A TEI Project

Chapter XXXVI

Which deals with the fierce and colossal battle that don Quixote had with some wineskins, and other strange adventures at the inn.

JUST THEN, the innkeeper, who was at the door of the inn, said: “Here comes a fine group of guests. If they stop here, we can sing gaudeamos.”

“Who are they?” said Cardenio.

“Four men,” responded the innkeeper, “are coming on horseback, riding with short stirrups, lances, and shields, and all of them have black riding masks. And with them is a woman dressed all in white, riding sidesaddle, and her face is covered as well, then there are two attendants on foot.”

“Are they near?” asked the priest.

“They’re so near,” responded the innkeeper, “that they’re arriving now.”

When Dorotea heard this, she covered her face, and Cardenio went into don Quixote’s room. And they hardly had time to do this when all those the innkeeper had mentioned came through the gate of the inn. The four on horseback, who were all handsome and of graceful demeanor, dismounted, and went to help the lady get off her horse. One of them took her in his arms, and sat her on a chair near the door to the room where Cardenio had hidden. All the while, neither she nor any of them had taken off their riding masks, nor said a word, except that when the woman sat down she gave a deep sigh and let her arms fall to her side, like a sick person or one who was in a faint. The attendants on foot took the horses to the stable.

When the priest saw this—wanting to find out who they were, why they were dressed that way, and the reason for their silence—he went to the attendants, and asked one of them what he wanted to find out, and the lad responded: “On my faith, señor, I can’t tell you who those people are. I only know that they seem to be people of the upper class, especially that one who carried the lady you saw in his arms, and I say this because all the rest of the men show him respect, and nothing is done except what he orders.”

“And the woman—who is she?” asked the priest.

“I don’t know that either,” said the attendant, “because I haven’t seen her face a single time during the whole trip. I’ve heard her sigh many times, to be sure, and give some moans and it seemed that with each one she was going to give up the ghost. And it’s no wonder we don’t know more than we’ve said because my companion and I have only recently been accompanying these people. When we happened upon them along the road they asked and persuaded us to go with them to Andalusia, and offered to pay us very well.”

“And did you hear the name of any of them?” asked the priest.

“No, I didn’t” the lad answered, “because they all travel in such silence that it’s a wonder to behold, and you only hear sighs and sobs from the poor lady, which makes us pity her. We believe she’s traveling against her will, wherever they’re going. And from what we can judge by her outfit, she’s a nun, or she’s going to be one—which is more logical—, and perhaps because it wasn’t her idea to become a nun she’s as sad as she seems.”

“Anything’s possible,” said the priest.

The priest left them and went back to where Dorotea was. Having heard the veiled lady sigh, moved by her natural compassion, she approached her and said to her: “What’s the matter, señora mía? Tell us if it’s something that affects us women, and we know how to cure by experience. As for me, I’ll do whatever I can for you.”

The sad lady responded nothing to all this, and even though Dorotea repeated her offer more earnestly, she was still silent until the masked man—the one whom the lad had said they all obeyed—came and told Dorotea: “Don’t bother to offer anything to this woman, señora, for she’s never thankful for anything done for her, and don’t try to make her answer, unless you want to hear a lie coming from her mouth.”

“I never lied,” said the woman who had been silent until then, “rather it’s because I’m so truthful, and so loath to the ways of lying, that I find myself in this terrible circumstance. And since you witnessed it all, you know that my pure truth makes you yourself false and a liar.”

Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, because he was virtually next to the speaker, since only don Quixote’s door separated them, and as soon as he heard her words, he exclaimed: “Good God! What am I hearing? What voice has reached my ears?”

Startled by the loud voice, the lady turned her head toward where it had come from, and not seeing who had shouted, she stood to enter the room, and when the man saw her do this, he held her back, and wouldn’t let her move a step. Because of her confusion and anxiety, the veil that covered her face fell, and revealed an incomparably, miraculously beautiful face, although pale and terrified, for with her eyes she searched everywhere with such intensity that she seemed to be a person who had lost her wits. The way she was acting filled Dorotea, and all who saw her, with enormous pity. The man was holding her tightly by her shoulders, and was so busy clutching her that he couldn’t tend to his mask, which was falling off, and at last it fell completely away, and Dorotea, who was also clasping the lady in her arms, saw that he who held her in his embrace was her own husband, don Fernando. And as soon as she recognized him, she emitted a long and very sad cry from the depths of her heart, and fell in a faint backwards, and if the barber hadn’t been there to catch her, she would have fallen to the floor.

The priest went over to take off her veil so he could splash water in her face, and as soon as he took the veil off, don Fernando, still holding the other woman, recognized her, and stood there as if death-stricken. He still didn’t loosen his hold on Luscinda, for she was trying to get away from him since she’d recognized Cardenio by his exclamation, as he’d recognized her.

When Cardenio heard Dorotea’s cry as she fell fainting, thinking it to be Luscinda, he came out of the room aghast, and the first person he saw was don Fernando, who was holding Luscinda. Don Fernando also recognized Cardenio, and all three—Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorotea—stood in silent amazement, almost not realizing what was happening to them. They gazed at each other without saying anything—Dorotea at don Fernando, don Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda at Cardenio. The person who broke the silence was Luscinda, speaking to don Fernando in this way: “Let me go, señor don Fernando, for the sake of who you are, if for no other reason. Let me attach myself to the wall of which I’m the ivy, to the protection of the one from whom your demands, threats, promises, and gifts have not been able to separate me from. Look how heaven, by strange, and to us mysterious ways, has delivered me to my true husband. And you well know through a thousand tribulations that only death can erase him from my memory. So let these unmistakable trials of experience convince you—and you have no alternative—to change your love into rage, your affection into hatred, and put an end to my life, for I shall consider it well lost, provided I die in front of my good husband. Perhaps through my death he’ll be convinced that I’ve kept my faith to him up to the last moment of my life.”

Meanwhile, Dorotea came to, and she was listening to all the words that Luscinda said, by means of which she realized who she was, and, seeing that don Fernando still wasn’t releasing Luscinda from his arms, nor responding to her words, gathering as much strength as she could, she knelt at his feet, and shed a great number of beautiful and touching tears, and began to say to him: “If it isn’t, señor mío, that the rays of the sun that you hold eclipsed in your arms haven’t dazzled and darkened the sight of your eyes, you would have seen that at your feet is kneeling the unhappy and—as long as you want me to be that way—unfortunate Dorotea. I’m that humble peasant girl whom you—either because of your goodness or for your pleasure, chose to raise high enough to call yours. I’m that one who, in the seclusion of chastity, lived a happy life until the voice of your supplications and seemingly true and tender affection—opened the doors of her modesty and handed the keys of her freedom to you, a gift that you so thanklessly received, as is clearly shown by your having found me in the place where you’ve found me, and my seeing you the way I see you. But I wouldn’t want you to think that I came here driven by my shame—it was only my pain and feeling of sorrow at seeing myself forgotten by you. It was your desire to make me yours, and you did it in such a way that, although you might wish now that it weren’t so, it isn’t possible for you to stop being mine. Reflect, señor mío, that the incomparable affection that I have for you may compensate for the beauty and nobility of her for whom you left me. You cannot belong to the beautiful Luscinda because you’re mine, nor can she belong to you, because she’s Cardenio’s. And it will be easier, if you think about it, to love the one who adores you rather than trying to make the woman who hates you love you. You wanted me to be careless, you laid siege to my virtue, you weren’t ignorant of my social class, and you know very well the way I yielded wholly to your will—so there are no grounds or reason to claim deception.

“And since this is so—as it is—and you’re as Christian as you are a gentleman, why are you so reticent to make me as happy in the end as you did in the beginning? And if you don’t want to love me for who I am, which is your true and legitimate wife, take me at least for your slave, because since you would still be my master, I would consider myself happy and fortunate. Don’t allow me, by leaving and deserting me, to be the talk of the gossipers. Don’t make the old age of my parents miserable—they don’t deserve such treatment in recompense for the loyal service they, as good vassals, have always performed for your family. And if you think that it will debase your blood to mingle it with mine, consider that there is little or no nobility in the world that has not traveled this road, and that in illustrious lineages, it’s not the woman’s blood that’s important. Moreover, true nobility consists of virtue—and if you’re lacking in that, denying me what you rightly owe me, I have a claim to a nobility higher than your own. So, señor, ultimately it comes down to this: I’m your wife, whether you like it or not. Witnesses to the marriage are your words, which should not be false, if you pride yourself on that nobility, the lack of which you so despise in me. Your signature is also a witness, and a witness is also heaven whom you called upon to attest to what you promised me. And if all this doesn’t convince you, your own conscience will not fail to raise its voice silently in the midst of all your joy, bringing home the truth of what I’m saying, and troubling your greatest pleasures and delights.”

All this and more said the suffering Dorotea, with so much feeling and so many tears that those who accompanied don Fernando, and everybody else present, joined her in them. Don Fernando listened without saying a word until she finished, and began her sobs and sighs, that a heart would have to have been made of bronze not to be moved at so much sorrow. Luscinda was looking at her with no less compassion than admiration for her intelligence and beauty, and would have gone to her to say some words of consolation, but the arms of don Fernando didn’t allow her, for they were still holding her tight.

He was filled with shame and confusion, and after a long while during which he gazed fixedly at Dorotea, he opened his arms and released Luscinda, saying: “You have conquered, fair Dorotea, you’ve conquered—it’s not possible to have the heart to deny so many truths together.”

Luscinda was at the point of fainting as soon as don Fernando released her, and was about to fall to the floor. But Cardenio was nearby, having gone just behind don Fernando so he wouldn’t be recognized, casting fear aside and regardless of what might happen, went to hold Luscinda up, and taking her by the arms, said to her: “If heaven in its mercy be pleased for you to have a rest, at least—my true, constant, and fair lady—you’ll be able to rest nowhere better than in these arms that now receive you in the same way they received you long ago, when Fortune ordained that you should be called mine.”

At these words, Luscinda looked up at Cardenio, and having first recognized his voice, and assuring herself with her eyes that it was he, she was almost beside herself, and forgetting about decorum, threw her arms around his neck, and pressing her face to his, said to him: “You, señor, are indeed the true master of this captive of yours, although contrary fate may try to prevent it, and threaten my life, which is sustained by yours.”

This was a strange sight for don Fernando and for the bystanders, who were astonished at such an unexpected event. It seemed to Dorotea that don Fernando had lost the color in his face and looked as if he had a mind to take vengeance on Cardenio because she saw his hand reach for his sword. And no sooner did she think it, when, with unheard of speed she clutched him at his knees, kissing them, and holding them fast so as to prevent him from moving. Without stopping the flow of her tears she said to him: “What are you planning to do, my only refuge, in this such unexpected crisis? You have your wife at your feet, and the one you want to be your wife is in her husband’s arms. Consider if it’s right or possible to undo what heaven has ordained, or whether it would be best for you to raise to be your equal the woman who—in spite of every obstacle, and confirmed in her faith and constancy—stands before you bathing her true husband’s face and chest with her loving tears. For God’s sake, I beg you, and for your own sake, I implore you, that this obvious truth not only not increase your wrath, but rather may it diminish it in such a way that with calm and tranquillity you permit these two lovers to have, without impediments, all the time together that heaven may be pleased to grant them, and in this you’ll show the generosity of your noble heart, and the world will see that with you, reason has more power than passion.”

While Dorotea said this, although Cardenio had Luscinda in his embrace, he didn’t take his eyes off don Fernando, determined that if he saw him make a hostile movement, he would try to defend himself and assault any others who might try to attack him, even though it might cost him his life. But at that point, don Fernando’s friends, as well as the priest and the barber, who had been present all the while, including the worthy Sancho Panza, and everyone else, ran forward and surrounded don Fernando, begging him to consider the tears of Dorotea, and that since what she said was true (as they all doubtless thought), she should not be denied her just hopes, and that he should consider that it wasn’t by chance, but rather by divine providence that heaven had caused everyone to come together in a place and that no one would have expected. And the priest added that only death could separate Cardenio and Luscinda, and even if the blade of a sword should cut them in half, they would regard their death as most fortunate; because in cases like this one that admitted no remedy, it would be the height of prudence to restrain and conquer himself, to show a generous heart by permitting, of his free will, the two to enjoy the happiness that heaven had granted them. He told him that he should turn his eyes toward the beauty of Dorotea and he would see that few if any could equal, much less surpass her, and to her beauty should be added her modesty and the great love she bore him. Above all, he should remember if he valued himself as a gentleman and a Christian, he could do nothing else but fulfill his pledged word, and when he fulfilled it, he would be obeying God, and would meet with the approval of sensible people who know and recognize that it’s the privilege of beauty, even in one of humble birth, as long as it’s accompanied by virtue, to be able to raise itself to the highest social level without any discredit to the person who raises it to that level. Finally, when the laws of passion prevail, no one can be blamed for obeying them, as long as there is no sin involved.

In short, everyone else added to these words so many others that the manly heart of don Fernando, which after all was nourished by noble blood, relented and allowed itself to be vanquished by the truth, which he couldn’t have denied even if he’d wanted to. He showed that he’d submitted and accepted the good advice offered him by bending over and embracing Dorotea, telling her: “Stand up, señora mía, for it’s not right that the one I have in my heart should be kneeling at my feet, and if I haven’t shown any proof of what I’m saying now, it was perhaps ordered by heaven, so that, by my seeing in you the loyalty of your love toward me, I might learn to value you as much as you deserve. What I beg of you is that you don’t reproach me for my transgressions and neglect, since the same cause and force that moved me to win you as mine is the same one that incited me to struggle against being yours. And to show you that this is true, turn and look at the eyes of the now happy Luscinda, and you’ll find in them an excuse for all my transgressions. Since she found and secured what she wanted, and I’ve found in you what I need, may she live safe and content for many long and happy years with her Cardenio, just as I’ll pray to heaven that it will let me live with my Dorotea.”

And saying this, he embraced her again and pressed his face to hers with such tenderness that he needed to be careful, lest his tears give sure signs of his love and repentance. That was not the case with Luscinda and Cardenio, and almost all the others who were present, because they began shedding so many, some because they were so happy, some because of the happiness of others, it seemed that a calamity had befallen them all. Even Sancho Panza wept, although later he said it was only because Dorotea was not the queen Micomicona, from whom he expected so many favors.

Their wonder, as well as their weeping, lasted some time, and then Cardenio and Luscinda went to kneel before don Fernando, thanking him for the kindness he’d shown them, using such polite terms don Fernando didn’t know how to respond, and so he asked them to rise and embraced them with great affection and courtesy.

He then asked Dorotea to tell him how she’d come to that place, so far from where she lived. She, in a few well-chosen words, told him everything she’d told Cardenio before, and the story so pleased don Fernando and those who were with him, that they wished it had lasted longer, such was the grace with which Dorotea told of her misfortunes. And as soon as she finished, don Fernando told of what had happened to him in the city after he found the letter in Luscinda’s bosom, where it said that she was Cardenio’s wife and couldn’t be his. He said he’d tried to kill her, and would have done so, if he hadn’t been prevented by her parents. He then left their house filled with rage and shame, determined to avenge himself when the time was right. The next day he found out that Luscinda had disappeared from her parents’ house, without anybody knowing where she’d gone. After some months had passed, he learned that she was in a convent and she meant to stay there for the rest of her life since she couldn’t spend it with Cardenio. As soon as he learned what had happened, he chose those three men to go with him and went to the village where she was. He didn’t want to speak with her, fearing that if she knew he was there, the convent would be better guarded. So he waited a day until the gatehouse was unoccupied. He left two of his companions to guard the gate, and he and the other man went into the convent looking for Luscinda, and found her in the cloister, talking with a nun. He carried her off without giving her a chance to resist. They then went to a village where they got the provisions they needed to take her away. They were able to do this in complete safety since the convent was in the country, at a good distance from the town. He said that as soon as Luscinda saw herself in his custody, she lost all consciousness, and after she came to, she could only weep and sigh from then on, without saying a word. And so in silence and accompanied by tears, they had arrived at that inn, which for him was like arriving at heaven, where all the misfortunes of earth are brought to an end.


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Date: June 1, 2009
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