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VOLUME[ VOLUME 1  ]  

CHAPTER[ XLIII. WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH

OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN

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.

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

suffering 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;

explain 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 listening 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:

  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.

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 village 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

moreover, 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

kissing 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 father

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

without 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,

resolved, 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

happened 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 sending 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 recollect 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

window, and what is more, with a gilt grating, as rich castles, such as

he believed 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 endeavouring to win his affections; and with this idea, not

to show himself discourteous, 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 retire to your apartment, and do not, by any further

declaration of your passion, 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

beware 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 reason 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 Rocinante 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 thinking 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 invoked

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 bellowing

like a bull, for he had no hope that day would bring any relief to his

suffering, which he believed would last for ever, inasmuch as he was

enchanted; 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 hardly

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

travellers 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

sceptre 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 melancholy,

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 undergoing 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.

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