Which deals with the beautiful Dorotea’s discretion, with other things that will give pleasure as well as diversion.
“T HIS, SEÑORES, is the true history of my tragedy. Consider and judge whether the sighs that reached your ears, the words you heard, and the tears that fell from my eyes, were more restrained than they might have been. And considering the nature of my disgrace, you’ll see that any solace will be impossible, since the remedy for it is as well. I only beg you—and it’s something you can easily do—to show me where I may spend my life without losing it, because of the fear and alarm I have of being found by those looking for me. I know my parents love me very much and would welcome me back, but my shame is so great that just thinking that I should appear before them in a state different from what they remember, I’d prefer to banish myself forever from their sight rather than look them in the eyes with the thought that they should see me lacking the virtue that they had a right to expect.”
With these words she said no more and her face flushed with a color that clearly reflected the shame and anguish in her heart. In their own hearts, those who had heard her felt as much pity as wonder at her misfortune. Although the priest wanted to console and advise her, the first one to speak was Cardenio: “So, señora, you are the beautiful Dorotea, the only daughter of the rich Clenardo.”
Dorotea was amazed when she heard her father mentioned by name, and at how tattered was he who mentioned it, because the wretched way he was dressed has already been stated. So she said: “And who are you, brother, who know the name of my father? Because, until now, if I remember correctly, I didn’t mention his name in telling my misfortunes.”
“I am,” responded Cardenio, “that unfortunate fellow, whom, according to what you said, señora, Luscinda declared to be her husband. I’m the unlucky Cardenio, whom the wrongdoing of him who brought you to your present state has reduced me to the condition you see me in—broken, practically naked, bereft of all human comfort, and what is worse, insane; I only regain sanity when heaven is pleased to restore it to me for a short period. I’m the one who was a witness to the wrong done by don Fernando, and the one who stayed to hear the I DO uttered by Luscinda that made her his wife. I’m the one who didn’t have the courage to wait until her fainting fit was over, nor for what happened when they opened the paper they found in her bodice, because my heart didn’t have the fortitude to bear so many misfortunes at the same time. So I left the house and my patience behind, and also a letter I gave to an acquaintance, whom I begged to put it in Luscinda’s hands. I came to this wilderness with the intention of ending my life, which I hated from then on as if it were my mortal enemy. But Fortune refused to take my life from me, contenting itself only with taking away my sanity, perhaps keeping me alive for the good luck I’ve had in meeting you, because if what you just told me is true, as I believe it is, it may be that heaven has reserved for both of us a better way out of our tragedies than we thought. Because, since Luscinda can’t marry don Fernando because she’s mine—as she’s so clearly stated—and don Fernando can’t marry her because he’s yours, we can hope that heaven will restore what is ours, since it still exists and hasn’t been taken away or destroyed. And since we have this consolation, arising from not very distant hopes or wild fancies, I beg you, señora, to make a resolution in your honored thoughts, as I intend to do, to prepare yourself for a better fate. I swear to you, as a gentleman and a Christian, not to abandon you until I see you in the arms of don Fernando; and if I can’t persuade him with words to recognize what he owes you, I’ll use the privilege conferred on me as a nobleman, and with just title I’ll challenge him because of the injustice he’s done you, not caring about my own injuries, which I’ll leave for heaven to avenge; while on earth, I’ll attend to yours.”
Dorotea was astonished at what Cardenio said, and since she didn’t know how to repay his magnificent offer, she tried to kiss his feet, but he wouldn’t permit it. The licenciado answered for them both, approving the worthy resolve of Cardenio, and he earnestly begged, advised, and persuaded them to accompany him to his village, where they could replenish their supplies and take measures to locate don Fernando, or restore Dorotea to her parents, or do what seemed best. Cardenio and Dorotea thanked him and accepted the kind offer he’d made to them, and the barber, who had been listening closely to everything in silence, made a gracious speech, with no less goodwill than the priest, promising to serve them in everything he could.
He also told them briefly what had brought them there, along with the odd nature of don Quixote’s madness, and how they were waiting for his squire who had gone to fetch him. As if it came from a dream, Cardenio remembered the quarrel he’d had with don Quixote, and told them about it, but he had no memory of what the quarrel was about.
Just then they heard shouts, and they realized that it must be Sancho Panza, who—since he hadn’t found them where he’d left them—was calling them. They went to meet him, asking about don Quixote. He said that he’d found him just wearing his shirt, emaciated, pale, dying of hunger, and sighing for his lady Dulcinea, and that, although he’d told him that she had commanded him to leave and to go to El Toboso, where she was waiting for him, he’d responded that he was determined not to appear in the presence of her beauty until he’d done deeds worthy of her favor; and if this sort of thing went on, he ran the risk of never becoming an emperor, as was his duty, and not even an archbishop, which is the least to be expected of him. For this reason, they should see what could be done about it.
The licenciado told Sancho that he shouldn’t worry, that they would rescue him in spite of himself. He then told Cardenio and Dorotea what they had planned for the cure of don Quixote, or at least for taking him home, to which Dorotea said that she could play the damsel in distress better than the barber, especially since she had a dress with which she could do it most naturally, and that they should leave it to her to know how to play her part because she’d read many romances of chivalry and was quite familiar with how these unfortunate maidens acted when they asked favors from their knights errant.
“Then there’s nothing to do,” said the priest, “but get on with it, because good luck is doubtless on our side, since when least you expected it, the door to the solution of your problems has begun to open, and has also supplied us with a way to solve ours.”
Dorotea then took a splendid dress of fine wool and a shawl made of a very pretty green material from her bag, and from a little box she took a necklace and other pieces of jewelry, and in an instant she got dressed so that she looked like an elegant and grand lady. She had brought all these things from home, she said, for any contingency, but that this was her first opportunity to use them. Her high spirits, grace, and extraordinary beauty delighted them in the extreme, and they declared that don Fernando was stupid for rejecting such charms.
But the most charmed one was Sancho Panza, since it seemed to him— and it was the truth—that in all his days he’d never seen a more beautiful creature. And he asked the priest most emphatically to tell him who that beautiful lady was, and what she was doing in those remote parts.
“This beautiful lady,” responded the priest, “brother Sancho, is simply the heiress in the direct male line of the great Kingdom of Micomicón, and she’s come to ask a boon of your master, which is to avenge an outrage done to her by an evil giant, and because of the fame that your master enjoys as a knight errant throughout the world, this princess has come from Guinea to seek him out.”
“What a lucky search, and what a lucky find!” said Sancho Panza at that point. “The more so if my master is fortunate enough to right this wrong and set this injury right by killing that son-of-a-bitch giant who you mentioned; and he’ll certainly do it if he can find him, unless he’s a phantom—against phantoms my master is quite powerless. But I want to ask you, señor licenciado, among other things, to make sure he won’t take a fancy to being an archbishop, which is something I fear, and that you’ll advise him to marry this princess on the spot. That would prevent him from taking orders to become an archbishop, so he can easily get his empire, and I, the object of my desires. I’ve thought the whole matter through, and I figure that it’ll be bad for me if my master becomes an archbishop because I’m useless for the Church since I’m married, and for me to get dispensations to get an income from the Church, since I have a wife and children, would be an endless task. So, señor, it comes down to this—my master should get married right away to this lady, and I don’t even know what her name is yet, so I can’t call her by name.”
“Her name,” responded the priest, “is Princess Micomicona, because since her kingdom is Micomicón, it’s obvious she’d have that name.”
“No doubt about it,” responded Sancho. “I’ve seen many people take their last name and lineage from the town where they were born—Pedro de Alcalá, Juan de Úbeda, and Diego de Valladolid—and they must have the same custom over there in Guinea, queens taking their names from what their kingdom is called.”
“That must be it,” said the priest, “and insofar as seeing that your master gets married, I’ll do everything I can.”
Sancho was as happy about this as the priest was astonished at his simplicity, seeing that his master’s delusions had so affected him that he thought the knight would become an emperor. Dorotea had already gotten on the priest’s mule and the barber had fastened on the ox-tail beard. They told Sancho to guide them to where don Quixote was, and they emphasized that Sancho shouldn’t speak to him about the priest or the barber because the whole business of his master becoming an emperor lay in secrecy. The priest and Cardenio hesitated to go with them—Cardenio, so that don Quixote wouldn’t be reminded of the quarrel he’d had with him; and the priest, because his presence wasn’t required right then. So, the priest and Cardenio let the others go ahead and said they would follow slowly on foot. The priest didn’t forget to instruct Dorotea as to what she was to do, to which she responded that they shouldn’t worry since she knew exactly what to do, according to the descriptions and requirements from the romances of chivalry.
They had gone about three-quarters of a league when they discovered don Quixote among some rocks and crags, fully dressed but not in his armor, and as soon as Dorotea saw him, and Sancho had told her that was don Quixote, she whipped her palfrey, with the bearded barber in tow. As they drew near him, the barber jumped from his mule and went over to take Dorotea in his arms, but she got off by herself with great self-assurance and went to kneel before don Quixote. Although he begged her to rise, she spoke to him this way, still on her knees: “I’ll not rise from here—oh, brave and bold knight!—until your goodness and courtesy grants me a boon that will redound to your honor and glory, on behalf of the most inconsolable maiden the sun has ever shone upon. And if the might of your strong arm matches the splendor of your immortal fame, you’ll be obliged to favor this unfortunate who from afar has sought you out to remedy her misfortunes.”
“I won’t reply with a single word, beautiful señora,” responded don Quixote, “nor will I hear any more about your matter, until you rise.”
“I’ll not rise, señor,” responded the afflicted maiden, “if you first, by way of your courtesy, do not grant me the boon I ask for.”
“I promise and grant it,” responded don Quixote, “only if it’s not to the detriment of my king, my country, and her who has the key to my heart and freedom.”
“It will not be to the detriment of any of those things you mention, my good lord,” responded the aggrieved maiden.
At this point, Sancho went to his master and whispered into his ear: “Your grace, señor, can grant her the boon she wants—it’s really nothing at all: just to slay a great big giant. The one asking for it is the high princess Micomicona, queen of the Kingdom of Micomicón, of Ethiopia.”
“Be that as it may,” responded don Quixote, “I’ll do what I’m obliged to, and what my conscience dictates, in accordance with what I’ve professed.” And turning to the maiden, he said: “Let your great beauty arise since I grant whatever boon that you may ask of me.”
“Well, what I ask for is,” said the maiden, “that your heroic person come with me wherever I’ll lead you and that you promise me that you’ll not engage in another adventure or quest until you’ve taken revenge for me on a traitor who, against all laws, human and divine, has usurped my kingdom.”
“I’ve said that I grant it,” responded don Quixote, “and so you can, señora, from this day forth, put aside the melancholy that has been oppressing you, and let your wilted hopes recover their energy and strength, because with the help of God and my arm, you’ll soon see yourself restored to the throne of your ancient and great estate, in spite and in defiance of all the villains that would keep you from it. Let’s get to it, because, as the proverb says, «danger lurks in delay».”
The afflicted damsel tried very hard to kiss his hands, but don Quixote, ever courteous and considerate, would not allow it. Rather he made her stand up and embraced her warmly, and told Sancho to saddle Rocinante, and to get him dressed in his armor. Sancho took down the armor that hung from a tree like a trophy. He put the saddle on the horse and quickly put the armor on his master.
When the knight found himself in full armor, he said: “In the name of God, let’s go to forth to render aid to this great lady.”
The barber was still on his knees, trying valiantly to conceal his laughter and endeavoring to keep his beard on at the same time, because if it fell off, all their hopes would fall with it. And seeing that the boon had been granted, and that don Quixote was eager to set out on his quest, he got up and took his lady by her hand, and between them they helped her mount. Then don Quixote got onto Rocinante and the barber mounted his pack mule, leaving Sancho on foot, which renewed in him a sense of loss for his donkey. But he took it all in stride because it seemed to him that his master was on the road to, and even on the point of becoming an emperor, believing don Quixote would get married to that princess and be, at least, the king of Micomicón. The only thing that really troubled him was considering that that kingdom lay in the area of black Africa, and that the people they would give him to be his vassals would all be black. But soon he arrived at a good solution, and said to himself: “What difference does it make to me if my vassals are black? Isn’t all I have to do is take them to Spain where I can sell them, where they will pay me in cash so I can buy a title or some office in which I can lead the easy life for the rest of my days? Certainly, you can—unless you’re asleep or don’t know how to take care of things—sell thirty or ten thousand vassals in the twinkling of an eye. I’ll sell them in a flash, in pairs, or however I can do it. And my blacks will turn into silver or gold. Come on! Do you think I’m stupid?” And Sancho trudged on so unhurriedly and happy that he forgot the discomfort of being on foot.
Cardenio and the priest witnessed all this from behind some bushes and couldn’t figure out how to join them. But the priest, who was a clever fellow, decided what they could do, so he took some scissors he had in a sheath, and very quickly cut off Cardenio’s beard and dressed him in his own grey jacket and a black coat that he had, leaving himself in his pants and doublet. Cardenio was so transformed from the way he’d been that he wouldn’t have recognized himself, even if he looked in a mirror. The others had already passed them by while they were disguising themselves, but the two managed to get to the highway before them since the brambles and rough areas made it harder on horseback than on foot. They waited in the middle of the road at the bottom of the hill, and as soon as don Quixote and his companions went out into the open, the priest stared at him quite deliberately, giving signs that he recognized him, and after looking at him for a while, he ran toward him with open arms, exclaiming: “How nice it is to find the mirror of knight-errantry, my good neighbor don Quixote de La Mancha, flower and cream of elegance, savior and refuge of the needy, the quintessence of knight-errantry!”
As he said this he embraced don Quixote’s left knee, leaving the knight very surprised at what he saw and what he heard that man say, but he looked at him attentively and finally he recognized him as the priest. He tried to get off his horse, but the priest wouldn’t permit it, so don Quixote said: “Let me dismount, your grace—it’s not right for me to be on horseback, when such a reverend person as you is on foot.”
“I won’t allow it,” said the priest. “Stay on horseback, because it’s on horseback that your excellency achieves the greatest deeds and adventures that have ever been seen in our age. For me, although I’m an unworthy priest, it would suffice for me to ride on the back of one of those mules that belong to these men traveling with you, if they don’t think it a bother. And I’ll even consider that I’m riding on Pegasus, or on the zebra or charger on which the famous Moor Muzaraque rode, who to this day remains enchanted on Zulema, the high hill near Cómpluto.”
“That didn’t occur to me, señor licenciado,” responded don Quixote, “and I know that my señora princess will be pleased, for my sake, to have her squire offer you the saddle of his mule, and he can get on its rump, if the beast can take both of you.”
“Yes, it can,” responded the princess, “and I know that it won’t be necessary to ask my squire, because he’s too courteous and courtly not to consent to allow a cleric to go on foot when he could be riding.”
“That’s the truth,” responded the barber, and getting off immediately, he invited the priest to take the saddle, which he did without much urging. What didn’t turn out quite right was when the barber went to mount on the haunches of the donkey, which was plainly a rented one—and to say that it was not a good one, this is all that need be known—it raised its hindquarters and kicked twice in the air, and if one of those kicks had landed on maese Nicolás’ chest or on his head, he would have cursed the search for don Quixote. Even so, the barber was so taken by surprise that he fell backwards and paid little heed to his beard which fell onto the ground. When he found himself without it, the only thing he could think to do was to cover his face with his hands and lament that his teeth were smashed in. Don Quixote, who saw that massive beard without a jaw and with no blood, far from the face of the fallen squire, said: “My God, what a miracle this is! The mule has kicked the beard from his face as if it had been cut off.”
The priest, seeing they risked discovery, promptly picked up the beard and went to where maese Nicolás was lying, still shouting. And lifting the barber’s head to his chest, put it back on, murmuring certain words over it, which he said was an incantation with which to stick beards back on, as they would see. And when he was sure the beard was secure, he rose, and the barber was as well-bearded and as sound as before. Don Quixote was amazed beyond measure and begged the priest to teach him the incantation when the time was right, since he figured that its power must not be limited only to restoring beards—it was evident that the fellow’s jaw must have been severely wounded and in bad shape, and now it was whole again.
“That’s right,” said the priest, and promised to teach it to him at the first opportunity.
They all agreed that the priest, for the time being, should ride, and the other two should take turns riding, until they arrived at the inn, which would be about two leagues farther on. Now that there were three riding—to wit: don Quixote, the princess, and the priest; and three on foot: Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho—don Quixote said to the maiden: “Let your excellency, señora mía, lead me to wherever it pleases you.”
And before she could respond, the licenciado said: “Toward what kingdom does your ladyship wish to lead? Is it by chance toward Micomicón? That’s what it must be, or I know little about kingdoms.”
She, who was ready for anything, said: “Yes, señor, my journey leads toward that kingdom.”
“In that case,” said the priest, “we have to pass through the center of my village, and from there you can get on the road to Cartagena, where you can embark on your worthy venture. If there’s a fair wind and a calm sea without storms, in a little less than nine years you can get within sight of the great lake Meona, I mean Meótides, which lies not much more than a hundred days’ journey from your highness’ kingdom.”
“Your grace is mistaken, señor mío,” she said, “because is hasn’t been two years since I left there, and in truth, the weather was never very good. And even so, I’ve fulfilled the goal of my desires, which was to see señor don Quixote de La Mancha, news of whose exploits reached my ears as soon as I set foot in Spain, and I was thereby moved to seek him so that I could put myself in his care, entrusting the justice of my cause to his invincible arm.”
“No more—no more praise,” said don Quixote at this point, “because I’m an enemy of any kind of flattery, and whether it is or isn’t flattery, even so, such talk offends my chaste ears. What I can say, señora mía, is that whether my arm is strong or not, whatever strength it has or doesn’t have, will be used for your service until I lose my life. So, leaving this for its proper moment, I’d like to ask the licenciado to tell me why he happens to be here—it shocks me to see him alone, without servants, and without luggage.”
“I’ll answer you in a few words,” responded the priest. “Your grace, señor don Quixote, should know that maese Nicolás—our friend and barber—and I were going to Seville to claim a certain amount of money that a relative of mine who had gone to the New World many years ago had sent me. It was no trifling sum either—no less than sixty thousand pesos—and yesterday coming back through these parts, four highwaymen came out and stripped us to our beards, so much so, the barber had to get a false beard to put on. And even this young man,” pointing to Cardenio, “was ill-treated as well. But the odd thing is that the people who robbed us were galley slaves whom, they say, were freed—almost in that same place—by a brave fellow who, in spite of the commissioner and the guards, had released them all. And it must be that this man is crazy or must be as big a rogue as they are, or some soulless man without conscience, since he deliberately released the wolf among the ewes, the fox among the hens, and the fly into the honey. He defrauded justice, and went against his king and natural lord (since he went against his just commands). He wanted, I say, to rob the galleys of their feet and stir up the Holy Brotherhood, which has been at their ease all these years. He wanted, finally, to do a deed that may cause him to lose his soul without gaining anything for his body.”
(Sancho had already told the priest and the barber about the adventure of the galley slaves, achieved by his master with such great glory, and for this reason the priest pursued the topic so eagerly, just to see what don Quixote would do or say. Well, he changed color at every word, and didn’t dare to say that he’d been the liberator of all those good people.)
“These were,” said the priest, “the ones who robbed us, and may God through his infinite mercy pardon him who freed them from going to their just punishment.”