Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (62 page)

‘Moors! Moors have landed! Moors, Moors! To arms! To arms!’

His shouts confused us, and we did not know what to do, but assuming that the shepherd’s outcry would rouse the countryside, and that the mounted troops who guarded the coast would soon come to investigate, we agreed that the renegade should remove his Turkish jacket and put on a prisoner’s coat or tunic that one of us gave to him, though doing so left him in shirtsleeves; and so, commending ourselves to God, we followed the same path the shepherd had taken, expecting the mounted troops to bear down on us at any moment. And we were not wrong, because in less than two hours, when we had come out of the undergrowth and onto a plain, we saw some fifty men on horseback coming toward us at a quick trot; as soon as we saw them we stood still and waited for them, but when they rode up and saw so many poor Christians instead of the Moors they had been searching for, they were perplexed, and one of them asked us if we, by any chance, were the reason a shepherd had sounded the alarm. I said that we were, and as I was about to tell him our story, where we came from and who we were, one of the Christians who was with us recognized the rider who had asked us the question, and without allowing me to utter another word, he said:

‘Give thanks to God, Señores, for leading us to so good a place! If I’m not mistaken, we’re in Vélez Málaga, and if the years of my captivity
haven’t erased the memory of this gentleman who is questioning us, you, Señor, are my uncle, Pedro de Bustamante.’

As soon as the Christian captive said this, the rider leaped from his horse and rushed to embrace the lad, saying:

‘My dear, dear nephew, I recognize you now, and have wept for your death, as has your mother—my sister—and all your family, those who are still alive, and God has been pleased to give them life so that they can have the pleasure of seeing you: we knew you were in Algiers, and to judge by the clothes you and the rest of this company are wearing, I understand that you’ve had a miraculous escape.’

‘That’s true,’ said the young man, ‘and there will be time to tell you all about it.’

As soon as the horsemen realized that we were Christian captives, they dismounted and each of them invited us to ride his horse into the city of Vélez Málaga, which was a league and a half away. We told them where we had left the skiff, and some went back to bring it into the city; others had us mount behind them, and Zoraida rode with the Christian captive’s uncle. The entire city came out to welcome us, for they had been informed of our arrival by a guard who had ridden ahead. They were not surprised to see escaped captives, or captives who were Moors, because all the people along that coast were accustomed to seeing both, but they were astonished by Zoraida’s beauty; at that time and moment it was at its height, due to the exertion of the trip and her joy at finding herself in a Christian land, free of the fear that we would be lost; this had brought so much color to her face that unless I was deceived by my affections, I would dare say there was no more beautiful creature in the world, at least none that I had seen. We went directly to the church to thank God for the mercy He had shown us, and as soon as Zoraida entered the church, she said there were faces there that resembled that of Lela Marién. We told her these were images of Lela Marién, and the renegade did the best he could to explain what they meant, so that she could worship them as if each one really were the Lela Marién who had spoken to her. Zoraida, who has a good understanding and a quick, clear intelligence, quickly comprehended everything he said about the images. From the church our companions were taken to various houses in town, but the renegade, Zoraida, and I were taken by the Christian lad to the house of his parents, who were comfortably endowed with material goods and who treated us as lovingly as they did their own son.

We spent six days in Vélez, and at the end of that time the renegade,
having made the statement required of him, went to the city of Granada, where, through the mediation of the Holy Inquisition, he would be returned to the blessed fellowship of the Church; each of the freed Christians went wherever he chose; only Zoraida and I remained, with nothing but the
escudos
that the courteous Frenchman had given to her, and with them I bought this animal that she is riding; I have been serving her as father and squire, but not as husband, and we are going to see if my father is still alive or if either of my brothers has been more fortunate than I, although since heaven made me Zoraida’s companion, I do not believe I could have any better luck. The patience with which Zoraida endures the hardships that poverty brings, and her desire to at last become a Christian, are both so great that I am amazed and moved to serve her all the rest of my days; yet the pleasure I have in knowing that I am hers and she is mine is troubled and undone by my not knowing if I will find some corner in my own land where I can shelter and protect her, or if time and death will have so altered the fortunes and lives of my father and brothers that if they are gone, I will scarcely find anyone who knows me. There is no more, Señores, of my story to tell you; you can judge for yourselves if it is unusual and interesting; as for me, I can say that though I would have liked to recount it more briefly, fear of tiring you made me omit more than a few details.”

CHAPTER XLII

Then the captive fell silent, and Don Fernando said:

“Certainly, Señor Captain, the manner in which you have recounted this remarkable tale has been equal to the unusual and marvelous events themselves. The story is rare and strange, full of extraordinary 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 lan
guage 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:

“Señor, 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 Pérez de Viedma and that he had heard he came from somewhere in the mountains of León. 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 México, 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, Señor Captain, that you will be very warmly received; your brother’s face re
veals 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:

“Señor 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, Señor?” asked the judge.

“His name,” responded the priest, “was Ruy Pérez de Viedma, and he came from the mountains of León; 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, Señor, 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 Perú, 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!”