Chapter XXXVI. Which deals with the fierce and monstrous battle Don Quixote fought with some skins of red wine, with other strange things that befell him at the inn

While they were at this, the innkeeper, who was standing at the door of the inn, said:

“Here comes a fine troop of guests: if they stop here, it’s gaudeamus for us, a time to rejoice.”

“What sort of people are they?” said Cardenio.

“Four men,” answered the innkeeper, “riding with short stirrups, with lances and leather shields, and all of them wearing black masks; and along with them comes a woman dressed in white, on a sidesaddle, with her face covered too, and two other lads on foot.”

“Are they very near?” asked the priest.

“So near,” answered the innkeeper, “that they’re arriving now.”

Hearing this, Dorotea covered her face, and Cardenio went into Don Quixote’s room; and they had scarcely had time for this when all those the innkeeper had spoken of came into the inn; and the four horsemen, who were of very fine bearing and build, dismounted and went to help down the woman who rode on the sidesaddle; and one of them, taking her in his arms, set her on a chair that stood at the entrance to the room where Cardenio had hidden. In all this time neither she nor they had taken off their masks or spoken a word; only, as the woman sat down in the chair, she heaved a deep sigh and let her arms drop, like someone sick and fainting. The lads on foot led the horses to the stable.

Seeing this, the priest, eager to know what people these were who went in such dress and such silence, went to where the lads were, and asked one of them what he wanted to know; and the lad answered him:

“By God, sir, I couldn’t tell you what people these are; all I know is that they seem to be very grand, especially the one who came and took that lady you’ve seen in his arms; and I say this because all the others treat him with respect, and nothing is done but what he orders and commands.”

“And the lady, who is she?” asked the priest.

“I couldn’t tell you that either,” answered the lad, “because the whole way I haven’t seen her face; sigh, yes, I’ve heard her sigh many times, and give such groans that it seems she means to give up her soul with each one of them. And it’s no wonder we don’t know more than we’ve said, because my companion and I have only been with them two days; for we met them on the road, and they begged and persuaded us to come with them as far as Andalusia, offering to pay us very well for it.”

“And have you heard any of them named?” asked the priest.

“No, indeed,” answered the lad, “because they all travel in such silence that it’s a wonder, for nothing is heard among them but the sighs and sobs of the poor lady, which move us to pity; and we truly believe she’s being taken by force wherever she’s going, and, as far as one can make out from her habit, she’s a nun, or is going to be one, which is the likeliest, and perhaps because the nun’s life can’t be coming from her own choosing, she goes along sad, as it seems.”

“All that may be,” said the priest.

And, leaving them, he went back to where Dorotea was, who, having heard the veiled woman sigh, moved by natural compassion, went up to her and said:

“What ails you, my lady? See whether it is one of those ills that women are used to and have experience in curing, for on my part I offer you a good will to serve you.”

To all this the grieving lady was silent; and, although Dorotea came again with greater offers, she still kept her silence, until the masked gentleman whom the lad had said the others obeyed came up and said to Dorotea:

“Do not trouble yourself, madam, to offer anything to that woman, for it is her custom to show no gratitude for anything done for her, nor try to make her answer you, unless you want to hear some lie from her mouth.”

“I never told one,” said, at this point, she who until then had been silent. “On the contrary, it is because I have been so truthful and so free of lying tricks that I now find myself in such misfortune; and of this I want you yourself to be the witness, since my pure truth makes you false and a liar.”

Cardenio heard these words very clearly and distinctly, being so close to the one who spoke them that only the door of Don Quixote’s room stood between them; and, as soon as he heard them, he cried out in a loud voice:

“God help me! What is this I hear? What voice is this that has reached my ears?”

At these cries the lady turned her head, all startled, and, not seeing who was giving them, she rose to her feet and was going to go into the room; but the gentleman, seeing this, held her back, without letting her move a step. In her agitation and distress the taffeta with which she had covered her face fell off, and revealed an incomparable beauty and a miraculous face, though pale and frightened, because her eyes kept roaming over every place her sight could reach, so eagerly that she seemed a person out of her mind; which signs, without anyone knowing why she made them, filled Dorotea and all who watched her with great pity. The gentleman held her tightly by the shoulders, and, being so busy holding her, he could not put up a hand to his mask, which was slipping, as in fact it slipped off altogether; and Dorotea, who had her arms around the lady, raising her eyes, saw that the man who likewise had his arms around her was her husband, Don Fernando; and scarcely had she recognized him when, letting out from the very depths of her being a long and most sorrowful “Ah!” she fell backward in a faint; and, had the barber not been close by and caught her in his arms, she would have fallen to the floor.

The priest at once ran to take off her veil, so as to throw water in her face, and as soon as he uncovered her, Don Fernando, who was the one holding the other woman, recognized her and stood as if dead at the sight of her; but not, for all that, did he let go of Luscinda, for it was she who was struggling to free herself from his arms; she had recognized Cardenio by his cry, and he had recognized her. Cardenio likewise heard the “Ah!” that Dorotea gave when she fell fainting, and, believing it was his Luscinda, came rushing out of the room in terror, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando holding Luscinda in his arms. Nor was Don Fernando slow to recognize Cardenio; and the three of them, Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorotea, stood dumb and astounded, hardly knowing what had happened to them.

They were all silent and all looking at one another: Dorotea’s eyes on Don Fernando, Don Fernando’s on Cardenio, Cardenio’s on Luscinda, and Luscinda’s on Cardenio. But the first to break the silence was Luscinda, speaking to Don Fernando in this way:

“Let me go, Señor Don Fernando, for what you owe to being who you are, since you will not do it out of any other regard; let me go to the wall whose ivy I am, to the prop that neither your importunities, your threats, your promises, nor your gifts have been able to tear me away from. See how heaven, by unaccustomed ways hidden from us, has set my true husband before me. And you know well, by a thousand costly experiences, that death alone would be enough to blot him from my memory. Let such plain proofs, then, serve to make you turn, since you can do nothing else, your love into rage and your desire into spite, and end my life with it; for, so long as I give it up before my good husband, I shall count it well spent: perhaps with my death he will be satisfied of the faith I kept with him to the last moment of my life.”

Meanwhile Dorotea had come to herself, and had been listening to everything Luscinda said, by which she came to know who she was; and, seeing that Don Fernando still did not let her out of his arms or answer her words, she made the greatest effort she could, rose, and went and knelt at his feet; and, shedding a great many beautiful and piteous tears, she began to speak to him thus:

“Unless, my lord, the rays of this sun you hold eclipsed in your arms are taking away and darkening those of your eyes, you will already have seen that she who kneels at your feet is the unfortunate one, for as long as you wish it, and the unhappy Dorotea. I am that humble farm girl whom you, out of your goodness or for your pleasure, chose to raise to the height of being able to call herself yours. I am she who, shut within the bounds of modesty, lived a contented life until, at the voice of your importunities and of your seemingly just and loving feelings, she opened the gates of her reserve and handed you the keys of her freedom: a gift so ill repaid by you, as is shown plainly enough by my having been forced to be in the place where you find me, and by my seeing you in the way I see you. But, for all that, I would not want it to enter your imagination that I have come here on the footsteps of my dishonor, when only the footsteps of grief and of sorrow at seeing myself forgotten by you have brought me. You wanted me to be yours, and you wanted it in such a way that, even though you may now want me not to be, it will not be possible for you to stop being mine. Consider, my lord, that the incomparable love I bear you may make up for the beauty and nobility for which you are leaving me. You cannot be the beautiful Luscinda’s, because you are mine, nor can she be yours, because she is Cardenio’s; and it will be easier for you, if you look into it, to bring your will round to loving one who adores you than to lead one who abhors you into loving you well. You courted my unwariness, you pleaded with my integrity, you were not ignorant of my station, you know well the manner in which I gave myself up wholly to your will: there is no room or refuge left you to claim you were deceived. And if this is so, as it is, and you are as much a Christian as a gentleman, why do you put off, by so many detours, making me as happy in the end as you made me at the beginning? And if you will not have me for what I am, which is your true and lawful wife, at least have me and accept me as your slave; for, so long as I am in your power, I shall count myself happy and fortunate. Do not allow, by leaving and abandoning me, little knots of gossips to gather and form over my dishonor; do not give my parents so wretched an old age, for the loyal services they have always rendered yours, as good vassals, do not deserve it. And if it seems to you that you will debase your blood by mixing it with mine, consider that there is little or no nobility in the world that has not traveled this road, and that the nobility that comes from women is not what counts in illustrious lineages; all the more since true nobility consists in virtue, and if you lack it, by denying me what you so justly owe me, I shall be left with greater claims to nobility than those you have. In short, my lord, what I tell you in the end is that, whether you will or no, I am your wife: your words are witnesses, which neither have been nor ought to be false, if indeed you prize the very thing for which you despise me; the signature you wrote will be a witness, and heaven a witness, which you called on as witness of what you were promising me. And, should all this fail, your own conscience will not fail to cry out in silence in the midst of your joys, standing up for this truth I have told you and troubling your best pleasures and delights.”

These and other words the grieving Dorotea spoke, with such feeling and such tears that the very men who were with Don Fernando, and all who were present, joined her in them. Don Fernando listened to her without answering a word, until she made an end of her words and a beginning of so many sobs and sighs that it would have had to be a heart of bronze that was not softened by such signs of grief. Luscinda stood looking at her, no less moved by her sorrow than amazed at her great good sense and beauty; and, though she would have liked to go up to her and say some words of comfort, Don Fernando’s arms, which held her tight, would not let her. He, full of confusion and dismay, after a good while spent gazing intently at Dorotea, opened his arms, and, letting Luscinda go, said:

“You have conquered, beautiful Dorotea, you have conquered; for it is not possible to have the heart to deny so many truths together.”

Luscinda, faint as she was, was about to fall to the ground as soon as Don Fernando let her go; but Cardenio, who was close by, having placed himself behind Don Fernando so that he would not recognize him, setting all fear aside and venturing every risk, ran to hold Luscinda up, and, taking her in his arms, said to her:

“If merciful heaven is pleased and willing that you should now have some rest, my loyal, constant, and beautiful lady, nowhere, I believe, will you have it more securely than in these arms that now receive you, and once received you, when fortune allowed me to call you mine.”

At these words Luscinda set her eyes on Cardenio, and, having begun to know him, first by his voice, and making sure with her sight that it was he, almost beside herself and with no thought for any modest regard, she threw her arms around his neck, and, laying her face against Cardenio’s, said to him:

“You, yes, my lord, you are the true master of this your captive, however much contrary fortune may stand in the way, and however many threats are made against this life that is sustained in yours.”

This was a strange spectacle for Don Fernando and for all the bystanders, who marveled at so unheard-of an event. It seemed to Dorotea that Don Fernando had lost the color in his face and was making as if to take revenge on Cardenio, because she saw him move his hand toward his sword; and, as soon as she thought it, with unexampled speed she threw her arms around his knees, kissing them and holding him so tightly that she would not let him move, and, without stopping her tears for a moment, she said to him:

“What is it you mean to do, my only refuge, at so unlooked-for a pass as this? You have your wife at your feet, and the one you want to be your wife is in the arms of her husband. Consider whether it will become you, or whether it will be possible for you, to undo what heaven has done, or whether it will suit you to want to raise up to your own level her who, setting every obstacle aside, confirmed in her truth and constancy, has her eyes before your eyes, bathing with the liquor of love the face and breast of her true husband. By who God is I beg you, and by who you are I implore you, that this so manifest an undeceiving should not only not increase your anger, but lessen it in such a way that you calmly and quietly allow these two lovers to have their peace, without any hindrance from you, for all the time heaven may be pleased to grant it to them; and in this you will show the generosity of your illustrious and noble heart, and the world will see that reason has more power over you than appetite.”

While Dorotea was saying this, although Cardenio held Luscinda in his arms, he did not take his eyes off Don Fernando, determined that, if he saw him make any move to his harm, he would try to defend himself and strike as best he could at all who showed themselves against him, even if it cost him his life. But at this point Don Fernando’s friends came up, and the priest and the barber, who had been present through everything, not forgetting the good Sancho Panza, and they all surrounded Don Fernando, begging him to be pleased to look upon Dorotea’s tears; and, since what she had said in her words was true, as they no doubt believed it was, not to let her be cheated of her so just hopes. They told him to consider that it was not by chance, as it seemed, but by a particular providence of heaven, that they had all come together in the place where none of them would have thought; and to bear in mind—said the priest—that death alone could part Luscinda from Cardenio; and that, even if they were divided by the edge of a sword, they would hold their death most happy; and that in knots past undoing it was the height of wisdom, forcing and overcoming oneself, to show a generous heart, allowing the two by his will alone to enjoy the good heaven had already granted them; that he should likewise set his eyes on Dorotea’s beauty, and he would see that few or none could equal it, let alone surpass it, and that he should add to her beauty her humility and the extreme of the love she bore him; and, above all, he should bear in mind that if he prided himself on being a gentleman and a Christian, he could do nothing other than keep the word he had given her, and that, keeping it, he would fulfill his duty to God and satisfy sensible people, who know and recognize that it is the prerogative of beauty, even in a humble subject, provided it goes hand in hand with modesty, to be able to rise and equal itself with any height, without any stain of loss upon him who raises it and makes it equal to himself; and, when the strong laws of desire are fulfilled, provided no sin is involved, he who follows them is not to be blamed.

In effect, to these words they all added others, such and so many, that the valiant heart of Don Fernando (being, after all, nourished by illustrious blood) softened and let itself be conquered by the truth, which he could not have denied even if he had wanted to; and the sign he gave of having yielded and surrendered to the good counsel that had been put to him was to stoop and embrace Dorotea, saying to her:

“Rise, my lady, for it is not right that she should kneel at my feet whom I hold in my soul; and if until now I have given no sign of what I say, perhaps it has been by heaven’s ordering, so that, seeing in you the faith with which you love me, I may know how to esteem you as you deserve. What I beg of you is that you not reproach me for my ill conduct and my great neglect, for the very same cause and force that moved me to take you for mine is the one that drove me to try not to be yours. And, to see that this is true, turn and look at the eyes of Luscinda, now happy, and in them you will find the excuse for all my errors; and since she has found and won what she desired, and I have found in you what I need, let her live secure and happy for long and happy years with her Cardenio, for I will pray heaven to let me live them with my Dorotea.”

And, saying this, he embraced her again and laid his face against hers with such tender feeling that he had to take great care that his tears should not give unmistakable signs of his love and repentance. Not so with the tears of Luscinda and Cardenio, nor with those of almost everyone who was present, for they began to shed so many, some for their own happiness and some for another’s, that it seemed nothing less than that some grave misfortune had befallen them all. Even Sancho Panza was weeping, though he said afterward that he was weeping only at seeing that Dorotea was not, as he had thought, Queen Micomicona, from whom he had hoped for so many favors. The wonder lasted for some while in all of them, together with the weeping, and then Cardenio and Luscinda went and knelt before Don Fernando, thanking him for the favor he had done them with such courteous words that Don Fernando did not know what to answer them; and so he raised them up and embraced them with signs of great love and great courtesy.

He then asked Dorotea to tell him how she had come to that place so far from her own. She, in a few sensible words, told everything she had told Cardenio earlier, which Don Fernando and those who came with him enjoyed so much that they wished the tale had lasted longer: such was the grace with which Dorotea told her misfortunes. And, as soon as she had finished, Don Fernando told what had happened to him in the city after he found the paper in Luscinda’s bosom in which she declared that she was Cardenio’s wife and could not be his. He said that he had wanted to kill her, and would have done it had her parents not prevented him; and that so he had left the house, spiteful and ashamed, determined to take his revenge more at his ease; and that the next day he learned that Luscinda had disappeared from her parents’ house, without anyone being able to say where she had gone, and that, in short, after some months he came to learn that she was in a convent, intending to stay there all her life if she could not spend it with Cardenio; and that, as soon as he learned it, choosing those three gentlemen for his company, he came to the place where she was, but had not wanted to speak to her, fearing that, once it was known he was there, there would be a closer guard kept at the convent; and so, waiting for a day when the porter’s lodge would be open, he left two to guard the door, and he and another had gone into the convent looking for Luscinda, whom they found in the cloister talking with a nun; and, snatching her up, without giving her a chance to do anything else, they had come with her to a place where they furnished themselves with what they needed for taking her away. All of which they had been able to do in complete safety, because the convent stood in the open country, a good way outside the town. He said that, as soon as Luscinda saw herself in his power, she lost all her senses; and that, after coming to herself, she had done nothing but weep and sigh, without speaking a single word; and that so, accompanied by silence and tears, they had arrived at that inn, which for him was like arriving in heaven, where all the misfortunes of the earth are brought to a close and come to an end.