CHAPTER 24
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA
The history relates that it was with the greatest attention Don Quixote lis-
tened to the ragged knight of the Sierra, who began by saying:
“Of a surety, senor, whoever you are, for I know you not, I thank you for
the proofs of kindness and courtesy you have shown me, and would I were
in a condition to requite with something more than good-will that which
you have displayed towards me in the cordial reception you have given me;
but my fate does not afford me any other means of returning kindnesses
done me save the hearty desire to repay them.”
“Mine,” replied Don Quixote, “is to be of service to you, so much so that
I had resolved not to quit these mountains until I had found you, and
learned of you whether there is any kind of relief to be found for that sor-
row under which from the strangeness of your life you seem to labour; and
to search for you with all possible diligence, if search had been necessary.
And if your misfortune should prove to be one of those that refuse admis-
sion to any sort of consolation, it was my purpose to join you in lamenting
and mourning over it, so far as I could; for it is still some comfort in misfor-
tune to find one who can feel for it. And if my good intentions deserve to be
acknowledged with any kind of courtesy, I entreat you, senor, by that which
I perceive you possess in so high a degree, and likewise conjure you by
whatever you love or have loved best in life, to tell me who you are and the
cause that has brought you to live or die in these solitudes like a brute beast,
dwelling among them in a manner so foreign to your condition as your garb
and appearance show. And I swear,” added Don Quixote, “by the order of
knighthood which I have received, and by my vocation of knight-errant, if
you gratify me in this, to serve you with all the zeal my calling demands of
me, either in relieving your misfortune if it admits of relief, or in joining
you in lamenting it as I promised to do.”
The Knight of the Thicket, hearing him of the Rueful Countenance talk in
this strain, did nothing but stare at him, and stare at him again, and again
survey him from head to foot; and when he had thoroughly examined him,
he said to him:
“If you have anything to give me to eat, for God’s sake give it me, and
after I have eaten I will do all you ask in acknowledgment of the goodwill
you have displayed towards me.”
Sancho from his sack, and the goatherd from his pouch, furnished the
Ragged One with the means of appeasing his hunger, and what they gave
him he ate like a half-witted being, so hastily that he took no time between
mouthfuls, gorging rather than swallowing; and while he ate neither he nor
they who observed him uttered a word. As soon as he had done he made
signs to them to follow him, which they did, and he led them to a green plot
which lay a little farther off round the corner of a rock. On reaching it he
stretched himself upon the grass, and the others did the same, all keeping
silence, until the Ragged One, settling himself in his place, said:
“If it is your wish, sirs, that I should disclose in a few words the surpass-
ing extent of my misfortunes, you must promise not to break the thread of
my sad story with any question or other interruption, for the instant you do
so the tale I tell will come to an end.”
These words of the Ragged One reminded Don Quixote of the tale his
squire had told him, when he failed to keep count of the goats that had
crossed the river and the story remained unfinished; but to return to the
Ragged One, he went on to say:
“I give you this warning because I wish to pass briefly over the story of
my misfortunes, for recalling them to memory only serves to add fresh
ones, and the less you question me the sooner shall I make an end of the
recital, though I shall not omit to relate anything of importance in order ful-
ly to satisfy your curiosity.”
Don Quixote gave the promise for himself and the others, and with this
assurance he began as follows:
“My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of this An-
dalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, my misfortune so great that my
parents must have wept and my family grieved over it without being able by
their wealth to lighten it; for the gifts of fortune can do little to relieve re-
verses sent by Heaven. In that same country there was a heaven in which
love had placed all the glory I could desire; such was the beauty of Luscin-
da, a damsel as noble and as rich as I, but of happier fortunes, and of less
firmness than was due to so worthy a passion as mine. This Luscinda I
loved, worshipped, and adored from my earliest and tenderest years, and
she loved me in all the innocence and sincerity of childhood. Our parents
were aware of our feelings, and were not sorry to perceive them, for they
saw clearly that as they ripened they must lead at last to a marriage between
us, a thing that seemed almost prearranged by the equality of our families
and wealth. We grew up, and with our growth grew the love between us, so
that the father of Luscinda felt bound for propriety’s sake to refuse me ad-
mission to his house, in this perhaps imitating the parents of that Thisbe so
celebrated by the poets, and this refusal but added love to love and flame to
flame; for though they enforced silence upon our tongues they could not im-
pose it upon our pens, which can make known the heart’s secrets to a loved
one more freely than tongues; for many a time the presence of the object of
love shakes the firmest will and strikes dumb the boldest tongue. Ah heav-
ens! how many letters did I write her, and how many dainty modest replies
did I receive! how many ditties and love-songs did I compose in which my
heart declared and made known its feelings, described its ardent longings,
revelled in its recollections and dallied with its desires! At length growing
impatient and feeling my heart languishing with longing to see her, I re-
solved to put into execution and carry out what seemed to me the best mode
of winning my desired and merited reward, to ask her of her father for my
lawful wife, which I did. To this his answer was that he thanked me for the
disposition I showed to do honour to him and to regard myself as honoured
by the bestowal of his treasure; but that as my father was alive it was his by
right to make this demand, for if it were not in accordance with his full will
and pleasure, Luscinda was not to be taken or given by stealth. I thanked
him for his kindness, reflecting that there was reason in what he said, and
that my father would assent to it as soon as I should tell him, and with that
view I went the very same instant to let him know what my desires were.
When I entered the room where he was I found him with an open letter in
his hand, which, before I could utter a word, he gave me, saying, ‘By this
letter thou wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition the Duke Ricardo has to serve
thee.’ This Duke Ricardo, as you, sirs, probably know already, is a grandee
of Spain who has his seat in the best part of this Andalusia. I took and read
the letter, which was couched in terms so flattering that even I myself felt it
would be wrong in my father not to comply with the request the duke made
in it, which was that he would send me immediately to him, as he wished
me to become the companion, not servant, of his eldest son, and would take
upon himself the charge of placing me in a position corresponding to the
esteem in which he held me. On reading the letter my voice failed me, and
still more when I heard my father say, ‘Two days hence thou wilt depart,
Cardenio, in accordance with the duke’s wish, and give thanks to God who
is opening a road to thee by which thou mayest attain what I know thou dost
deserve; and to these words he added others of fatherly counsel. The time
for my departure arrived; I spoke one night to Luscinda, I told her all that
had occurred, as I did also to her father, entreating him to allow some delay,
and to defer the disposal of her hand until I should see what the Duke Ricar-
do sought of me: he gave me the promise, and she confirmed it with vows
and swoonings unnumbered. Finally, I presented myself to the duke, and
was received and treated by him so kindly that very soon envy began to do
its work, the old servants growing envious of me, and regarding the duke’s
inclination to show me favour as an injury to themselves. But the one to
whom my arrival gave the greatest pleasure was the duke’s second son, Fer-
nando by name, a gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous disposi-
tion, who very soon made so intimate a friend of me that it was remarked
by everybody; for though the elder was attached to me, and showed me
kindness, he did not carry his affectionate treatment to the same length as
Don Fernando. It so happened, then, that as between friends no secret re-
mains unshared, and as the favour I enjoyed with Don Fernando had grown
into friendship, he made all his thoughts known to me, and in particular a
love affair which troubled his mind a little. He was deeply in love with a
peasant girl, a vassal of his father’s, the daughter of wealthy parents, and
herself so beautiful, modest, discreet, and virtuous, that no one who knew
her was able to decide in which of these respects she was most highly gifted
or most excelled. The attractions of the fair peasant raised the passion of
Don Fernando to such a point that, in order to gain his object and overcome
her virtuous resolutions, he determined to pledge his word to her to become
her husband, for to attempt it in any other way was to attempt an impossi-
bility. Bound to him as I was by friendship, I strove by the best arguments
and the most forcible examples I could think of to restrain and dissuade him
from such a course; but perceiving I produced no effect I resolved to make
the Duke Ricardo, his father, acquainted with the matter; but Don Fernando,
being sharp-witted and shrewd, foresaw and apprehended this, perceiving
that by my duty as a good servant I was bound not to keep concealed a
thing so much opposed to the honour of my lord the duke; and so, to mis-
lead and deceive me, he told me he could find no better way of effacing
from his mind the beauty that so enslaved him than by absenting himself for
some months, and that he wished the absence to be effected by our going,
both of us, to my father’s house under the pretence, which he would make to
the duke, of going to see and buy some fine horses that there were in my
city, which produces the best in the world. When I heard him say so, even if
his resolution had not been so good a one I should have hailed it as one of
the happiest that could be imagined, prompted by my affection, seeing what
a favourable chance and opportunity it offered me of returning to see my
Luscinda. With this thought and wish I commended his idea and encour-
aged his design, advising him to put it into execution as quickly as possible,
as, in truth, absence produced its effect in spite of the most deeply rooted
feelings. But, as afterwards appeared, when he said this to me he had al-
ready enjoyed the peasant girl under the title of husband, and was waiting
for an opportunity of making it known with safety to himself, being in
dread of what his father the duke would do when he came to know of his
folly. It happened, then, that as with young men love is for the most part
nothing more than appetite, which, as its final object is enjoyment, comes to
an end on obtaining it, and that which seemed to be love takes to flight, as it
cannot pass the limit fixed by nature, which fixes no limit to true love—
what I mean is that after Don Fernando had enjoyed this peasant girl his
passion subsided and his eagerness cooled, and if at first he feigned a wish
to absent himself in order to cure his love, he was now in reality anxious to
go to avoid keeping his promise.
“The duke gave him permission, and ordered me to accompany him; we
arrived at my city, and my father gave him the reception due to his rank; I
saw Luscinda without delay, and, though it had not been dead or deadened,
my love gathered fresh life. To my sorrow I told the story of it to Don Fer-
nando, for I thought that in virtue of the great friendship he bore me I was
bound to conceal nothing from him. I extolled her beauty, her gaiety, her
wit, so warmly, that my praises excited in him a desire to see a damsel
adorned by such attractions. To my misfortune I yielded to it, showing her
to him one night by the light of a taper at a window where we used to talk
to one another. As she appeared to him in her dressing-gown, she drove all
the beauties he had seen until then out of his recollection; speech failed
him, his head turned, he was spell-bound, and in the end love-smitten, as
you will see in the course of the story of my misfortune; and to inflame still
further his passion, which he hid from me and revealed to Heaven alone, it
so happened that one day he found a note of hers entreating me to demand
her of her father in marriage, so delicate, so modest, and so tender, that on
reading it he told me that in Luscinda alone were combined all the charms
of beauty and understanding that were distributed among all the other
women in the world. It is true, and I own it now, that though I knew what
good cause Don Fernando had to praise Luscinda, it gave me uneasiness to
hear these praises from his mouth, and I began to fear, and with reason to
feel distrust of him, for there was no moment when he was not ready to talk
of Luscinda, and he would start the subject himself even though he dragged
it in unseasonably, a circumstance that aroused in me a certain amount of
jealousy; not that I feared any change in the constancy or faith of Luscinda;
but still my fate led me to forebode what she assured me against. Don Fer-
nando contrived always to read the letters I sent to Luscinda and her an-
swers to me, under the pretence that he enjoyed the wit and sense of both. It
so happened, then, that Luscinda having begged of me a book of chivalry to
read, one that she was very fond of, Amadis of Gaul-”
Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry mentioned, than he said:
“Had your worship told me at the beginning of your story that the Lady
Luscinda was fond of books of chivalry, no other laudation would have
been requisite to impress upon me the superiority of her understanding, for
it could not have been of the excellence you describe had a taste for such
delightful reading been wanting; so, as far as I am concerned, you need
waste no more words in describing her beauty, worth, and intelligence; for,
on merely hearing what her taste was, I declare her to be the most beautiful
and the most intelligent woman in the world; and I wish your worship had,
along with Amadis of Gaul, sent her the worthy Don Rugel of Greece, for I
know the Lady Luscinda would greatly relish Daraida and Garaya, and the
shrewd sayings of the shepherd Darinel, and the admirable verses of his bu-
colics, sung and delivered by him with such sprightliness, wit, and ease; but
a time may come when this omission can be remedied, and to rectify it
nothing more is needed than for your worship to be so good as to come with
me to my village, for there I can give you more than three hundred books
which are the delight of my soul and the entertainment of my life;—though
it occurs to me that I have not got one of them now, thanks to the spite of
wicked and envious enchanters;—but pardon me for having broken the
promise we made not to interrupt your discourse; for when I hear chivalry
or knights-errant mentioned, I can no more help talking about them than the
rays of the sun can help giving heat, or those of the moon moisture; pardon
me, therefore, and proceed, for that is more to the purpose now.”
While Don Quixote was saying this, Cardenio allowed his head to fall
upon his breast, and seemed plunged in deep thought; and though twice
Don Quixote bade him go on with his story, he neither looked up nor ut-
tered a word in reply; but after some time he raised his head and said, “I
cannot get rid of the idea, nor will anyone in the world remove it, or make
me think otherwise—and he would be a blockhead who would hold or be-
lieve anything else than that that arrant knave Master Elisabad made free
with Queen Madasima.”
“That is not true, by all that’s good,” said Don Quixote in high wrath,
turning upon him angrily, as his way was; “and it is a very great slander, or
rather villainy. Queen Madasima was a very illustrious lady, and it is not to
be supposed that so exalted a princess would have made free with a quack;
and whoever maintains the contrary lies like a great scoundrel, and I will
give him to know it, on foot or on horseback, armed or unarmed, by night
or by day, or as he likes best.”
Cardenio was looking at him steadily, and his mad fit having now come
upon him, he had no disposition to go on with his story, nor would Don
Quixote have listened to it, so much had what he had heard about Madasi-
ma disgusted him. Strange to say, he stood up for her as if she were in
earnest his veritable born lady; to such a pass had his unholy books brought
him. Cardenio, then, being, as I said, now mad, when he heard himself giv-
en the lie, and called a scoundrel and other insulting names, not relishing
the jest, snatched up a stone that he found near him, and with it delivered
such a blow on Don Quixote’s breast that he laid him on his back. Sancho
Panza, seeing his master treated in this fashion, attacked the madman with
his closed fist; but the Ragged One received him in such a way that with a
blow of his fist he stretched him at his feet, and then mounting upon him
crushed his ribs to his own satisfaction; the goatherd, who came to the res-
cue, shared the same fate; and having beaten and pummelled them all he
left them and quietly withdrew to his hiding-place on the mountain. Sancho
rose, and with the rage he felt at finding himself so belaboured without de-
serving it, ran to take vengeance on the goatherd, accusing him of not giv-
ing them warning that this man was at times taken with a mad fit, for if they
had known it they would have been on their guard to protect themselves.
The goatherd replied that he had said so, and that if he had not heard him,
that was no fault of his. Sancho retorted, and the goatherd rejoined, and the
altercation ended in their seizing each other by the beard, and exchanging
such fisticuffs that if Don Quixote had not made peace between them, they
would have knocked one another to pieces.
“Leave me alone, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance,” said Sancho,
grappling with the goatherd, “for of this fellow, who is a clown like myself,
and no dubbed knight, I can safely take satisfaction for the affront he has
offered me, fighting with him hand to hand like an honest man.”
“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “but I know that he is not to blame for
what has happened.”
With this he pacified them, and again asked the goatherd if it would be
possible to find Cardenio, as he felt the greatest anxiety to know the end of
his story. The goatherd told him, as he had told him before, that there was
no knowing of a certainty where his lair was; but that if he wandered about
much in that neighbourhood he could not fail to fall in with him either in or
out of his senses.
