Don Quixote - Part I - Page 215/400

"I think she could not have heard all these words, for I perceived that

they called her away in haste, as the bridegroom was waiting. Now the

night of my sorrow set in, the sun of my happiness went down, I felt my

eyes bereft of sight, my mind of reason. I could not enter the house, nor

was I capable of any movement; but reflecting how important it was that I

should be present at what might take place on the occasion, I nerved

myself as best I could and went in, for I well knew all the entrances and

outlets; and besides, with the confusion that in secret pervaded the

house no one took notice of me, so, without being seen, I found an

opportunity of placing myself in the recess formed by a window of the

hall itself, and concealed by the ends and borders of two tapestries,

from between which I could, without being seen, see all that took place

in the room. Who could describe the agitation of heart I suffered as I

stood there--the thoughts that came to me--the reflections that passed

through my mind? They were such as cannot be, nor were it well they

should be, told. Suffice it to say that the bridegroom entered the hall

in his usual dress, without ornament of any kind; as groomsman he had

with him a cousin of Luscinda's and except the servants of the house

there was no one else in the chamber. Soon afterwards Luscinda came out

from an antechamber, attended by her mother and two of her damsels,

arrayed and adorned as became her rank and beauty, and in full festival

and ceremonial attire. My anxiety and distraction did not allow me to

observe or notice particularly what she wore; I could only perceive the

colours, which were crimson and white, and the glitter of the gems and

jewels on her head dress and apparel, surpassed by the rare beauty of her

lovely auburn hair that vying with the precious stones and the light of

the four torches that stood in the hall shone with a brighter gleam than

all. Oh memory, mortal foe of my peace! why bring before me now the

incomparable beauty of that adored enemy of mine? Were it not better,

cruel memory, to remind me and recall what she then did, that stirred by

a wrong so glaring I may seek, if not vengeance now, at least to rid

myself of life? Be not weary, sirs, of listening to these digressions; my

sorrow is not one of those that can or should be told tersely and

briefly, for to me each incident seems to call for many words."