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,²⁵³ 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.”²⁵⁴

Don Quixote had reached this point in his piteous lament when the innkeeper’s daughter began to attract his attention by saying, “Psst, psst,” and calling to him:

“Señor, please come here, if your grace doesn’t mind.”

Don Quixote heard her voice, turned his head, and saw by the light of the moon, which was then at its brightest, that he was being called from the loft opening that to him seemed a window with grillework of gold, as befits luxurious castles, which is what he imagined the inn to be; then, in an instant, it seemed to him in his mad imagination that once again, as she had in the past, the beauteous damsel, daughter to the chatelaine of that castle, had been overcome by love for him and was soliciting his favors; with this thought in mind, and not wishing to seem discourteous and ungrateful, he pulled on Rocinante’s reins and rode to the opening, and when he saw the two young women, he said:

“I am sorely grieved, beauteous lady, that thou hast turned thy amorous thoughts to a place where there is no possibility that they will be returned as thy great worth and nobility deserve; for this thou should’st not blame a wretched knight errant whom love preventeth from giving his heart to any but the one who, when his eyes first saweth her, became the absolute mistress of his soul. Forgive me, good lady, and withdraw to thy chamber, and revealest thou no more of thy desires to me so that I may not appear even more ungrateful; if, in the love thou hast for me, thou findest aught else in me that is not love itself but can make thee content, asketh it of me, for I swear to thee by that sweet and absent enemy of mine that I shall grant it without delay, e’en if thou asketh a lock of the hair of Medusa, which is nought but vipers, or the rays of the sun enclosed in a vial.”

“My señora has no need of anything like that, Señor Knight,” said Maritornes.

“Then what, O discreet duenna, doth thy señora need?” responded Don Quixote.

“Just one of your beautiful hands,” said Maritornes, “so that with it she can ease the great desire that has brought her to this opening at such great risk to her honor, for if my señor, her father, heard her, the least thing he would slice off would be her ear.”

“I should like to see him try!” responded Don Quixote. “But surely he will be careful not to do so, unless he wisheth to meet the most calamitous end that any father hath ever met in this world, for laying hands on the delicate appendages of his enamored daughter.”

Maritornes, certain that Don Quixote would surely give her the hand she had requested, had decided on what to do, and she climbed down from the opening, went to the stable, took the halter of Sancho Panza’s donkey, and hurried back to the opening just as Don Quixote was standing on Rocinante’s saddle in order to reach the barred window where he imagined the heartbroken damsel to be; and as he gave her his hand, he said:

“Señora, takest thou this hand, or rather, this scourge of all evildoers in the world; takest thou this hand, I say, untouched by the hand of any woman, not e’en the hand of she who hath entire possession of this my body. I do not give it to thee so that thou mayest kiss it, but so that thou mayest gaze upon the composition of its sinews, the consistency of its muscles, the width and capacity of its veins, and from this conjecture the might of the arm to which such a hand belongeth.”

“Now we’ll see,” said Maritornes.

And after making a slip knot in the halter, she put it around his wrist and climbed down from the opening, then tied the other end of the halter very firmly to the lock on the loft door. Don Quixote, who felt the rough cord around his wrist, said:

“It seemeth to me that thy grace is filing my hand instead of fondling it; treateth it not so harshly, for it is not to blame for the injury my desire hath done thee, nor is it fitting that thou should’st seek vengeance for thy entire displeasure on so small a part of my body. Thou should’st remember, too, that one who loveth sweetly doth not punish severely.”

But no one was listening to these words of Don Quixote, because as soon as Maritornes attached the halter to his wrist, she and the innkeeper’s daughter went away, convulsed with laughter, and left him so securely tied that it was impossible for him to free himself.

As we have said, he was standing on Rocinante, his entire arm inside the opening and his wrist tied to the lock on the door, extremely uneasy and fearful that if Rocinante moved to one side or the other, he would be left hanging by his arm, and so he did not dare move at all, although considering Rocinante’s patience and passivity, one could reasonably expect him to stand for a century without moving.

In short, when Don Quixote discovered that he was bound and the ladies had vanished, he began to imagine that all this was the result of enchantment, as it had been the last time when in that very castle an enchanted Moor of a muledriver had given him a severe beating; to himself he cursed his lack of intelligence and good sense, for after having been hurt so badly in that castle, he had dared enter it a second time, despite the common knowledge among knights errant that when they have embarked on an adventure and have not succeeded, it is a sign that the adventure is meant not for them but for others, and so they have no need to attempt it a second time. Even so, he pulled his arm to see if he could free himself, but he was so securely tied that all his efforts were in vain. It is certainly true that he pulled rather tentatively so that Rocinante would not move, and though he longed to sit down in the saddle, all he could do was remain standing or pull his hand off.

He wished for the sword of Amadís, against which all enchantments were powerless; then he cursed his fate; then he exaggerated how much the world would feel his absence during the time he was under enchantment, and he had no doubt at all that he was enchanted; then he thought again of his beloved Dulcinea of Toboso; then he called for his good squire, Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep and stretched out on his donkey’s saddle, had no thought at that moment even for the mother who bore him; then he called on the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife to help him; then he summoned his good friend Urganda the Wise to come to his aid; finally, morning found him so desperate and perplexed that he was bellowing like a bull, for he had no hope that day would cure his plight because he deemed it eternal, since he was enchanted. This belief was strengthened even further when he saw that Rocinante had hardly moved at all, and he thought that he and his horse would remain in this state, not eating or drinking or sleeping, until the evil influence of the stars had passed or another, wiser enchanter had disenchanted him.

But he was greatly deceived, because just as dawn was breaking, four men on horseback came riding up to the inn, and they were handsomely dressed and well-equipped, with flintlocks resting on their saddlebows. They pounded on the door of the inn, which was still locked, and when this was seen by Don Quixote, who was still guarding the castle from his position at the opening to the loft, he called out to them in a loud and arrogant voice, saying:

“Knights, or squires, or whoever you may be: you have no reason to call at the gates of this castle, for it is more than clear that at this hour those inside are asleep, or are not in the habit of opening their strongholds until the sun is high in the sky. Withdraw, and wait until the day grows bright, and then we shall see if it is proper for them to open to you.”

“What the devil kind of stronghold or castle is this,” said one, “that we should be obliged to follow such ceremonies? If you’re the innkeeper, tell them to open for us; we’re travelers and want only to feed our mounts and then move on, because we’re in a hurry.”

“Does it seem to you, Señores, that I have the appearance of an innkeeper?” responded Don Quixote.

“I don’t know what kind of appearance you have,” responded another, “but I do know that you talk like a fool when you call this inn a castle.”

“It is a castle,” replied Don Quixote, “and one of the best in this entire province; there are those inside who have held a scepter in their hands and worn a crown on their heads.”

“It would be better the other way round,” said the traveler, “with a scepter on their heads and a crown in their hands. It may be that what you mean to say is that there’s a company of actors inside, and they often have those crowns and scepters you’ve mentioned, because I don’t believe that people worthy of crowns and scepters would lodge in an inn as small and silent as this one.”

“You know little of the world,” replied Don Quixote, “for you know nothing of the events that occur in knight errantry.”

The questioning traveler’s companions grew weary of the conversation he was having with Don Quixote, and they began to pound on the door again with great fury, so loudly that the innkeeper awoke, as did everyone else in the inn, and got up to ask who was at the door. Just then, one of the horses of the four men pounding at the door happened to smell Rocinante, who, melancholy and sad and with drooping ears, stood unmoving as he held his tightly drawn master; and since, after all, he was flesh and blood, though he seemed to be made of wood, he could not help a certain display of feeling as he, in turn, smelled the horse who had come to exchange caresses; as soon as he had moved slightly, Don Quixote’s feet, which were close together, slipped from the saddle, and he would have landed on the ground if he had not been hanging by his arm; this caused him so much pain that he believed his hand was being cut off at the wrist or that his arm was being pulled out of its socket; he was left dangling so close to the ground that the tips of his toes brushed the earth, and this made matters even worse, because, since he could feel how close he was to planting his feet firmly on the ground, he struggled all he could to stretch even farther and touch down, just as those subjected to the torture of the strappado, whose feet touch, almost touch, the ground, increase their own torment by attempting to extend themselves to the fullest, deceived in the hope that with just a little more stretching they will reach the ground.