CHAPTER 43
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN
{verse
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.
{verse
The singer had got so far when it struck Dorothea that it was not fair to
let Clara miss hearing such a sweet voice, so, shaking her from side to side,
she woke her, saying:
“Forgive me, child, for waking thee, but I do so that thou mayest have the
pleasure of hearing the best voice thou hast ever heard, perhaps, in all thy
life.”
Clara awoke quite drowsy, and not understanding at the moment what
Dorothea said, asked her what it was; she repeated what she had said, and
Clara became attentive at once; but she had hardly heard two lines, as the
singer continued, when a strange trembling seized her, as if she were suffer-
ing from a severe attack of quartan ague, and throwing her arms round
Dorothea she said:
“Ah, dear lady of my soul and life! why did you wake me? The greatest
kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes and ears so as
neither to see or hear that unhappy musician.”
“What art thou talking about, child?” said Dorothea. “Why, they say this
singer is a muleteer!”
“Nay, he is the lord of many places,” replied Clara, “and that one in my
heart which he holds so firmly shall never be taken from him, unless he be
willing to surrender it.”
Dorothea was amazed at the ardent language of the girl, for it seemed to
be far beyond such experience of life as her tender years gave any promise
of, so she said to her:
“You speak in such a way that I cannot understand you, Senora Clara; ex-
plain yourself more clearly, and tell me what is this you are saying about
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 get from lis-
tening 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 she
stopped both ears with her hands, at which Dorothea was again surprised;
but turning her attention to the song she found that it ran in this fashion:
{verse
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.
{verse
Here the voice ceased and Clara’s sobs began afresh, all which excited
Dorothea’s curiosity to know what could be the cause of singing so sweet
and weeping so bitter, so she again asked her what it was she was going to
say before. On this Clara, afraid that Luscinda might overhear her, winding
her arms tightly round Dorothea put her mouth so close to her ear that she
could speak without fear of being heard by anyone else, and said:
“This singer, dear senora, is the son of a gentleman of Aragon, lord of
two villages, who lives opposite my father’s house at Madrid; and though
my father had curtains to the windows of his house in winter, and lattice-
work in summer, in some way—I know not how—this gentleman, who was
pursuing his studies, saw me, whether in church or elsewhere, I cannot tell,
and, in fact, fell in love with me, and gave me to know it from the windows
of his house, with so many signs and tears that I was forced to believe him,
and even to love him, without knowing what it was he wanted of me. One
of the signs he used to make me was to link one hand in the other, to show
me he wished to marry me; and though I should have been glad if that could
be, being alone and motherless I knew not whom to open 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 curtain or the lattice a little and let him
see me plainly, at which he would show such delight that he seemed as if he
were going mad. Meanwhile the time for my father’s departure arrived,
which he became aware of, but not from me, for I had never been able to
tell him of it. He fell sick, of grief I believe, and so the day we were going
away I could not see him to take farewell of him, were it only with the eyes.
But after we had been two days on the road, on entering the posada of a vil-
lage a day’s journey from this, I saw him at the inn door in the dress of a
muleteer, and so well disguised, that if I did not carry his image graven on
my heart it would have been impossible for me to recognise him. But I
knew him, and I was surprised, and glad; he watched me, unsuspected by
my father, from whom he always hides himself when he crosses my path on
the road, or in the posadas where we halt; and, as I know what he is, and
reflect that for love of me he makes this journey on foot in all this hardship,
I am ready to die of sorrow; and where he sets foot there I set my eyes. I
know not with what object he has come; or how he could have got away
from his father, who loves him beyond measure, having no other heir, and
because he deserves it, as you will perceive when you see him. And more-
over, I can tell you, all that he sings is out of his own head; for I have 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 am terrified lest my father
should recognise him and come to know of our loves. I have never spoken a
word to him in my life; and for all that I love him so that I could not live
without him. This, dear senora, is all I have to tell you about the musician
whose voice has delighted you so much; and from it alone you might easily
perceive he is no muleteer, but a lord of hearts and towns, as I told you
already.”
“Say no more, Dona Clara,” said Dorothea at this, at the same time kiss-
ing her a thousand times over, “say no more, I tell you, but wait till day
comes; when I trust in God to arrange this affair of yours so that it may
have the happy ending such an innocent beginning deserves.”
“Ah, senora,” said Dona Clara, “what end can be hoped for when his fa-
ther is of such lofty position, and so wealthy, that he would think I was not
fit to be even a servant to his son, much less wife? And as to marrying with-
out 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 and leave me;
perhaps with not seeing him, and the long distance we shall have to travel,
the pain I suffer now may become easier; though I daresay the remedy I
propose will do me very little good. I don’t know how the devil this has
come about, or how this love I have for him got in; I such a young girl, and
he such a mere boy; for I verily believe we are both of an 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 Clara
spoke. “Let us go to sleep now, senora,” said she, “for the little of the night
that I fancy is left to us: God will soon send us daylight, and we will 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 servant
Maritornes, who, knowing the weak point of Don Quixote’s humour, and
that he was outside the inn mounting guard in armour and on horseback, re-
solved, the pair of them, to play some trick upon him, or at any rate to
amuse themselves for a while by listening to his nonsense. As it so hap-
pened there was not a window in the whole inn that looked outwards except
a hole in the wall of a straw-loft through which they used to throw 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 time to time send-
ing forth such deep and doleful sighs, that he seemed to pluck up his soul
by the roots with each of them; and they could hear him, too, saying in a
soft, tender, loving tone, “Oh my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, perfection of all
beauty, summit and crown of discretion, treasure house of grace, depositary
of virtue, and finally, ideal of all that is good, honourable, and delectable in
this world! What is thy grace doing now? Art thou, perchance, mindful of
thy enslaved knight who of his own free will hath exposed himself to so
great perils, and all to serve thee? Give me tidings of her, oh luminary of the
three faces! Perhaps at this moment, envious of hers, thou art regarding her,
either as she paces to and fro some gallery of her sumptuous palaces, or
leans over some balcony, meditating how, whilst preserving her purity and
greatness, she may mitigate the tortures this wretched heart of mine endures
for her sake, what glory should recompense my sufferings, what repose my
toil, and lastly what death my life, and what reward my services? And thou,
oh sun, that art now doubtless harnessing thy steeds in haste to rise betimes
and come forth to see my lady; when thou seest her I entreat of thee to
salute her on my behalf: but have a care, when thou shalt see her and salute
her, that thou kiss not her face; for I shall be more jealous of thee than thou
wert of that light-footed ingrate that made thee sweat and run so on the
plains of Thessaly, or on the banks of the Peneus (for I do not exactly recol-
lect 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’s
daughter began to signal to him, saying, “Senor, come over here, please.”
At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and saw by the
light of the moon, which then was in its full splendour, that some one was
calling to him from the hole in the wall, which seemed to him to be a win-
dow, and what is more, with a gilt grating, as rich castles, such as he be-
lieved the inn to be, ought to have; and it immediately suggested itself to his
imagination that, as on the former occasion, the fair damsel, the daughter of
the lady of the castle, overcome by love for him, was once more endeavour-
ing to win his affections; and with this idea, not to show himself discourte-
ous, or ungrateful, he turned Rocinante’s head and approached the hole, and
as he perceived the two wenches he said:
“I pity you, beauteous lady, that you should have directed your thoughts
of love to a quarter from whence it is impossible that such a return can be
made to you as is due to your great merit and gentle birth, for which you
must not blame this unhappy knight-errant whom love renders incapable of
submission to any other than her whom, the first moment his eyes beheld
her, he made absolute mistress of his soul. Forgive me, noble lady, and re-
tire to your apartment, and do not, by any further declaration of your pas-
sion, compel me to show myself more ungrateful; and if, of the love you
bear me, you should find that there is anything else in my power wherein I
can gratify you, provided it be not love itself, demand it of me; for I swear
to you by that sweet absent enemy of mine to grant it this instant, though it
be that you require of me a lock of Medusa’s hair, which was all snakes, or
even the very beams of the sun shut up in a vial.”
“My mistress wants nothing of that sort, sir knight,” said Maritornes at
this.
“What then, discreet dame, is it that your mistress wants?” replied Don
Quixote.
“Only one of your fair hands,” said Maritornes, “to enable her to vent
over 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 heard her, 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 better be-
ware of that, if he does not want to meet the most disastrous end that ever
father in the world met for having laid hands on the tender limbs of a love-
stricken daughter.”
Maritornes felt sure that Don Quixote would present the hand she had
asked, and making up her mind what to do, she got down from the hole and
went 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 planted himself
standing on Rocinante’s saddle in order to reach the grated window where
he supposed the lovelorn damsel to be; and giving her his hand, he said,
“Lady, take this hand, or rather this scourge of the evil-doers of the earth;
take, I say, this hand which no other hand of woman has ever touched, not
even hers who has complete possession of my entire body. I present it to
you, not that you may kiss it, but that you may observe the contexture of the
sinews, the close network of the muscles, the breadth and capacity of the
veins, whence you may infer what must be the strength of the arm that has
such a hand.”
“That we shall see presently,” said Maritornes, and making a running
knot on the halter, she passed it over his wrist and coming down from the
hole tied 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 it not
so harshly, for it is not to blame for the offence my resolution has given
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 so cruelly.”
But there was nobody now to listen to these words of Don Quixote’s, for
as soon as Maritornes had tied him she and the other made off, ready to die
with laughing, leaving him fastened in such a way that it was impossible for
him to release himself.
He was, as has been said, standing on Rocinante, with his arm passed
through the hole and his wrist tied to the bolt of the door, and in mighty fear
and dread of being left hanging by the arm if Rocinante were to stir one side
or the other; so he did not dare to make the least movement, although from
the patience and imperturbable disposition of Rocinante, he had good rea-
son to expect that he would stand without budging for a whole century.
Finding himself fast, then, and that the ladies had retired, he began to fancy
that all this was done by enchantment, as on the former occasion when in
that same castle that enchanted Moor of a carrier had belaboured him; and
he cursed in his heart his own want of sense and judgment in venturing to
enter the castle again, after having come off so badly the first time; it being
a settled point with knights-errant that when they have tried an adventure,
and have not succeeded in it, it is a sign that it is not reserved for them but
for others, and that therefore they need not try it again. Nevertheless he
pulled his arm to see if he could release himself, but it had been made so
fast that all his efforts were in vain. It is true he pulled it gently lest Roci-
nante should move, but try as he might to seat himself in the saddle, he had
nothing for it but to stand upright or pull his hand off. Then it was he
wished for the sword of Amadis, against which no enchantment whatever
had any power; then he cursed his ill fortune; then he magnified the loss the
world would sustain by his absence while he remained there enchanted, for
that he believed he was beyond all doubt; then he once more took to think-
ing of his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso; then he called to his worthy squire
Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep and stretched upon the pack-saddle of
his ass, was oblivious, at that moment, of the mother that bore him; then he
called upon the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife to come to his aid; then he in-
voked his good friend Urganda to succour him; and then, at last, morning
found him in such a state of desperation and perplexity that he was bellow-
ing like a bull, for he had no hope that day would bring any relief to his suf-
fering, which he believed would last for ever, inasmuch as he was enchant-
ed; and of this he was convinced by seeing that Rocinante never stirred,
much or little, and he felt persuaded that he and his horse were to remain in
this state, without eating or drinking or sleeping, until the malign influence
of the stars was overpast, or until some other more sage enchanter should
disenchant him.
But he was very much deceived in this conclusion, for daylight had hard-
ly begun to appear when there came up to the inn four men on horseback,
well equipped and accoutred, with firelocks across their saddle-bows. They
called out and knocked loudly at the gate of the inn, which was still shut; on
seeing which, Don Quixote, even there where he was, did not forget 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 the gates of this castle; for it is
plain enough that they who are within are either asleep, or else are not in
the habit of throwing open the fortress until 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 we shall 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 stand on
such ceremony? If you are the innkeeper bid them open to us; we are trav-
ellers who only want to feed our horses and go on, for we are in haste.”
“Do you think, gentlemen, that I look like an innkeeper?” said Don
Quixote.
“I don’t know what you look like,” replied the other; “but I know that you
are talking nonsense when you call this inn a castle.”
“A castle it is,” returned Don Quixote, “nay, more, one of the best in this
whole province, and it has within it people who have had the sceptre in the
hand and the crown on the head.”
“It would be better if it were the other way,” said the traveller, “the scep-
tre on the head and the crown in the hand; but if so, may be there is within
some company of players, with whom it is a common thing to have those
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 to crowns and
sceptres can have taken up their quarters.”
“You know but little of the world,” returned Don Quixote, “since you are
ignorant of what commonly occurs in knight-errantry.”
But the comrades of the spokesman, growing weary of the dialogue with
Don Quixote, renewed their knocks with great vehemence, so much so that
the host, and not only he but everybody in the inn, awoke, and he got up to
ask who knocked. It happened at this moment that one of the horses of the
four who were seeking admittance went to smell Rocinante, who melan-
choly, dejected, and with drooping ears stood motionless, supporting his
sorely stretched master; and as he was, after all, flesh, though he looked as
if he were made of wood, he could not help giving way and in return
smelling the one who had come to offer him attentions. But he had hardly
moved at all when Don Quixote lost his footing; and slipping off the saddle,
he would have come to the ground, but for being suspended by the arm,
which caused him such agony that he believed either his wrist would be cut
through or his arm torn off; and he hung so near the ground that he could
just 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, he struggled and
stretched himself as much as he could to gain a footing; just like those un-
dergoing the torture of the strappado, when they are fixed at “touch and no
touch,” who aggravate their own sufferings by their violent efforts to stretch
themselves, deceived by the hope which makes them fancy that with a very
little more they will reach the ground.
