imperfect before. When he therefore came to the circumstances of the letter which Don Fernando had found between the leaves of Amadis de Gaul^[82], he said he remembered the contents, and accordingly repeated them in these terms.

‘“LUCINDA TO CARDENIO.

‘“I every day discover new qualities in Cardenio, which oblige and compel me to esteem him the more. If you are inclined to extricate me out of all suspence, you may effectuate your purpose, without the least prejudice to my honour; for my father, who is, well acquainted with your virtues, loves me dearly, and far from tyrannizing over my affections, will chearfully 147grant that which is so justly your due, if your passion is such as I wish and believe it to be.”

‘I resolved, as I have already told you, to demand Lucinda in marriage, upon the receipt of this letter, which not only confirmed Don Fernando’s high opinion of her prudence and virtue, but also inflamed him with the desire of ruining my hopes, before I should be able to bring them to maturity. I told this faithless friend, Lucinda’s father expected that mine should propose the match; and that I durst not communicate my desire to him, lest he should refuse to comply with it: not that he was ignorant of Lucinda’s rank, virtue, beauty, and qualifications, which were sufficient to ennoble any other family in Spain; but, because I understood he was averse to my being married, until he should see what Duke Ricardo would do in my behalf; in short, I told him that I would not venture to propose it, being afraid not only of this ill consequence, but also of many others which I could not foresee; although I had a strong impression upon my mind, that my wishes would never be compleated. In answer to this declaration, Don Fernando undertook to manage the affair, and prevail upon my father to propose the match to Lucinda’s parents.——O villain! more ambitious than Marius, more cruel than Catiline, more savage than Sylla, more fraudulent than Galalon, more treacherous than Vellido^[83], more vengeful than Julian, and more covetous than Judas! cruel, false, vindictive traitor! what injuries hast thou suffered from this poor credulous wretch, who with such confidence disclosed to thee the most secret recesses of his soul! What offence had he given? what words had he uttered, or what advice had he offered, that did not directly tend to thy honour and advantage?——But, unhappy that I am! wherefore should I complain? seeing it is a thing certain, that when once the tide of misfortune, heaped up by one’s malignant stars, begins to descend with violence and fury, no earthly mound can oppose, nor human industry divert its course. Who could imagine, that such an illustrious, accomplished young gentleman, as Don Fernando, who lay under obligations for the services I had done him, and was powerful enough to obtain the gratification of his wish, whithersoever his amorous inclination pointed, should plague himself, as I may say, in attempts to rob me of my single lamb, even before I had possessed it?

‘But, let us lay aside these vain and unprofitable reflections, and rejoin the broken thread of my unfortunate story. Well, then, Don Fernando, perceiving that my presence would be an obstruction to the execution of his false and perfidious design, resolved to send me back to his elder brother, on pretence of getting money to pay for six horses, which he purposely bought that very day he undertook to speak to my father, in order to have an excuse for sending me away, that he might, in my absence, the more easily succeed in his villainous intention. Was it possible for me to prevent this treachery, or indeed conceive his design! No, surely. On the contrary, I offered, with the utmost alacrity, to set out forthwith, so pleased was I with the purchase he had made. That very night I had a private conversation with Lucinda, in which I told her the scheme I had concerted with Don Fernando, and bade her rest assured in the hope that our just and honourable desires would soon be gratified. She, as little suspicious of Don Fernando’s perfidy as I was, entreated me to return with speed, believing that our wishes would be compleated, as soon as my father should mention the affair to hers. I don’t know upon what account, her eyes were filled with tears when she pronounced these words; and something that seemed to swell in her throat, prevented her from uttering another syllable, though she looked as if she had something more to say. I was confounded at this new circumstance, which had never happened before; in all our former conversations, which my good fortune offered, or my diligence effected, there had been nothing 148but joy and satisfaction, without any mixture of tears, sighs, jealousy, dread, or suspicion; all my discourse used to consist of acknowledgments to Heaven, for having bestowed upon me such a mistress, whose beauty I extolled, and whose virtue and good sense I admired; while she returned the compliment, by praising those qualities in me, which she, in the partiality of her fondness, deemed worthy of applause; besides, we used to entertain each other with an account of a thousand trifling accidents that happened among our neighbours and acquaintance: and the heighth of my vivacity never amounted to more than the seizing of one of her delicate white hands, and pressing it to my lips, through the narrow distance betwixt the rails that divided us. But, on that night, which preceded the fatal day of my departure, she wept, sighed, and sobbed, and left me filled with confusion and surprize, and terrified at such unusual and melancholy marks of grief and affliction in my Lucinda. But I was flattered by my hopes, which ascribed the whole to the strength of her passion, and that sorrow which is commonly produced by the absence of a beloved object. In fine, I set out, pensive and sad, my imagination tortured with suspicions and doubts, which my reflection could neither digest nor explain: a sure presage of the melancholy fate that awaited me.

‘I arrived at the place of my destination, and delivered my letters to Don Fernando’s brother, who received me kindly; but, far from dispatching me immediately, desired me, to my infinite regret, to wait eight whole days in a place where his father should not see me, because his brother had writ to him to send the money without the knowledge of the duke. But this was altogether an invention of the false Fernando, whose brother had money enough, and could have sent me back the very same day on which I arrived. This was such an order as I was scarce able to obey, for I thought it impossible to support life for so many days in the absence of Lucinda, considering the sorrow in which I had left her. Yet, notwithstanding, I resolved to do my duty like a faithful servant, though I very well foresaw that my obedience must be at the expence of my peace. Four days of the eight were not yet elapsed, when a man came in search of me, and gave me a letter, the superscription of which I no sooner beheld, than I knew it to be written by Lucinda’s own hand. I opened it with fear and trembling, believing that there must be something very extraordinary in the case, which induced her to write to me in my absence; considering that while I was present, she had been so sparing of her pen^[84]. But, before I read a syllable, I asked the messenger, who had put it into his hands, and how long he had been upon his journey? He answered, that passing through a certain street, about noon, he was stopped by a very beautiful young lady, who called to him from a window, saying, with great earnestness, while the tears trickled from her eyes, “Brother, if you are a Christian, as you seem to be, I entreat you, for God’s sake, to carry this letter to the place and person for whom it is directed; they are both well known; and in so doing, you will render a piece of service acceptable to the Lord. That you may not want conveniences upon the road, here is something to defray the expence of your journey.”” So saying, she threw down a handkerchief, in which were tied a hundred rials, this gold ring, and the letter I have delivered. Then, without waiting for a reply, she went from the window, after having seen me take up the handkerchief and the letter, and make signs that I would do as she desired. Accordingly, finding myself so well paid for the trouble I should be at, and seeing, by the direction, 149that you was the person to whom it was sent, (and I know you perfectly well;) induced, moreover, by the tears of that beautiful young lady, I resolved to trust no other messenger, but come and deliver it with my own hand; and in sixteen hours, which are past since I received it, I have travelled to this place, which, as you know, is about eighteen leagues from our town. While I listened attentively to the information of this grateful and extraordinary courier, my legs shook under me in such a manner, that I could scarce stand upright. At length, however, I ventured to read the letter, which contained these words.

‘“The promise which Don Fernando made, to prevail upon your father to propose a match to mine, hath been performed more to his inclination than your advantage. Know, Cardenio, that your pretended friend allied me in marriage for himself; and my father, swayed by the advantage which he thinks Don Fernando has over you in point of fortune, hath given his consent so much in earnest, that two days hence the nuptials are to be celebrated so privately, that none but Heaven, and some people in the family, are to be present at the marriage. My situation you may guess. If it be in your power, return with all speed, and the event of this affair will shew whether I love you tenderly or not. Heaven grant that this may come to your hand, before mine shall be presented to him who so ill performs the duty of a friend!”

‘This, which was the sum of what the letter contained, made me set out immediately, without waiting for any answer, or the money for which I had come. For, by that time, I plainly perceived that it was not the purchase of the horses, but his own treacherous intention, which had induced Don Fernando to send me out of the way. The indignation I conceived against him, together with the fear of losing the jewel which I had acquired, and treasured up with such unwearied services and care, added wings to my speed, and conveyed me to the place of my habitation, just at the hour and minute proper for my going to visit Lucinda. I entered the town privately, and leaving my mule at the house of the honest man who brought the letter, I went to the rail, which was the constant witness of our love, and there was so far favoured by fortune as to find Lucinda.—We knew each other presently; though not as we ought to have known each other. But, who is he who can arrogate praise to himself, for having fathomed and discerned the capricious sentiments and sickly disposition of woman? Surely no man on earth.—But this apart. Lucinda perceiving me, “Cardenio,” said she, “I am now in my bridal dress, and this moment expected in the hall by the traitor Don Fernando, my covetous father, and some other people, who shall bear witness to my death sooner than to my marriage. Be not confounded, my friend, but endeavour to be present at the sacrifice, which, if I cannot prevent by my declaration, I wear a dagger concealed, which can obstruct a more vigorous determination; and, by putting an end to my life, begin to convince thee of the sincere passion I have always entertained, and shall retain for my Cardenio.” Afraid I should want time to answer her, I replied with great hurry and confusion, “Let your words be verified by your deeds, Madam. If you have a dagger to assert your love, I wear a sword to defend it; or, should fortune prove our foe, to rid myself of life.” I believe she did not hear all that I said, because she was called away in a hurry, to the bridegroom, who waited for her.’

‘Thus deepened the night of my distress; thus set the sun of my happiness! I remained without light to my eyes, or reflection to my mind, for some time; I could neither resolve to enter her father’s house, nor remove to any other place; at length, however, considering of what consequence my presence might be, in case any thing extraordinary should happen, I recollected myself, as well as I could, and went in, without being perceived, as I was well acquainted with all the passages and corners of the house, and was favoured by the confusion which then prevailed in it on account of the nuptials. Thus 150entering, unseen, I found means to conceal myself in the hollow of a window in the hall, that was covered by the meeting of two pieces of tapestry, from behind which I could, without being perceived, observe every thing that happened.

‘How shall I describe the throbbings and palpitations of my heart, the images that occurred to my fancy, the reflections that I made while I remained in that situation! they were such as I neither can nor ought to describe. Let it suffice to say, the bridegroom came into the hall, without any other ornaments than his usual dress, attended by a first cousin of Lucinda, in quality of bridesman, no other person being present, except some servants of the family. A little while after Lucinda came in from her closet, accompanied by her mother and two waiting-women; and as richly dressed and adorned as her rank and beauty deserved, or as the perfection of gaiety and gallantry could invent. The suspence and transport of my soul would not allow me to observe and mark the particulars of her dress; I could only take notice of the colours, which were carnation and white; and the blaze of jewels that adorned her, which was even excelled by the singular beauty of her golden locks, that struck the eye with more splendor than all the precious stones, together with the light of four torches that burned in the hall.—O memory! thou mortal enemy of my repose! to what purpose dost thou now represent to my fancy the unparalleled beauty of that adorable foe? Cruel remembrance! rather recal to my view the particulars of what then happened, that, incensed by such a manifest injury, I may take vengeance, if not upon her, at least upon my own life. But you, gentlemen, must be tired with these digressions; though my misfortune is such as neither can, nor ought to be superficially or succinctly related; because every circumstance, in my opinion, requires a full discussion.’ The curate answered, that far from being tired, they were very much entertained by those minute particulars, which he thought deserved as much attention as the principal events of the story.

‘I say, then,’ resumed Cardenio, that the parties being assembled in the hall, the curate of the parish entered, and taking them both by the hands, in order to perform his function, he said, “Madam Lucinda, are you willing to take Don Fernando here present for your lawful spouse, as holy mother church ordains?” At this question, I thrust out my whole head and neck from behind the tapestry, and, with the utmost attention and disorder of soul, listened, to Lucinda’s answer, which I expected, as either the sentence of my death or confirmation of my life.—O that I had boldly advanced, and called aloud, “Ah Lucinda! Lucinda! take care what you do; reflect upon your duty to me, remember you are mine, and can never belong to any other husband. Consider, that my life must end the moment you answer yes.—Ha! treacherous Don Fernando! robber of my glory! death of my life! what are thy intentions! What wouldst thou have! remember that, as a Christian, thou canst not fulfil thy desires; for I am Lucinda’s husband, and she is my lawful wife!”—Fool that I am! now, when I am absent, and far removed from the danger, I can reflect upon what I ought to have done. Now that I am robbed of all that was dear to my soul! accursed be the robber, on whom I might have taken vengeance, had my heart supplied me with courage, as it now affords inclination to complain. In fine, as I then acted like a booby and a coward, it is but reasonable that I should now die of madness, sorrow, and shame. The priest waited for the reply of Lucinda, who declined it a good while; and when I expected she would either unsheath her dagger to vindicate her love, employ her tongue in the cause of truth, or utter some ingenious fraud that should tend to my advantage, I heard her pronounce with a weak and faultering voice, “Yes, I will.” Don Fernando repeated the same words, and the ring being put upon her finger, they were united in the indissoluble bond of marriage; then he embraced his new-married spouse, who, laying her hand on her heart, fainted away in the arms of her mother. It now remains to describe my own situation, when I heard and saw my 151hopes thus baffled by Lucinda’s breach of promise; and found myself rendered incapable of ever retrieving the happiness I had that instant lost. I remained without sense or reflection, abandoned, as I thought, by Heaven, and a declared enemy to that earth on which I lived. The air refused breath for my sighs, the water denied moisture for my tears, fire alone increased within me, to such a degree, that I was scorched with jealousy and rage! Lucinda’s swooning threw the whole company into confusion; and her mother opening her breast to give her air, found in it a folded paper, which Don Fernando taking, read by the light of one of the torches, and then sat down in a chair, and leaned one side of his head upon his hand, in a pensive attitude, without minding the remedies they were applying for the recovery of his spouse.

‘I, seeing the whole family in confusion, ventured to come out, cost what it would; resolving, should I be seen, to do some desperate action that would convince the whole world of my just indignation, in chastising the false Don Fernando, and the fickle fainting traitress. But fate, that reserved me, if possible, for greater misfortunes, ordained that I should then abound in reflection, which hath since failed me; and resolve, rather than take vengeance upon my greatest enemies, who, as they had no suspicion of me, were then at my mercy, to turn upon myself that resentment which they so justly deferred to feel; and, perhaps, with more rigour than I should have exercised upon them, had I at that time sacrificed them to my rage, because sudden death is infinitely more easy than that which is lengthened out by lingering torments. In short, I quitted the house, and went to the place where I had left my mule, which being saddled, I mounted her, and without taking leave of my host, sallied out of town, dreading, like another Lot, to look behind me. When I found myself alone in the open field, shrouded by the darkness of the night, and invited by the silence to complain, without caution or fear of being overheard or known, I raised my voice, and gave a loose to my indignation, in venting curses upon Lucinda and Don Fernando, as if those vain exclamations could have atoned for the injury they had done me. I bestowed upon her the epithets of cruel, false, perfidious, and ungrateful; but, above all, avaricious; since the wealth of my rival had shut the eyes of her love, detached her from me, and swayed her inclination towards him to whom fortune had shewn herself more kind and liberal. Yet, in the midst of these reproaches and invectives, I could not help excusing her, observing, it was no wonder, that a damsel educated under restraint, in the house of her parents, bred up, and always accustomed to obey them, should comply with their will and pleasure, in marrying a young gentleman of such wealth, rank, and qualifications, that her refusal might have been thought to proceed either from want of sense, or a passion for some other man, which would have been a suspicion equally prejudicial to her virtue and reputation: then I argued on the other side of the question; saying, had she owned that I was her husband, her parents would have seen she had not committed an unpardonable crime in making such a choice; since, before the offer of Don Fernando, they themselves could not have desired, had their desires been bounded by reason, a better match than me for their daughter; and consequently, before she complied with that compulsive injunction of giving her hand to another, she might have told them, that she had already given it to me; in which case, I would have appeared and confirmed the truth of every thing she should have feigned for the occasion; in fine, I concluded, that superficial love, slender understanding, vast ambition, and thirst after grandeur, had obliterated in her memory those professions by which I had been deceived, cherished, and supported, in the unshaken hope of my honourable desires.

‘In this exclamation and anxiety I travelled all night; and in the morning found myself in one of the passages to this mountain, in which I proceeded three days more, without high-road, or bye-path, till I stopped at a small meadow, that lies either on the right or left of these rocks; there I enquired of some goatherds whereabouts the most craggy part of the mountain was; and, according to 152their directions, thither I rode, resolving to put an end to my life. When I arrived among those ragged rocks, my mule fell down dead of weariness and hunger; or, as I rather believe, to disencumber herself of such a useless load as then burdened her; and I remained on foot, quite spent and famished, without having or desiring any support. In this situation, I know not how long I continued stretched upon the ground: but, at length, I got up without feeling any cravings or hunger, and found myself in the midst of some shepherds, who, doubtless, had relieved my necessity. Indeed, they told me in what condition I had been found, uttering such incoherent and extravagant expressions, as clearly demonstrated that I had lost my senses. Since that time, I have frequently perceived my intellects so crazy and unsound, that I perform a thousand mad actions, tearing my cloaths, bellowing through those unfrequented places, cursing my fate, and repeating in vain the beloved name of my fair enemy, without any connected sentences, or indeed any other intent than that of putting an end to my life by violent outcries; and when I recover the use of my senses, I find myself so weak and exhausted, that I scarce can move. My usual habitation is the hollow of a cork tree, large enough to contain this miserable carcase; the cow and goatherds who frequent these mountains, maintain me out of charity, by leaving food upon the road, or rocks, on which they think I may chance to find it; and, even while I am deprived of my understanding, natural instinct teaches me to distinguish this necessary nourishment, awakening my appetite and desire of seizing it for my use. They tell me, too, when they meet with me in one of my lucid intervals, that at other times I sally out by the highway, and take it by force from the shepherds, as they are bringing it from their cots, although they offer it of their own accord. In this manner I lead my woeful and wretched life, until Heaven shall be pleased to put a period to it, or give me grace to forget the beauty and falshood of Lucinda, together with the wrong I have suffered from Don Fernando. If this shall happen before I die, my intellects will return into their right channel; otherwise there is nothing to be done, but to supplicate Heaven to have mercy on my soul; for I find I have neither virtue nor strength to extricate myself out of this extremity into which I was voluntarily plunged.

‘This, gentlemen, is the bitter story of my misfortune; tell me, if you think it could have been rehearsed with less concern than I have shewn; and pray give yourselves no trouble in offering to me such persuasions and advice, as your reason prompts you to think will do me service; for they can have no other effect upon me, than the prescription of a celebrated physician upon a patient who will not receive it. I will have no health without Lucinda; and since she who is, or ought to be mine, hath attached herself to another, I, who might have been the child of happiness, am now the willing votary of woe. She, by her inconstancy, wants to fix my perdition; and I welcome it, in order to gratify her desire, and be an example to posterity, of one who wanted that consolation, which almost all the wretched use! namely, the impossibility of receiving comfort; a consideration that increases my misery, which, I fear, will not end even with death.’

Thus did Cardenio wind up the long thread of his amorous and unfortunate story; and just as the curate was about to give him his best advice and consolation, he was prevented by a voice that saluted his ears, and in mournful accents pronounced what will be rehearsed in the fourth book of this narration; for, in this place, the third is concluded by the sage and attentive historian Cid Hamet Benengeli.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

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