Don Quixote

by Miguel de Cervantes

  The judge, astounded at Don Quixote’s words, looked at him very carefully and was no less astounded by his appearance, and not finding words with which to respond, he was astounded all over again when he saw Luscinda, Dorotea, and Zoraida, for when the innkeeper’s wife told them there were new guests and had described the maiden’s beauty, they came out to see and welcome her. Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest gave the judge a courteous and more straightforward greeting. His honor, in fact, was somewhat bewildered by what he had seen and heard, but the enchanting women of the inn made the beautiful maiden welcome.

  The judge saw clearly that all the people there were gentlefolk, but the figure, face, and bearing of Don Quixote left him perplexed; after the exchange of courteous greetings and a careful consideration of the accommodations offered by the inn, matters were arranged as they had been earlier: all the women would sleep in the previously mentioned garret, and the men would stay outside, as a kind of guard. The judge was content to have the maiden, who was his daughter, go with the ladies, which she did very willingly. With part of the innkeeper’s narrow bed, and half of the one the judge had brought with him, they settled in that night more comfortably than they had expected.

  From his first glimpse of the judge, the captive’s heart had pounded with the certainty that this was his brother, and he asked one of his servants what the judge’s name was and if he knew where he was from. The servant responded that his name was Licentiate Juan Pérez de Viedma and that he had heard he came from somewhere in the mountains of León. This information, combined with what he had seen, convinced him that this was his brother, the one who had pursued letters, following his father’s advice, and with great excitement and happiness he called aside Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest, and told them what had happened, and assured them that the judge was his brother. The servant had told him that his honor was going to the Indies to serve as a judge on the Royal High Court of México, and the captive also learned that the maiden was the judge’s daughter, that her mother had died in childbirth, and that he was very wealthy because of the dowry his daughter had inherited. The captive asked their advice as to how he should make himself known, or if he ought to determine first whether his brother would feel humiliated when he saw how poor he was or would welcome him affectionately.

  “Let me find out for you,” said the priest, “though I am certain, Señor Captain, that you will be very warmly received; your brother’s face reveals virtue and good sense, and he gives no sign of being arrogant or ungrateful or ignorant of how to evaluate the adversities of fortune.”

  “Even so,” said the captain, “I would like to reveal myself to him gradually, not all at once.”

  “And I say,” responded the priest, “that I will arrange it in a way that satisfies us all.”

  By this time supper had been prepared, and they all sat at the table except for the captive and the ladies, who ate by themselves in the garret. In the middle of the meal, the priest said:

  “Señor Judge, I had a comrade in Constantinople, where I was held captive for some years, who had the same name as your grace; this comrade was one of the most valiant soldiers and captains in the entire Spanish infantry, but as unfortunate as he was courageous and brave.”

  “And what was this captain’s name, Señor?” asked the judge.

  “His name,” responded the priest, “was Ruy Pérez de Viedma, and he came from the mountains of León; he told me about something that had happened to him, his father, and his brothers, and if I had not heard it from a man as truthful as he, I would have taken it for one of those old wives’ tales told around the fire in winter. Because he said that his father had divided his estate among his three sons and had given them advice that was better than Cato’s. And I can say that the counsel he chose to follow, which was to take up arms, served him so well that in a few years, because of his valor and hard work, with no support other than his own great virtue, he rose to the rank of infantry captain and was well on his way to becoming commander of a regiment. But then his luck turned, and just when he could have expected good fortune, he lost it and his freedom on the glorious day when so many won theirs at the battle of Lepanto. I lost my freedom at the Goletta, and then, through a series of circumstances, we became comrades in Constantinople. From there he went to Algiers, where he became involved in one of the strangest stories the world has ever seen.”

  The priest continued the tale and briefly and succinctly recounted what had happened to the captive and Zoraida; the judge listened more attentively than he had ever listened to evidence in a case. The priest stopped at the moment when the French robbed the Christians in the boat and left his comrade and the beautiful Moorish lady in poverty and want; he said he knew no more about them and did not know if they ever reached Spain or had been carried off to France by the Frenchmen.

  The captain listened to everything the priest said, standing a little way off and observing everything his brother did, and the judge, seeing that the priest had come to the end of his tale, heaved a great sigh as his eyes filled with tears and said:

  “Oh, Señor, if you only knew what you have just told me! It touches me so deeply I cannot control these tears that stream from my eyes despite all my circumspection and reserve! That brave captain is my older brother, who, being stronger and of more noble thoughts than I or my younger brother, chose the honorable and worthy profession of arms, which was one of the three paths our father proposed to us, as your comrade told you and which you took as nothing but a story. I followed the path of letters, and by the grace of God and my own diligence have reached my present position. My younger brother is in Perú, and so wealthy that with what he has sent home to my father and me he has more than repaid the portion he took, and has even placed in my father’s hands the means to satisfy his natural generosity; because of him, I was able to pursue my studies in a decent and suitable manner and achieve my current rank. My father still lives, though dying for news of his oldest son, and he constantly prays to God that death not close his eyes until he can see his son alive. What astonishes me, considering my brother’s great intelligence, is that he failed to inform his father of his many hardships and afflictions, or his times of good fortune; if his father or either of his brothers had known, he would have had no need to wait for the miracle of the reeds to obtain his ransom. But my fear now is wondering if those Frenchmen gave him his freedom or killed him to hide their thievery. This means that I shall continue my journey not happily, as I began it, but filled with melancholy and sadness. Oh, my dear brother, if only I knew where you were now! I would go to find you and free you from hardship, even if it meant hardship for me! And bring to our aged father the news that you were alive, even if you were in the deepest dungeons of Barbary, for his wealth, and my brother’s and mine, would rescue you! O beautiful and generous Zoraida, if only I could repay your kindness to my brother, and witness the rebirth of your soul, and the marriage that would give all of us so much pleasure!”

  The magistrate said these and other words like them, filled with so much emotion at hearing news of his brother that all those present joined him in expressing their sentiments at his sorrow.

  The priest, seeing that his plan had worked so well and achieved what the captain desired, did not wish them to be sad any longer, and so he rose from the table, went into the room where Zoraida was staying, and led her out by the hand, followed by Luscinda, Dorotea, and the judge’s daughter. The captain was waiting to see what the priest intended to do; he took the captain by the hand as well, and leading both of them, the priest walked to the table where the judge and the other gentlemen were sitting and said:

  “Señor Judge, let your tears cease, and your dearest wish will be crowned with all you desire, for here in front of you are your good brother and sister-in-law. This is Captain Viedma, and this is the beautiful Moor who was so kind to him. The Frenchmen, as I said, left them in straitened circumstances, so that you now have the opportunity to show them the liberality of your
generous heart.”

  The captain came forward to embrace his brother, who held him off by placing his hands on his chest so that he could look at him from a slight distance, but when he recognized him he embraced him so closely, shedding so many tears of joy, that the rest of the company were bound to weep, too. The words the two brothers exchanged, the feelings they displayed, can scarcely be imagined, let alone written down. They gave each other a brief accounting of their lives; then they revealed the warmth of their brotherly affections, and the magistrate embraced Zoraida and offered her his entire estate; then he had her embrace his daughter, and the beautiful Christian girl and the beautiful Moorish lady moved them all to tears again.

  Don Quixote was very attentive, not saying a word, pondering these strange events and attributing them all to the chimeras of knight errantry. It was agreed that the captain and Zoraida would go with his brother to Sevilla, and they would inform their father that he had been found and was free, and as soon as he could, their father would come to be present at the marriage and baptism of Zoraida, for the judge could not delay his journey; he had been notified that in a month’s time the fleet would leave Sevilla for New Spain, and it would have been extremely inconvenient for him not to make the voyage at that time.

  In short, everyone was pleased and happy at the captive’s good fortune, and since the night was almost two-thirds over, they decided to retire and rest until morning. Don Quixote offered to guard the castle in the event some giant or other nefarious villain decided to attack, greedy for the great treasure of beauty enclosed therein. Those who knew him thanked him, and they told the judge about Don Quixote’s strange madness, which amused him more than a little.

  Only Sancho Panza was troubled at how late they went to bed, and only he made himself more comfortable than all the rest by lying down on his donkey’s harness, which would cost him dearly, as shall be recounted later.

  The ladies, then, having withdrawn to their room, and the others having settled down with as little discomfort as possible, Don Quixote stood outside the inn to guard the castle, as he had promised.

  It so happened that shortly before dawn, a voice so harmonious and sweet reached the ears of the ladies that they were all obliged to listen carefully, especially Dorotea, who was awake, and beside whom lay Doña Clara de Viedma, which was the name of the judge’s daughter. No one could imagine who was singing so beautifully in a voice unaccompanied by any instrument. At times they thought the singing was in the courtyard; other times, it seemed to come from the stable; and as they were listening in bewilderment, Cardenio came to the door and said:

  “If anyone is awake, listen, and you will hear the voice of one of the muledrivers’ boys; he sings so well that he sounds like an angel.”

  “We hear him, Señor,” replied Dorotea.

  And so Cardenio left, and Dorotea, listening very attentively, heard the words that the boy was singing. They were:

  CHAPTER XLIII

  Which recounts the pleasing tale of the muledriver’s boy, along with other strange events that occurred at the inn

  I, a mariner of love,

  sail passion’s perilous deeps

  desperate to find a cove

  or harbor, or rest or peace.

  Guided by a distant star

  more radiant, more bright,

  though its light shines from afar,

  than any Palinurus spied.

  I know not where she leads,

  I sail perplexed, confused,

  my soul care-laden, careless,

  wanting nothing but to gaze

  Upon her. Uncommon

  modesty, rarest virtue,

  like clouds hide her fair mien;

  I would restore it to view.

  O splendid, luminous star,

  cause of my tears and sighs,

  when you hide your face entire

  then I will surely die!

  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:

  Oh, sweet hope of mine,

  taming th’impossible, struggling past thorns,

  bravely walking the path

  that you alone have cut, you alone adorn;

  do not despair fair hope

  if each step brings you closer to death’s scope.

  The slothful never win

  laurels of triumph or honored victories;

  since they ne’er contend

  with fate, fortune, and fame they never see,

  but weak in indolence,

  they turn to idle joys of flesh and sense.

  Love puts a high price

  on its glories; that is just and fair, for

  there’s no richer prize

  than one that is esteemed at its true worth,

  and it is surely clear

  that things are not highly valued if not dear.

  Steadfastness in love

  can often win impossibilities;

  though this may prove

  too harsh a terrain for my tenacity,

  I despise that fear

  and strive to reach my heaven from this sphere.1

  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,2 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 no
t 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.”