Don Quixote

y incidents that astonish the listener; we have so liked hearing it that we would enjoy listening to it all over again, even if it took until tomorrow morning."

After he had said this, Cardenio and the others offered to do everything in their power to serve the captain, using words so sincere and language so affectionate that he was certain of their good will, in particular that of Don Fernando, who offered, if he wished to go with him, to have his brother the marquis act as godfather at Zoraida's baptism, while he would provide everything needed so that the captive could return to his own land with the dignity and comfort his person deserved. The captive thanked him very courteously but did not wish to accept any of his generous offers.

Night was falling by this time, and when it grew dark, a carriage arrived at the inn accompanied by some men on horseback. They asked for accommodations, and the innkeeper's wife replied that they did not have an empty place in the whole inn.

"Well, even so," said one of the men on horseback, "you cannot turn away his honor the judge who is approaching now."

When she heard this title, the innkeeper's wife became perturbed and said:

"Senor, the fact is I have no free beds; if his honor the judge has brought his own, as he probably has, then he is welcome, and my husband and I will give up our room in order to accommodate his grace."

"That will be acceptable," said the squire.

By this time a man had descended from the carriage, and his clothing immediately indicated his office and position, for the long robe with shirred sleeves edged in lace showed that he was a judge, as his servant had said. He held the hand of a maiden, approximately sixteen years old, who wore a traveling costume and was so elegant, beautiful, and charming that everyone marveled at the sight of her, and if they had not already seen Dorotea and Luscinda and Zoraida at the inn, they would have thought that beauty comparable to hers would be difficult to find. Don Quixote watched as the judge and the maiden came inside, and when he saw them he said:

"Surely your grace may enter this castle and rest here, for although it is crowded and uncomfortable, there is no place in the world so crowded or uncomfortable that it does not have room for arms and letters, especially if arms and letters are led and guided by comeliness, as the letters of your grace are led by this beauteous damsel, before whom castles must not only open their gates and reveal themselves, but great rocks must split in two and mountains divide and fall in order to give her shelter. I say that your grace should enter this paradise, for here you will find stars and suns to accompany the heaven your grace brings with you: here you will find arms at their most magnificent, and beauty in the extreme."

The judge, astounded at Don Quixote's words, looked at him very carefully and was no less astounded by his appearance, and not finding words with which to respond, he was astounded all over again when he saw Luscinda, Dorotea, and Zoraida, for when the innkeeper's wife told them there were new guests and had described the maiden's beauty, they came out to see and welcome her. Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest gave the judge a courteous and more straightforward greeting. His honor, in fact, was somewhat bewildered by what he had seen and heard, but the enchanting women of the inn made the beautiful maiden welcome.

The judge saw clearly that all the people there were gentlefolk, but the figure, face, and bearing of Don Quixote left him perplexed; after the exchange of courteous greetings and a careful consideration of the accommodations offered by the inn, matters were arranged as they had been earlier: all the women would sleep in the previously mentioned garret, and the men would stay outside, as a kind of guard. The judge was content to have the maiden, who was his daughter, go with the ladies, which she did very willingly. With part of the innkeeper's narrow bed, and half of the one the judge had brought with him, they settled in that night more comfortably than they had expected.

From his first glimpse of the judge, the captive's heart had pounded with the certainty that this was his brother, and he asked one of his servants what the judge's name was and if he knew where he was from. The servant responded that his name was Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma and that he had heard he came from somewhere in the mountains of Leon. This information, combined with what he had seen, convinced him that this was his brother, the one who had pursued letters, following his father's advice, and with great excitement and happiness he called aside Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest, and told them what had happened, and assured them that the judge was his brother. The servant had told him that his honor was going to the Indies to serve as a judge on the Royal High Court of Mexico, and the captive also learned that the maiden was the judge's daughter, that her mother had died in childbirth, and that he was very wealthy because of the dowry his daughter had inherited. The captive asked their advice as to how he should make himself known, or if he ought to determine first whether his brother would feel humiliated when he saw how poor he was or would welcome him affectionately.

"Let me find out for you," said the priest, "though I am certain, Senor Captain, that you will be very warmly received; your brother's face reveals virtue and good sense, and he gives no sign of being arrogant or ungrateful or ignorant of how to evaluate the adversities of fortune."

"Even so," said the captain, "I would like to reveal myself to him gradually, not all at once."

"And I say," responded the priest, "that I will arrange it in a way that satisfies us all."

By this time supper had been prepared, and they all sat at the table except for the captive and the ladies, who ate by themselves in the garret. In the middle of the meal, the priest said:

"Senor Judge, I had a comrade in Constantinople, where I was held captive for some years, who had the same name as your grace; this comrade was one of the most valiant soldiers and captains in the entire Spanish infantry, but as unfortunate as he was courageous and brave."

"And what was this captain's name, Senor?" asked the judge.

"His name," responded the priest, "was Ruy Perez de Viedma, and he came from the mountains of Leon; he told me about something that had happened to him, his father, and his brothers, and if I had not heard it from a man as truthful as he, I would have taken it for one of those old wives' tales told around the fire in winter. Because he said that his father had divided his estate among his three sons and had given them advice that was better than Cato's. And I can say that the counsel he chose to follow, which was to take up arms, served him so well that in a few years, because of his valor and hard work, with no support other than his own great virtue, he rose to the rank of infantry captain and was well on his way to becoming commander of a regiment. But then his luck turned, and just when he could have expected good fortune, he lost it and his freedom on the glorious day when so many won theirs at the battle of Lepanto. I lost my freedom at the Goletta, and then, through a series of circumstances, we became comrades in Constantinople. From there he went to Algiers, where he became involved in one of the strangest stories the world has ever seen."

The priest continued the tale and briefly and succinctly recounted what had happened to the captive and Zoraida; the judge listened more attentively than he had ever listened to evidence in a case. The priest stopped at the moment when the French robbed the Christians in the boat and left his comrade and the beautiful Moorish lady in poverty and want; he said he knew no more about them and did not know if they ever reached Spain or had been carried off to France by the Frenchmen.

The captain listened to everything the priest said, standing a little way off and observing everything his brother did, and the judge, seeing that the priest had come to the end of his tale, heaved a great sigh as his eyes filled with tears and said:

"Oh, Senor, if you only knew what you have just told me! It touches me so deeply I cannot control these tears that stream from my eyes despite all my circumspection and reserve! That brave captain is my older brother, who, being stronger and of more noble thoughts than I or my younger brother, chose the honorable and worthy profession of arms, which was one of the three paths our father proposed to us, as your comrade told you and which you took as nothing but a story. I followed the path of letters, and by the grace of God and my own diligence have reached my present position. My younger brother is in Peru, and so wealthy that with what he has sent home to my father and me he has more than repaid the portion he took, and has even placed in my father's hands the means to satisfy his natural generosity; because of him, I was able to pursue my studies in a decent and suitable manner and achieve my current rank. My father still lives, though dying for news of his oldest son, and he constantly prays to God that death not close his eyes until he can see his son alive. What astonishes me, considering my brother's great intelligence, is that he failed to inform his father of his many hardships and afflictions, or his times of good fortune; if his father or either of his brothers had known, he would have had no need to wait for the miracle of the reeds to obtain his ransom. But my fear now is wondering if those Frenchmen gave him his freedom or killed him to hide their thievery. This means that I shall continue my journey not happily, as I began it, but filled with melancholy and sadness. Oh, my dear brother, if only I knew where you were now! I would go to find you and free you from hardship, even if it meant hardship for me! And bring to our aged father the news that you were alive, even if you were in the deepest dungeons of Barbary, for his wealth, and my brother's and mine, would rescue you! O beautiful and generous Zoraida, if only I could repay your kindness to my brother, and witness the rebirth of your soul, and the marriage that would give all of us so much pleasure!"

The magistrate said these and other words like them, filled with so much emotion at hearing news of his brother that all those present joined him in expressing their sentiments at his sorrow.

The priest, seeing that his plan had worked so well and achieved what the captain desired, did not wish them to be sad any longer, and so he rose from the table, went into the room where Zoraida was staying, and led her out by the hand, followed by Luscinda, Dorotea, and the judge's daughter. The captain was waiting to see what the priest intended to do; he took the captain by the hand as well, and leading both of them, the priest walked to the table where the judge and the other gentlemen were sitting and said:

"Senor Judge, let your tears cease, and your dearest wish will be crowned with all you desire, for here in front of you are your good brother and sister-in-law. This is Captain Viedma, and this is the beautiful Moor who was so kind to him. The Frenchmen, as I said, left them in straitened circumstances, so that you now have the opportunity to show them the liberality of your generous heart."

The captain came forward to embrace his brother, who held him off by placing his hands on his chest so that he could look at him from a slight distance, but when he recognized him he embraced him so closely, shedding so many tears of joy, that the rest of the company were bound to weep, too. The words the two brothers exchanged, the feelings they displayed, can scarcely be imagined, let alone written down. They gave each other a brief accounting of their lives; then they revealed the warmth of their brotherly affections, and the magistrate embraced Zoraida and offered her his entire estate; then he had her embrace his daughter, and the beautiful Christian girl and the beautiful Moorish lady moved them all to tears again.

Don Quixote was very attentive, not saying a word, pondering these strange events and attributing them all to the chimeras of knight errantry. It was agreed that the captain and Zoraida would go with his brother to Sevilla, and they would inform their father that he had been found and was free, and as soon as he could, their father would come to be present at the marriage and baptism of Zoraida, for the judge could not delay his journey; he had been notified that in a month's time the fleet would leave Sevilla for New Spain, and it would have been extremely inconvenient for him not to make the voyage at that time.

In short, everyone was pleased and happy at the captive's good fortune, and since the night was almost two-thirds over, they decided to retire and rest until morning. Don Quixote offered to guard the castle in the event some giant or other nefarious villain decided to attack, greedy for the great treasure of beauty enclosed therein. Those who knew him thanked him, and they told the judge about Don Quixote's strange madness, which amused him more than a little.

Only Sancho Panza was troubled at how late they went to bed, and only he made himself more comfortable than all the rest by lying down on his donkey's harness, which would cost him dearly, as shall be recounted later.

The ladies, then, having withdrawn to their room, and the others having settled down with as little discomfort as possible, Don Quixote stood outside the inn to guard the castle, as he had promised.

It so happened that shortly before dawn, a voice so harmonious and sweet reached the ears of the ladies that they were all obliged to listen carefully, especially Dorotea, who was awake, and beside whom lay Dona Clara de Viedma, which was the name of the judge's daughter. No one could imagine who was singing so beautifully in a voice unaccompanied by any instrument. At times they thought the singing was in the courtyard; other times, it seemed to come from the stable; and as they were listening in bewilderment, Cardenio came to the door and said:

"If anyone is awake, listen, and you will hear the voice of one of the muledrivers' boys; he sings so well that he sounds like an angel."

"We hear him, Senor," replied Dorotea.

And so Cardenio left, and Dorotea, listening very attentively, heard the words that the boy was singing. They were:





CHAPTER XLIII


Which recounts the pleasing tale of the muledriver's boy, along with other strange events that occurred at the inn



I, a mariner of love,

sail passion's perilous deeps

desperate to find a cove

or harbor, or rest or peace.

Guided by a distant star

more radiant, more bright,

though its light shines from afar,

than any Palinurus spied.

I know not where she leads,

I sail perplexed, confused,

my soul care-laden, careless,

wanting nothing but to gaze

Upon her. Uncommon

modesty, rarest virtue,

like clouds hide her fair mien;

I would restore it to view.

O splendid, luminous star,

cause of my tears and sighs,

when you hide your face entire

then I will surely die!



When the singer had reached this point, it seemed to Dorotea that Clara ought not to miss hearing so fine a voice, and she shook her gently to wake her, saying:

"Forgive me, my dear, for waking you, but I want you to listen to the best voice you may ever have heard in your life."

Clara stirred and was still half-asleep, and at first she did not understand what Dorotea was saying and asked her to repeat it, and when she did, Clara paid close attention. But when she heard barely two lines sung by that voice, she began to tremble as if taken ill in a sudden attack of quartain fever, and throwing her arms around Dorotea, she said:

"Oh, dear lady of my heart and soul! Why did you wake me? The greatest favor that fortune could grant me now would be to close my eyes and ears so that I could not see or hear that unhappy singer."

"What are you saying, my dear? They say that the person singing is a muledriver's boy."

"Oh no, he is the lord of many villages, and of a domain in my heart which he holds so unalterably that unless he chooses to leave it, it will be his forever."

Dorotea was astonished at the girl's deeply felt words, which seemed to her far more discerning than might have been expected from one so young, and so she said to her:

"You speak, Senora Clara, in a way I cannot understand: explain what you mean by heart and domains, and tell me of this musician, whose voice has left you so agitated. But say nothing now, because in the event you become even more perturbed, I do not want to miss the pleasure I derive from his voice; I think he is going to start again, with new lyrics and a new melody."

"By all means," responded Clara.



But in order not to hear him, she covered her ears with her hands, which also astonished Dorotea, who listened carefully, and this is what she heard:

Oh, sweet hope of mine,

taming th'impossible, struggling past thorns,

bravely walking the path

that you alone have cut, you alone adorn;

do not despair fair hope

if each step brings you closer to death's scope.

The slothful never win

laurels of triumph or honored victories;

since they ne'er contend

with fate, fortune, and fame they never see,

but weak in indolence,

they turn to idle joys of flesh and sense.

Love puts a high price

on its glories; that is just and fair, for

there's no richer prize

than one that is esteemed at its true worth,

and it is surely clear

that things are not highly valued if not dear.

Steadfastness in love

can often win impossibilities;

though this may prove

too harsh a terrain for my tenacity,

I despise that fear

and strive to reach my heaven from this sphere.1



Here the voice came to an end, and Clara began to sob again, all of which inflamed Dorotea's desire to know the reason for so melodious a song and such piteous weeping. And so she again asked Clara what she had meant earlier, and the girl, fearful that Luscinda would hear her, held Dorotea tightly and placed her mouth so close to Dorotea's ear that she was sure she could speak without being overheard and said:

"The boy who is singing, Senora, is the son of a gentleman from the kingdom of Aragon who is the lord of two villages, and who had a house across from my father's house in Madrid, and though my father covered the windows of his house with canvas in winter and jalousies in summer,2 I don't know how it happened, but this young man, as he was going to school, saw me somehow, I don't know if it was in church or somewhere else, and he fell in love with me and let me know it from the windows of his house with so many g