Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (37 page)

They said goodbye to everyone, including the good Maritornes, who promised to say a rosary, although a sinner, and ask God to grant them success in so arduous and Christian an enterprise as the one they had undertaken.

But as soon as he had ridden out of the inn, it occurred to the priest that he was committing an error by dressing in that manner, for it was an indecent thing for a member of the clergy to do, no matter how important the end; he told this to the barber and asked him to trade clothes with him, since it would be better if the barber was the damsel in distress and the priest played the part of the squire; in this way his office would be less profaned, but if the barber did not want to make the change, he had decided to go no further, even if the devil made off with Don Quixote.

At this point Sancho approached, and when he saw the two of them in those clothes, he could not control his laughter. The barber, in fact, agreed to everything the priest said, and as they traded disguises, the priest informed him how he should behave and the words he had to say to Don Quixote in order to move and oblige him to go away with him and leave the place he had chosen for his useless penance. The barber responded that he had no need of instruction and would do everything perfectly. He did not want to put on his disguise until they were near the place where they would find Don Quixote, and so he folded the garments, and the priest adjusted the beard, and they continued their journey, led by Sancho Panza, who recounted what had happened with the madman they had come across in the sierra, although he did hide the discovery of the traveling case and everything that was in it, for although he was a fool, the squire was somewhat greedy.

On the following day, they reached the place where Sancho had
made the trail of broom so that he could find the spot where he had left his master; and when he saw this, he said that this was the way into the mountains and they ought to put on their disguises if that was needed to achieve his master’s freedom; they had told him earlier that doing what they were doing and dressing in that fashion were crucial to freeing his master from the injudicious life he had chosen, and they had charged him repeatedly that he was not to tell his master who they were, or that he knew them; if his master asked, as he was bound to ask, if he had given the letter to Dulcinea, he was to say yes, and because she did not know how to read she had spoken her reply, saying that she ordered him, under pain of her displeasure, to come to see her immediately, and it was very important because with this, and what they intended to say to him, they were certain they could turn him to a better life and set him on the road to becoming an emperor or a monarch; as for becoming an archbishop, there was no reason to worry about that.

Sancho listened to everything, and noted it carefully in his mind, and thanked them profusely for their intention to advise his master to be an emperor and not an archbishop, because in his opinion, as far as granting favors to their squires was concerned, emperors could do more than archbishops errant. He also said it would be a good idea if he went first and found his master and told him his lady’s reply, for that would probably be enough to make him leave the place, saving them a good deal of trouble. What Sancho said seemed reasonable, and they decided to wait until he came back with the news that he had found his master.

Sancho entered the ravines of the sierra, leaving the priest and barber in one where a small, gentle stream ran in the cool, pleasant shade cast by other rocky crags and the trees that grew all around. They had come there on a day in August, and the heat was intense, particularly in that area; the time was three in the afternoon, making the spot even more pleasant, and inviting them to wait until Sancho returned, which is what they did.

While the two men were resting in the shade, a voice unaccompanied by the music of any other instrument reached their ears, and it sounded so sweet and delicate that they were more than a little taken aback, for the place did not seem the kind where there would be anyone who could sing so well. Although it is often said that in the forests and fields one can find shepherds with extremely fine voices, these are more the exaggerations of poets than the truth; they were especially surprised when they realized that they were hearing the verses not of rustic shep
herds but of learned courtiers. And in confirmation of this truth, these were the verses they heard:

The hour, the weather, the solitude, the voice, and the skill of the one who was singing caused both wonder and pleasure in the two who were listening, and they remained quiet, hoping they would hear more;
but seeing that the silence lasted for some time, they resolved to look for the musician who sang with so beautiful a voice. And as they were about to do so, the same voice kept them from moving, for again it reached their ears, singing this sonnet:

The song ended with a profound sigh, and the two men waited again, listening attentively for more singing; but seeing that the music had turned to sobs and pitiful laments, they decided to learn who the aggrieved person was who sang so beautifully and wept so mournfully; before they had gone very far, they walked behind a rocky crag and saw a man whose figure and appearance were the same as those described by Sancho Panza when he told them the story of Cardenio, and this man, when he saw them, did not become agitated but remained motionless, his head lowered as if he were lost in thought, and he did not raise his eyes again to look at them after the first glance, when they had appeared so unexpectedly.

The priest, who was a well-spoken man and already knew of Cardenio’s misfortune, for he had recognized who he was, approached him, and in brief though very perceptive words implored and exhorted him to leave the wretched life he was pursuing there or else he might lose his life, which would be the greatest of all misfortunes. At that moment
Cardenio was completely rational, free of the fits of madness that so often drove him to fury, and when he saw them dressed in clothing so different from that worn by the men who wandered those desolate places, he could not help but be astonished, especially when he heard his affairs discussed as if they were common knowledge—for the words the priest said led him to this conclusion—and he responded in this manner:

“I see clearly, Señores, whoever you may be, that heaven, watching over the good, and even the bad very often, through no merit of my own has sent me, in this solitary place so far removed from ordinary human commerce, persons who have set before me, with vivid and varied reasons, how lacking in reason I am to live the life I lead, and have attempted to turn me away from this life and toward a better one; but since you do not know that I know that if I leave this evil I fall into another even greater, perhaps you consider me a man whose power of reasoning is weak and, even worse, one who has no judgment at all. It would not be surprising if that were the case, because it is evident to me that in my imagination the power of my afflictions is so intense and contributes so much to my ruination that I am powerless to prevent it and I become like a stone, bereft of all sense and awareness; I become conscious of this truth only when people tell me and show me the evidence of the things I have done while that terrible attack has control over me, and all I can do is lament my fate in vain, and curse it to no avail, and offer as an excuse for my mad acts the recounting of their cause to all who wish to hear it, for if rational men see the cause, they will not be surprised by the effects, and if they cannot help me, at least they will not blame me, and anger at my outbursts will be transformed into pity for my misfortunes. If you, Señores, have come with the same intention that has brought others here, before you go any further in your wise arguments I ask you to hear the as yet unfinished account of my tribulations, because perhaps when you have, you will spare yourselves the trouble of offering consolation for an affliction that is inconsolable.”

The two men, who wanted nothing else but to hear from Cardenio’s own lips the reason for his ills, asked that he tell it to them and said they would do only what he wished, either to help or to console him; then the aggrieved gentleman began his pitiful history with almost the same words and phrases he had used to relate it to Don Quixote and the goatherd a few days earlier, when, as this history has recounted, because of Master Elisabat and Don Quixote’s punctilious defense of chivalric decorum, the tale was not concluded. But now it was their good fortune
that the attack of madness was over, giving Cardenio an opportunity to narrate his tale to the end; and so, when he came to the letter Don Fernando had found in the volume of
Amadís of Gaul,
Cardenio said he knew it by heart, and what it said was this:

This letter moved me to ask for Luscinda’s hand, as I have told you; it was the reason Don Fernando considered Luscinda to be one of the most intelligent and prudent women of her time; this letter was the one that filled him with the desire to destroy me before my own desires could be realized. I told Don Fernando what Luscinda’s father had said about my father’s asking for her hand, which I did not dare mention to my father for fear he would not agree, not because he did not know Luscinda’s quality, worth, virtue, and beauty, or that she possessed more than enough excellent traits to ennoble any family in Spain, but because I understood that he did not wish me to marry until he knew what Duke Ricardo had planned for me. In short, I told him I had not risked speaking to my father, for this reason and many others that made me fearful although I did not know precisely what they were, except that it seemed to me that what I desired would never become a reality. To all of this Don Fernando replied that he would assume the responsibility of speaking to my father and persuading him to speak to Luscinda’s father.

O ambitious Marius, O cruel Catilina, O wicked Sulla, O lying Galalón, O traitorous Vellido, O vengeful Julián, O greedy Judas! Traitorous, cruel, vengeful, and lying man, what disservice had been done to you by this wretch who so openly revealed to you the secrets and joys of his heart? How did I offend you? What words did I say, what advice did I give that was not intended to increase your honor or your advantage? But woe is me! Why do I complain? Everyone knows that when misfortunes are brought by the course of the stars, hurtling down from on high with fury and violence, no power on earth can stop them, no human effort can prevent them. Who could imagine that Don Fernando, an illus
trious and intelligent nobleman under obligation to me for my services, and able to attain whatever his amorous desire might demand no matter where it turned, would, as they say, bother to burden his conscience by taking from me my only sheep, one that I did not yet possess?

But let us put such considerations aside, for they are futile and unprofitable, and take up again the broken thread of my unfortunate history. I shall tell you, then, that Don Fernando thought my presence would be troublesome to him when he put his false and evil idea into effect, and he resolved to send me to his older brother with a request for money to pay for six horses, which he intentionally bought for the sole purpose of having me leave (in order to achieve more easily his reprehensible purpose), and on the same day that he offered to speak to my father he asked me to go for the money. Could I foresee this betrayal? Could I, by some chance, even imagine it? No, of course not; instead, with great pleasure I offered to leave immediately, gratified at the good purchase he had made.

That night I spoke to Luscinda, and told her what I had arranged with Don Fernando, and said she should be confident that our virtuous and honest desires would be realized. She, as unaware as I of Don Fernando’s perfidy, told me to try to return home quickly because she believed that the fulfillment of our desires would take no longer than the time it took for my father to speak to her father. I do not know why, but after she said this her eyes filled with tears, and the lump in her throat kept her from speaking another word of the many that, it seemed to me, she was attempting to say. I was taken aback by this uncommon emotion, which I had not seen in her before, because whenever we spoke, on the occasions when good fortune and my diligence permitted it, it was with joy and gladness, and our conversations were not mixed with tears, sighs, jealousies, suspicions, or fears. I would exalt my happiness because heaven had granted me Luscinda as my lady: I exaggerated her beauty and marveled at her virtue and understanding. She returned the favor, praising in me those things that she, as a woman in love, found worthy of praise. We would tell each other a thousand trifles, things that had happened to our neighbors and friends, and the limit of my boldness was to grasp, almost by force, one of her beautiful white hands and raise it to my lips, or as far as the constraints of the grating that divided us would allow. But on the night that preceded the sad day of my departure, she wept, moaned, sighed, and then withdrew, leaving me full of confusion and alarm, apprehensive at having seen such new and melancholy signs of Luscinda’s sorrow and grief; in order not to destroy my hopes, I attributed
everything to the strength of the love she had for me and the sadness that absence usually causes in those who truly love each other. In short, I set out sad and pensive, my soul filled with imaginings and suspicions, not knowing what I suspected or imagined; these were clear signs of the sad, grievous events that lay ahead of me.