PART I - CHAPTER XLIII.

by Miguel de Cervantes

　　WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITHOTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN 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 tolet Clara miss hearing such a sweet voice, so, shaking her from side toside, she woke her, saying:"Forgive me, child, for waking thee, but I do so that thou mayest havethe pleasure of hearing the best voice thou hast ever heard, perhaps, inall thy life."Clara awoke quite drowsy, and not understanding at the moment whatDorothea said, asked her what it was; she repeated what she had said, andClara became attentive at once; but she had hardly heard two lines, asthe singer continued, when a strange trembling seized her, as if she weresuffering from a severe attack of quartan ague, and throwing her armsround Dorothea she said:"Ah, dear lady of my soul and life! why did you wake me? The greatestkindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes and ears so asneither to see or hear that unhappy musician.""What art thou talking about, child?" said Dorothea. "Why, they say thissinger is a muleteer!""Nay, he is the lord of many places," replied Clara, "and that one in myheart which he holds so firmly shall never be taken from him, unless hebe willing to surrender it."Dorothea was amazed at the ardent language of the girl, for it seemed tobe far beyond such experience of life as her tender years gave anypromise of, so she said to her:"You speak in such a way that I cannot understand you, Senora Clara;explain yourself more clearly, and tell me what is this you are sayingabout 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 getfrom 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 shestopped both ears with her hands, at which Dorothea was again surprised;but turning her attention to the song she found that it ran in thisfashion: 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 excitedDorothea's curiosity to know what could be the cause of singing so sweetand weeping so bitter, so she again asked her what it was she was goingto say before. On this Clara, afraid that Luscinda might overhear her,winding her arms tightly round Dorothea put her mouth so close to her earthat she could speak without fear of being heard by anyone else, andsaid:"This singer, dear senora, is the son of a gentleman of Aragon, lord oftwo villages, who lives opposite my father's house at Madrid; and thoughmy father had curtains to the windows of his house in winter, andlattice-work in summer, in some way--I know not how--this gentleman, whowas pursuing his studies, saw me, whether in church or elsewhere, Icannot tell, and, in fact, fell in love with me, and gave me to know itfrom the windows of his house, with so many signs and tears that I wasforced to believe him, and even to love him, without knowing what it washe wanted of me. One of the signs he used to make me was to link one handin the other, to show me he wished to marry me; and though I should havebeen glad if that could be, being alone and motherless I knew not whom toopen 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 curtainor the lattice a little and let him see me plainly, at which he wouldshow such delight that he seemed as if he were going mad. Meanwhile thetime for my father's departure arrived, which he became aware of, but notfrom me, for I had never been able to tell him of it. He fell sick, ofgrief I believe, and so the day we were going away I could not see him totake farewell of him, were it only with the eyes. But after we had beentwo days on the road, on entering the posada of a village a day's journeyfrom this, I saw him at the inn door in the dress of a muleteer, and sowell disguised, that if I did not carry his image graven on my heart itwould have been impossible for me to recognise him. But I knew him, and Iwas surprised, and glad; he watched me, unsuspected by my father, fromwhom he always hides himself when he crosses my path on the road, or inthe posadas where we halt; and, as I know what he is, and reflect thatfor love of me he makes this journey on foot in all this hardship, I amready to die of sorrow; and where he sets foot there I set my eyes. Iknow not with what object he has come; or how he could have got away fromhis father, who loves him beyond measure, having no other heir, andbecause he deserves it, as you will perceive when you see him. Andmoreover, I can tell you, all that he sings is out of his own head; for Ihave 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 amterrified lest my father should recognise him and come to know of ourloves. I have never spoken a word to him in my life; and for all that Ilove him so that I could not live without him. This, dear senora, is allI have to tell you about the musician whose voice has delighted you somuch; and from it alone you might easily perceive he is no muleteer, buta lord of hearts and towns, as I told you already.""Say no more, Dona Clara," said Dorothea at this, at the same timekissing her a thousand times over, "say no more, I tell you, but waittill day comes; when I trust in God to arrange this affair of yours sothat it may have the happy ending such an innocent beginning deserves.""Ah, senora," said Dona Clara, "what end can be hoped for when his fatheris of such lofty position, and so wealthy, that he would think I was notfit to be even a servant to his son, much less wife? And as to marryingwithout 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 andleave me; perhaps with not seeing him, and the long distance we shallhave to travel, the pain I suffer now may become easier; though I daresaythe remedy I propose will do me very little good. I don't know how thedevil this has come about, or how this love I have for him got in; I sucha young girl, and he such a mere boy; for I verily believe we are both ofan 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 Dona Claraspoke. "Let us go to sleep now, senora," said she, "for the little of thenight that I fancy is left to us: God will soon send us daylight, and wewill 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 servantMaritornes, who, knowing the weak point of Don Quixote's humour, and thathe 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 rateto amuse themselves for a while by listening to his nonsense. As it sohappened there was not a window in the whole inn that looked outwardsexcept a hole in the wall of a straw-loft through which they used tothrow 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 timeto time sending forth such deep and doleful sighs, that he seemed topluck up his soul by the roots with each of them; and they could hearhim, too, saying in a soft, tender, loving tone, "Oh my lady Dulcinea delToboso, perfection of all beauty, summit and crown of discretion,treasure house of grace, depositary of virtue, and finally, ideal of allthat is good, honourable, and delectable in this world! What is thy gracedoing now? Art thou, perchance, mindful of thy enslaved knight who of hisown free will hath exposed himself to so great perils, and all to servethee? Give me tidings of her, oh luminary of the three faces! Perhaps atthis moment, envious of hers, thou art regarding her, either as she pacesto and fro some gallery of her sumptuous palaces, or leans over somebalcony, meditating how, whilst preserving her purity and greatness, shemay mitigate the tortures this wretched heart of mine endures for hersake, what glory should recompense my sufferings, what repose my toil,and lastly what death my life, and what reward my services? And thou, ohsun, that art now doubtless harnessing thy steeds in haste to risebetimes and come forth to see my lady; when thou seest her I entreat ofthee to salute her on my behalf: but have a care, when thou shalt see herand salute her, that thou kiss not her face; for I shall be more jealousof thee than thou wert of that light-footed ingrate that made thee sweatand run so on the plains of Thessaly, or on the banks of the Peneus (forI 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'sdaughter began to signal to him, saying, "Senor, come over here, please."At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and saw by thelight of the moon, which then was in its full splendour, that some onewas calling to him from the hole in the wall, which seemed to him to be awindow, and what is more, with a gilt grating, as rich castles, such ashe believed the inn to be, ought to have; and it immediately suggesteditself to his imagination that, as on the former occasion, the fairdamsel, 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, notto show himself discourteous, or ungrateful, he turned Rocinante's headand approached the hole, and as he perceived the two wenches he said:"I pity you, beauteous lady, that you should have directed your thoughtsof love to a quarter from whence it is impossible that such a return canbe made to you as is due to your great merit and gentle birth, for whichyou must not blame this unhappy knight-errant whom love renders incapableof submission to any other than her whom, the first moment his eyesbeheld her, he made absolute mistress of his soul. Forgive me, noblelady, and retire to your apartment, and do not, by any furtherdeclaration of your passion, compel me to show myself more ungrateful;and if, of the love you bear me, you should find that there is anythingelse in my power wherein I can gratify you, provided it be not loveitself, demand it of me; for I swear to you by that sweet absent enemy ofmine to grant it this instant, though it be that you require of me a lockof Medusa's hair, which was all snakes, or even the very beams of the sunshut up in a vial.""My mistress wants nothing of that sort, sir knight," said Maritornes atthis."What then, discreet dame, is it that your mistress wants?" replied DonQuixote."Only one of your fair hands," said Maritornes, "to enable her to ventover 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 heardher, 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 betterbeware of that, if he does not want to meet the most disastrous end thatever father in the world met for having laid hands on the tender limbs ofa love-stricken daughter."Maritornes felt sure that Don Quixote would present the hand she hadasked, and making up her mind what to do, she got down from the hole andwent 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 plantedhimself standing on Rocinante's saddle in order to reach the gratedwindow where he supposed the lovelorn damsel to be; and giving her hishand, he said, "Lady, take this hand, or rather this scourge of theevil-doers of the earth; take, I say, this hand which no other hand ofwoman has ever touched, not even hers who has complete possession of myentire body. I present it to you, not that you may kiss it, but that youmay observe the contexture of the sinews, the close network of themuscles, the breadth and capacity of the veins, whence you may infer whatmust be the strength of the arm that has such a hand.""That we shall see presently," said Maritornes, and making a running knoton the halter, she passed it over his wrist and coming down from the holetied 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 itnot so harshly, for it is not to blame for the offence my resolution hasgiven 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 socruelly."But there was nobody now to listen to these words of Don Quixote's, foras soon as Maritornes had tied him she and the other made off, ready todie with laughing, leaving him fastened in such a way that it wasimpossible for him to release himself.He was, as has been said, standing on Rocinante, with his arm passedthrough the hole and his wrist tied to the bolt of the door, and inmighty fear and dread of being left hanging by the arm if Rocinante wereto stir one side or the other; so he did not dare to make the leastmovement, although from the patience and imperturbable disposition ofRocinante, he had good reason to expect that he would stand withoutbudging for a whole century. Finding himself fast, then, and that theladies had retired, he began to fancy that all this was done byenchantment, as on the former occasion when in that same castle thatenchanted Moor of a carrier had belaboured him; and he cursed in hisheart his own want of sense and judgment in venturing to enter the castleagain, after having come off so badly the first time; it being a settledpoint with knights-errant that when they have tried an adventure, andhave not succeeded in it, it is a sign that it is not reserved for thembut for others, and that therefore they need not try it again.Nevertheless he pulled his arm to see if he could release himself, but ithad been made so fast that all his efforts were in vain. It is true hepulled it gently lest Rocinante should move, but try as he might to seathimself in the saddle, he had nothing for it but to stand upright or pullhis hand off. Then it was he wished for the sword of Amadis, againstwhich no enchantment whatever had any power; then he cursed his illfortune; then he magnified the loss the world would sustain by hisabsence while he remained there enchanted, for that he believed he wasbeyond all doubt; then he once more took to thinking of his belovedDulcinea del Toboso; then he called to his worthy squire Sancho Panza,who, buried in sleep and stretched upon the pack-saddle of his ass, wasoblivious, at that moment, of the mother that bore him; then he calledupon the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife to come to his aid; then he invokedhis good friend Urganda to succour him; and then, at last, morning foundhim in such a state of desperation and perplexity that he was bellowinglike a bull, for he had no hope that day would bring any relief to hissuffering, which he believed would last for ever, inasmuch as he wasenchanted; and of this he was convinced by seeing that Rocinante neverstirred, much or little, and he felt persuaded that he and his horse wereto remain in this state, without eating or drinking or sleeping, untilthe malign influence of the stars was overpast, or until some other moresage enchanter should disenchant him.But he was very much deceived in this conclusion, for daylight had hardlybegun to appear when there came up to the inn four men on horseback, wellequipped and accoutred, with firelocks across their saddle-bows. Theycalled out and knocked loudly at the gate of the inn, which was stillshut; on seeing which, Don Quixote, even there where he was, did notforget 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 thegates of this castle; for it is plain enough that they who are within areeither asleep, or else are not in the habit of throwing open the fortressuntil 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 weshall 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 standon such ceremony? If you are the innkeeper bid them open to us; we aretravellers who only want to feed our horses and go on, for we are inhaste.""Do you think, gentlemen, that I look like an innkeeper?" said DonQuixote."I don't know what you look like," replied the other; "but I know thatyou are talking nonsense when you call this inn a castle.""A castle it is," returned Don Quixote, "nay, more, one of the best inthis whole province, and it has within it people who have had the sceptrein the hand and the crown on the head.""It would be better if it were the other way," said the traveller, "thesceptre on the head and the crown in the hand; but if so, may be there iswithin some company of players, with whom it is a common thing to havethose 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 tocrowns and sceptres can have taken up their quarters.""You know but little of the world," returned Don Quixote, "since you areignorant of what commonly occurs in knight-errantry."But the comrades of the spokesman, growing weary of the dialogue with DonQuixote, renewed their knocks with great vehemence, so much so that thehost, and not only he but everybody in the inn, awoke, and he got up toask who knocked. It happened at this moment that one of the horses of thefour who were seeking admittance went to smell Rocinante, who melancholy,dejected, and with drooping ears stood motionless, supporting his sorelystretched master; and as he was, after all, flesh, though he looked as ifhe were made of wood, he could not help giving way and in return smellingthe one who had come to offer him attentions. But he had hardly moved atall when Don Quixote lost his footing; and slipping off the saddle, hewould have come to the ground, but for being suspended by the arm, whichcaused him such agony that he believed either his wrist would be cutthrough or his arm torn off; and he hung so near the ground that he couldjust 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, hestruggled and stretched himself as much as he could to gain a footing;just like those undergoing the torture of the strappado, when they arefixed at "touch and no touch," who aggravate their own sufferings bytheir violent efforts to stretch themselves, deceived by the hope whichmakes them fancy that with a very little more they will reach the ground.