CHAPTER 27
OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER
WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY
The curate’s plan did not seem a bad one to the barber, but on the con-
trary 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 in-
tended 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-fash-
ion 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 suc-
cess 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 indeco-
rous 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 dress-
es, 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 en-
counter 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 recog-
nising 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 archbish-
op. 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 in-
stead 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 pol-
ished 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 musi-
cian 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 primaeval discord held its reign.
The song ended with a deep sigh, and again the listeners remained wait-
ing 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, show-
ing 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, espe-
cially when he heard them speak of his case as if it were a well-known mat-
ter (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 wah, 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 man-
ner 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 ob-
servance 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, al-
lowed 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,” Carde-
nio 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 Fer-
nando 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 wait-
ing 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 be-
cause 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 ven-
ture 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 fideli-
ty, 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 mis-
fortunes 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 Fer-
nando, 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 per-
plexity and amazement, overwhelmed at the sight of such strange and af-
fecting 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 deject-
ed, 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 mis-
fortune that was awaiting me.
“I reached the place whither I had been sent, gave the letter to Don Fer-
nando’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 im-
pelled 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 hap-
pened 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 with-
out 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 trou-
ble I would have in bringing it to you, and knowing by the address that it
was to you it was sent (for, senor, 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 advan-
tage. I have to tell you, senor, 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 clear-
ly 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 unsta-
ble 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 wit-
ness 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 dag-
ger to save thy honour, I have a sword to defend thee or kill myself if for-
tune 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 agi-
tation 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 Luscin-
da 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 jew-
els 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 mem-
ory, 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 per-
form the requisite ceremony, at the words, ‘Will you, Senora Luscinda, take
Senor 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 in-
stant. 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-strick-
en, 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 Luscin-
da 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 faint-
ing, 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 de-
served, 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 quit-
ted 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, un-
grateful, false, thankless, but above all covetous, since the wealth of my en-
emy 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 par-
ents’ 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 gentle-
man 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 ex-
cuse 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 eli-
gible 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 reflec-
tion, 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 moun-
tains, 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, fam-
ishing, 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 thou-
sand 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 com-
monly 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 bet-
ter 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 pre-
scribed 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 an-
other’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 destruc-
tion; 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, Cide Hamete
Benengeli, brought the Third to a conclusion.
