CHAPTER 42
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF SEVERAL OTHER
THINGS WORTH KNOWING
With these words the captive held his peace, and Don Fernando said to
him, “In truth, captain, the manner in which you have related this remark-
able adventure has been such as befitted the novelty and strangeness of the
matter. The whole story is curious and uncommon, and abounds with inci-
dents that fill the hearers with wonder and astonishment; and so great is the
pleasure we have found in listening to it that we should be glad if it were to
begin again, even though to-morrow were to find us still occupied with the
same tale.” And while he said this Cardenio and the rest of them offered to
be of service to him in any way that lay in their power, and in words and
language so kindly and sincere that the captain was much gratified by their
good-will. In particular Don Fernando offered, if he would go back with
him, to get his brother the marquis to become godfather at the baptism of
Zoraida, and on his own part to provide him with the means of making his
appearance in his own country with the credit and comfort he was entitled
to. For all this the captive returned thanks very courteously, although he
would not accept any of their generous offers.
By this time night closed in, and as it did, there came up to the inn a
coach attended by some men on horseback, who demanded accommoda-
tion; to which the landlady replied that there was not a hand’s breadth of the
whole inn unoccupied.
“Still, for all that,” said one of those who had entered on horseback,
“room must be found for his lordship the Judge here.”
At this name the landlady was taken aback, and said, “Senor, the fact is I
have no beds; but if his lordship the Judge carries one with him, as no doubt
he does, let him come in and welcome; for my husband and I will give up
our room to accommodate his worship.”
“Very good, so be it,” said the squire; but in the meantime a man had got
out of the coach whose dress indicated at a glance the office and post he
held, for the long robe with ruffled sleeves that he wore showed that he was,
as his servant said, a Judge of appeal. He led by the hand a young girl in a
travelling dress, apparently about sixteen years of age, and of such a high-
bred air, so beautiful and so graceful, that all were filled with admiration
when she made her appearance, and but for having seen Dorothea, Luscin-
da, and Zoraida, who were there in the inn, they would have fancied that a
beauty like that of this maiden’s would have been hard to find. Don Quixote
was present at the entrance of the Judge with the young lady, and as soon as
he saw him he said, “Your worship may with confidence enter and take your
ease in this castle; for though the accommodation be scanty and poor, there
are no quarters so cramped or inconvenient that they cannot make room for
arms and letters; above all if arms and letters have beauty for a guide and
leader, as letters represented by your worship have in this fair maiden, to
whom not only ought castles to throw themselves open and yield them-
selves up, but rocks should rend themselves asunder and mountains divide
and bow themselves down to give her a reception. Enter, your worship, I
say, into this paradise, for here you will find stars and suns to accompany
the heaven your worship brings with you, here you will find arms in their
supreme excellence, and beauty in its highest perfection.”
The Judge was struck with amazement at the language of Don Quixote,
whom he scrutinized very carefully, no less astonished by his figure than by
his talk; and before he could find words to answer him he had a fresh sur-
prise, when he saw opposite to him Luscinda, Dorothea, and Zoraida, who,
having heard of the new guests and of the beauty of the young lady, had
come to see her and welcome her; Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the curate,
however, greeted him in a more intelligible and polished style. In short, the
Judge made his entrance in a state of bewilderment, as well with what he
saw as what he heard, and the fair ladies of the inn gave the fair damsel a
cordial welcome. On the whole he could perceive that all who were there
were people of quality; but with the figure, countenance, and bearing of
Don Quixote he was at his wits’ end; and all civilities having been ex-
changed, and the accommodation of the inn inquired into, it was settled, as
it had been before settled, that all the women should retire to the garret that
has been already mentioned, and that the men should remain outside as if to
guard them; the Judge, therefore, was very well pleased to allow his daugh-
ter, for such the damsel was, to go with the ladies, which she did very will-
ingly; and with part of the host’s narrow bed and half of what the Judge had
brought with him, they made a more comfortable arrangement for the night
than they had expected.
The captive, whose heart had leaped within him the instant he saw the
Judge, telling him somehow that this was his brother, asked one of the ser-
vants who accompanied him what his name was, and whether he knew from
what part of the country he came. The servant replied that he was called the
Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, and that he had heard it said he came
from a village in the mountains of Leon. From this statement, and what he
himself had seen, he felt convinced that this was his brother who had adopt-
ed letters by his father’s advice; and excited and rejoiced, he called Don
Fernando and Cardenio and the curate aside, and told them how the matter
stood, assuring them that the judge was his brother. The servant had further
informed him that he was now going to the Indies with the appointment of
Judge of the Supreme Court of Mexico; and he had learned, likewise, that
the young lady was his daughter, whose mother had died in giving birth to
her, and that he was very rich in consequence of the dowry left to him with
the daughter. He asked their advice as to what means he should adopt to
make himself known, or to ascertain beforehand whether, when he had
made himself known, his brother, seeing him so poor, would be ashamed of
him, or would receive him with a warm heart.
“Leave it to me to find out that,” said the curate; “though there is no rea-
son for supposing, senor captain, that you will not be kindly received, be-
cause the worth and wisdom that your brother’s bearing shows him to pos-
sess do not make it likely that he will prove haughty or insensible, or that he
will not know how to estimate the accidents of fortune at their proper
value.”
“Still,” said the captain, “I would not make myself known abruptly, but in
some indirect way.”
“I have told you already,” said the curate, “that I will manage it in a way
to satisfy us all.”
By this time supper was ready, and they all took their seats at the table,
except the captive, and the ladies, who supped by themselves in their own
room. In the middle of supper the curate said:
“I had a comrade of your worship’s name, Senor Judge, in Constantino-
ple, where I was a captive for several years, and that same comrade was one
of the stoutest soldiers and captains in the whole Spanish infantry; but he
had as large a share of misfortune as he had of gallantry and courage.”
“And how was the captain called, senor?” asked the Judge.
“He was called Ruy Perez de Viedma,” replied the curate, “and he was
born in a village in the mountains of Leon; and he mentioned a circum-
stance connected with his father and his brothers which, had it not been told
me by so truthful a man as he was, I should have set down as one of those
fables the old women tell over the fire in winter; for he said his father had
divided his property among his three sons and had addressed words of ad-
vice to them sounder than any of Cato’s. But I can say this much, that the
choice he made of going to the wars was attended with such success, that by
his gallant conduct and courage, and without any help save his own merit,
he rose in a few years to be captain of infantry, and to see himself on the
high-road and in position to be given the command of a corps before long;
but Fortune was against him, for where he might have expected her favour
he lost it, and with it his liberty, on that glorious day when so many recov-
ered theirs, at the battle of Lepanto. I lost mine at the Goletta, and after a
variety of adventures we found ourselves comrades at Constantinople.
Thence he went to Algiers, where he met with one of the most ex-
traordinary adventures that ever befell anyone in the world.”
Here the curate went on to relate briefly his brother’s adventure with Zo-
raida; to all which the Judge gave such an attentive hearing that he never
before had been so much of a hearer. The curate, however, only went so far
as to describe how the Frenchmen plundered those who were in the boat,
and the poverty and distress in which his comrade and the fair Moor were
left, of whom he said he had not been able to learn what became of them, or
whether they had reached Spain, or been carried to France by the
Frenchmen.
The captain, standing a little to one side, was listening to all the curate
said, and watching every movement of his brother, who, as soon as he per-
ceived the curate had made an end of his story, gave a deep sigh and said
with his eyes full of tears, “Oh, senor, if you only knew what news you have
given me and how it comes home to me, making me show how I feel it with
these tears that spring from my eyes in spite of all my worldly wisdom and
self-restraint! That brave captain that you speak of is my eldest brother,
who, being of a bolder and loftier mind than my other brother or myself,
chose the honourable and worthy calling of arms, which was one of the
three careers our father proposed to us, as your comrade mentioned in that
fable you thought he was telling you. I followed that of letters, in which
God and my own exertions have raised me to the position in which you see
me. My second brother is in Peru, so wealthy that with what he has sent to
my father and to me he has fully repaid the portion he took with him, and
has even furnished my father’s hands with the means of gratifying his natur-
al generosity, while I too have been enabled to pursue my studies in a more
becoming and creditable fashion, and so to attain my present standing. My
father is still alive, though dying with anxiety to hear of his eldest son, and
he prays God unceasingly that death may not close his eyes until he has
looked upon those of his son; but with regard to him what surprises me is,
that having so much common sense as he had, he should have neglected to
give any intelligence about himself, either in his troubles and sufferings, or
in his prosperity, for if his father or any of us had known of his condition he
need not have waited for that miracle of the reed to obtain his ransom; but
what now disquiets me is the uncertainty whether those Frenchmen may
have restored him to liberty, or murdered him to hide the robbery. All this
will make me continue my journey, not with the satisfaction in which I be-
gan it, but in the deepest melancholy and sadness. Oh dear brother! that I
only knew where thou art now, and I would hasten to seek thee out and de-
liver thee from thy sufferings, though it were to cost me suffering myself!
Oh that I could bring news to our old father that thou art alive, even wert
thou the deepest dungeon of Barbary; for his wealth and my brother’s and
mine would rescue thee thence! Oh beautiful and generous Zoraida, that I
could repay thy good goodness to a brother! That I could be present at the
new birth of thy soul, and at thy bridal that would give us all such
happiness!”
All this and more the Judge uttered with such deep emotion at the news
he had received of his brother that all who heard him shared in it, showing
their sympathy with his sorrow. The curate, seeing, then, how well he had
succeeded in carrying out his purpose and the captain’s wishes, had no de-
sire to keep them unhappy any longer, so he rose from the table and going
into the room where Zoraida was he took her by the hand, Luscinda,
Dorothea, and the Judge’s daughter following her. The captain was waiting
to see what the curate would do, when the latter, taking him with the other
hand, advanced with both of them to where the Judge and the other gentle-
men were and said, “Let your tears cease to flow, Senor Judge, and the wish
of your heart be gratified as fully as you could desire, for you have before
you your worthy brother and your good sister-in-law. He whom you see
here is the Captain Viedma, and this is the fair Moor who has been so good
to him. The Frenchmen I told you of have reduced them to the state of
poverty you see that you may show the generosity of your kind heart.”
The captain ran to embrace his brother, who placed both hands on his
breast so as to have a good look at him, holding him a little way off but as
soon as he had fully recognised him he clasped him in his arms so closely,
shedding such tears of heartfelt joy, that most of those present could not but
join in them. The words the brothers exchanged, the emotion they showed
can scarcely be imagined, I fancy, much less put down in writing. They told
each other in a few words the events of their lives; they showed the true af-
fection of brothers in all its strength; then the judge embraced Zoraida,
putting all he possessed at her disposal; then he made his daughter embrace
her, and the fair Christian and the lovely Moor drew fresh tears from every
eye. And there was Don Quixote observing all these strange proceedings
attentively without uttering a word, and attributing the whole to chimeras of
knight-errantry. Then they agreed that the captain and Zoraida should return
with his brother to Seville, and send news to his father of his having been
delivered and found, so as to enable him to come and be present at the mar-
riage and baptism of Zoraida, for it was impossible for the Judge to put off
his journey, as he was informed that in a month from that time the fleet was
to sail from Seville for New Spain, and to miss the passage would have
been a great inconvenience to him. In short, everybody was well pleased
and glad at the captive’s good fortune; and as now almost two-thirds of the
night were past, they resolved to retire to rest for the remainder of it. Don
Quixote offered to mount guard over the castle lest they should be attacked
by some giant or other malevolent scoundrel, covetous of the great treasure
of beauty the castle contained. Those who understood him returned him
thanks for this service, and they gave the Judge an account of his ex-
traordinary humour, with which he was not a little amused. Sancho Panza
alone was fuming at the lateness of the hour for retiring to rest; and he of all
was the one that made himself most comfortable, as he stretched himself on
the trappings of his ass, which, as will be told farther on, cost him so dear.
The ladies, then, having retired to their chamber, and the others having
disposed themselves with as little discomfort as they could, Don Quixote
sallied out of the inn to act as sentinel of the castle as he had promised. It
happened, however, that a little before the approach of dawn a voice so mu-
sical and sweet reached the ears of the ladies that it forced them all to listen
attentively, but especially Dorothea, who had been awake, and by whose
side Dona Clara de Viedma, for so the Judge’s daughter was called, lay
sleeping. No one could imagine who it was that sang so sweetly, and the
voice was unaccompanied by any instrument. At one moment it seemed to
them as if the singer were in the courtyard, at another in the stable; and as
they were all attention, wondering, Cardenio came to the door and said,
“Listen, whoever is not asleep, and you will hear a muleteer’s voice that en-
chants as it chants.”
“We are listening to it already, senor,” said Dorothea; on which Cardenio
went away; and Dorothea, giving all her attention to it, made out the words
of the song to be these:
