_The agreeable history of the young muleteer; with other strange
accidents._
I.
Toss'd in doubts and fears I rove
On the stormy seas of love;
Far from comfort, far from port,
Beauty's prize, and fortune's sport;
Yet my heart disdains despair
While I trace my leading-star.
II.
But reservedness, like a cloud,
Does too oft her glories shroud.
Pierce to the gloom, reviving light!
Be auspicious as you're bright.
As you hide or dart your beams,
Your adorer sinks or swims!
Dorothea thought it was a great loss to Donna Clara not to hear such
excellent singing; she therefore gave her a gentle shake and awoke
her. "Excuse me, my dear, for disturbing you," she said, "since it is
only that you may have the pleasure of hearing the sweetest voice
which perhaps you ever heard in your life." Clara, half awake, was
obliged to ask Dorothea to repeat what she had said to her; after
which she endeavoured to command her attention, but had no sooner
heard a few words of the song than she was seized with a fit of
trembling as violent as the attack of a quartan ague; and, clinging
round Dorothea, she cried, "Ah, my dear lady! why did you wake me? The
greatest service that could be done me would be for ever to close both
my eyes and ears, that I might neither see nor hear that unhappy
musician." "What do you say, my dear?" answered Dorothea; "is it not a
muleteer who is singing?" "Oh no," replied Clara; "he is a young
gentleman of large possessions, and so much master of my heart that,
if he reject it not, it shall be his eternally." Dorothea was
surprised at the passionate expressions of the girl, which she would
not have expected from one of her tender years. She therefore said to
her, "Your words surprise me, Signora Clara; explain yourself farther;
what is this you say of heart and possessions--and who is this
musician whose voice affects you so much? But stay, do not speak just
yet; he seems to be preparing to sing again, and I must not lose the
pleasure of hearing him." Clara, however, stopped her own ears with
both hands, to Dorothea's great surprise, who listened very
attentively to the music.
When the singing had ceased, Donna Clara again began to sigh; and all
this so excited Dorothea's curiosity, that she pressed her to explain
what she had just before said. Clara embraced her, and putting her
face close to her ear, she whispered, lest she should be overheard by
Lucinda, "that singer, my dear madam," said she, "is the son of an
Arragonian gentleman who is lord of two towns, and, when at court,
lives opposite to my father. Although my father kept his windows
covered with canvass in the winter, and lattices in summer, it
happened, by some chance, that this young gentleman saw me--whether at
church or where it was I know not, but in truth he fell in love with
me, and expressed his passion from the window of his house, by so many
signs and so many tears that I was forced to believe him, and even to
love him too. Among other signs he often joined one hand with the
other, signifying his desire to marry me; and though I should have
been very glad if it might have been so, yet being alone, and having
no mother, I knew not who to speak to on the subject, and therefore
let it rest, without granting him any other favour than, when his
father and mine were both abroad, to lift up the lattice-window, just
to shew myself, at which he seemed so delighted that you would have
thought him mad. When the time of my father's departure drew near, he
heard of it, though not from me, for I never had an opportunity to
speak to him; and soon after he fell sick, as I was told, for grief;
so that, on the day we came away, I could not see him to say
farewell, though it were only with my eyes. But, after we had
travelled two days, on entering a village about a day's journey hence,
I saw him at the door of an inn, in the habit of a muleteer, so
disguised that, had not his image been deeply imprinted in my heart, I
could not have known him. I was surprised and overjoyed at the sight
of him, and he stole looks at me unobserved by my father, whom he
carefully avoids when he passes, either on the road or at the inns.
When I think who he is, and how he travels on foot, bearing so much
fatigue, for love of me, I am ready to die with pity, and cannot help
following him with my eyes. I cannot imagine what his intentions are,
nor how he could leave his father, who loves him passionately, having
no other heir, and also because he is so very deserving, as you will
perceive, when you see him. I can assure you, besides, that all he
sings is of his own composing; for I have heard that he is a great
scholar and a poet. Every time I see him, or hear him sing, I tremble
all over with fright, lest my father should recollect him, and
discover our inclinations. Although I never spoke a word to him in my
life, yet I love him so well that I never can live without him. This,
dear madam, is all I can tell you about him whose voice has pleased
you so much; by that alone you may easily perceive he is no muleteer,
but master of hearts and towns, as I have already told you."
"Enough, my dear Clara," said Dorothea, kissing her a thousand times;
"you need not say more; compose yourself till morning, for I hope to
be able to manage your affair so that the conclusion may be as happy
as the beginning is innocent." "Ah, signora!" said Donna Clara, "what
conclusion can be expected, since his father is of such high rank and
fortune that I am not worthy to be even his servant, much less his
wife? As to marrying without my father's knowledge, I would not do it
for all the world. I only wish this young man would go back and leave
me; absence, perhaps, may lessen the pain I now feel; though I fear it
will not have much effect. What a strange sorcery this love is! I know
not how it came to possess me, so young as I am--in truth, I believe
we are both of the same age, and I am not yet sixteen, nor shall I be,
as my father says, until next Michaelmas." Dorothea could not forbear
smiling at Donna Clara's childish simplicity; however, she entreated
her again to sleep the remainder of the night, and to hope for every
thing in the morning.
Profound silence now reigned over the whole house; all being asleep
except the innkeeper's daughter and her maid Maritornes, who, knowing
Don Quixote's weak points, determined to amuse themselves by observing
him while he was keeping guard without doors. There was no window on
that side of the house which overlooked the field, except a small
opening to the straw-loft, where the straw was thrown out. At this
hole the pair of damsels planted themselves, whence they commanded a
view of the knight on horseback, leaning on his lance, and could hear
him, ever and anon, heaving such deep and mournful sighs that they
seemed torn from the very bottom of his soul. They could also
distinguish words, uttered in a soft, soothing, amorous tone; such as,
"O my lady Dulcinea del Toboso! perfection of all beauty, quintessence
of discretion, treasury of wit, and pledge of modesty! what may now be
thy sweet employment? Art thou, peradventure, thinking of thy captive
knight, who voluntarily exposes himself to so many perils and toils
for thy sake? O thou luminary, bring me swift tidings of her! Perhaps
thou art now gazing at her, envious of her beauty, as she walks
through some gallery of her sumptuous palace, or leans over some
balcony, considering how she may, without offence to her virtue and
dignity, assuage the torment which this poor afflicted heart of mine
endures for her! or meditating on what glory she shall bestow on my
sufferings, what solace to my cares, or recompense to my long
services!" While the knight thus employed himself, four men on
horseback came up to the inn, well appointed and accoutred, with
carbines hanging on their saddle-bows. Not finding the inn-door open,
they called aloud, and knocked very hard; upon which Don Quixote cried
out from the place where he stood sentinel, in a loud and imperious
tone, "Knights, or squires, or whoever ye are, desist from knocking at
the gate of this castle; for at this early hour its inmates are
doubtless sleeping; at least they are not accustomed to open the gates
of their fortress until the sun has spread his beams over the whole
horizon; retire therefore until daylight shall inform us whether it be
proper to admit you or not." "What kind of a fortress or castle is
this," quoth one of them, "that we are obliged to observe all this
ceremony? If you are the innkeeper, make somebody open the door, for
we are travellers, and only want to bait our horses, and go on, as we
are in haste." "What say ye, sirs--do I look like an innkeeper?" said
Don Quixote. "I know not what you look like," answered the other; "but
I am sure you talk preposterously to call this inn a castle." "A
castle it is," replied Don Quixote, "and one of the best in the whole
province; and at this moment contains within its walls persons who
have had crowns on their heads and sceptres in their hands." "You had
better have said the reverse," quoth the traveller; "the sceptre on
the head, and the crown in the hand; but perhaps some company of
strolling players are here, who frequently wear such things; this is
not a place for any other sort of crowned heads." "Your ignorance must
be great," replied Don Quixote, "if you know not that such events are
very common in chivalry." The other horseman, impatient at the
dialogue, repeated his knocks with so much violence that he roused not
only the host, but all the company in the house.