Don Quixote

t then the innkeeper, who was at the entrance to the inn, said:

"Here comes a beautiful collection of guests: if they stop here, we'll have some gaudeamus."

"What kind of people?" said Cardenio.

"Four men," responded the innkeeper, "on horseback, with short stirrups, lances, and shields, and all of them wearing black masks;2 with them is a woman dressed in white, riding sidesaddle, and her face is covered, too, and there are two servants with them, on foot."

"Are they very near?" asked the priest.

"So near," responded the innkeeper, "that they're arriving now."

When Dorotea heard this she covered her face, and Cardenio went into the room where Don Quixote was sleeping; they almost did not have time to do so before everyone described by the innkeeper came into the inn; the four riders, of a very gallant appearance and disposition, dismounted and went to help the woman down from the sidesaddle, and one of them took her in his arms and sat her in a chair that was near the door of the room where Cardenio had gone to hide. In all this time, neither she nor the men had removed their masks, or spoken a single word, but as the woman sat in the chair she sighed deeply and let her arms fall to her sides, as if she were sick and weak. The servants who had come on foot led the horses to the stables.

The priest, seeing this, and longing to know who these people were who dressed in this fashion and kept so silent, walked over to the servants and asked one of them what he wanted to know; the servant responded:

"By my faith, Senor, I can't tell you who these people are: I only know that they seem to be very important, especially the one who took the lady in his arms, and I say this because all the others have respect for him and do only what he orders and commands."

"And the lady, who is she?" asked the priest.

"I don't know that, either," the servant responded, "because during the whole journey I haven't seen her face; I've heard her sigh, very often, and moan, and each time it sounds as if her heart were about to break. It's no surprise we don't know more than this, because my companions and I have been traveling with them for only two days; we met on the road, and they asked us and persuaded us to go with them as far as Andalucia, and they offered to pay us very well."

"Have you heard any of their names?" asked the priest.

"No, we surely haven't," responded the servant, "because it's a wonder how silently they travel; all you hear from them are the sighs and sobs of that poor lady, and we really feel sorry for her; we think she's being forced to go wherever it is that she's going; from what we've seen of her clothes, she's a nun, or she's going to become one, which seems more likely, and maybe she isn't becoming a nun of her own free will, and that's why she seems so melancholy."

"That's possible," said the priest.

And leaving them, he walked back to Dorotea, who, hearing the masked woman sigh, and moved by her natural compassion, approached her and said:

"What troubles you, Senora? If it is an ailment that women know about and can cure, I am happy to offer my services to you."

In response to this the sorrowful lady remained silent, and although Dorotea repeated her offer she maintained her silence, until the masked gentleman, the one the servant said was obeyed by the others, approached and said to Dorotea:

"Do not waste your time, Senora, in offering anything to this woman, since it is her custom never to give thanks for anything that is done for her, and do not encourage her to respond, unless you wish to hear her tell a lie."

"I have never told one," said the woman, who up to this moment had been silent. "Rather, it is because I am so truthful, so lacking in deceptive wiles, that I find myself in this predicament; I call on you as my witness, for the absolute truth I tell turns you into a lying traitor."

Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, for he was very near the one who said them, separated from her only by the door to Don Quixote's room, and when he heard them, he gave a great shout, saying:

"God save me! What is this I hear? Whose voice is this that has reached my ears?"

The lady, in great consternation, turned her head when she heard these shouts, and not seeing the one who was shouting, she rose to her feet and was about to enter the room; the gentleman, seeing this, stopped her and did not allow her to take a step. She was so distraught and agitated that the cloth covering her face slipped off, revealing an incomparably beautiful face, though one that was pale and frightened, as her eyes looked all around her, darting back and forth with so much urgency that she seemed a person who had lost her reason; these gestures and movements, though Dorotea did not know why she was making them, filled her and all who looked upon the lady with great pity. The gentleman held her tightly by the shoulders, and because he was so involved in holding her back, he could not keep his own mask raised, and it too slipped off; Dorotea, who had put her arms around the lady, looked up and saw that the man also holding the lady was her husband, Don Fernando; no sooner had she recognized him than from the bottom of her heart there rose a long, mournful ay! and she fell backward in a swoon, and if the barber had not been close by and had not caught her in his arms, she would have fallen to the floor.

The priest hurried over and removed Dorotea's veil so that he could sprinkle her face with water, and as soon as her face was uncovered, Don Fernando recognized her, for it was he who held the other woman, and he turned deathly pale when he saw her; even so, he did not release Luscinda, for it was she who was struggling to free herself from his arms, having recognized Cardenio's voice, as he had recognized hers. When Cardenio heard the ay! that came from Dorotea when she fainted, he thought it had come from his Luscinda, and he rushed out of the room, terrified, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando with his arms around Luscinda. Don Fernando also recognized Cardenio, and the three of them, Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorotea, were left speechless with astonishment, barely knowing what had happened to them.

All were silent as they all looked at one another: Dorotea at Don Fernando, Don Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda at Cardenio. But the first one to break the silence was Luscinda, who spoke to Don Fernando in this manner:

"Let me go, Don Fernando, for the sake of what you owe to your person, since you will not do so for any other reason, and let me cling to the wall on which I am the ivy, the support from which you have not been able to tear me despite your solicitations, threats, promises, and gifts. See how heaven, in its miraculous, mysterious way, has brought my true husband before me. And you know very well, after a thousand costly efforts, that only death is strong enough to wipe him from my memory. Therefore let this clear discouragement persuade you to turn love into rage, desire into disgust, and then put an end to my life; if I lose it in the presence of my dear husband, it will be well lost, for perhaps with my death, he will be convinced that I kept faith with him until the very end."

In the meantime, Dorotea had recovered from her swoon; she heard everything Luscinda said and realized who she was, and seeing that Don Fernando still had not freed her or responded to her words, Dorotea used all her strength to stand; then she fell to her knees in front of him, and shedding a great quantity of beautiful, heartrending tears, she began to speak to him, saying:

"If, Senor, the rays from this sun that you hold eclipsed in your arms have not clouded and darkened the light in your own eyes, then you will have seen that she who kneels at your feet is Dorotea, luckless and unfortunate until you will otherwise. I am that humble peasant whom you, out of kindness or for the sake of your own pleasure, wished to elevate to the height where she could call herself yours. I am the one who, secluded and surrounded by virtue, lived a happy life until, heeding your urgent words and what seemed to be fitting and loving sentiments, opened the doors of her modesty and handed you the keys to her freedom, a gift so little valued by you that I have been obliged to come to the place where you find me now, and see you in the manner in which I now see you. Even so, I would not want you to think that my dishonor has directed my steps, when I have been brought here only by the sorrow and grief of being forgotten by you.

You wanted me to be yours, and you wanted it in such a manner that even though you no longer do, it will not be possible for you to stop being mine. Consider, Senor, that the incomparable love I have for you may be recompense for the beauty and nobility for whose sake you have abandoned me. You cannot belong to the beautiful Luscinda because you are mine, and she cannot be yours because she belongs to Cardenio; if you consider it for a moment, it would be easier for you to turn your will to lov-ing one who adores you, rather than trying to force love from one who despises you. You solicited my shame; you pleaded for my integrity; you were not ignorant of my status; you know very well how I surrendered completely to your desire; you have no justification or reason to claim you were deceived. If this is true, and it is, and if you are as much a Christian as you are a gentleman, then why do you go to so much trouble to avoid making me as contented at the end as you did at the beginning? And if you do not love me for what I am, your true and legitimate wife, then at least want me and take me as your slave; if I am possessed by you, I shall think of myself as happy and fortunate. Do not, by leaving and abandoning me, permit my dishonor to become the subject of gossip and rumors; do not ruin the old age of my parents: their loyal service, as good vassals to your family, deserves better. And if it seems to you that you will debase your blood by mixing it with mine, consider that there are few, if any, noble lines in the world that have not taken this path, and that the bloodline on the woman's side is not relevant to an illustrious lineage;3 furthermore, true nobility consists of virtue, and if you lose yours by denying me what you rightly owe me, then I shall have more noble characteristics than you.

In short, Senor, I say to you for the last time that whether you wish it or not, I am your wife; your words bear witness to that, and they cannot and must not be false, unless you no longer value in yourself what you scorn me for not having; your signature bears witness, as does the heaven you called on to witness what you promised me. And if all this is to no avail, your own conscience cannot help but call to you silently in the midst of all your joys, reminding you of the truth I have told you, and clouding your greatest pleasure and happiness."

The unfortunate Dorotea said these and other words with so much emotion and so many tears that all those present, even the men who accompanied Don Fernando, were moved. Don Fernando listened, not saying a word until she concluded speaking and then began to sob and heave so many sighs that one would have needed a heart of bronze not to be affected by these signs of deep sorrow. Luscinda watched her, as moved by her grief as she was astounded at her great intelligence and beauty, and although she wished to approach her and say some words of comfort, Don Fernando held her tightly in his arms and would not release her. Don Fernando, filled with consternation and confusion, stared at Dorotea for a long time and then lowered his arms, releasing Luscinda, and said:



"You have conquered, O beautiful Dorotea, you have conquered, because I do not have the heart to deny so many truths spoken together."

When Don Fernando released her, Luscinda felt so faint she almost fell, but since Cardenio was close to her, standing behind Don Fernando so he would not be recognized,4 he set aside all fear and defied all danger and hurried to support Luscinda, and taking her in his arms, he said:

"If merciful heaven wishes and desires you to have repose, O loyal, steadfast, and beautiful wife of mine, you will find none more secure than what you have now in these arms that welcome you, and welcomed you in the past, when it was Fortune's will that I call you mine."

At these words Luscinda rested her eyes on Cardenio, and having recognized him, first by hearing his voice and then by seeing him, she was almost mad with joy, and unconcerned about the appearance of modesty, she threw her arms around his neck, and putting her face close to his, she said:

"You indeed, Senor, are the true master of your captive, no matter how Fortune may oppose us or threaten this life of mine, which depends on yours."

This was a strange sight for Don Fernando and for all the others, who marveled at so unusual a turn of events. It appeared to Dorotea that Don Fernando turned pale and seemed ready to take his revenge on Cardenio, because she saw him move his hand toward his sword, and as soon as this thought occurred to her, she hastened to throw her arms around his knees, kissing them and holding them so close that he could not move, and with her tears still flowing, she said:

"What do you, my sole refuge, intend to do in this unforeseen situation? At your feet you have your wife, and the woman you want instead is in the arms of her husband. Consider if it will be right, or possible, for you to undo what heaven has done, or whether it will be better for you to elevate to your own height one who has been constant in her truth and steadfastness despite all obstacles, and whom you see here before you, bathing the face and bosom of her true husband in amorous tears. I beseech you for the sake of God, I implore you for your own sake: do not allow this manifest disappointment to increase your anger but diminish it instead, so that, calmly and serenely, you permit these two lovers to enjoy all the time that heaven wishes to grant them, with no hindrance from you; in this you will reveal the generosity of your illustrious and noble heart, and the world will see that in you, reason is more powerful than appetite."

As Dorotea was saying this, Cardenio held Luscinda in his arms but did not move his eyes away from Don Fernando, determined that if he should see him make any move against him, he would defend himself and attack all those who wished to harm him, even if it cost him his life. But then Don Fernando's friends, and the priest and the barber, who had heard everything, not to mention our good Sancho Panza, approached Don Fernando and surrounded him, imploring him to consider Dorotea's tears, and if what she had said was true, as they believed it undoubtedly was, then he should not allow her to be deprived of her legitimate hopes; he should accept that it was not by chance but the will of divine providence that they all had met in so unlikely a place, and he should be advised--said the priest--that only death could take Luscinda from Cardenio, and even if they were put asunder by a sharp-edged sword, they would consider their death joyous; in the face of bonds as indissoluble as these, it was the height of reason to show his generous heart, overcoming and conquering himself and, by his own free will, permitting the couple to enjoy the happiness already granted them by heaven; he should turn his eyes to the beauty of Dorotea, and he would see that few, if any, women were her equal, let alone her superior, and in addition to her beauty he should consider her humility and her great love for him, and, above all, he should realize that if he valued himself as a gentleman and as a Christian, he could do nothing but keep the promise he had made; by keeping it, he would keep his faith with God and satisfy all discerning people, who know and realize that even in a woman of humble birth, it is a prerogative of beauty, when accompanied by virtue, to rise to any height and be the equal of any highborn man, without in any way lowering the one who raises her and makes her equal to himself, for when the powerful laws of desire hold sway, as long as no sin intervenes, the man who follows them cannot be faulted.

In the end, everyone added their words to these, and they were of such a nature that the valiant heart of Don Fernando--it was, after all, fed by illustrious blood--softened and let itself be vanquished by the truth he could not deny even if he had wished to; the indication that he had surrendered and ceded to the good advice offered to him was that he bent down and embraced Dorotea, saying to her:

"Arise, Senora; it is not right for the woman I have in my heart to kneel at my feet; if, until now, I have not demonstrated what I say, per-haps it was ordained by heaven so that I, seeing the fidelity of your love for me, would esteem you as you deserve to be esteemed. What I ask is that you not reprimand my poor behavior and great negligence, for the same powerful reason that moved me to take you as my own also impelled me to avoid being yours. And to prove to you that this is true, turn and look into the eyes of Luscinda, who is now content, and in them you will find forgiveness for all my errors; since she has found and obtained what she desired, and I have found in you what pleases me, may she live safe and content for many long and happy years with her Cardenio, and I shall pray that heaven allows me to do the same with my Dorotea."

And having said this, Don Fernando embraced Dorotea again and pressed his face to hers with such tender feeling that he had to choke back the tears that were undeniable signs of his love and repentance. But the tears of Luscinda and Cardenio were not held back, nor were those of almost everyone else present, and so many were shed, for one's own joy and for the joy of others, that it seemed as if some calamity had befallen them all. Even Sancho Panza cried, although he later said the reason he cried was his discovery that Dorotea was not, as he had thought, Queen Micomicona, from whom he had hoped to receive innumerable favors. Everyone's bewilderment lasted for some time, at least as long as their weeping, and then Cardenio and Luscinda went to kneel before Don Fernando, thanking him with so much courtesy for the kindness he had shown them that Don Fernando did not know how to respond, and so he raised them up and embraced them, displaying great love and courtesy.

Then he asked Dorotea to tell him how she had come to this place so far from her home. Briefly and discreetly, she recounted everything she had told Cardenio earlier, which pleased Don Fernando and his traveling companions so much that they wanted the story to last longer: such was the charm with which Dorotea recounted her misfortunes. When she had finished, Don Fernando related what had happened to him in the city after the letter was discovered in Luscinda's bodice, the letter in which she declared that she was Cardenio's wife and could not be his. He said he had wanted to kill her and would have done so if her parents had not stopped him; then he, resentful and humiliated, had left the house, determined to have his revenge at a more convenient time; the next day he learned that Luscinda had fled her parents' house, and no one could say where she had gone; after a few months he discovered that she was in a conven