CHAPTER 30
WHICH TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER MAT-
TERS PLEASANT AND AMUSING
The curate had hardly ceased speaking, when Sancho said, “In faith, then,
senor licentiate, he who did that deed was my master; and it was not for
want of my telling him beforehand and warning him to mind what he was
about, and that it was a sin to set them at liberty, as they were all on the
march there because they were special scoundrels.”
“Blockhead!” said Don Quixote at this, “it is no business or concern of
knights-errant to inquire whether any persons in affliction, in chains, or op-
pressed that they may meet on the high roads go that way and suffer as they
do because of their faults or because of their misfortunes. It only concerns
them to aid them as persons in need of help, having regard to their suffer-
ings and not to their rascalities. I encountered a chaplet or string of miser-
able and unfortunate people, and did for them what my sense of duty de-
mands of me, and as for the rest be that as it may; and whoever takes objec-
tion to it, saving the sacred dignity of the senor licentiate and his honoured
person, I say he knows little about chivalry and lies like a whoreson villain,
and this I will give him to know to the fullest extent with my sword;” and so
saying he settled himself in his stirrups and pressed down his morion; for
the barber’s basin, which according to him was Mambrino’s helmet, he car-
ried hanging at the saddle-bow until he could repair the damage done to it
by the galley slaves.
Dorothea, who was shrewd and sprightly, and by this time thoroughly un-
derstood Don Quixote’s crazy turn, and that all except Sancho Panza were
making game of him, not to be behind the rest said to him, on observing his
irritation, “Sir Knight, remember the boon you have promised me, and that
in accordance with it you must not engage in any other adventure, be it ever
so pressing; calm yourself, for if the licentiate had known that the galley
slaves had been set free by that unconquered arm he would have stopped his
mouth thrice over, or even bitten his tongue three times before he would
have said a word that tended towards disrespect of your worship.”
“That I swear heartily,” said the curate, “and I would have even plucked
off a moustache.”
“I will hold my peace, senora,” said Don Quixote, “and I will curb the
natural anger that had arisen in my breast, and will proceed in peace and
quietness until I have fulfilled my promise; but in return for this considera-
tion I entreat you to tell me, if you have no objection to do so, what is the
nature of your trouble, and how many, who, and what are the persons of
whom I am to require due satisfaction, and on whom I am to take
vengeance on your behalf?”
“That I will do with all my heart,” replied Dorothea, “if it will not be
wearisome to you to hear of miseries and misfortunes.”
“It will not be wearisome, senora,” said Don Quixote; to which Dorothea
replied, “Well, if that be so, give me your attention.” As soon as she said
this, Cardenio and the barber drew close to her side, eager to hear what sort
of story the quick-witted Dorothea would invent for herself; and Sancho did
the same, for he was as much taken in by her as his master; and she having
settled herself comfortably in the saddle, and with the help of coughing and
other preliminaries taken time to think, began with great sprightliness of
manner in this fashion.
“First of all, I would have you know, sirs, that my name is-” and here she
stopped for a moment, for she forgot the name the curate had given her; but
he came to her relief, seeing what her difficulty was, and said, “It is no won-
der, senora, that your highness should be confused and embarrassed in
telling the tale of your misfortunes; for such afflictions often have the effect
of depriving the sufferers of memory, so that they do not even remember
their own names, as is the case now with your ladyship, who has forgotten
that she is called the Princess Micomicona, lawful heiress of the great king-
dom of Micomicon; and with this cue your highness may now recall to your
sorrowful recollection all you may wish to tell us.”
“That is the truth,” said the damsel; “but I think from this on I shall have
no need of any prompting, and I shall bring my true story safe into port, and
here it is. The king my father, who was called Tinacrio the Sapient, was
very learned in what they call magic arts, and became aware by his craft
that my mother, who was called Queen Jaramilla, was to die before he did,
and that soon after he too was to depart this life, and I was to be left an or-
phan without father or mother. But all this, he declared, did not so much
grieve or distress him as his certain knowledge that a prodigious giant, the
lord of a great island close to our kingdom, Pandafilando of the Scowl by
name—for it is averred that, though his eyes are properly placed and
straight, he always looks askew as if he squinted, and this he does out of
malignity, to strike fear and terror into those he looks at—that he knew, I
say, that this giant on becoming aware of my orphan condition would over-
run my kingdom with a mighty force and strip me of all, not leaving me
even a small village to shelter me; but that I could avoid all this ruin and
misfortune if I were willing to marry him; however, as far as he could see,
he never expected that I would consent to a marriage so unequal; and he
said no more than the truth in this, for it has never entered my mind to mar-
ry that giant, or any other, let him be ever so great or enormous. My father
said, too, that when he was dead, and I saw Pandafilando about to invade
my kingdom, I was not to wait and attempt to defend myself, for that would
be destructive to me, but that I should leave the kingdom entirely open to
him if I wished to avoid the death and total destruction of my good and loy-
al vassals, for there would be no possibility of defending myself against the
giant’s devilish power; and that I should at once with some of my followers
set out for Spain, where I should obtain relief in my distress on finding a
certain knight-errant whose fame by that time would extend over the whole
kingdom, and who would be called, if I remember rightly, Don Azote or
Don Gigote.”
“‘Don Quixote,’ he must have said, senora,” observed Sancho at this,
“otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”
“That is it,” said Dorothea; “he said, moreover, that he would be tall of
stature and lank featured; and that on his right side under the left shoulder,
or thereabouts, he would have a grey mole with hairs like bristles.”
On hearing this, Don Quixote said to his squire, “Here, Sancho my son,
bear a hand and help me to strip, for I want to see if I am the knight that
sage king foretold.”
“What does your worship want to strip for?” said Dorothea.
“To see if I have that mole your father spoke of,” answered Don Quixote.
“There is no occasion to strip,” said Sancho; “for I know your worship
has just such a mole on the middle of your backbone, which is the mark of a
strong man.”
“That is enough,” said Dorothea, “for with friends we must not look too
closely into trifles; and whether it be on the shoulder or on the backbone
matters little; it is enough if there is a mole, be it where it may, for it is all
the same flesh; no doubt my good father hit the truth in every particular, and
I have made a lucky hit in commending myself to Don Quixote; for he is
the one my father spoke of, as the features of his countenance correspond
with those assigned to this knight by that wide fame he has acquired not
only in Spain but in all La Mancha; for I had scarcely landed at Osuna when
I heard such accounts of his achievements, that at once my heart told me he
was the very one I had come in search of.”
“But how did you land at Osuna, senora,” asked Don Quixote, “when it is
not a seaport?”
But before Dorothea could reply the curate anticipated her, saying, “The
princess meant to say that after she had landed at Malaga the first place
where she heard of your worship was Osuna.”
“That is what I meant to say,” said Dorothea.
“And that would be only natural,” said the curate. “Will your majesty
please proceed?”
“There is no more to add,” said Dorothea, “save that in finding Don
Quixote I have had such good fortune, that I already reckon and regard my-
self queen and mistress of my entire dominions, since of his courtesy and
magnanimity he has granted me the boon of accompanying me whitherso-
ever I may conduct him, which will be only to bring him face to face with
Pandafilando of the Scowl, that he may slay him and restore to me what has
been unjustly usurped by him: for all this must come to pass satisfactorily
since my good father Tinacrio the Sapient foretold it, who likewise left it
declared in writing in Chaldee or Greek characters (for I cannot read them),
that if this predicted knight, after having cut the giant’s throat, should be
disposed to marry me I was to offer myself at once without demur as his
lawful wife, and yield him possession of my kingdom together with my
person.”
“What thinkest thou now, friend Sancho?” said Don Quixote at this.
“Hearest thou that? Did I not tell thee so? See how we have already got a
kingdom to govern and a queen to marry!”
“On my oath it is so,” said Sancho; “and foul fortune to him who won’t
marry after slitting Senor Pandahilado’s windpipe! And then, how ill-
favoured the queen is! I wish the fleas in my bed were that sort!”
And so saying he cut a couple of capers in the air with every sign of ex-
treme satisfaction, and then ran to seize the bridle of Dorothea’s mule, and
checking it fell on his knees before her, begging her to give him her hand to
kiss in token of his acknowledgment of her as his queen and mistress.
Which of the bystanders could have helped laughing to see the madness of
the master and the simplicity of the servant? Dorothea therefore gave her
hand, and promised to make him a great lord in her kingdom, when Heaven
should be so good as to permit her to recover and enjoy it, for which San-
cho returned thanks in words that set them all laughing again.
“This, sirs,” continued Dorothea, “is my story; it only remains to tell you
that of all the attendants I took with me from my kingdom I have none left
except this well-bearded squire, for all were drowned in a great tempest we
encountered when in sight of port; and he and I came to land on a couple of
planks as if by a miracle; and indeed the whole course of my life is a mira-
cle and a mystery as you may have observed; and if I have been over
minute in any respect or not as precise as I ought, let it be accounted for by
what the licentiate said at the beginning of my tale, that constant and exces-
sive troubles deprive the sufferers of their memory.”
“They shall not deprive me of mine, exalted and worthy princess,” said
Don Quixote, “however great and unexampled those which I shall endure in
your service may be; and here I confirm anew the boon I have promised
you, and I swear to go with you to the end of the world until I find myself in
the presence of your fierce enemy, whose haughty head I trust by the aid of
my arm to cut off with the edge of this—I will not say good sword, thanks
to Gines de Pasamonte who carried away mine”—(this he said between his
teeth, and then continued), “and when it has been cut off and you have been
put in peaceful possession of your realm it shall be left to your own deci-
sion to dispose of your person as may be most pleasing to you; for so long
as my memory is occupied, my will enslaved, and my understanding en-
thralled by her-I say no more—it is impossible for me for a moment to con-
template marriage, even with a Phoenix.”
The last words of his master about not wanting to marry were so dis-
agreeable to Sancho that raising his voice he exclaimed with great irritation:
“By my oath, Senor Don Quixote, you are not in your right senses; for
how can your worship possibly object to marrying such an exalted princess
as this? Do you think Fortune will offer you behind every stone such a piece
of luck as is offered you now? Is my lady Dulcinea fairer, perchance? Not
she; nor half as fair; and I will even go so far as to say she does not come up
to the shoe of this one here. A poor chance I have of getting that county I
am waiting for if your worship goes looking for dainties in the bottom of
the sea. In the devil’s name, marry, marry, and take this kingdom that comes
to hand without any trouble, and when you are king make me a marquis or
governor of a province, and for the rest let the devil take it all.”
Don Quixote, when he heard such blasphemies uttered against his lady
Dulcinea, could not endure it, and lifting his pike, without saying anything
to Sancho or uttering a word, he gave him two such thwacks that he brought
him to the ground; and had it not been that Dorothea cried out to him to
spare him he would have no doubt taken his life on the spot.
“Do you think,” he said to him after a pause, “you scurvy clown, that you
are to be always interfering with me, and that you are to be always offend-
ing and I always pardoning? Don’t fancy it, impious scoundrel, for that be-
yond a doubt thou art, since thou hast set thy tongue going against the peer-
less Dulcinea. Know you not, lout, vagabond, beggar, that were it not for
the might that she infuses into my arm I should not have strength enough to
kill a flea? Say, scoffer with a viper’s tongue, what think you has won this
kingdom and cut off this giant’s head and made you a marquis (for all this I
count as already accomplished and decided), but the might of Dulcinea, em-
ploying my arm as the instrument of her achievements? She fights in me
and conquers in me, and I live and breathe in her, and owe my life and be-
ing to her. O whoreson scoundrel, how ungrateful you are, you see yourself
raised from the dust of the earth to be a titled lord, and the return you make
for so great a benefit is to speak evil of her who has conferred it upon you!”
Sancho was not so stunned but that he heard all his master said, and ris-
ing with some degree of nimbleness he ran to place himself behind
Dorothea’s palfrey, and from that position he said to his master:
“Tell me, senor; if your worship is resolved not to marry this great
princess, it is plain the kingdom will not be yours; and not being so, how
can you bestow favours upon me? That is what I complain of. Let your wor-
ship at any rate marry this queen, now that we have got her here as if show-
ered down from heaven, and afterwards you may go back to my lady Dul-
cinea; for there must have been kings in the world who kept mistresses. As
to beauty, I have nothing to do with it; and if the truth is to be told, I like
them both; though I have never seen the lady Dulcinea.”
“How! never seen her, blasphemous traitor!” exclaimed Don Quixote;
“hast thou not just now brought me a message from her?”
“I mean,” said Sancho, “that I did not see her so much at my leisure that I
could take particular notice of her beauty, or of her charms piecemeal; but
taken in the lump I like her.”
“Now I forgive thee,” said Don Quixote; “and do thou forgive me the in-
jury I have done thee; for our first impulses are not in our control.”
“That I see,” replied Sancho, “and with me the wish to speak is always
the first impulse, and I cannot help saying, once at any rate, what I have on
the tip of my tongue.”
“For all that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “take heed of what thou sayest,
for the pitcher goes so often to the well—I need say no more to thee.”
“Well, well,” said Sancho, “God is in heaven, and sees all tricks, and will
judge who does most harm, I in not speaking right, or your worship in not
doing it.”
“That is enough,” said Dorothea; “run, Sancho, and kiss your lord’s hand
and beg his pardon, and henceforward be more circumspect with your
praise and abuse; and say nothing in disparagement of that lady Toboso, of
whom I know nothing save that I am her servant; and put your trust in God,
for you will not fail to obtain some dignity so as to live like a prince.”
Sancho advanced hanging his head and begged his master’s hand, which
Don Quixote with dignity presented to him, giving him his blessing as soon
as he had kissed it; he then bade him go on ahead a little, as he had ques-
tions to ask him and matters of great importance to discuss with him. San-
cho obeyed, and when the two had gone some distance in advance Don
Quixote said to him, “Since thy return I have had no opportunity or time to
ask thee many particulars touching thy mission and the answer thou hast
brought back, and now that chance has granted us the time and opportunity,
deny me not the happiness thou canst give me by such good news.”
“Let your worship ask what you will,” answered Sancho, “for I shall find
a way out of all as as I found a way in; but I implore you, senor, not not to
be so revengeful in future.”
“Why dost thou say that, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“I say it,” he returned, “because those blows just now were more because
of the quarrel the devil stirred up between us both the other night, than for
what I said against my lady Dulcinea, whom I love and reverence as I
would a relic—though there is nothing of that about her—merely as some-
thing belonging to your worship.”
“Say no more on that subject for thy life, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“for it is displeasing to me; I have already pardoned thee for that, and thou
knowest the common saying, ‘for a fresh sin a fresh penance.'”
While this was going on they saw coming along the road they were fol-
lowing a man mounted on an ass, who when he came close seemed to be a
gipsy; but Sancho Panza, whose eyes and heart were there wherever he saw
asses, no sooner beheld the man than he knew him to be Gines de Pasa-
monte; and by the thread of the gipsy he got at the ball, his ass, for it was, in
fact, Dapple that carried Pasamonte, who to escape recognition and to sell
the ass had disguised himself as a gipsy, being able to speak the gipsy lan-
guage, and many more, as well as if they were his own. Sancho saw him
and recognised him, and the instant he did so he shouted to him, “Ginesillo,
you thief, give up my treasure, release my life, embarrass thyself not with
my repose, quit my ass, leave my delight, be off, rip, get thee gone, thief,
and give up what is not thine.”
There was no necessity for so many words or objurgations, for at the first
one Gines jumped down, and at a like racing speed made off and got clear
of them all. Sancho hastened to his Dapple, and embracing him he said,
“How hast thou fared, my blessing, Dapple of my eyes, my comrade?” all
the while kissing him and caressing him as if he were a human being. The
ass held his peace, and let himself be kissed and caressed by Sancho with-
out answering a single word. They all came up and congratulated him on
having found Dapple, Don Quixote especially, who told him that not-
withstanding this he would not cancel the order for the three ass-colts, for
which Sancho thanked him.
While the two had been going along conversing in this fashion, the curate
observed to Dorothea that she had shown great cleverness, as well in the
story itself as in its conciseness, and the resemblance it bore to those of the
books of chivalry. She said that she had many times amused herself reading
them; but that she did not know the situation of the provinces or seaports,
and so she had said at haphazard that she had landed at Osuna.
“So I saw,” said the curate, “and for that reason I made haste to say what
I did, by which it was all set right. But is it not a strange thing to see how
readily this unhappy gentleman believes all these figments and lies, simply
because they are in the style and manner of the absurdities of his books?”
“So it is,” said Cardenio; “and so uncommon and unexampled, that were
one to attempt to invent and concoct it in fiction, I doubt if there be any wit
keen enough to imagine it.”
“But another strange thing about it,” said the curate, “is that, apart from
the silly things which this worthy gentleman says in connection with his
craze, when other subjects are dealt with, he can discuss them in a perfectly
rational manner, showing that his mind is quite clear and composed; so that,
provided his chivalry is not touched upon, no one would take him to be any-
thing but a man of thoroughly sound understanding.”
While they were holding this conversation Don Quixote continued his
with Sancho, saying:
“Friend Panza, let us forgive and forget as to our quarrels, and tell me
now, dismissing anger and irritation, where, how, and when didst thou find
Dulcinea? What was she doing? What didst thou say to her? What did she
answer? How did she look when she was reading my letter? Who copied it
out for thee? and everything in the matter that seems to thee worth know-
ing, asking, and learning; neither adding nor falsifying to give me pleasure,
nor yet curtailing lest you should deprive me of it.”
“Senor,” replied Sancho, “if the truth is to be told, nobody copied out the
letter for me, for I carried no letter at all.”
“It is as thou sayest,” said Don Quixote, “for the note-book in which I
wrote it I found in my own possession two days after thy departure, which
gave me very great vexation, as I knew not what thou wouldst do on finding
thyself without any letter; and I made sure thou wouldst return from the
place where thou didst first miss it.”
“So I should have done,” said Sancho, “if I had not got it by heart when
your worship read it to me, so that I repeated it to a sacristan, who copied it
out for me from hearing it, so exactly that he said in all the days of his life,
though he had read many a letter of excommunication, he had never seen or
read so pretty a letter as that.”
“And hast thou got it still in thy memory, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“No, senor,” replied Sancho, “for as soon as I had repeated it, seeing
there was no further use for it, I set about forgetting it; and if I recollect any
of it, it is that about ‘Scrubbing,’I mean to say ‘Sovereign Lady,’ and the end
‘Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance;’ and between these
two I put into it more than three hundred ‘my souls’ and ‘my life’s’ and ‘my
eyes.”
