Don Quixote_ Translation by Edith Grossman (HarperCollins) - Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra [228]
“If anyone is awake, listen, and you will hear the voice of one of the muledrivers’ boys; he sings so well that he sounds like an angel.”
“We hear him, Señor,” replied Dorotea.
And so Cardenio left, and Dorotea, listening very attentively, heard the words that the boy was singing. They were:
CHAPTER XLIII
Which recounts the pleasing tale of the muledriver’s boy, along with other strange events that occurred at the inn
I, a mariner of love,
sail passion’s perilous deeps
desperate to find a cove
or harbor, or rest or peace.
Guided by a distant star
more radiant, more bright,
though its light shines from afar,
than any Palinurus spied.
I know not where she leads,
I sail perplexed, confused,
my soul care-laden, careless,
wanting nothing but to gaze
Upon her. Uncommon
modesty, rarest virtue,
like clouds hide her fair mien;
I would restore it to view.
O splendid, luminous star,
cause of my tears and sighs,
when you hide your face entire
then I will surely die!
When the singer had reached this point, it seemed to Dorotea that Clara ought not to miss hearing so fine a voice, and she shook her gently to wake her, saying:
“Forgive me, my dear, for waking you, but I want you to listen to the best voice you may ever have heard in your life.”
Clara stirred and was still half-asleep, and at first she did not understand what Dorotea was saying and asked her to repeat it, and when she did, Clara paid close attention. But when she heard barely two lines sung by that voice, she began to tremble as if taken ill in a sudden attack of quartain fever, and throwing her arms around Dorotea, she said:
“Oh, dear lady of my heart and soul! Why did you wake me? The greatest favor that fortune could grant me now would be to close my eyes and ears so that I could not see or hear that unhappy singer.”
“What are you saying, my dear? They say that the person singing is a muledriver’s boy.”
“Oh no, he is the lord of many villages, and of a domain in my heart which he holds so unalterably that unless he chooses to leave it, it will be his forever.”
Dorotea was astonished at the girl’s deeply felt words, which seemed to her far more discerning than might have been expected from one so young, and so she said to her:
“You speak, Señora Clara, in a way I cannot understand: explain what you mean by heart and domains, and tell me of this musician, whose voice has left you so agitated. But say nothing now, because in the event you become even more perturbed, I do not want to miss the pleasure I derive from his voice; I think he is going to start again, with new lyrics and a new melody.”
“By all means,” responded Clara.
But in order not to hear him, she covered her ears with her hands, which also astonished Dorotea, who listened carefully, and this is what she heard:
Oh, sweet hope of mine,
taming th’impossible, struggling past thorns,
bravely walking the path
that you alone have cut, you alone adorn;
do not despair fair hope
if each step brings you closer to death’s scope.
The slothful never win
laurels of triumph or honored victories;
since they ne’er contend
with fate, fortune, and fame they never see,
but weak in indolence,
they turn to idle joys of flesh and sense.
Love puts a high price
on its glories; that is just and fair, for
there’s no richer prize
than one that is esteemed at its true worth,
and it is surely clear
that things are not highly valued if not dear.
Steadfastness in love
can often win impossibilities;
though this may prove
too harsh a terrain for my tenacity,
I despise that fear
and strive to reach my heaven from this sphere.1
Here the voice came to an end, and Clara began to sob again, all of which inflamed Dorotea’s desire to know the reason for so melodious a song and such piteous weeping. And so she again asked Clara what she had meant earlier, and the girl, fearful that Luscinda would hear her, held Dorotea