T HE HISTORY says that it was with great attention that don Quixote listened to the ragged knight of the sierra, who, beginning his conversation, said: “Señor, whoever you are, for I don’t know you, I thank you for the courtesy you’ve shown me, and I’d like to be in a position to repay the courtesy you’ve shown me by the reception you’ve given me with something more than just good will. But my fate doesn’t give me anything to repay your favors except with my will to do so.”
“My desire,” responded don Quixote, “is only to serve you, so much so, that I’d resolved not to leave this sierra until I located you and learned from you if any relief can be found for the pain shown by the life you lead; and if it had been necessary to search for you, I would have looked with all diligence. And if your misfortune were of the kind for which all doors of consolation were closed, I would have accompanied you in your weeping and grieving as well as I could, because it’s always a comfort to find someone with whom to share one’s misfortunes. And if my good intentions deserve to be acknowledged by any kind of courtesy, I entreat you, señor—by the great courtesy that you possess, and by the thing in this life that you’ve loved or love—to tell me who you are, and the cause that brought you to live and die in this lonely place like a brute animal, since you dwell in a place so far from your social status, as your attire and person bear out. And I swear,” don Quixote added, “by the order of chivalry I’ve received, although unworthy and a sinner, and by the profession of knight errantry, if you, señor, accommodate my request, I’ll serve you earnestly as being who I am obliges me, either by trying to remedy your misfortune, if it has a remedy, or by helping you to lament it, as I promised.”
The Knight of the Forest, who heard the Woebegone One speak in that way, could only stare at him, and stare at him again, and once again look at him from top to bottom. And after he’d studied him well, he said: “If you have something I can eat, for the love of God, give it to me. After I eat, I’ll do whatever you ask, in recompense for the good will you’ve shown me.”
Sancho, from his bag, and the goatherd, from his pouch, took out some food with which the Ragged One satisfied his hunger, eating what they gave him like a half-witted person who takes no time between bites, gorging rather than taking mouthfuls, and while he ate, neither he nor those who were looking on spoke a word. Once he’d finished eating, he indicated to them by signs that they should follow him. He led them around a boulder to a little green meadow, and when he got there, he lay on the grass, and the others did the same. All this was done in silence, until the Ragged One, after getting settled in his place, said: “If it’s your pleasure, señores, for me to relate to you in a few words the immensity of my misfortune, you must promise me that you’ll not interrupt the thread of my tormented story, because as soon as you do, at that point it will come to an end.”
These words by the Ragged One brought back to don Quixote’s memory the story his squire had told, and when he didn’t know the correct number of goats that had gone across the river, it was over. But going back to the Ragged One, he continued by saying: “I’ve imposed this condition because I want to spend as little time as I can on the narration of my misfortunes, since bringing them to mind serves only to add other ones, and the less you ask me the sooner I’ll finish telling them, although I’ll not leave out anything important, so as to satisfy your curiosity fully.”
Don Quixote promised him in the name of all the others; and he, with that assurance, began in this way: “My name is Cardenio, my home is one of the best cities in Andalusia, my lineage noble, my parents rich, my misfortune so great that my parents must have lamented, and my relatives must have grieved that their riches couldn’t redress it; for to remedy the misfortunes imposed by heaven, wealth is of no use. In my same town there lived paradise, where Love placed all the glory I could have desired, such was the beauty of Luscinda, a maiden as noble and rich as I, more fortunate but less constant than my honorable thoughts deserved. I loved and adored this Luscinda from my tenderest and earliest years, and she loved me with that simplicity and sincerity that her young age permitted. Both of our parents knew our desires and it didn’t trouble them because they saw that as our intentions grew, they could only end in marriage—something that harmonized with the equality of our lineage and wealth. As our age grew, so did the love we had for each other, so that it eventually seemed to Luscinda’s father that, for propriety’s sake, he was forced to prohibit me from going into their house, almost imitating in this the parents of Thisbe, who is so exalted by the poets. This denial only fanned the flames and piled one desire on another, because, although it silenced our tongues, it couldn’t silence our pens, which, more freely than our tongues, makes the beloved one understand what is locked inside the heart, because frequently the presence of the loved one confuses and makes silent the most determined desire and the most daring tongue. Heavens, how many love letters I wrote her! What delicate and chaste responses I got back! How many songs and how many loving verses I composed, in which my soul proclaimed and translated its feelings, painted its burning desires, delighted in its recollections, and luxuriated in its affection! So, seeing myself in dire straits, and that my soul was consumed with the desire to see her, I determined to put into action, and resolved to carry out what seemed to me to be the best way to win my desired and deserved prize, which was to ask her father for her hand in marriage, and I did. He responded by thanking me for the wish I showed to honor him, and to aspire to honor myself with his jewel, but since my father was alive, it was his duty to make this request, because if it wasn’t his will and pleasure, Luscinda was not one to be given or taken surreptitiously.
“I thanked him for his kindness, and it seemed to me that he was right in what he said, and that my father would request Luscinda’s hand as soon as I asked him. With this in mind, at that very instant I went to tell my father what I wanted, and as soon as I went into the room where he was, I found him with a letter in his hand. Before I could say a single word to him, he handed it to me and said: ‘By means of this letter, Cardenio, you’ll see the affection that Duke Ricardo has for you.’ Now this Duke Ricardo, as you must know, señores, is a Grandee of Spain who has his estate in the best part of Andalusia. I took the letter and read it, and it was so flattering that even I thought it would be bad if my father didn’t comply with the duke’s request, which was that I be sent to him right away, because he wanted me to be the companion, not the servant, of his oldest son. He took it upon himself to put me in a position worthy of the esteem in which he held me. I read the letter and became speechless as I read it, and more so when I heard my father say: ‘Two days from now you’ll leave, Cardenio, to do what the duke asks; give thanks to God, for this will pave the way for you to achieve what I know you deserve.’ To these words he added others of fatherly counsel.
“The day of my departure came. I spoke with Luscinda the night before, and I told her what had happened. I told her father as well, begging him to wait a few days, and not give her away until I found out what Duke Ricardo wanted of me. He promised me he would, and she also confirmed it with a thousand oaths and swoonings. I finally went to Duke Ricardo, and was cordially welcomed and well treated, but right away, envy began to do its work—the old servants felt that their master’s inclination to favor me was an injury to themselves. But the one who took the most pleasure in my arrival was the second son of the duke, named Fernando, a charming fellow, liberal, in love, and who made me such a fast friend of his in such a short time that everyone talked about it. Although the oldest one liked me well enough, it was his younger brother who liked me more, and treated me better.
“As happens between friends, there is no secret they don’t communicate; the closeness I had with don Fernando quickly turned into a real friendship, and he told me all his thoughts, especially about an affair of the heart that brought him a bit of anxiety. He loved a peasant girl, a vassal of his father, whose parents were very rich. And she was so beautiful, modest, discreet, and virtuous, that no one who knew her could determine which of these qualities was her best one, or the one that shone the most. These such good endowments of the beautiful peasant so inflamed the passions of don Fernando that he resolved, in order to achieve his end and overcome her virtue, to pledge to be her husband, because any other way would be to attempt the impossible. I felt forced by his friendship, with the best words I knew, and with the clearest examples I could find, to try to prevent and dissuade him from his intention. Seeing that they were to no avail, I planned to tell Duke Ricardo, his father, about it. But don Fernando, a crafty and discreet fellow, suspected and feared this, rightly assuming that I was obliged, in my capacity as a good servant, not to keep a thing secret that was so much to the prejudice of my lord the duke’s honor. So, to mislead and deceive me, he told me he could see no better way to erase from his mind the beauty that had held him in thrall than to go away for a few months, and that he wanted us to go to my father’s house on the pretext that he wanted to buy some very good horses in my city, which is the mother of the best ones in the world.
“As soon as I heard this, moved by my love, even if his intent hadn’t been so good, I would have hailed it as one of the best ideas that could be imagined, because it would give me the opportunity to see my Luscinda again. With this thought and desire I agreed to his idea and backed his proposal, telling him that he should put it into effect as soon as possible, because absence would surely do its job, no matter how strong his feelings had been. When he made this suggestion, as it later turned out, he’d already enjoyed the peasant girl, having promised to be her husband, and he was waiting for the appropriate time to reveal the truth with safety to himself, for he was fearful of what his father might do when he learned of his rashness.
“It happened, then, that since love in young men mostly isn’t really love at all, but only appetite, which, since its ultimate goal is gratification, when that goal is realized, it is curbed, and what seemed to be love tends to fade away, because it can’t go beyond the limit imposed by nature, this limit not having been imposed by what is true love… what I mean is that as soon as don Fernando enjoyed the peasant girl, his desires diminished and his zeal cooled, and if at first he pretended that he wanted to go away in order to cure his love, now in truth he wanted to go away in order to avoid his obligations.
“The duke gave his permission, and ordered me to go with him. We went to my city and my father gave him the reception due a person of his rank. I went to see Luscinda right away, and my passion for her came to life again, although it had never died or been dulled. To my sorrow, I told don Fernando about my feelings for her, since it seemed to me that, because of the great friendship he showed me, I shouldn’t keep anything to myself. I lauded Luscinda’s beauty, wit, and discretion in such a way that my praises made him want to see a maiden adorned with so many good qualities. To my misfortune, I gave in, letting him see her one evening by the light of a candle through a window where we used to talk to each other. She was in a simple dress, and was so beautiful that she cast into oblivion all other beautiful women he’d seen until then. He was speechless, he lost his senses, he was spellbound, and finally fell very much in love, as you’ll see as the story of my misfortunes unfolds. And to increase the flames of his desire—which he concealed from me, and only told heaven when he was alone—fate arranged it so that he would find a love letter from her asking me to request her hand in marriage from her father. It was so circumspect, so chaste, and so loving that, when he read it, he told me that in Luscinda alone were to be found all of the gifts of beauty and understanding that were distributed among all other women in the world.
“It’s true I want to confess now that, although I saw don Fernando praised Luscinda with just cause, it grieved me to hear those praises come from his mouth, and I began to fear and become suspicious of him, because a moment didn’t go by that he didn’t want us to talk about Luscinda, and he would even start conversations about her even though he had to drag them in by the hair, something that awakened in me a bit of jealousy. I didn’t fear any change in the goodness and fidelity of Luscinda, yet I began to fear the same thing she reassured me about. Don Fernando always wanted to read the letters that I sent to Luscinda, and her responses, on the excuse that our keenness of mind gave him pleasure. It happened one day that, Luscinda, having asked me for a romance of chivalry to read—and she was very fond of them—which was Amadís de Gaula…”
Don Quixote had hardly heard the title of that book when he blurted out: “If your grace had told me at the beginning of your story that her grace señora Luscinda was fond of reading romances of chivalry, you wouldn’t have had to use any exaggeration to convince me of the superiority of her intellect, because it couldn’t have been of the excellence you describe if she didn’t have a taste for such delightful reading. So, with me you don’t have to waste any more words in telling me about her beauty, worth, and intelligence, for, just by having learned what her interest is, I dub her the most beautiful and most circumspect woman in the world. And I’d like, señor, for you to have sent her, together with Amadís de Gaula, the good Don Rugel de Grecia, because I know that señora Luscinda would enjoy Daraida and Geraya, and the shrewd remarks of the shepherd Darinel and those admirable verses of his pastoral poems, sung and set forth by him with such grace, wit, and ease. But a time will come when I can make good on this, for all you need to do whenever you want, is come with me to my village, and there I can give you a more than three hundred of them—and they are the joy of my soul and the entertainment of my life… although now that I think of it, I don’t have any at all, thanks to the wickedness of bad people and evil enchanters. Please pardon me for having violated what we promised about not interrupting your discourse. But when I hear things about chivalry and knights errant, I can’t help talking about them, just as the rays of the sun cannot help but give warmth, and those of the moon give moisture. So, pardon me, and go on with your story, for that’s the important thing.”
While don Quixote was saying what is recorded here, Cardenio’s head fell upon his chest, showing that he was plunged in deep thought. And although don Quixote asked him twice to continue his story, he neither raised his head nor said a word. But after a while he looked up and said: “I can’t get it out of my head, nor will anyone be able to convince me otherwise, and only a blockhead could hold or believe the contrary, that the scoundrel maestro Elisabat was sleeping with Queen Madésima.”
“That’s not true, I swear,” don Quixote shot back very angrily, “and that’s monstrous libel or—to be more accurate—pure villainy. Queen Madásima was a great lady, and one shouldn’t suppose that so exalted a princess should cohabit with a quack, and whoever says the contrary is lying like a knave. And I’ll uphold this on foot or on horseback, in armor or not, by night or by day, or any way he prefers.”
Cardenio was looking at him very attentively, for a bout of madness had overtaken him, and he was not about to continue his story, nor was don Quixote in any mood to listen to it, so much had he been disgusted by what he heard about the matter of Madásima. This was a very unusual thing because he’d defended her as if she’d been his true and natural lady, such was the state in which his excommunicated books had him. I say, then, that since Cardenio was mad, and heard himself called a liar, and a knave to boot, and other similar insults, it seemed like a bad jest to him, so he picked up a stone he found nearby, and hit don Quixote’s chest so hard it made him fall backwards. Sancho Panza, seeing his master being treated in that way, attacked the poor crazy fellow with closed fist, but the Ragged One was ready, and with one punch knocked Sancho off his feet, then jumped on top of him and crushed his ribs to his heart’s content. The goatherd, who wanted to help him, suffered the same fate. And after Cardenio had subdued and beaten them all up, he went back calmly to his forest home.
Sancho got up, and so enraged at seeing himself so ill-treated without deserving it, went to take vengeance on the goatherd, telling him that he was to blame for not having warned them the fellow was sometimes mad—if they had known, they would have been on guard to defend themselves. The goatherd responded that he had told them and if Sancho hadn’t heard, it wasn’t his fault. Sancho Panza replied, and the goatherd answered back, and finally they grabbed each other’s beards and gave each other such punches that if don Quixote hadn’t made peace between them, they would have torn each other to pieces. Sancho, while still holding on to the goatherd, said: “Leave me alone your grace, señor Woebegone Knight, because this fellow is a rustic like myself and isn’t dubbed a knight, so I can satisfy myself without injury for the offense this fellow has done me, fighting with him hand to hand, like a man of honor.”
“That’s true,” said don Quixote, “but I know he’s not to blame for what happened.”
With this, they made peace, and don Quixote asked the goatherd again if it would be possible to find Cardenio, because he was still very interested in finding out the end of his story. The goatherd told him what he had told him at first, that there was no knowing for sure where his lair was, but if he wandered about that area enough, he couldn’t help but find him, sane or crazy.