Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (63 page)

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:

“Señor 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 Doña 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, Señor,” replied Dorotea.

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

CHAPTER XLIII

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, Señora 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:

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, Señora, is the son of a gentleman from the
kingdom of Aragón 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,
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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 gestures and so many tears that I had to believe him, and even love him in return without knowing exactly what he wanted of me. One of his gestures was to join his hands, giving me to understand that he would marry me; that would have made me very happy, but as I was alone and motherless and had no one to talk to, I did nothing and did not favor him; but when my father was out of the house, and his father, too, I would raise the canvas or jalousie a little and let him see me full-length, which sent him into such raptures it seemed he would lose his mind.

Then the time came for my father to leave Madrid, and the boy learned about it, but not from me, because I never had the chance to tell him. He was taken ill, as I understand it, with grief, and so the day we were to leave I could not see him to say goodbye, if only with my eyes. But after we had been traveling for two days, as we were entering an inn in a village about a day’s travel from here, I saw him in the doorway, dressed in the clothes of a muledriver’s boy and looking so natural that if I did not carry his image engraved in my heart, it would have been impossible to recognize him. But I did recognize him, to my amazement and joy; he looked at me without my father’s seeing him, and he always hides his face from my father when he passes us on the roads and in the inns where we stay; since I know who he is and believe that it is on account of his love for me that he is traveling on foot and suffering so much hardship, I am dying of sorrow and follow his every step with my eyes. I don’t know why he has come here or how he managed to escape his father, who loves him very, very much because he is his only heir, and because he deserves it, as your grace will agree when you see him. And let me tell you something else: everything he sings he makes up in his own head, and I have heard that he’s a very fine student and poet. And there’s more: whenever I see him or hear him sing, I tremble from head to toe, worried and fearful that my father will recognize him and learn of our feelings and desires. I have never said a
word to him in my life, and even so, I love him so much I cannot live without him. This, Señora, is all that I can tell you about this musician whose voice has given you so much joy, but it alone says clearly that he is not a muledriver’s boy, as you say, but a lord with vassals and lands, as I have told you.”

“Say no more, Señora Doña Clara,” said Dorotea as she gave her a thousand kisses, “say no more and wait for the new day, for with God’s help I hope to arrange this affair so that it has the happy ending such virtuous beginnings deserve.”

“Oh, Señora!” said Doña Clara. “What ending can we expect if his father is so distinguished and wealthy that he won’t think me good enough to be his son’s maid, let alone his wife? Then, too, I would not marry without my father’s knowledge for anything in the world. All I want is for this boy to go home and leave me; perhaps if I don’t see him, and with the great distance we have to travel, the grief I feel now may begin to fade, though I can say that I don’t believe this remedy will do me much good at all. I don’t know what the devil this is, or how I ever fell so much in love with him, since I am so young and so is he; I think we’re both the same age, I’m almost sixteen, and my father says I’ll turn sixteen on Michaelmas Day.”

Dorotea could not help laughing when she heard how childishly Doña Clara spoke, and she said:

“Señora, let us sleep for the little bit of night we have left, and tomorrow, with God’s help, things will go well for us if I have any skill in such matters.”

After this they were silent, and a profound stillness fell over the inn; only the innkeeper’s daughter and her maid, Maritornes, were not asleep, for they, knowing the madness that afflicted Don Quixote, who was outside their window, armed, mounted, and on guard, decided to play a trick on him or, at least, to pass the time listening to his foolishness.

It so happened that in all the inn there was no window that opened onto the fields except for a narrow opening in a loft through which they pitched out straw. The two semi-maidens stood at this opening and saw that Don Quixote was on horseback, leaning on his lance, and from time to time heaving sighs so mournful and deep that each one seemed to break his heart in two, and saying in a gentle, tender, and loving voice:

“Oh, Señora Dulcinea of Toboso, pinnacle of all beauty, summit and crest of discernment, archive of grace and wit, depository of virtue, and,
finally, ideal of all goodness, modesty, and joy in the world! What can thy grace be doing now? Can thy thoughts be turned to thy captive knight, who hath willingly faced so many dangers for the sake of serving thee? Oh, giveth me news of her, thou three-faced luminary! Perhaps with envy of her brilliance thou art looking at her now, or perhaps she strolleth along a gallery in one of her sumptuous palaces, or leaneth against a balustrade and considereth how, while protecting her modesty and greatness, she canst soften the anguish that this my heart suffereth for her sake, and reward my grief with glory, and lighten my care, and, finally, grant life to my death and recompense for my services. And thou, O sun, who even now must be making haste to saddle thy steeds, and climb the heavens, and see my lady, I pray thee when thou seest her to greet her on my behalf, but be thou certain not to kiss her face when thou seest and greetest her, for then I shall be more envious of thee than thou wert of that fleet ingrate who madest thee to perspire and race across the plains of Thessaly or along the banks of the Peneus, for I do not remember precisely where thou rannest then so envious and enamored.”
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