To further heighten his desire, which he concealed from me and revealed only to heaven when he was alone, one day he happened to find one of her letters that asked me to ask her father for her hand, and it was so discreet, so virtuous, and so loving that when he had read it he told me that in Luscinda alone one could find concentrated the gifts of beauty and intelligence that were divided among all the other women in the world. It is certainly true, and I wish to confess now that even though I saw with what just cause Don Fernando praised Luscinda, it troubled me to hear that praise from his mouth, and I began to fear and mistrust him because not a moment went by when he did not wish to speak of Luscinda, and he would initiate the conversation about her with any far-fetched excuse, which awakened in me a certain jealousy, though not because I feared any kind of change in the goodness and good faith of Luscinda; even so, I began to be apprehensive with regard to the very future about which she gave me assurances. Don Fernando always wanted to read the letters I sent to Luscinda and the ones she sent back to me, claiming that he enjoyed the wit we both displayed. It so happened that Luscinda had asked me for a book of chivalry of which she was very fond, which was Amadis of Gaul."
As soon as Don Quixote heard him mention a book of chivalry, he said:
"If your grace had told me at the beginning of your history that her grace the lady Luscinda was fond of books of chivalry, no other embellishment would have been necessary to allow me to grasp the elevation of her understanding, for I would not have considered it as fine as you, Senor, have depicted it, if it had lacked the ability to enjoy such delightful reading, and so, as far as I am concerned, there is no need to use more words in declaring her beauty, worth, and understanding; by simply knowing of this fondness, I affirm her to be the most beautiful and discreet woman in the world. I would have liked, Senor, for your grace to have sent her, along with Amadis of Gaul, the worthy Don Rogel of Greece, 3 for I know that the lady Luscinda would have enjoyed Daraida and Geraya, and the shepherd Darinel's wit, and the admirable bucolic verses sung and represented by him with all charm, discretion, and eloquence. But the time may come when that lack can be corrected, and the correction can be made as soon as your grace has the goodness to return with me to my village, for there I can give you more than three hundred books, which are the joy of my soul and the delight of my life, although it occurs to me that I may no longer have a single one due to the malice of evil and envious enchanters. Your grace, forgive me for having broken our promise not to interrupt your account, but when I hear things having to do with chivalry and knights errant, I can no more not talk of them than the rays of the sun can fail to warm or those of the moon to dampen. And so, forgive me, and continue, which is the most pertinent thing now."
While Don Quixote was saying what has been said, Cardenio had lowered his head to his chest, showing signs of being lost in deep thought. And although Don Quixote asked him twice to go on with his history, he did not raise his head or say a word, but after some time had gone by he did raise his head, saying:
"I cannot help but think, nor is there anyone in the world who can make me change my mind or lead me to believe otherwise, and whoever does not think or believe so is a villain, that the great scoundrel, the surgeon Master Elisabat, was the lover of Queen Madasima."4
"No, by my faith!" Don Quixote responded with great wrath and an oath, as was his custom. "That is wicked, or rather, villainous: Queen Madasima was a very distinguished lady, and it should not be assumed that so high a princess would become the paramour of a sawbones and a quack, and whoever believes the contrary is lying, like the base scoundrel he is. And this I will make him understand, on foot or mounted, armed or unarmed, by night or by day, or in whatever manner he prefers."
Cardenio looked at him attentively, for a fit of his madness had come over him and he was in no condition to go on with his story; nor was Don Quixote prepared to hear it, so vexed was he by what he had heard about Madasima. How extraordinary, for it enraged him as if she really were his true and natural queen: that is what his perverse books had done to him! And so I say that since Cardenio was mad again, and he heard himself called liar and villain and other similar insults, he did not take it lightly, and he picked up a stone that was lying near him and with it struck such a blow to Don Quixote's chest that it knocked him flat on his back. Sancho Panza, when he saw what had been done to his master, attacked the madman with a clenched fist, and the Ragged One received him in such a way that with one blow he had Sancho lying at his feet, and then he jumped up and down on his ribs with great enthusiasm. The same fate awaited the goatherd, who tried to defend Sancho. And when Cardenio had battered and bruised them all, he left them and went, calmly and peaceably, to take refuge in the mountains.
Sancho got to his feet and was so angry at finding himself beaten for so little cause that he tried to take his revenge on the goatherd, saying it was his fault for not having warned them that the man suffered fits of madness; if they had known this, they would have been prepared and ready to defend themselves. The goatherd responded that he had told them, and if Sancho had not heard him, he was not to blame. Sancho Panza replied, and so did the goatherd, and all the replies ended in each seizing the other's beard and exchanging so many blows that if Don Quixote had not stopped them, they would have beaten each other to a pulp. Sancho said, as he kept hold of the goatherd:
"Your grace, Senor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, let me be, for with this one, who is lowborn like myself and not a knight, I'm free to avenge his offense against me, fighting him hand to hand, like an honorable man."
"That is true," said Don Quixote, "but I know he is not to blame for what has happened."
Saying this, he pacified them, and Don Quixote asked the goatherd again if it would be possible to find Cardenio, because he wanted very much to know the end of his story. The goatherd said what he had said earlier, that he was not certain where he stayed, but if he wandered the area, Don Quixote could not fail to find him, either in his right mind or out of it.
CHAPTER XXV
Which tells of the strange events that befell the valiant knight of La Mancha in the Sierra Morena, and of his imitation of the penance of Beltenebros 1
Don Quixote took his leave of the goatherd, and mounting Rocinante once again, he told Sancho to follow him, which he did, on his donkey, very unwillingly. Gradually they were entering the most rugged part of the mountains, and Sancho, longing to talk to his master but not wanting to disobey his orders, waited for him to begin the conversation; unable to endure so much silence, however, Sancho said:
"Senor Don Quixote, your grace should give me your blessing and let me leave, because now I want to go back to my house and my wife and children, for with them, at least, I'll talk and speak all I want; your grace wanting me to go with you through these deserted places by day and by night without talking whenever I feel like it is like burying me alive. If animals could still talk the way they did in the days of Guisopete,2 it wouldn't be so bad because I could talk to my donkey whenever I wanted to, and that would help me bear my misfortunes; it's a hard thing, and not something to be borne patiently, when a man searches his whole life and doesn't find anything but kicks and tossings in a blanket, stones and fists hitting him, and still he has to keep his mouth shut tight, not daring to say what's in his heart, like a mute."
"I understand you very well, Sancho," responded Don Quixote. "You long to have the interdiction which I have placed on your tongue lifted. Consider it lifted and say whatever you wish, on the condition that this license lasts no longer than the time we spend traveling through these mountains."
"That's fine," said Sancho. "Let me talk now, for only God knows what will happen later, and I'll begin to enjoy this freedom now and ask why was it that your grace defended so strongly that Queen Magimasa or whatever her name is? And what difference did it make if that abbot3 was her lover or not? For if your grace had let it pass, since you weren't her judge, I think the madman would have gone on with his story, and we would
have avoided stones, and kicks, and more than half a dozen punches."
"By my faith, Sancho," responded Don Quixote, "if you knew, as I do, what an honorable and distinguished lady Queen Madasima was, I know you would say that I showed a good deal of forbearance, for I did not smash the mouth that uttered such blasphemies. Because it is an exceedingly great blasphemy to say or think that a queen would take a surgeon as her lover. The truth of the matter is that Master Elisabat, mentioned by the madman, was a very prudent man and a wise counselor, and he served as tutor and physician to the queen, but to think that she was his mistress is an outrage deserving of the most severe punishment. And so that you may see that Cardenio did not know what he was saying, you should realize that when he said it, he was not in his right mind."
"That's just what I'm saying," said Sancho. "There wasn't any reason to pay attention to the words of a madman, because if luck hadn't been with your grace, and the stone had hit your head the way it hit your chest, then what kind of condition would we have been in to defend that lady, may God confound her! And, by my faith, Cardenio would've been pardoned because he's crazy!"
"Against sane men and madmen, every knight errant is obliged to defend the honor of ladies, no matter who they may be, and especially queens of such high birth and distinction as Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular regard because of her many virtues; in addition to being beauteous, she was also very prudent and long-suffering in her calamities, of which she had many, and the advice and companionship of Master Elisabat were of great benefit and comfort to her and helped her to endure her travail with prudence and patience. And the vulgar and lowborn took advantage of this to say and think that she was his mistress; and I say that all those who say and think such a thing lie, and lie again, and will lie another two hundred times whenever they say or think it."
"I don't say it and I don't think it," responded Sancho. "It's their affair and let them eat it with their bread; whether or not they were lovers, they've already made their accounting with God; I tend to my vines, it's their business, not mine; I don't stick my nose in; if you buy and lie, your purse wants to know why. Besides, naked I was born, and naked I'll die: I don't lose or gain a thing; whatever they were, it's all the same to me. And many folks think there's bacon when there's not even a hook to hang it on. But who can put doors on a field? Let them say what they please, I don't care."
"Lord save me!" said Don Quixote. "What a lot of foolish things you put on the same thread, Sancho! What does the subject of our conversation have to do with the proverbs you string together like beads? If you value your life, Sancho, be quiet, and from now on tend to spurring your donkey and leave matters alone that do not concern you. And know with all five of your senses that everything I have done, am doing, and shall do follows the dictates of reason and the laws of chivalry, which I know better than all the knights in the world who have ever professed them."
"Senor," responded Sancho, "is it a law of chivalry that we should wander through these mountains with no path or direction, looking for a madman who, when he's found, may feel like finishing what he began, and I don't mean his story but your grace's head and my ribs, and break them completely?"
"I tell you again, Sancho, to be quiet," said Don Quixote, "because you should know that it is not only my desire to find the madman that brings me to these parts, but also my desire to here perform a deed that will bring me perpetual fame and renown throughout the known world; and it will be so great a deed that with it I shall put the crowning touch on all that can make a knight errant perfect and worthy of fame."
"And is this deed very dangerous?" asked Sancho Panza.
"No," responded the Knight of the Sorrowful Face, "although depending on luck and the throw of the dice, our fortunes may be either favorable or adverse, but everything will depend on your diligence."
"On my diligence?" said Sancho.
"Yes," said Don Quixote, "because if you return quickly from the place where I intend to send you, then my suffering will end quickly and my glory will quickly commence. And since it is not right to keep you in suspense, waiting to hear where my words will lead, I want you, Sancho, to know that the famous Amadis of Gaul was one of the most perfect knights errant. I have misspoken: not one of, but the sole, the first, the only, the lord of all those in the world during his lifetime. Bad luck and worse fortune for Don Belianis and for anyone else who may claim to be his equal in anything, because, by my troth, they are deceived. I say, too, that when a painter wishes to win fame in his art, he attempts to copy the original works of the most talented painters he knows; this same rule applies to all the important occupations and professions that serve to embellish nations, and it must be, and is, followed when the man who wishes to be known as prudent and long-suffering imitates Ulysses, in whose person and hardships Homer painted a living portrait of prudence and forbearance; Virgil, too, in the person of Aeneas, portrayed for us the valor of a devoted son and the sagacity of a valiant and experienced captain; they were depicted and described not as they were, but as they should have been, to serve as examples of virtue to men who came after them. In the same manner, Amadis was the polestar, the morning star, the sun to valiant, enamored knights, the one who should be imitated by all of us who serve under the banner of love and chivalry. This being true, and it is, then I deduce, friend Sancho, that the knight errant who most closely imitates Amadis will be closest to attaining chivalric perfection. And one of the things in which this knight most clearly showed his prudence, valor, courage, patience, constancy, and love was when, scorned by the Lady Oriana, he withdrew to do penance on the Pena Pobre,4 calling himself Beltenebros, a name truly significant and suited to the life he voluntarily had chosen. It is, therefore, easier for me to imitate him in this fashion than by cleaving giants in two, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, routing armies, thwarting armadas, and undoing enchantments. And since this terrain is so appropriate for achieving that end, there is no reason not to seize Opportunity by the forelock5 when it is convenient to do so."
"In fact," said Sancho, "what is it that your grace wants to do in this lonely place?"
"Have I not told you already," responded Don Quixote, "that I wish to imitate Amadis, playing the part of one who is desperate, a fool, a madman, thereby imitating as well the valiant Don Roland when he discovered in a fountain the signs that Angelica the Fair had committed base acts with Medoro, and his grief drove him mad, and he uprooted trees, befouled the waters of clear fountains, killed shepherds, destroyed livestock, burned huts, demolished houses, pulled down mares, and did a hundred thousand other unheard-of things worthy of eternal renown and record? And since I do not intend to imitate Roland, or Roldan, or Orlando, or Rotolando (for he had all those names) in every detail of all the mad things he did, said, and thought, I shall, to the best of my ability, sketch an outline of those that seem most essential to me. And it well may be that I shall be content with the imitation solely of Amadis, who, with no harmful mad acts but only outbursts of weeping and grief, achieved as much fame as anyone else."
"It seems to me," said Sancho, "that the knights who did these things were provoked and had a reason to do senseless things and penances; but what reason does your grace have for going crazy? What lady has scorned you, and what signs have you found to tell you that my lady Dulcinea of Toboso has done anything foolish with Moor or Christian?"
"Therein lies the virtue," responded Don Quixote, "and the excellence of my enterprise, for a knight errant deserves neither glory nor thanks if he goes mad for a reason. The great achievement is to lose one's reason for no reason, and to let my lady know that if I can do this without cause, what should I not do if there were cause? Moreover, I have more than enough reason because of my long absence from her who is forever my lady, Dulcinea of Toboso; as you heard the shepherd Ambrosio say, all ills are suffered and feared by one who is absent. And so, friend Sancho, do not waste time advising me to abandon so rare, so felicitous, so extraordinary an imitation. Mad I am and mad I s
hall remain until you return with the reply to a letter which I intend to send with you to my lady Dulcinea; if it is such as my fidelity warrants, my madness and my penance will come to an end; if it is not, I shall truly go mad and not feel anything. Therefore, no matter her reply, I shall emerge from the struggle and travail in which you leave me, taking pleasure as a sane man in the good news you bring, or, as a madman, not suffering on account of the bad news you bear. But tell me, Sancho, have you kept the helmet of Mambrino safe? For I saw you pick it up from the ground when that ingrate tried to shatter it. But he could not, and in this we can see how finely it is tempered."
To which Sancho responded:
"By God, Senor Knight of the Sorrowful Face, but I lose my patience and can't bear some of the things your grace says; because of them I even imagine that everything you tell me about chivalry, and winning kingdoms and empires, and giving me insulas and granting me other favors and honors, as is the custom of knights errant, must be nothing but empty talk and lies, and all a hamburg or a humbug or whatever you call it. Because if anyone heard your grace calling a barber's basin the helmet of Mambrino without realizing the error after more than four days, what could he think but that whoever says and claims such a thing must be out of his mind? I have the basin in the bag, all dented, and I'm taking it along so I can fix it when I get home, and use it to trim my beard, if someday, by the grace of God, I ever find myself with my wife and children again."
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