Chương Chương 43 · CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH

. CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH

CHAPTER XLIII.

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH

OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN

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Ah me, Love’s mariner am I

On Love’s deep ocean sailing;

I know not where the haven lies,

I dare not hope to gain it.

One solitary distant star

Is all I have to guide me,

A brighter orb than those of old

That Palinurus lighted.

And vaguely drifting am I borne,

I know not where it leads me;

I fix my gaze on it alone,

Of all beside it heedless.

But over-cautious prudery,

And coyness cold and cruel,

When most I need it, these, like clouds,

Its longed-for light refuse me.

Bright star, goal of my yearning eyes

As thou above me beamest,

When thou shalt hide thee from my sight

I’ll know that death is near me.

The singer had got so far when it struck Dorothea that it was not fair

to let Clara miss hearing such a sweet voice, so, shaking her from side

to side, she woke her, saying:

“Forgive me, child, for waking thee, but I do so that thou mayest have

the pleasure of hearing the best voice thou hast ever heard, perhaps,

in all thy life.”

Clara awoke quite drowsy, and not understanding at the moment what

Dorothea said, asked her what it was; she repeated what she had said,

and Clara became attentive at once; but she had hardly heard two lines,

as the singer continued, when a strange trembling seized her, as if she

were suffering from a severe attack of quartan ague, and throwing her

arms round Dorothea she said:

“Ah, dear lady of my soul and life! why did you wake me? The greatest

kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes and ears so

as neither to see or hear that unhappy musician.”

“What art thou talking about, child?” said Dorothea. “Why, they say

this singer is a muleteer!”

“Nay, he is the lord of many places,” replied Clara, “and that one in

my heart which he holds so firmly shall never be taken from him, unless

he be willing to surrender it.”

Dorothea was amazed at the ardent language of the girl, for it seemed

to be far beyond such experience of life as her tender years gave any

promise of, so she said to her:

“You speak in such a way that I cannot understand you, Señora Clara;

explain yourself more clearly, and tell me what is this you are saying

about hearts and places and this musician whose voice has so moved you?

But do not tell me anything now; I do not want to lose the pleasure I

get from listening to the singer by giving my attention to your

transports, for I perceive he is beginning to sing a new strain and a

new air.”

“Let him, in Heaven’s name,” returned Clara; and not to hear him she

stopped both ears with her hands, at which Dorothea was again

surprised; but turning her attention to the song she found that it ran

in this fashion:

Sweet Hope, my stay,

That onward to the goal of thy intent

Dost make thy way,

Heedless of hindrance or impediment,

Have thou no fear

If at each step thou findest death is near.

No victory,

No joy of triumph doth the faint heart know;

Unblest is he

That a bold front to Fortune dares not show,

But soul and sense

In bondage yieldeth up to indolence.

If Love his wares

Do dearly sell, his right must be contest;

What gold compares

With that whereon his stamp he hath imprest?

And all men know

What costeth little that we rate but low.

Love resolute

Knows not the word “impossibility;”

And though my suit

Beset by endless obstacles I see,

Yet no despair

Shall hold me bound to earth while heaven is there.

Here the voice ceased and Clara’s sobs began afresh, all which excited

Dorothea’s curiosity to know what could be the cause of singing so

sweet and weeping so bitter, so she again asked her what it was she was

going to say before. On this Clara, afraid that Luscinda might overhear

her, winding her arms tightly round Dorothea put her mouth so close to

her ear that she could speak without fear of being heard by anyone

else, and said:

“This singer, dear señora, is the son of a gentleman of Aragon, lord of

two villages, who lives opposite my father’s house at Madrid; and

though my father had curtains to the windows of his house in winter,

and lattice-work in summer, in some way—I know not how—this gentleman,

who was pursuing his studies, saw me, whether in church or elsewhere, I

cannot tell, and, in fact, fell in love with me, and gave me to know it

from the windows of his house, with so many signs and tears that I was

forced to believe him, and even to love him, without knowing what it

was he wanted of me. One of the signs he used to make me was to link

one hand in the other, to show me he wished to marry me; and though I

should have been glad if that could be, being alone and motherless I

knew not whom to open my mind to, and so I left it as it was, showing

him no favour, except when my father, and his too, were from home, to

raise the curtain or the lattice a little and let him see me plainly,

at which he would show such delight that he seemed as if he were going

mad. Meanwhile the time for my father’s departure arrived, which he

became aware of, but not from me, for I had never been able to tell him

of it. He fell sick, of grief I believe, and so the day we were going

away I could not see him to take farewell of him, were it only with the

eyes. But after we had been two days on the road, on entering the

posada of a village a day’s journey from this, I saw him at the inn

door in the dress of a muleteer, and so well disguised, that if I did

not carry his image graven on my heart it would have been impossible

for me to recognise him. But I knew him, and I was surprised, and glad;

he watched me, unsuspected by my father, from whom he always hides

himself when he crosses my path on the road, or in the posadas where we

halt; and, as I know what he is, and reflect that for love of me he

makes this journey on foot in all this hardship, I am ready to die of

sorrow; and where he sets foot there I set my eyes. I know not with

what object he has come; or how he could have got away from his father,

who loves him beyond measure, having no other heir, and because he

deserves it, as you will perceive when you see him. And moreover, I can

tell you, all that he sings is out of his own head; for I have heard

them say he is a great scholar and poet; and what is more, every time I

see him or hear him sing I tremble all over, and am terrified lest my

father should recognise him and come to know of our loves. I have never

spoken a word to him in my life; and for all that I love him so that I

could not live without him. This, dear señora, is all I have to tell

you about the musician whose voice has delighted you so much; and from

it alone you might easily perceive he is no muleteer, but a lord of

hearts and towns, as I told you already.”

“Say no more, Doña Clara,” said Dorothea at this, at the same time

kissing her a thousand times over, “say no more, I tell you, but wait

till day comes; when I trust in God to arrange this affair of yours so

that it may have the happy ending such an innocent beginning deserves.”

“Ah, señora,” said Doña Clara, “what end can be hoped for when his

father is of such lofty position, and so wealthy, that he would think I

was not fit to be even a servant to his son, much less wife? And as to

marrying without the knowledge of my father, I would not do it for all

the world. I would not ask anything more than that this youth should go

back and leave me; perhaps with not seeing him, and the long distance

we shall have to travel, the pain I suffer now may become easier;

though I daresay the remedy I propose will do me very little good. I

don’t know how the devil this has come about, or how this love I have

for him got in; I such a young girl, and he such a mere boy; for I

verily believe we are both of an age, and I am not sixteen yet; for I

will be sixteen Michaelmas Day, next, my father says.”

Dorothea could not help laughing to hear how like a child Doña Clara

spoke. “Let us go to sleep now, señora,” said she, “for the little of

the night that I fancy is left to us: God will soon send us daylight,

and we will set all to rights, or it will go hard with me.”

With this they fell asleep, and deep silence reigned all through the

inn. The only persons not asleep were the landlady’s daughter and her

servant Maritornes, who, knowing the weak point of Don Quixote’s

humour, and that he was outside the inn mounting guard in armour and on

horseback, resolved, the pair of them, to play some trick upon him, or

at any rate to amuse themselves for a while by listening to his

nonsense. As it so happened there was not a window in the whole inn

that looked outwards except a hole in the wall of a straw-loft through

which they used to throw out the straw. At this hole the two

demi-damsels posted themselves, and observed Don Quixote on his horse,

leaning on his pike and from time to time sending forth such deep and

doleful sighs, that he seemed to pluck up his soul by the roots with

each of them; and they could hear him, too, saying in a soft, tender,

loving tone, “Oh my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, perfection of all beauty,

summit and crown of discretion, treasure house of grace, depositary of

virtue, and finally, ideal of all that is good, honourable, and

delectable in this world! What is thy grace doing now? Art thou,

perchance, mindful of thy enslaved knight who of his own free will hath

exposed himself to so great perils, and all to serve thee? Give me

tidings of her, oh luminary of the three faces! Perhaps at this moment,

envious of hers, thou art regarding her, either as she paces to and fro

some gallery of her sumptuous palaces, or leans over some balcony,

meditating how, whilst preserving her purity and greatness, she may

mitigate the tortures this wretched heart of mine endures for her sake,

what glory should recompense my sufferings, what repose my toil, and

lastly what death my life, and what reward my services? And thou, oh

sun, that art now doubtless harnessing thy steeds in haste to rise

betimes and come forth to see my lady; when thou seest her I entreat of

thee to salute her on my behalf: but have a care, when thou shalt see

her and salute her, that thou kiss not her face; for I shall be more

jealous of thee than thou wert of that light-footed ingrate that made

thee sweat and run so on the plains of Thessaly, or on the banks of the

Peneus (for I do not exactly recollect where it was thou didst run on

that occasion) in thy jealousy and love.”

Don Quixote had got so far in his pathetic speech when the landlady’s

daughter began to signal to him, saying, “Señor, come over here,

please.”

At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and saw by the

light of the moon, which then was in its full splendour, that someone

was calling to him from the hole in the wall, which seemed to him to be

a window, and what is more, with a gilt grating, as rich castles, such

as he believed the inn to be, ought to have; and it immediately

suggested itself to his imagination that, as on the former occasion,

the fair damsel, the daughter of the lady of the castle, overcome by

love for him, was once more endeavouring to win his affections; and

with this idea, not to show himself discourteous, or ungrateful, he

turned Rocinante’s head and approached the hole, and as he perceived

the two wenches he said:

“I pity you, beauteous lady, that you should have directed your

thoughts of love to a quarter from whence it is impossible that such a

return can be made to you as is due to your great merit and gentle

birth, for which you must not blame this unhappy knight-errant whom

love renders incapable of submission to any other than her whom, the

first moment his eyes beheld her, he made absolute mistress of his

soul. Forgive me, noble lady, and retire to your apartment, and do not,

by any further declaration of your passion, compel me to show myself

more ungrateful; and if, of the love you bear me, you should find that

there is anything else in my power wherein I can gratify you, provided

it be not love itself, demand it of me; for I swear to you by that

sweet absent enemy of mine to grant it this instant, though it be that

you require of me a lock of Medusa’s hair, which was all snakes, or

even the very beams of the sun shut up in a vial.”

“My mistress wants nothing of that sort, sir knight,” said Maritornes

at this.

“What then, discreet dame, is it that your mistress wants?” replied Don

Quixote.

“Only one of your fair hands,” said Maritornes, “to enable her to vent

over it the great passion, passion which has brought her to this

loophole, so much to the risk of her honour; for if the lord her father

had heard her, the least slice he would cut off her would be her ear.”

“I should like to see that tried,” said Don Quixote; “but he had better

beware of that, if he does not want to meet the most disastrous end

that ever father in the world met for having laid hands on the tender

limbs of a love-stricken daughter.”

Maritornes felt sure that Don Quixote would present the hand she had

asked, and making up her mind what to do, she got down from the hole

and went into the stable, where she took the halter of Sancho Panza’s

ass, and in all haste returned to the hole, just as Don Quixote had

planted himself standing on Rocinante’s saddle in order to reach the

grated window where he supposed the lovelorn damsel to be; and giving

her his hand, he said, “Lady, take this hand, or rather this scourge of

the evil-doers of the earth; take, I say, this hand which no other hand

of woman has ever touched, not even hers who has complete possession of

my entire body. I present it to you, not that you may kiss it, but that

you may observe the contexture of the sinews, the close network of the

muscles, the breadth and capacity of the veins, whence you may infer

what must be the strength of the arm that has such a hand.”

“That we shall see presently,” said Maritornes, and making a running

knot on the halter, she passed it over his wrist and coming down from

the hole tied the other end very firmly to the bolt of the door of the

straw-loft.

Don Quixote, feeling the roughness of the rope on his wrist, exclaimed,

“Your grace seems to be grating rather than caressing my hand; treat it

not so harshly, for it is not to blame for the offence my resolution

has given you, nor is it just to wreak all your vengeance on so small a

part; remember that one who loves so well should not revenge herself so

cruelly.”

But there was nobody now to listen to these words of Don Quixote’s, for

as soon as Maritornes had tied him she and the other made off, ready to

die with laughing, leaving him fastened in such a way that it was

impossible for him to release himself.

He was, as has been said, standing on Rocinante, with his arm passed

through the hole and his wrist tied to the bolt of the door, and in

mighty fear and dread of being left hanging by the arm if Rocinante

were to stir one side or the other; so he did not dare to make the

least movement, although from the patience and imperturbable

disposition of Rocinante, he had good reason to expect that he would

stand without budging for a whole century. Finding himself fast, then,

and that the ladies had retired, he began to fancy that all this was

done by enchantment, as on the former occasion when in that same castle

that enchanted Moor of a carrier had belaboured him; and he cursed in

his heart his own want of sense and judgment in venturing to enter the

castle again, after having come off so badly the first time; it being a

settled point with knights-errant that when they have tried an

adventure, and have not succeeded in it, it is a sign that it is not

reserved for them but for others, and that therefore they need not try

it again. Nevertheless he pulled his arm to see if he could release

himself, but it had been made so fast that all his efforts were in

vain. It is true he pulled it gently lest Rocinante should move, but

try as he might to seat himself in the saddle, he had nothing for it

but to stand upright or pull his hand off. Then it was he wished for

the sword of Amadis, against which no enchantment whatever had any

power; then he cursed his ill fortune; then he magnified the loss the

world would sustain by his absence while he remained there enchanted,

for that he believed he was beyond all doubt; then he once more took to

thinking of his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso; then he called to his

worthy squire Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep and stretched upon the

pack-saddle of his ass, was oblivious, at that moment, of the mother

that bore him; then he called upon the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife to

come to his aid; then he invoked his good friend Urganda to succour

him; and then, at last, morning found him in such a state of

desperation and perplexity that he was bellowing like a bull, for he

had no hope that day would bring any relief to his suffering, which he

believed would last for ever, inasmuch as he was enchanted; and of this

he was convinced by seeing that Rocinante never stirred, much or

little, and he felt persuaded that he and his horse were to remain in

this state, without eating or drinking or sleeping, until the malign

influence of the stars was overpast, or until some other more sage

enchanter should disenchant him.

But he was very much deceived in this conclusion, for daylight had

hardly begun to appear when there came up to the inn four men on

horseback, well equipped and accoutred, with firelocks across their

saddle-bows. They called out and knocked loudly at the gate of the inn,

which was still shut; on seeing which, Don Quixote, even there where he

was, did not forget to act as sentinel, and said in a loud and

imperious tone, “Knights, or squires, or whatever ye be, ye have no

right to knock at the gates of this castle; for it is plain enough that

they who are within are either asleep, or else are not in the habit of

throwing open the fortress until the sun’s rays are spread over the

whole surface of the earth. Withdraw to a distance, and wait till it is

broad daylight, and then we shall see whether it will be proper or not

to open to you.”

“What the devil fortress or castle is this,” said one, “to make us

stand on such ceremony? If you are the innkeeper bid them open to us;

we are travellers who only want to feed our horses and go on, for we

are in haste.”

“Do you think, gentlemen, that I look like an innkeeper?” said Don

Quixote.

“I don’t know what you look like,” replied the other; “but I know that

you are talking nonsense when you call this inn a castle.”

“A castle it is,” returned Don Quixote, “nay, more, one of the best in

this whole province, and it has within it people who have had the

sceptre in the hand and the crown on the head.”

“It would be better if it were the other way,” said the traveller, “the

sceptre on the head and the crown in the hand; but if so, maybe there

is within some company of players, with whom it is a common thing to

have those crowns and sceptres you speak of; for in such a small inn as

this, and where such silence is kept, I do not believe any people

entitled to crowns and sceptres can have taken up their quarters.”

“You know but little of the world,” returned Don Quixote, “since you

are ignorant of what commonly occurs in knight-errantry.”

But the comrades of the spokesman, growing weary of the dialogue with

Don Quixote, renewed their knocks with great vehemence, so much so that

the host, and not only he but everybody in the inn, awoke, and he got

up to ask who knocked. It happened at this moment that one of the

horses of the four who were seeking admittance went to smell Rocinante,

who melancholy, dejected, and with drooping ears stood motionless,

supporting his sorely stretched master; and as he was, after all,

flesh, though he looked as if he were made of wood, he could not help

giving way and in return smelling the one who had come to offer him

attentions. But he had hardly moved at all when Don Quixote lost his

footing; and slipping off the saddle, he would have come to the ground,

but for being suspended by the arm, which caused him such agony that he

believed either his wrist would be cut through or his arm torn off; and

he hung so near the ground that he could just touch it with his feet,

which was all the worse for him; for, finding how little was wanted to

enable him to plant his feet firmly, he struggled and stretched himself

as much as he could to gain a footing; just like those undergoing the

torture of the strappado, when they are fixed at “touch and no touch,”

who aggravate their own sufferings by their violent efforts to stretch

themselves, deceived by the hope which makes them fancy that with a

very little more they will reach the ground.

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