Chương Chương 36 · CHAPTER XXXVI. WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN

. CHAPTER XXXVI. WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN

CHAPTER XXXVI.

WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN

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Just at that instant the landlord, who was standing at the gate of the

inn, exclaimed, “Here comes a fine troop of guests; if they stop here

we may say _gaudeamus_.”

“What are they?” said Cardenio.

“Four men,” said the landlord, “riding _à la jineta_, with lances and

bucklers, and all with black veils, and with them there is a woman in

white on a side-saddle, whose face is also veiled, and two attendants

on foot.”

“Are they very near?” said the curate.

“So near,” answered the landlord, “that here they come.”

Hearing this Dorothea covered her face, and Cardenio retreated into Don

Quixote’s room, and they hardly had time to do so before the whole

party the host had described entered the inn, and the four that were on

horseback, who were of highbred appearance and bearing, dismounted, and

came forward to take down the woman who rode on the side-saddle, and

one of them taking her in his arms placed her in a chair that stood at

the entrance of the room where Cardenio had hidden himself. All this

time neither she nor they had removed their veils or spoken a word,

only on sitting down on the chair the woman gave a deep sigh and let

her arms fall like one that was ill and weak. The attendants on foot

then led the horses away to the stable. Observing this the curate,

curious to know who these people in such a dress and preserving such

silence were, went to where the servants were standing and put the

question to one of them, who answered him.

“Faith, sir, I cannot tell you who they are, I only know they seem to

be people of distinction, particularly he who advanced to take the lady

you saw in his arms; and I say so because all the rest show him

respect, and nothing is done except what he directs and orders.”

“And the lady, who is she?” asked the curate.

“That I cannot tell you either,” said the servant, “for I have not seen

her face all the way: I have indeed heard her sigh many times and utter

such groans that she seems to be giving up the ghost every time; but it

is no wonder if we do not know more than we have told you, as my

comrade and I have only been in their company two days, for having met

us on the road they begged and persuaded us to accompany them to

Andalusia, promising to pay us well.”

“And have you heard any of them called by his name?” asked the curate.

“No, indeed,” replied the servant; “they all preserve a marvellous

silence on the road, for not a sound is to be heard among them except

the poor lady’s sighs and sobs, which make us pity her; and we feel

sure that wherever it is she is going, it is against her will, and as

far as one can judge from her dress she is a nun or, what is more

likely, about to become one; and perhaps it is because taking the vows

is not of her own free will, that she is so unhappy as she seems to

be.”

“That may well be,” said the curate, and leaving them he returned to

where Dorothea was, who, hearing the veiled lady sigh, moved by natural

compassion drew near to her and said, “What are you suffering from,

señora? If it be anything that women are accustomed and know how to

relieve, I offer you my services with all my heart.”

To this the unhappy lady made no reply; and though Dorothea repeated

her offers more earnestly she still kept silence, until the gentleman

with the veil, who, the servant said, was obeyed by the rest,

approached and said to Dorothea, “Do not give yourself the trouble,

señora, of making any offers to that woman, for it is her way to give

no thanks for anything that is done for her; and do not try to make her

answer unless you want to hear some lie from her lips.”

“I have never told a lie,” was the immediate reply of her who had been

silent until now; “on the contrary, it is because I am so truthful and

so ignorant of lying devices that I am now in this miserable condition;

and this I call you yourself to witness, for it is my unstained truth

that has made you false and a liar.”

Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, being quite close to

the speaker, for there was only the door of Don Quixote’s room between

them, and the instant he did so, uttering a loud exclamation he cried,

“Good God! what is this I hear? What voice is this that has reached my

ears?” Startled at the voice the lady turned her head; and not seeing

the speaker she stood up and attempted to enter the room; observing

which the gentleman held her back, preventing her from moving a step.

In her agitation and sudden movement the silk with which she had

covered her face fell off and disclosed a countenance of incomparable

and marvellous beauty, but pale and terrified; for she kept turning her

eyes, everywhere she could direct her gaze, with an eagerness that made

her look as if she had lost her senses, and so marked that it excited

the pity of Dorothea and all who beheld her, though they knew not what

caused it. The gentleman grasped her firmly by the shoulders, and being

so fully occupied with holding her back, he was unable to put a hand to

his veil which was falling off, as it did at length entirely, and

Dorothea, who was holding the lady in her arms, raising her eyes saw

that he who likewise held her was her husband, Don Fernando. The

instant she recognised him, with a prolonged plaintive cry drawn from

the depths of her heart, she fell backwards fainting, and but for the

barber being close by to catch her in his arms, she would have fallen

completely to the ground. The curate at once hastened to uncover her

face and throw water on it, and as he did so Don Fernando, for he it

was who held the other in his arms, recognised her and stood as if

death-stricken by the sight; not, however, relaxing his grasp of

Luscinda, for it was she that was struggling to release herself from

his hold, having recognised Cardenio by his voice, as he had recognised

her. Cardenio also heard Dorothea’s cry as she fell fainting, and

imagining that it came from his Luscinda burst forth in terror from the

room, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando with Luscinda in his

arms. Don Fernando, too, knew Cardenio at once; and all three,

Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea, stood in silent amazement scarcely

knowing what had happened to them.

They gazed at one another without speaking, Dorothea at Don Fernando,

Don Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda at

Cardenio. The first to break silence was Luscinda, who thus addressed

Don Fernando: “Leave me, Señor Don Fernando, for the sake of what you

owe to yourself; if no other reason will induce you, leave me to cling

to the wall of which I am the ivy, to the support from which neither

your importunities, nor your threats, nor your promises, nor your gifts

have been able to detach me. See how Heaven, by ways strange and hidden

from our sight, has brought me face to face with my true husband; and

well you know by dear-bought experience that death alone will be able

to efface him from my memory. May this plain declaration, then, lead

you, as you can do nothing else, to turn your love into rage, your

affection into resentment, and so to take my life; for if I yield it up

in the presence of my beloved husband I count it well bestowed; it may

be by my death he will be convinced that I kept my faith to him to the

last moment of life.”

Meanwhile Dorothea had come to herself, and had heard Luscinda’s words,

by means of which she divined who she was; but seeing that Don Fernando

did not yet release her or reply to her, summoning up her resolution as

well as she could she rose and knelt at his feet, and with a flood of

bright and touching tears addressed him thus:

“If, my lord, the beams of that sun that thou holdest eclipsed in thine

arms did not dazzle and rob thine eyes of sight thou wouldst have seen

by this time that she who kneels at thy feet is, so long as thou wilt

have it so, the unhappy and unfortunate Dorothea. I am that lowly

peasant girl whom thou in thy goodness or for thy pleasure wouldst

raise high enough to call herself thine; I am she who in the seclusion

of innocence led a contented life until at the voice of thy

importunity, and thy true and tender passion, as it seemed, she opened

the gates of her modesty and surrendered to thee the keys of her

liberty; a gift received by thee but thanklessly, as is clearly shown

by my forced retreat to the place where thou dost find me, and by thy

appearance under the circumstances in which I see thee. Nevertheless, I

would not have thee suppose that I have come here driven by my shame;

it is only grief and sorrow at seeing myself forgotten by thee that

have led me. It was thy will to make me thine, and thou didst so follow

thy will, that now, even though thou repentest, thou canst not help

being mine. Bethink thee, my lord, the unsurpassable affection I bear

thee may compensate for the beauty and noble birth for which thou

wouldst desert me. Thou canst not be the fair Luscinda’s because thou

art mine, nor can she be thine because she is Cardenio’s; and it will

be easier, remember, to bend thy will to love one who adores thee, than

to lead one to love thee who abhors thee now. Thou didst address

thyself to my simplicity, thou didst lay siege to my virtue, thou wert

not ignorant of my station, well dost thou know how I yielded wholly to

thy will; there is no ground or reason for thee to plead deception, and

if it be so, as it is, and if thou art a Christian as thou art a

gentleman, why dost thou by such subterfuges put off making me as happy

at last as thou didst at first? And if thou wilt not have me for what I

am, thy true and lawful wife, at least take and accept me as thy slave,

for so long as I am thine I will count myself happy and fortunate. Do

not by deserting me let my shame become the talk of the gossips in the

streets; make not the old age of my parents miserable; for the loyal

services they as faithful vassals have ever rendered thine are not

deserving of such a return; and if thou thinkest it will debase thy

blood to mingle it with mine, reflect that there is little or no

nobility in the world that has not travelled the same road, and that in

illustrious lineages it is not the woman’s blood that is of account;

and, moreover, that true nobility consists in virtue, and if thou art

wanting in that, refusing me what in justice thou owest me, then even I

have higher claims to nobility than thine. To make an end, señor, these

are my last words to thee: whether thou wilt, or wilt not, I am thy

wife; witness thy words, which must not and ought not to be false, if

thou dost pride thyself on that for want of which thou scornest me;

witness the pledge which thou didst give me, and witness Heaven, which

thou thyself didst call to witness the promise thou hadst made me; and

if all this fail, thy own conscience will not fail to lift up its

silent voice in the midst of all thy gaiety, and vindicate the truth of

what I say and mar thy highest pleasure and enjoyment.”

All this and more the injured Dorothea delivered with such earnest

feeling and such tears that all present, even those who came with Don

Fernando, were constrained to join her in them. Don Fernando listened

to her without replying, until, ceasing to speak, she gave way to such

sobs and sighs that it must have been a heart of brass that was not

softened by the sight of so great sorrow. Luscinda stood regarding her

with no less compassion for her sufferings than admiration for her

intelligence and beauty, and would have gone to her to say some words

of comfort to her, but was prevented by Don Fernando’s grasp which held

her fast. He, overwhelmed with confusion and astonishment, after

regarding Dorothea for some moments with a fixed gaze, opened his arms,

and, releasing Luscinda, exclaimed:

“Thou hast conquered, fair Dorothea, thou hast conquered, for it is

impossible to have the heart to deny the united force of so many

truths.”

Luscinda in her feebleness was on the point of falling to the ground

when Don Fernando released her, but Cardenio, who stood near, having

retreated behind Don Fernando to escape recognition, casting fear aside

and regardless of what might happen, ran forward to support her, and

said as he clasped her in his arms, “If Heaven in its compassion is

willing to let thee rest at last, mistress of my heart, true, constant,

and fair, nowhere canst thou rest more safely than in these arms that

now receive thee, and received thee before when fortune permitted me to

call thee mine.”

At these words Luscinda looked up at Cardenio, at first beginning to

recognise him by his voice and then satisfying herself by her eyes that

it was he, and hardly knowing what she did, and heedless of all

considerations of decorum, she flung her arms around his neck and

pressing her face close to his, said, “Yes, my dear lord, you are the

true master of this your slave, even though adverse fate interpose

again, and fresh dangers threaten this life that hangs on yours.”

A strange sight was this for Don Fernando and those that stood around,

filled with surprise at an incident so unlooked for. Dorothea fancied

that Don Fernando changed colour and looked as though he meant to take

vengeance on Cardenio, for she observed him put his hand to his sword;

and the instant the idea struck her, with wonderful quickness she

clasped him round the knees, and kissing them and holding him so as to

prevent his moving, she said, while her tears continued to flow, “What

is it thou wouldst do, my only refuge, in this unforeseen event? Thou

hast thy wife at thy feet, and she whom thou wouldst have for thy wife

is in the arms of her husband: reflect whether it will be right for

thee, whether it will be possible for thee to undo what Heaven has

done, or whether it will be becoming in thee to seek to raise her to be

thy mate who in spite of every obstacle, and strong in her truth and

constancy, is before thine eyes, bathing with the tears of love the

face and bosom of her lawful husband. For God’s sake I entreat of thee,

for thine own I implore thee, let not this open manifestation rouse thy

anger; but rather so calm it as to allow these two lovers to live in

peace and quiet without any interference from thee so long as Heaven

permits them; and in so doing thou wilt prove the generosity of thy

lofty noble spirit, and the world shall see that with thee reason has

more influence than passion.”

All the time Dorothea was speaking, Cardenio, though he held Luscinda

in his arms, never took his eyes off Don Fernando, determined, if he

saw him make any hostile movement, to try and defend himself and resist

as best he could all who might assail him, though it should cost him

his life. But now Don Fernando’s friends, as well as the curate and the

barber, who had been present all the while, not forgetting the worthy

Sancho Panza, ran forward and gathered round Don Fernando, entreating

him to have regard for the tears of Dorothea, and not suffer her

reasonable hopes to be disappointed, since, as they firmly believed,

what she said was but the truth; and bidding him observe that it was

not, as it might seem, by accident, but by a special disposition of

Providence that they had all met in a place where no one could have

expected a meeting. And the curate bade him remember that only death

could part Luscinda from Cardenio; that even if some sword were to

separate them they would think their death most happy; and that in a

case that admitted of no remedy his wisest course was, by conquering

and putting a constraint upon himself, to show a generous mind, and of

his own accord suffer these two to enjoy the happiness Heaven had

granted them. He bade him, too, turn his eyes upon the beauty of

Dorothea and he would see that few if any could equal much less excel

her; while to that beauty should be added her modesty and the

surpassing love she bore him. But besides all this, he reminded him

that if he prided himself on being a gentleman and a Christian, he

could not do otherwise than keep his plighted word; and that in doing

so he would obey God and meet the approval of all sensible people, who

know and recognised it to be the privilege of beauty, even in one of

humble birth, provided virtue accompany it, to be able to raise itself

to the level of any rank, without any slur upon him who places it upon

an equality with himself; and furthermore that when the potent sway of

passion asserts itself, so long as there be no mixture of sin in it, he

is not to be blamed who gives way to it.

To be brief, they added to these such other forcible arguments that Don

Fernando’s manly heart, being after all nourished by noble blood, was

touched, and yielded to the truth which, even had he wished it, he

could not gainsay; and he showed his submission, and acceptance of the

good advice that had been offered to him, by stooping down and

embracing Dorothea, saying to her, “Rise, dear lady, it is not right

that what I hold in my heart should be kneeling at my feet; and if

until now I have shown no sign of what I own, it may have been by

Heaven’s decree in order that, seeing the constancy with which you love

me, I may learn to value you as you deserve. What I entreat of you is

that you reproach me not with my transgression and grievous

wrong-doing; for the same cause and force that drove me to make you

mine impelled me to struggle against being yours; and to prove this,

turn and look at the eyes of the now happy Luscinda, and you will see

in them an excuse for all my errors: and as she has found and gained

the object of her desires, and I have found in you what satisfies all

my wishes, may she live in peace and contentment as many happy years

with her Cardenio, as on my knees I pray Heaven to allow me to live

with my Dorothea;” and with these words he once more embraced her and

pressed his face to hers with so much tenderness that he had to take

great heed to keep his tears from completing the proof of his love and

repentance in the sight of all. Not so Luscinda, and Cardenio, and

almost all the others, for they shed so many tears, some in their own

happiness, some at that of the others, that one would have supposed a

heavy calamity had fallen upon them all. Even Sancho Panza was weeping;

though afterwards he said he only wept because he saw that Dorothea was

not as he fancied the queen Micomicona, of whom he expected such great

favours. Their wonder as well as their weeping lasted some time, and

then Cardenio and Luscinda went and fell on their knees before Don

Fernando, returning him thanks for the favour he had rendered them in

language so grateful that he knew not how to answer them, and raising

them up embraced them with every mark of affection and courtesy.

He then asked Dorothea how she had managed to reach a place so far

removed from her own home, and she in a few fitting words told all that

she had previously related to Cardenio, with which Don Fernando and his

companions were so delighted that they wished the story had been

longer; so charmingly did Dorothea describe her misadventures. When she

had finished Don Fernando recounted what had befallen him in the city

after he had found in Luscinda’s bosom the paper in which she declared

that she was Cardenio’s wife, and never could be his. He said he meant

to kill her, and would have done so had he not been prevented by her

parents, and that he quitted the house full of rage and shame, and

resolved to avenge himself when a more convenient opportunity should

offer. The next day he learned that Luscinda had disappeared from her

father’s house, and that no one could tell whither she had gone.

Finally, at the end of some months he ascertained that she was in a

convent and meant to remain there all the rest of her life, if she were

not to share it with Cardenio; and as soon as he had learned this,

taking these three gentlemen as his companions, he arrived at the place

where she was, but avoided speaking to her, fearing that if it were

known he was there stricter precautions would be taken in the convent;

and watching a time when the porter’s lodge was open he left two to

guard the gate, and he and the other entered the convent in quest of

Luscinda, whom they found in the cloisters in conversation with one of

the nuns, and carrying her off without giving her time to resist, they

reached a place with her where they provided themselves with what they

required for taking her away; all which they were able to do in

complete safety, as the convent was in the country at a considerable

distance from the city. He added that when Luscinda found herself in

his power she lost all consciousness, and after returning to herself

did nothing but weep and sigh without speaking a word; and thus in

silence and tears they reached that inn, which for him was reaching

heaven where all the mischances of earth are over and at an end.

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