CHAPTER 36
WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN
Just at that instant the landlord, who was standing at the gate of the inn,
exclaimed, “Here comes a fine troop of guests; if they stop here we may say
gaudeamus.”
“What are they?” said Cardenio.
“Four men,” said the landlord, “riding a la jineta, with lances and buck-
lers, and all with black veils, and with them there is a woman in white on a
side-saddle, whose face is also veiled, and two attendants on foot.”
“Are they very near?” said the curate.
“So near,” answered the landlord, “that here they come.”
Hearing this Dorothea covered her face, and Cardenio retreated into Don
Quixote’s room, and they hardly had time to do so before the whole party
the host had described entered the inn, and the four that were on horseback,
who were of highbred appearance and bearing, dismounted, and came for-
ward to take down the woman who rode on the side-saddle, and one of them
taking her in his arms placed her in a chair that stood at the entrance of the
room where Cardenio had hidden himself. All this time neither she nor they
had removed their veils or spoken a word, only on sitting down on the chair
the woman gave a deep sigh and let her arms fall like one that was ill and
weak. The attendants on foot then led the horses away to the stable. Observ-
ing this the curate, curious to know who these people in such a dress and
preserving such silence were, went to where the servants were standing and
put the question to one of them, who answered him.
“Faith, sir, I cannot tell you who they are, I only know they seem to be
people of distinction, particularly he who advanced to take the lady you saw
in his arms; and I say so because all the rest show him respect, and nothing
is done except what he directs and orders.”
“And the lady, who is she?” asked the curate.
“That I cannot tell you either,” said the servant, “for I have not seen her
face all the way: I have indeed heard her sigh many times and utter such
groans that she seems to be giving up the ghost every time; but it is no won-
der if we do not know more than we have told you, as my comrade and I
have only been in their company two days, for having met us on the road
they begged and persuaded us to accompany them to Andalusia, promising
to pay us well.”
“And have you heard any of them called by his name?” asked the curate.
“No, indeed,” replied the servant; “they all preserve a marvellous silence
on the road, for not a sound is to be heard among them except the poor
lady’s sighs and sobs, which make us pity her; and we feel sure that wherev-
er it is she is going, it is against her will, and as far as one can judge from
her dress she is a nun or, what is more likely, about to become one; and per-
haps it is because taking the vows is not of her own free will, that she is so
unhappy as she seems to be.”
“That may well be,” said the curate, and leaving them he returned to
where Dorothea was, who, hearing the veiled lady sigh, moved by natural
compassion drew near to her and said, “What are you suffering from, seno-
ra? If it be anything that women are accustomed and know how to relieve, I
offer you my services with all my heart.”
To this the unhappy lady made no reply; and though Dorothea repeated
her offers more earnestly she still kept silence, until the gentleman with the
veil, who, the servant said, was obeyed by the rest, approached and said to
Dorothea, “Do not give yourself the trouble, senora, of making any offers to
that woman, for it is her way to give no thanks for anything that is done for
her; and do not try to make her answer unless you want to hear some lie
from her lips.”
“I have never told a lie,” was the immediate reply of her who had been
silent until now; “on the contrary, it is because I am so truthful and so igno-
rant of lying devices that I am now in this miserable condition; and this I
call you yourself to witness, for it is my unstained truth that has made you
false and a liar.”
Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, being quite close to the
speaker, for there was only the door of Don Quixote’s room between them,
and the instant he did so, uttering a loud exclamation he cried, “Good God!
what is this I hear? What voice is this that has reached my ears?” Startled at
the voice the lady turned her head; and not seeing the speaker she stood up
and attempted to enter the room; observing which the gentleman held her
back, preventing her from moving a step. In her agitation and sudden move-
ment the silk with which she had covered her face fell off and disclosed a
countenance of incomparable and marvellous beauty, but pale and terrified;
for she kept turning her eyes, everywhere she could direct her gaze, with an
eagerness that made her look as if she had lost her senses, and so marked
that it excited the pity of Dorothea and all who beheld her, though they
knew not what caused it. The gentleman grasped her firmly by the shoul-
ders, and being so fully occupied with holding her back, he was unable to
put a hand to his veil which was falling off, as it did at length entirely, and
Dorothea, who was holding the lady in her arms, raising her eyes saw that
he who likewise held her was her husband, Don Fernando. The instant she
recognised him, with a prolonged plaintive cry drawn from the depths of
her heart, she fell backwards fainting, and but for the barber being close by
to catch her in his arms, she would have fallen completely to the ground.
The curate at once hastened to uncover her face and throw water on it, and
as he did so Don Fernando, for he it was who held the other in his arms,
recognised her and stood as if death-stricken by the sight; not, however, re-
laxing his grasp of Luscinda, for it was she that was struggling to release
herself from his hold, having recognised Cardenio by his voice, as he had
recognised her. Cardenio also heard Dorothea’s cry as she fell fainting, and
imagining that it came from his Luscinda burst forth in terror from the
room, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando with Luscinda in his
arms. Don Fernando, too, knew Cardenio at once; and all three, Luscinda,
Cardenio, and Dorothea, stood in silent amazement scarcely knowing what
had happened to them.
They gazed at one another without speaking, Dorothea at Don Fernando,
Don Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda at Carde-
nio. The first to break silence was Luscinda, who thus addressed Don Fer-
nando: “Leave me, Senor Don Fernando, for the sake of what you owe to
yourself; if no other reason will induce you, leave me to cling to the wall of
which I am the ivy, to the support from which neither your importunities,
nor your threats, nor your promises, nor your gifts have been able to detach
me. See how Heaven, by ways strange and hidden from our sight, has
brought me face to face with my true husband; and well you know by dear-
bought experience that death alone will be able to efface him from my
memory. May this plain declaration, then, lead you, as you can do nothing
else, to turn your love into rage, your affection into resentment, and so to
take my life; for if I yield it up in the presence of my beloved husband I
count it well bestowed; it may be by my death he will be convinced that I
kept my faith to him to the last moment of life.”
Meanwhile Dorothea had come to herself, and had heard Luscinda’s
words, by means of which she divined who she was; but seeing that Don
Fernando did not yet release her or reply to her, summoning up her resolu-
tion as well as she could she rose and knelt at his feet, and with a flood of
bright and touching tears addressed him thus:
“If, my lord, the beams of that sun that thou holdest eclipsed in thine
arms did not dazzle and rob thine eyes of sight thou wouldst have seen by
this time that she who kneels at thy feet is, so long as thou wilt have it so,
the unhappy and unfortunate Dorothea. I am that lowly peasant girl whom
thou in thy goodness or for thy pleasure wouldst raise high enough to call
herself thine; I am she who in the seclusion of innocence led a contented
life until at the voice of thy importunity, and thy true and tender passion, as
it seemed, she opened the gates of her modesty and surrendered to thee the
keys of her liberty; a gift received by thee but thanklessly, as is clearly
shown by my forced retreat to the place where thou dost find me, and by thy
appearance under the circumstances in which I see thee. Nevertheless, I
would not have thee suppose that I have come here driven by my shame; it
is only grief and sorrow at seeing myself forgotten by thee that have led me.
It was thy will to make me thine, and thou didst so follow thy will, that
now, even though thou repentest, thou canst not help being mine. Bethink
thee, my lord, the unsurpassable affection I bear thee may compensate for
the beauty and noble birth for which thou wouldst desert me. Thou canst
not be the fair Luscinda’s because thou art mine, nor can she be thine be-
cause she is Cardenio’s; and it will be easier, remember, to bend thy will to
love one who adores thee, than to lead one to love thee who abhors thee
now. Thou didst address thyself to my simplicity, thou didst lay siege to my
virtue, thou wert not ignorant of my station, well dost thou know how I
yielded wholly to thy will; there is no ground or reason for thee to plead de-
ception, and if it be so, as it is, and if thou art a Christian as thou art a gen-
tleman, why dost thou by such subterfuges put off making me as happy at
last as thou didst at first? And if thou wilt not have me for what I am, thy
true and lawful wife, at least take and accept me as thy slave, for so long as
I am thine I will count myself happy and fortunate. Do not by deserting me
let my shame become the talk of the gossips in the streets; make not the old
age of my parents miserable; for the loyal services they as faithful vassals
have ever rendered thine are not deserving of such a return; and if thou
thinkest it will debase thy blood to mingle it with mine, reflect that there is
little or no nobility in the world that has not travelled the same road, and
that in illustrious lineages it is not the woman’s blood that is of account;
and, moreover, that true nobility consists in virtue, and if thou art wanting
in that, refusing me what in justice thou owest me, then even I have higher
claims to nobility than thine. To make an end, senor, these are my last
words to thee: whether thou wilt, or wilt not, I am thy wife; witness thy
words, which must not and ought not to be false, if thou dost pride thyself
on that for want of which thou scornest me; witness the pledge which thou
didst give me, and witness Heaven, which thou thyself didst call to witness
the promise thou hadst made me; and if all this fail, thy own conscience will
not fail to lift up its silent voice in the midst of all thy gaiety, and vindicate
the truth of what I say and mar thy highest pleasure and enjoyment.”
All this and more the injured Dorothea delivered with such earnest feel-
ing and such tears that all present, even those who came with Don Fernan-
do, were constrained to join her in them. Don Fernando listened to her with-
out replying, until, ceasing to speak, she gave way to such sobs and sighs
that it must have been a heart of brass that was not softened by the sight of
so great sorrow. Luscinda stood regarding her with no less compassion for
her sufferings than admiration for her intelligence and beauty, and would
have gone to her to say some words of comfort to her, but was prevented by
Don Fernando’s grasp which held her fast. He, overwhelmed with confusion
and astonishment, after regarding Dorothea for some moments with a fixed
gaze, opened his arms, and, releasing Luscinda, exclaimed:
“Thou hast conquered, fair Dorothea, thou hast conquered, for it is im-
possible to have the heart to deny the united force of so many truths.”
Luscinda in her feebleness was on the point of falling to the ground when
Don Fernando released her, but Cardenio, who stood near, having retreated
behind Don Fernando to escape recognition, casting fear aside and regard-
less of what might happen, ran forward to support her, and said as he
clasped her in his arms, “If Heaven in its compassion is willing to let thee
rest at last, mistress of my heart, true, constant, and fair, nowhere canst thou
rest more safely than in these arms that now receive thee, and received thee
before when fortune permitted me to call thee mine.”
At these words Luscinda looked up at Cardenio, at first beginning to
recognise him by his voice and then satisfying herself by her eyes that it
was he, and hardly knowing what she did, and heedless of all considerations
of decorum, she flung her arms around his neck and pressing her face close
to his, said, “Yes, my dear lord, you are the true master of this your slave,
even though adverse fate interpose again, and fresh dangers threaten this
life that hangs on yours.”
A strange sight was this for Don Fernando and those that stood around,
filled with surprise at an incident so unlooked for. Dorothea fancied that
Don Fernando changed colour and looked as though he meant to take
vengeance on Cardenio, for she observed him put his hand to his sword;
and the instant the idea struck her, with wonderful quickness she clasped
him round the knees, and kissing them and holding him so as to prevent his
moving, she said, while her tears continued to flow, “What is it thou
wouldst do, my only refuge, in this unforeseen event? Thou hast thy wife at
thy feet, and she whom thou wouldst have for thy wife is in the arms of her
husband: reflect whether it will be right for thee, whether it will be possible
for thee to undo what Heaven has done, or whether it will be becoming in
thee to seek to raise her to be thy mate who in spite of every obstacle, and
strong in her truth and constancy, is before thine eyes, bathing with the tears
of love the face and bosom of her lawful husband. For God’s sake I entreat
of thee, for thine own I implore thee, let not this open manifestation rouse
thy anger; but rather so calm it as to allow these two lovers to live in peace
and quiet without any interference from thee so long as Heaven permits
them; and in so doing thou wilt prove the generosity of thy lofty noble spir-
it, and the world shall see that with thee reason has more influence than
passion.”
All the time Dorothea was speaking, Cardenio, though he held Luscinda
in his arms, never took his eyes off Don Fernando, determined, if he saw
him make any hostile movement, to try and defend himself and resist as
best he could all who might assail him, though it should cost him his life.
But now Don Fernando’s friends, as well as the curate and the barber, who
had been present all the while, not forgetting the worthy Sancho Panza, ran
forward and gathered round Don Fernando, entreating him to have regard
for the tears of Dorothea, and not suffer her reasonable hopes to be disap-
pointed, since, as they firmly believed, what she said was but the truth; and
bidding him observe that it was not, as it might seem, by accident, but by a
special disposition of Providence that they had all met in a place where no
one could have expected a meeting. And the curate bade him remember that
only death could part Luscinda from Cardenio; that even if some sword
were to separate them they would think their death most happy; and that in
a case that admitted of no remedy his wisest course was, by conquering and
putting a constraint upon himself, to show a generous mind, and of his own
accord suffer these two to enjoy the happiness Heaven had granted them.
He bade him, too, turn his eyes upon the beauty of Dorothea and he would
see that few if any could equal much less excel her; while to that beauty
should be added her modesty and the surpassing love she bore him. But be-
sides all this, he reminded him that if he prided himself on being a gentle-
man and a Christian, he could not do otherwise than keep his plighted word;
and that in doing so he would obey God and meet the approval of all sensi-
ble people, who know and recognised it to be the privilege of beauty, even
in one of humble birth, provided virtue accompany it, to be able to raise it-
self to the level of any rank, without any slur upon him who places it upon
an equality with himself; and furthermore that when the potent sway of pas-
sion asserts itself, so long as there be no mixture of sin in it, he is not to be
blamed who gives way to it.
To be brief, they added to these such other forcible arguments that Don
Fernando’s manly heart, being after all nourished by noble blood, was
touched, and yielded to the truth which, even had he wished it, he could not
gainsay; and he showed his submission, and acceptance of the good advice
that had been offered to him, by stooping down and embracing Dorothea,
saying to her, “Rise, dear lady, it is not right that what I hold in my heart
should be kneeling at my feet; and if until now I have shown no sign of
what I own, it may have been by Heaven’s decree in order that, seeing the
constancy with which you love me, I may learn to value you as you de-
serve. What I entreat of you is that you reproach me not with my transgres-
sion and grievous wrong-doing; for the same cause and force that drove me
to make you mine impelled me to struggle against being yours; and to prove
this, turn and look at the eyes of the now happy Luscinda, and you will see
in them an excuse for all my errors: and as she has found and gained the ob-
ject of her desires, and I have found in you what satisfies all my wishes,
may she live in peace and contentment as many happy years with her Car-
denio, as on my knees I pray Heaven to allow me to live with my
Dorothea;” and with these words he once more embraced her and pressed
his face to hers with so much tenderness that he had to take great heed to
keep his tears from completing the proof of his love and repentance in the
sight of all. Not so Luscinda, and Cardenio, and almost all the others, for
they shed so many tears, some in their own happiness, some at that of the
others, that one would have supposed a heavy calamity had fallen upon
them all. Even Sancho Panza was weeping; though afterwards he said he
only wept because he saw that Dorothea was not as he fancied the queen
Micomicona, of whom he expected such great favours. Their wonder as
well as their weeping lasted some time, and then Cardenio and Luscinda
went and fell on their knees before Don Fernando, returning him thanks for
the favour he had rendered them in language so grateful that he knew not
how to answer them, and raising them up embraced them with every mark
of affection and courtesy.
He then asked Dorothea how she had managed to reach a place so far re-
moved from her own home, and she in a few fitting words told all that she
had previously related to Cardenio, with which Don Fernando and his com-
panions were so delighted that they wished the story had been longer; so
charmingly did Dorothea describe her misadventures. When she had fin-
ished Don Fernando recounted what had befallen him in the city after he
had found in Luscinda’s bosom the paper in which she declared that she was
Cardenio’s wife, and never could be his. He said he meant to kill her, and
would have done so had he not been prevented by her parents, and that he
quitted the house full of rage and shame, and resolved to avenge himself
when a more convenient opportunity should offer. The next day he learned
that Luscinda had disappeared from her father’s house, and that no one
could tell whither she had gone. Finally, at the end of some months he as-
certained that she was in a convent and meant to remain there all the rest of
her life, if she were not to share it with Cardenio; and as soon as he had
learned this, taking these three gentlemen as his companions, he arrived at
the place where she was, but avoided speaking to her, fearing that if it were
known he was there stricter precautions would be taken in the convent; and
watching a time when the porter’s lodge was open he left two to guard the
gate, and he and the other entered the convent in quest of Luscinda, whom
they found in the cloisters in conversation with one of the nuns, and carry-
ing her off without giving her time to resist, they reached a place with her
where they provided themselves with what they required for taking her
away; all which they were able to do in complete safety, as the convent was
in the country at a considerable distance from the city. He added that when
Luscinda found herself in his power she lost all consciousness, and after re-
turning to herself did nothing but weep and sigh without speaking a word;
and thus in silence and tears they reached that inn, which for him was
reaching heaven where all the mischances of earth are over and at an end.
