The History of Don Quixote de la Mancha

by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

While they were thus discoursing, they arrived at the foot of a high mountain, which stood separated from several others that surrounded it, as if it had been hewn out from them. Near its base ran a gentle stream, that watered a verdant and luxurious vale, adorned with many wide-spreading trees, plants, and wild flowers of various hues. This was the spot in which the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure chose to perform his penance; and while contemplating the scene, he thus broke forth in a loud voice: "This is the place, O ye heavens! which I select and appoint for bewailing the misfortune in which I am so cruelly involved. This is the spot where my flowing tears shall increase the waters of this crystal stream, and my sighs, continual and deep, shall incessantly move the foliage of these lofty trees, in testimony and token of the pain my persecuted heart endures. O ye rural deities, whoever ye be that inhabit these remote deserts, give ear to the complaints of an unhappy lover, whom long absence and some pangs of jealousy have driven to bewail himself among these rugged heights, and to complain of the cruelty of that ungrateful fair, the utmost extent and ultimate perfection of human beauty! And, O thou my squire, agreeable companion in my prosperous and adverse fortune, carefully imprint on thy memory what thou shalt see me here perform, that thou mayest recount and recite it to her who is the sole cause of all!" Thus saying, he alighted from Rozinante, and in an instant took off his bridle and saddle, and clapping him on the back, said to him, "O steed, as excellent for my performances as unfortunate in thy fate, he gives thee liberty who is himself deprived of it. Go whither thou wilt; for thou hast it written on thy forehead that neither Astolpho's Hippogriff, nor the famous Frontino, which cost Bradamante so dear, could match thee in speed."

Sancho, observing all this, said, "Blessings be with him who saved us the trouble of unharnessing Dapple; for truly he should have wanted neither slaps nor speeches in his praise. Yet if he were here, I would not consent to his being unpannelled, there being no occasion for it; for he had nothing to do with love or despair any more than I, who was once his master, when it so pleased God. And truly, Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, if it be so that my departure and your madness take place in earnest, it will be well to saddle Rozinante again, that he may supply the loss of my Dapple, and save me time in going and coming; for if I walk, I know not how I shall be able either to go or return, being, in truth, but a sorry traveller on foot." "Be that as thou wilt," answered Don Quixote; "for I do not disapprove thy proposal; and I say thou shalt depart within three days, during which time I intend thee to bear witness of what I do and say for her, that thou mayest report it accordingly." "What have I more to see," quoth Sancho, "than what I have already seen?" "So far thou art well prepared," answered Don Quixote; "but I have now to rend my garments, scatter my arms about, and dash my head against these rocks; with other things of the like sort, which will strike thee with admiration." "Good master," said Sancho, "content yourself, I pray you, with running your head against some soft thing, such as cotton; and leave it to me to tell my lady that you dashed your head against the point of a rock harder than a diamond." "I thank thee for thy good intentions, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "but I would have thee to know, that all these actions of mine are no mockery, but done very much in earnest." "As for the three days allowed me for seeing your mad pranks," interrupted Sancho, "I beseech you to reckon them as already passed; for I take all for granted, and will tell wonders to my lady: do you write the letter, and despatch me quickly, for I long to come back and release your worship from this purgatory, in which I leave you."

"But how," said Don Quixote, "shall we contrive to write the letter?" "And the ass-colt bill?" added Sancho. "Nothing shall be omitted," said Don Quixote; "and since we have no paper, we shall do well to write it as the ancients did, on the leaves of trees, or on tablets of wax; though it will be as difficult at present to meet with these as with paper. But, now I recollect, it may be as well, or indeed better, to write it in Cardenio's pocket-book, and you will take care to get it fairly transcribed upon paper in the first town you reach where there is a schoolmaster." "But what must we do about the signing it with your own hand?" said Sancho. "The letters of Amadis were never subscribed," answered Don Quixote. "Very well," replied Sancho; "but the order for the colts must needs be signed by yourself; for if that be copied, they will say it is a false signature, and I shall be forced to go without the colts." "The order shall be signed in the same pocket-book; and, at sight of it, my niece will make no difficulty in complying with it. As to the love-letter, let it be subscribed thus: 'Yours until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.' And it is of little importance whether it be written in another hand; for I remember, Dulcinea has never seen a letter or writing of mine in her whole life; for our loves have always been of the platonic kind, extending no farther than to modest glances at each other; such is the reserve and seclusion in which she is brought up by her father Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza Nogales!"

"Ah!" quoth Sancho, "the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo! Is she the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?" "It is even she," said Don Quixote, "and she deserves to be mistress of the universe." "I know her well," quoth Sancho; "and I can assure you she will pitch the bar with the lustiest swain in the parish; straight and vigorous, and I warrant can make her part good with any knight-errant that shall have her for his lady. Oh, what a pair of lungs and a voice she has! I remember she got out one day upon the bell-tower of the church, to call some young ploughmen, who were in a field of her father's; and though they were half a league off, they heard her as plainly as if they had stood at the foot of the tower; and the best of her is, that she is not at all coy, but as bold as a court lady, and makes a jest and a may-game of every body. I say, then, Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, that you not only may and ought to run mad for her, but also you may justly despair and hang yourself; and nobody that hears it but will say you did extremely well. However, I am anxious to see her; for I have not met with her this many a day, and by this time she must needs be altered; for it mightily spoils women's faces to be abroad in the field, exposed to the sun and weather. But, all things considered, what good can it do to the Lady Aldonza Lorenzo—I mean the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso—to have the vanquished whom your worship sends or may send falling upon their knees before her? For perhaps at the time they arrive she may be carding flax, or threshing in the barn, and they may be confounded at the sight of her, and she may laugh and care little for the present." "I have often told thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou art an eternal babbler, and though void of wit, thy bluntness often stings; but, to convince thee at once of thy folly and my discretion, I will tell thee a short tale.

"Know, then, that a certain widow, handsome, young, gay, and rich, and withal no prude, fell in love with a young man, handsome, well-made, and active. A relative heard of it, and one day took occasion to speak to the good widow in the way of brotherly reprehension. 'I wonder, madam,' said he, 'that a woman of your quality, so beautiful and so rich, should fall in love with such a despicable, mean, silly fellow; when there are, in this house, so many graduates, scholars, and dignitaries, among whom you might pick and choose, and say, this I like and this I leave, as you would among pears.' But she answered him with great frankness and gaiety, 'You are much mistaken, worthy sir, and your sentiments are very antiquated, if you imagine that I have made an ill choice in that fellow, silly as he may appear, since, for aught that I desire of him, he knows as much of philosophy as Aristotle himself, if not more.' In like manner, Sancho, Dulcinea del Toboso deserves as highly as the greatest princess on earth. For of those poets who have celebrated the praises of ladies under fictitious names many had no such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the Amaryllises, the Phyllises, the Silvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the Alidas, and the like, famous in books, ballads, barbers' shops, and stage-plays, were really ladies of flesh and blood, and beloved by those who have celebrated them? Certainly not: they are mostly feigned, to supply subjects for verse, and to make the authors pass for men of gallantry. It is therefore sufficient that I think and believe that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and modest; and as to her lineage, it matters not, for no inquiry concerning it is requisite; and to me it is unnecessary, as I regard her as the greatest princess in the world. For thou must know, Sancho, that two things, above all others, incite to love; namely, beauty and a good name. Now both these are to be found in perfection in Dulcinea; for in beauty none can be compared to her, and for purity of reputation few can equal her. In fine, I conceive she is exactly what I have described, and every thing that I can desire, both as to beauty and quality, unequalled by Helen, or by Lucretia, or any other of the famous women of antiquity, whether Grecian, Roman, or Goth; and I care not what be said, since, if upon this account I am blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the wise." "Your worship," replied Sancho, "is always in the right, and I am an ass—why do I mention an ass?—one should not talk of halters in the house of the hanged. But I am off—give me the letter, sir, and peace be with you."

Don Quixote took out the pocket-book to write the letter; and having finished, he called Sancho, and said he would read it to him, that he might have it by heart, lest he might perchance lose it by the way; for every thing was to be feared from his evil destiny. To which Sancho answered: "Write it, sir, two or three times in the book, and give it me, and I will take good care of it; but to suppose that I can carry it in my memory is a folly; for mine is so bad that I often forget my own name. Your worship, however, may read it to me; I shall be glad to hear it, for it must needs be very much to the purpose." "Listen, then," said Don Quixote, "this is what I have written:

Don Quixote's Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso.

"High and sovereign lady,—He who is stabbed by the point of absence, and pierced by the arrows of love, O sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso, greets thee with wishes for that health which he enjoys not himself. If thy beauty despise me, if thy worth favour me not, and if thy disdain still pursue me, although inured to suffering, I shall ill support an affliction which is not only severe but lasting. My good squire Sancho will tell thee, O ungrateful fair and most beloved foe, to what a state I am reduced on thy account. If it be thy pleasure to relieve me, I am thine; if not, do what seemeth good to thee: for by my death I shall at once appease thy cruelty and my own passion.

Until death thine,

The Knight of the Sorrowful Figure."