_Containing an account of many surprising accidents in the inn._
At the same time the innkeeper, who stood at the door, seeing company
coming, "More guests," cried he; "a brave jolly troop, on my word. If
they stop here, we may rejoice." "What are they?" said Cardenio. "Four
men," said the host, "on horseback, with black masks on their faces,
and armed with lances and targets; a lady too all in white, that rides
single and masked; and two running footmen." "Are they near?" said the
curate. "Just at the door," replied the innkeeper. Hearing this,
Dorothea veiled herself, and Cardenio had just time enough to step
into the next room, where Don Quixote lay, when the strangers came
into the yard. The four horsemen, who made a very genteel appearance,
dismounted and went to help down the lady, whom one of them taking in
his arms, carried into the house, where he seated her in a chair by
the chamber-door, into which Cardenio had withdrawn. All this was done
without discovering their faces, or speaking a word; only the lady, as
she sat down in the chair, breathed out a deep sigh, and let her arms
sink down in a weak and fainting posture. The curate, marking their
odd behaviour, which raised in him a curiosity to know who they were,
went to their servants in the stable, and asked what their masters
were? "Indeed, sir," said one of them, "that is more than we can tell
you; they seem of no mean quality, especially that gentleman who
carried the lady into the house; for the rest pay him great respect,
and his word is a law to them." "Who is the lady?" said the curate.
"We know no more of her than the rest," answered the fellow; "for we
could never see her face all the time, and it is impossible we should
know her or them otherwise. They picked us up on the road, and
prevailed with us to wait on them to Andalusia, promising to pay us
well for our trouble; so that, except the two days' travelling in
their company, they are utter strangers to us." "Could you not hear
them name one another all this time?" asked the curate. "No, truly,
sir," answered the footman; "for we heard them not speak a syllable
all the way; the poor lady indeed used to sigh and grieve so
piteously, that we are persuaded she has no stomach to this journey."
"Very likely," said the curate; and with that leaving them, he
returned to the place where he left Dorothea, who, hearing the masked
lady sigh so frequently, moved by the natural pity of the soft sex,
could not forbear inquiring the cause of her sorrow. "Pardon me,
madam," said she, "if I beg to know your grief; and assure yourself
that my request does not proceed from mere curiosity, but an earnest
inclination to assist you, if your misfortune be such as our sex is
naturally subject to, and in the power of a woman to cure." The lady
made no return to her compliment, and Dorothea pressed her in vain
with new reasons; when the gentleman, whom the footboy signified to be
the chief of the company, interposed: "Madam," said he, "do not
trouble yourself to throw away any generous offer on that ungrateful
woman, whose nature cannot return an obligation; neither expect any
answer to your demands, for her tongue is a stranger to truth." "Sir,"
said the disconsolate lady, "my truth and honour have made me thus
miserable, and my sufferings are sufficient to prove you the falsest
and most base of men." Cardenio, being only parted from the company by
Don Quixote's chamber-door, overheard these last words very
distinctly, and immediately cried out, "Good heaven, what do I hear?
what voice struck my ear just now?" The lady, startled at his
exclamation, sprung from the chair, and would have rushed into the
chamber whence the voice came; but the gentleman perceiving it, laid
hold of her to prevent her, which so disordered the lady that her mask
fell off, and discovered an incomparable face, beautiful as an
angel's, though very pale, and strangely discomposed. Dorothea and the
rest beheld her with grief and wonder. She struggled so hard, and the
gentleman was so disordered by beholding her, that his mask dropped
off too, and discovered to Dorothea, who was assisting to hold the
lady, the face of her husband Don Fernando. Scarce had she known him
when, with a long and dismal "oh!" she fell in a swoon, and would have
fallen to the ground, had not the barber, by good fortune, stood
behind and supported her. The curate ran presently to help her, and
pulling off her veil to throw water in her face, Don Fernando
presently knew her, and was struck almost as dead as she at the sight;
nevertheless he did not quit Lucinda, who was the lady that struggled
so hard to get out of his hands. Cardenio hearing Dorothea's
exclamation, and imagining it to be Lucinda's voice, flew into the
chamber in great disorder, and the first object he met was Don
Fernando holding Lucinda, who presently knew him. They were all struck
dumb with amazement: Dorothea gazed on Don Fernando; Don Fernando on
Cardenio; and Cardenio and Lucinda on one another.
At last Lucinda broke silence, and addressing Don Fernando, "Let me
go," said she; "unloose your hold, my lord: by the generosity you
should have, or by your inhumanity, since it must be so, I conjure you
leave me, that I may cling like ivy to my old support; and from whom
neither your threats, nor prayers, nor gifts, nor promises, could ever
alienate my love. Contend not against Heaven, whose power alone could
bring me to my dear husband's sight by such strange and unexpected
means; you have a thousand instances to convince you that nothing but
death can make me ever forget him; let this, at least, turn your love
into rage, which may prompt you to end my miseries with my life here
before my dear husband, where I shall be proud to lose it, since my
death may convince him of my unshaken love and honour till the last
minute of my life." Dorothea by this time had recovered, and finding
by Lucinda's discourse who she was, and that Don Fernando would not
unhand her, she made a virtue of necessity, and falling at his feet,
"My lord," cried she, all bathed in tears, "if that beauty which you
hold in your arms has not altogether dazzled your eyes, you may behold
at your feet the once happy, but now miserable Dorothea. I am the poor
and humble villager, whom your generous bounty, I dare not say your
love, did condescend to raise to the honour of calling you her own: I
am she who, once confined to peaceful innocence, led a contented life,
till your importunity, your shew of honour and deluding words, charmed
me from my retreat, and made me resign my freedom to your power. How I
am recompensed may be guessed by my grief, and my being found here in
this strange place, whither I was led, not through any dishonourable
ends, but purely by despair and grief to be forsaken of you. It was at
your desire I was bound to you by the strictest tie; and whatever you
do, you can never cease to be mine. Consider, my dear lord, that my
matchless love may balance the beauty and nobility of the person for
whom you would forsake me; she cannot share your love, for it is only
mine; and Cardenio's interest in her will not admit a partner. It is
easier far, my lord, to recall your wandering desires, and fix them
upon her that adores you, than to draw her to love who hates you. Have
some regard to your honour! remember you are a Christian! Why should
you then make her life end so miserably, whose beginning your favour
made so happy? If I must not expect the usage and respect of a wife,
let me but serve you as a slave; so I belong to you, though in the
meanest rank, I shall never complain; let me not be exposed to the
slandering reflections of the censorious world by so cruel a
separation from my lord; afflict not the declining years of my poor
parents, whose faithful services to you and yours have merited a more
suitable return."
These, with many such arguments, did the mournful Dorothea urge,
appearing so lovely in her sorrow, that Don Fernando's friends, as
well as all the rest, sympathised with her; Lucinda particularly, as
much admiring her wit and beauty as moved by the tears, the piercing
sighs and moans, that followed her entreaties; and she would have gone
nearer to have comforted her, had not Fernando's arms, that still held
her, prevented it. He stood full of confusion, with his eyes fixed
attentively on Dorothea a great while; at last, opening his arms, he
quitted Lucinda: "Thou hast conquered," cried he; "charming Dorothea,
thou hast conquered; it is impossible to resist so many united truths
and charms." Lucinda was still so disordered and weak that she would
have fallen when Fernando quitted her, had not Cardenio, without
regard to his safety, leaped forward and caught her in his arms, and
embracing her with eagerness and joy, "Thanks, gracious Heaven!" cried
he aloud, "my dear, my faithful wife, thy sorrows are now ended; for
where canst thou rest more safe than in my arms, which now support
thee as once they did when my blessed fortune first made thee mine?"
Lucinda then opening her eyes and finding herself in the arms of her
Cardenio, without regard to ceremony threw her arms about his neck,
"Yes," said she, "thou art he, thou art my lord indeed! Now, fortune,
act thy worst; nor fears nor threats shall ever part me from the sole
support and comfort of my life." This sight was very surprising to Don
Fernando and the other spectators. Dorothea perceiving, by Don
Fernando's change of countenance, and laying his hand to his sword,
that he prepared to assault Cardenio, fell suddenly on her knees, and
with an endearing embrace held him so fast that he could not stir.
"What means," cried she, all in tears, "the only refuge of my hope?
See here thy own and dearest wife at thy feet, and her you would have
in her true husband's arms. Think then, my lord, how unjust is your
attempt to dissolve that knot which Heaven has tied so fast. Can you
ever think or hope success in your design when you see her contemning
all dangers, and confirmed in strictest constancy and honour, leaning
in tears of joy on her true lover's bosom? For Heaven's sake I entreat
you, by your own words I conjure you, to mitigate your anger, and
permit that faithful pair to spend their remaining days in peace. Thus
may you make it appear that you are generous and truly noble, giving
the world so strong a proof that you have your reason at command, and
your passion in subjection."
All this while Cardenio, though he still held Lucinda in his arms, had
a watchful eye on Don Fernando; resolving, if he had made the least
offer to his prejudice, to make him repent it and all his party, if
possible, though at the expense of his life. But Don Fernando's
friends, the curate, the barber, and all the company (not forgetting
honest Sancho Panza), got together about Don Fernando, and entreated
him to pity the beautiful Dorothea's tears; that, considering what she
had said, the truth of which was apparent, it would be the highest
injustice to frustrate her lawful hopes; that their strange and
wonderful meeting could not be attributed to chance, but the peculiar
and directing providence of Heaven; that nothing but death (as the
curate very well urged) could part Cardenio from Lucinda; and that
though the edge of his sword might separate them, he would make them
happier by death than he could hope to be by surviving; that, in
irrecoverable accidents, a submission to Providence, and a resignation
of our wills, shewed not only the greatest prudence, but also the
highest courage and generosity; that he should not envy those happy
lovers what the bounty of Heaven had conferred on them, but that he
should turn his eyes on Dorothea's grief, view her incomparable
beauty, which, with her true and unfeigned love, made large amends for
the meanness of her parentage; but principally it lay upon him, if he
gloried in the titles of nobility and Christianity, to keep his
promise unviolated; that the more reasonable part of mankind could not
otherwise be satisfied, or have any esteem for him. Also, that it was
the special prerogative of beauty, if heightened by virtue and adorned
with modesty, to lay claim to any dignity without disparagement or
scandal to the person that raises it. In short, to these reasons they
added so many enforcing arguments, that Don Fernando, who was truly a
gentleman, could no longer resist reason, but stooped down, and
embracing Dorothea, "Rise, madam," said he; "it is not proper that she
should lie prostrate at my feet who triumphs over my soul. If I have
not hitherto paid you all the respect I ought, it was perhaps so
ordered by Heaven, that having by this a stronger conviction of your
constancy and goodness, I may henceforth set the greater value on your
merit. Let the future respects and services I shall pay you plead a
pardon for my past transgressions; and let the violent passions of my
love that first made me yours plead my excuse for that which caused me
to forsake you. View the now happy Lucinda's eyes, and there read a
thousand farther excuses; but I promise henceforth never to disturb
her quiet; and may she live long and contented with her dear
Cardenio, as I hope to do with my dearest Dorothea."
Cardenio, Lucinda, and the greatest part of the company, could not
command their passions, but all wept for joy: even Sancho Panza
himself shed tears, though, as he afterwards confessed, it was not for
downright grief, but because he found not Dorothea to be the Queen of
Micomicona, as he supposed, and of whom he expected so many favours
and preferments. Cardenio and Lucinda fell at Don Fernando's feet,
giving him thanks with the strongest expressions which gratitude could
suggest; he raised them up, and received their acknowledgments with
much modesty, then begged to be informed by Dorothea how she came to
that place. She related to him all she had told Cardenio, but with
such a grace that what were misfortunes to her proved an inexpressible
pleasure to those that heard her relation. When she had done, Don
Fernando told all that had befallen him in the city after he had found
the paper in Lucinda's bosom which declared Cardenio to be her
husband; how he would have killed her, had not her parents prevented
him; how afterwards, mad with shame and anger, he left the city to
wait a more convenient opportunity of revenge; how, in a short time,
he learned that Lucinda was fled to a nunnery, resolving to end her
days there, if she could not spend them with Cardenio; that, having
desired those three gentlemen to go with him, they went to the
nunnery, and, waiting till they found the gate open, he left two of
the gentlemen to secure the door, while he with the other entered the
house, where they found Lucinda talking with a nun in the cloister.
They carried her thence to a village, where they disguised themselves
for their more convenient flight, which they more easily brought
about, the nunnery being situate in the fields, distant a good way
from any town. He likewise added how Lucinda, finding herself in his
power, fell into a swoon; and that after she came to herself, she
continually wept and sighed, but would not speak a syllable; and that,
accompanied with silence only and tears, they had travelled till they
came to that inn, which proved to him as his arrival at heaven, having
put a happy conclusion to all his earthly misfortunes.