Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] (53 page)

At dawn, Anselmo’s desire to hear what Leonela wanted to tell him was so great, he did not even notice that Camila was not at his side but got up and went to the room where he had left the maid. He unlocked the door and went in but did not find Leonela there; he found only some sheets knotted together and tied to the window, a clear sign that she had used them to climb down and leave the house. Then he walked back to his own room very mournfully to tell Camila and was stunned not to find her in bed or anywhere in the house. He questioned the servants, but no one could answer his questions.

As he was looking for Camila, he happened to see the open chests and saw too that most of her jewels were missing from them, and this was when he became aware of the calamity and knew that Leonela was not the cause of his affliction. He did not even bother to finish dressing, but just as he was, sad and melancholy, he went to tell his friend Lotario about his misfortune. But when he did not find him, and the servants said Lotario had left in the night and taken with him all the money he had, Anselmo thought he would go mad. As a final blow, when he returned home all of the servants had gone, and his house was empty and deserted.

He did not know what to think, what to say, or what to do, but slowly
his judgment began to return. He reflected on what had happened and saw himself deprived, in an instant, of his wife, his friend, and his servants, abandoned, it seemed to him, by heaven, and, above all, bereft of honor, for in Camila’s absence he saw his ruination.

Finally he resolved, after a long while, to go to the village where he had stayed with his friend when he gave them the opportunity to devise that misfortune. He locked the doors of his house, mounted his horse, and set out with weakening courage; when he had traveled only half the distance, he was overwhelmed by his thoughts and had to dismount; he tied his horse’s reins to a tree and dropped to the ground beneath it, heaving tender, pitiful sighs, and lay there until it was almost dark; then he saw a man on horseback riding toward him from the city, and after greeting him, he asked what the news was in Florence. The citizen responded:

“The strangest heard there in many days, because it is being said publicly that Lotario, the great friend of Anselmo the rich man, who lived near San Giovanni, ran off last night with Camila, Anselmo’s wife, and Anselmo is nowhere to be found. All of this was disclosed by one of Camila’s maids, who was discovered last night by the governor as she climbed down a sheet hanging from a window in Anselmo’s house. The fact is that I don’t know exactly how everything turned out; all I know is that the whole city is astonished by what happened, since it was not what anybody expected from their great friendship, for they were so close that people called them
the two friends.
”

“Do you know, by any chance,” said Anselmo, “where Lotario and Camila went?”

“I have no idea,” said the Florentine, “although the governor has made every effort to find them.”

“Then God go with you, Señor,” said Anselmo.

“And with you,” responded the Florentine, and he rode away.

At such calamitous news, Anselmo was on the verge not only of losing his mind but of ending his life. He struggled to his feet and reached the house of his friend, who still knew nothing of his misfortune, but when he saw Anselmo come in looking pallid, exhausted, and drawn, he realized that something very serious had happened. Anselmo immediately asked to be helped to his bed and to be given writing materials. This was done, and he was left lying in bed, the door closed, as he had requested. When he found himself alone, his mind became so burdened with thoughts of his misfortune that he knew his life was coming to an
end, and so he decided to leave some explanation of his strange death; he began to write, but before he had finished putting down everything he wanted to say, his breath failed, and he yielded up his life to the grief caused by his reckless curiosity.

The master of the house, seeing that it was late and Anselmo had not called for him, decided to go in to find out if he was feeling better, and he found him facedown, half his body in bed and the other half slumped over the writing desk, the paper he had been writing on unsealed and the pen still in his hand. His host came over to him, having first called his name, and when Anselmo did not answer he grasped his hand, found it cold, and knew that he was dead. Shocked and grief-stricken, his friend summoned the household to see the misfortune that had befallen Anselmo, and finally he read the paper, written by Anselmo’s own hand, which said:

A foolish and reckless desire took my life. If news of my death should reach Camila, she must know that I forgive her, for she was not obliged to perform miracles, and I had no need to ask her to; since I constructed my own dishonor, there is no reason to…

Anselmo wrote this far, making it clear that before he could end his thought, his life came to an end. The following day, his friend informed Anselmo’s kin of his death; they already knew of his misfortune and of the convent where Camila was almost at the point of joining her husband on that inevitable journey, not on account of her husband’s death, but because of what she had heard about her absent lover. It was said that although a widow, she did not wish to leave the convent, much less take vows to be a nun; then, a few days later, the news reached her that Lotario had died in the battle between Monsieur de Lautrec and the Great Captain Gonzalo Fernández de Córdoba, which had just taken place in the kingdom of Naples, where Anselmo’s friend, repentant too late, had fled;
⁴
when Camila learned this, she took her vows, and not long afterward her life ended in the pitiless embrace of sorrow and melancholy. This was the end met by the three and born of such rash beginnings.

“This novel seems fine,” said the priest, “but I cannot persuade myself that it is true; if it is invented, the author invented badly, because no
one can imagine any husband foolish enough to conduct the costly experiment that Anselmo did. If this occurred between a lover and his lady, it might be plausible, but between a husband and his wife it seems impossible; as for the manner in which it was told, I did not find it displeasing.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

Just then the innkeeper, who was at the entrance to the inn, said:

“Here comes a beautiful collection of guests: if they stop here, we’ll have some
gaudeamus.
”

“What kind of people?” said Cardenio.

“Four men,” responded the innkeeper, “on horseback, with short stirrups, lances, and shields, and all of them wearing black masks;
²
with them is a woman dressed in white, riding sidesaddle, and her face is covered, too, and there are two servants with them, on foot.”

“Are they very near?” asked the priest.

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

When Dorotea heard this she covered her face, and Cardenio went into the room where Don Quixote was sleeping; they almost did not have time to do so before everyone described by the innkeeper came into the inn; the four riders, of a very gallant appearance and disposition, dismounted and went to help the woman down from the sidesaddle, and one of them took her in his arms and sat her in a chair that was near the door of the room where Cardenio had gone to hide. In all this time, neither she nor the men had removed their masks, or spoken a single word, but as the woman sat in the chair she sighed deeply and let her arms fall
to her sides, as if she were sick and weak. The servants who had come on foot led the horses to the stables.

The priest, seeing this, and longing to know who these people were who dressed in this fashion and kept so silent, walked over to the servants and asked one of them what he wanted to know; the servant responded:

“By my faith, Señor, I can’t tell you who these people are: I only know that they seem to be very important, especially the one who took the lady in his arms, and I say this because all the others have respect for him and do only what he orders and commands.”

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

“I don’t know that, either,” the servant responded, “because during the whole journey I haven’t seen her face; I’ve heard her sigh, very often, and moan, and each time it sounds as if her heart were about to break. It’s no surprise we don’t know more than this, because my companions and I have been traveling with them for only two days; we met on the road, and they asked us and persuaded us to go with them as far as Andalucía, and they offered to pay us very well.”

“Have you heard any of their names?” asked the priest.

“No, we surely haven’t,” responded the servant, “because it’s a wonder how silently they travel; all you hear from them are the sighs and sobs of that poor lady, and we really feel sorry for her; we think she’s being forced to go wherever it is that she’s going; from what we’ve seen of her clothes, she’s a nun, or she’s going to become one, which seems more likely, and maybe she isn’t becoming a nun of her own free will, and that’s why she seems so melancholy.”

“That’s possible,” said the priest.

And leaving them, he walked back to Dorotea, who, hearing the masked woman sigh, and moved by her natural compassion, approached her and said:

“What troubles you, Señora? If it is an ailment that women know about and can cure, I am happy to offer my services to you.”

In response to this the sorrowful lady remained silent, and although Dorotea repeated her offer she maintained her silence, until the masked gentleman, the one the servant said was obeyed by the others, approached and said to Dorotea:

“Do not waste your time, Señora, in offering anything to this woman, since it is her custom never to give thanks for anything that is done for her, and do not encourage her to respond, unless you wish to hear her tell a lie.”

“I have never told one,” said the woman, who up to this moment had
been silent. “Rather, it is because I am so truthful, so lacking in deceptive wiles, that I find myself in this predicament; I call on you as my witness, for the absolute truth I tell turns you into a lying traitor.”

Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, for he was very near the one who said them, separated from her only by the door to Don Quixote’s room, and when he heard them, he gave a great shout, saying:

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

The lady, in great consternation, turned her head when she heard these shouts, and not seeing the one who was shouting, she rose to her feet and was about to enter the room; the gentleman, seeing this, stopped her and did not allow her to take a step. She was so distraught and agitated that the cloth covering her face slipped off, revealing an incomparably beautiful face, though one that was pale and frightened, as her eyes looked all around her, darting back and forth with so much urgency that she seemed a person who had lost her reason; these gestures and movements, though Dorotea did not know why she was making them, filled her and all who looked upon the lady with great pity. The gentleman held her tightly by the shoulders, and because he was so involved in holding her back, he could not keep his own mask raised, and it too slipped off; Dorotea, who had put her arms around the lady, looked up and saw that the man also holding the lady was her husband, Don Fernando; no sooner had she recognized him than from the bottom of her heart there rose a long, mournful
ay!
and she fell backward in a swoon, and if the barber had not been close by and had not caught her in his arms, she would have fallen to the floor.

The priest hurried over and removed Dorotea’s veil so that he could sprinkle her face with water, and as soon as her face was uncovered, Don Fernando recognized her, for it was he who held the other woman, and he turned deathly pale when he saw her; even so, he did not release Luscinda, for it was she who was struggling to free herself from his arms, having recognized Cardenio’s voice, as he had recognized hers. When Cardenio heard the
ay!
that came from Dorotea when she fainted, he thought it had come from his Luscinda, and he rushed out of the room, terrified, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando with his arms around Luscinda. Don Fernando also recognized Cardenio, and the three of them, Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorotea, were left speechless with astonishment, barely knowing what had happened to them.

All were silent as they all looked at one another: Dorotea at Don Fernando, Don Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda
at Cardenio. But the first one to break the silence was Luscinda, who spoke to Don Fernando in this manner:

“Let me go, Don Fernando, for the sake of what you owe to your person, since you will not do so for any other reason, and let me cling to the wall on which I am the ivy, the support from which you have not been able to tear me despite your solicitations, threats, promises, and gifts. See how heaven, in its miraculous, mysterious way, has brought my true husband before me. And you know very well, after a thousand costly efforts, that only death is strong enough to wipe him from my memory. Therefore let this clear discouragement persuade you to turn love into rage, desire into disgust, and then put an end to my life; if I lose it in the presence of my dear husband, it will be well lost, for perhaps with my death, he will be convinced that I kept faith with him until the very end.”

In the meantime, Dorotea had recovered from her swoon; she heard everything Luscinda said and realized who she was, and seeing that Don Fernando still had not freed her or responded to her words, Dorotea used all her strength to stand; then she fell to her knees in front of him, and shedding a great quantity of beautiful, heartrending tears, she began to speak to him, saying:

“If, Señor, the rays from this sun that you hold eclipsed in your arms have not clouded and darkened the light in your own eyes, then you will have seen that she who kneels at your feet is Dorotea, luckless and unfortunate until you will otherwise. I am that humble peasant whom you, out of kindness or for the sake of your own pleasure, wished to elevate to the height where she could call herself yours. I am the one who, secluded and surrounded by virtue, lived a happy life until, heeding your urgent words and what seemed to be fitting and loving sentiments, opened the doors of her modesty and handed you the keys to her freedom, a gift so little valued by you that I have been obliged to come to the place where you find me now, and see you in the manner in which I now see you. Even so, I would not want you to think that my dishonor has directed my steps, when I have been brought here only by the sorrow and grief of being forgotten by you.