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VOLUME[ VOLUME 1  ]  

CHAPTER[ XIII. IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER

INCIDENTS

Bit hardly had day begun to show itself through the balconies of the

east, when five of the six goatherds came to rouse Don Quixote and tell

him that if he was still of a mind to go and see the famous burial of

Chrysostom they would bear him company. Don Quixote, who desired nothing

better, rose and ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel at once, which he

did with all despatch, and with the same they all set out forthwith. They

had not gone a quarter of a league when at the meeting of two paths they

saw coming towards them some six shepherds dressed in black sheepskins

and with their heads crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter

oleander. Each of them carried a stout holly staff in his hand, and along

with them there came two men of quality on horseback in handsome

travelling dress, with three servants on foot accompanying them.

Courteous salutations were exchanged on meeting, and inquiring one of the

other which way each party was going, they learned that all were bound

for the scene of the burial, so they went on all together.

One of those on horseback addressing his companion said to him, "It seems

to me, Senor Vivaldo, that we may reckon as well spent the delay we shall

incur in seeing this remarkable funeral, for remarkable it cannot but be

judging by the strange things these shepherds have told us, of both the

dead shepherd and homicide shepherdess."

"So I think too," replied Vivaldo, "and I would delay not to say a day,

but four, for the sake of seeing it."

Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of Marcela and

Chrysostom. The traveller answered that the same morning they had met

these shepherds, and seeing them dressed in this mournful fashion they

had asked them the reason of their appearing in such a guise; which one

of them gave, describing the strange behaviour and beauty of a

shepherdess called Marcela, and the loves of many who courted her,

together with the death of that Chrysostom to whose burial they were

going. In short, he repeated all that Pedro had related to Don Quixote.

This conversation dropped, and another was commenced by him who was

called Vivaldo asking Don Quixote what was the reason that led him to go

armed in that fashion in a country so peaceful. To which Don Quixote

replied, "The pursuit of my calling does not allow or permit me to go in

any other fashion; easy life, enjoyment, and repose were invented for

soft courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms were invented and made for

those alone whom the world calls knights-errant, of whom I, though

unworthy, am the least of all."

The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and the better to

settle the point and discover what kind of madness his was, Vivaldo

proceeded to ask him what knights-errant meant.

"Have not your worships," replied Don Quixote, "read the annals and

histories of England, in which are recorded the famous deeds of King

Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian invariably call King Artus, with

regard to whom it is an ancient tradition, and commonly received all over

that kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did not die, but was

changed by magic art into a raven, and that in process of time he is to

return to reign and recover his kingdom and sceptre; for which reason it

cannot be proved that from that time to this any Englishman ever killed a

raven? Well, then, in the time of this good king that famous order of

chivalry of the Knights of the Round Table was instituted, and the amour

of Don Lancelot of the Lake with the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely

as is there related, the go-between and confidante therein being the

highly honourable dame Quintanona, whence came that ballad so well known

and widely spread in our Spain--

O never surely was there knight

  So served by hand of dame,

As served was he Sir Lancelot hight

  When he from Britain came--

with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements in love and

war. Handed down from that time, then, this order of chivalry went on

extending and spreading itself over many and various parts of the world;

and in it, famous and renowned for their deeds, were the mighty Amadis of

Gaul with all his sons and descendants to the fifth generation, and the

valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never sufficiently praised

Tirante el Blanco, and in our own days almost we have seen and heard and

talked with the invincible knight Don Belianis of Greece. This, then,

sirs, is to be a knight-errant, and what I have spoken of is the order of

his chivalry, of which, as I have already said, I, though a sinner, have

made profession, and what the aforesaid knights professed that same do I

profess, and so I go through these solitudes and wilds seeking

adventures, resolved in soul to oppose my arm and person to the most

perilous that fortune may offer me in aid of the weak and needy."

By these words of his the travellers were able to satisfy themselves of

Don Quixote's being out of his senses and of the form of madness that

overmastered him, at which they felt the same astonishment that all felt

on first becoming acquainted with it; and Vivaldo, who was a person of

great shrewdness and of a lively temperament, in order to beguile the

short journey which they said was required to reach the mountain, the

scene of the burial, sought to give him an opportunity of going on with

his absurdities. So he said to him, "It seems to me, Senor Knight-errant,

that your worship has made choice of one of the most austere professions

in the world, and I imagine even that of the Carthusian monks is not so

austere."

"As austere it may perhaps be," replied our Don Quixote, "but so

necessary for the world I am very much inclined to doubt. For, if the

truth is to be told, the soldier who executes what his captain orders

does no less than the captain himself who gives the order. My meaning,

is, that churchmen in peace and quiet pray to Heaven for the welfare of

the world, but we soldiers and knights carry into effect what they pray

for, defending it with the might of our arms and the edge of our swords,

not under shelter but in the open air, a target for the intolerable rays

of the sun in summer and the piercing frosts of winter. Thus are we God's

ministers on earth and the arms by which his justice is done therein. And

as the business of war and all that relates and belongs to it cannot be

conducted without exceeding great sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows

that those who make it their profession have undoubtedly more labour than

those who in tranquil peace and quiet are engaged in praying to God to

help the weak. I do not mean to say, nor does it enter into my thoughts,

that the knight-errant's calling is as good as that of the monk in his

cell; I would merely infer from what I endure myself that it is beyond a

doubt a more laborious and a more belaboured one, a hungrier and

thirstier, a wretcheder, raggeder, and lousier; for there is no reason to

doubt that the knights-errant of yore endured much hardship in the course

of their lives. And if some of them by the might of their arms did rise

to be emperors, in faith it cost them dear in the matter of blood and

sweat; and if those who attained to that rank had not had magicians and

sages to help them they would have been completely baulked in their

ambition and disappointed in their hopes."

"That is my own opinion," replied the traveller; "but one thing among

many others seems to me very wrong in knights-errant, and that is that

when they find themselves about to engage in some mighty and perilous

adventure in which there is manifest danger of losing their lives, they

never at the moment of engaging in it think of commending themselves to

God, as is the duty of every good Christian in like peril; instead of

which they commend themselves to their ladies with as much devotion as if

these were their gods, a thing which seems to me to savour somewhat of

heathenism."

"Sir," answered Don Quixote, "that cannot be on any account omitted, and

the knight-errant would be disgraced who acted otherwise: for it is usual

and customary in knight-errantry that the knight-errant, who on engaging

in any great feat of arms has his lady before him, should turn his eyes

towards her softly and lovingly, as though with them entreating her to

favour and protect him in the hazardous venture he is about to undertake,

and even though no one hear him, he is bound to say certain words between

his teeth, commending himself to her with all his heart, and of this we

have innumerable instances in the histories. Nor is it to be supposed

from this that they are to omit commending themselves to God, for there

will be time and opportunity for doing so while they are engaged in their

task."

"For all that," answered the traveller, "I feel some doubt still, because

often I have read how words will arise between two knights-errant, and

from one thing to another it comes about that their anger kindles and

they wheel their horses round and take a good stretch of field, and then

without any more ado at the top of their speed they come to the charge,

and in mid-career they are wont to commend themselves to their ladies;

and what commonly comes of the encounter is that one falls over the

haunches of his horse pierced through and through by his antagonist's

lance, and as for the other, it is only by holding on to the mane of his

horse that he can help falling to the ground; but I know not how the dead

man had time to commend himself to God in the course of such rapid work

as this; it would have been better if those words which he spent in

commending himself to his lady in the midst of his career had been

devoted to his duty and obligation as a Christian. Moreover, it is my

belief that all knights-errant have not ladies to commend themselves to,

for they are not all in love."

"That is impossible," said Don Quixote: "I say it is impossible that

there could be a knight-errant without a lady, because to such it is as

natural and proper to be in love as to the heavens to have stars: most

certainly no history has been seen in which there is to be found a

knight-errant without an amour, and for the simple reason that without

one he would be held no legitimate knight but a bastard, and one who had

gained entrance into the stronghold of the said knighthood, not by the

door, but over the wall like a thief and a robber."

"Nevertheless," said the traveller, "if I remember rightly, I think I

have read that Don Galaor, the brother of the valiant Amadis of Gaul,

never had any special lady to whom he might commend himself, and yet he

was not the less esteemed, and was a very stout and famous knight."

To which our Don Quixote made answer, "Sir, one solitary swallow does not

make summer; moreover, I know that knight was in secret very deeply in

love; besides which, that way of falling in love with all that took his

fancy was a natural propensity which he could not control. But, in short,

it is very manifest that he had one alone whom he made mistress of his

will, to whom he commended himself very frequently and very secretly, for

he prided himself on being a reticent knight."

"Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should be in love,"

said the traveller, "it may be fairly supposed that your worship is so,

as you are of the order; and if you do not pride yourself on being as

reticent as Don Galaor, I entreat you as earnestly as I can, in the name

of all this company and in my own, to inform us of the name, country,

rank, and beauty of your lady, for she will esteem herself fortunate if

all the world knows that she is loved and served by such a knight as your

worship seems to be."

At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and said, "I cannot say positively

whether my sweet enemy is pleased or not that the world should know I

serve her; I can only say in answer to what has been so courteously asked

of me, that her name is Dulcinea, her country El Toboso, a village of La

Mancha, her rank must be at least that of a princess, since she is my

queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman, since all the impossible and

fanciful attributes of beauty which the poets apply to their ladies are

verified in her; for her hairs are gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her

eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her

teeth pearls, her neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her

fairness snow, and what modesty conceals from sight such, I think and

imagine, as rational reflection can only extol, not compare."

"We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry," said Vivaldo.

To which Don Quixote replied, "She is not of the ancient Roman Curtii,

Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas or Orsini, nor of the

Moncadas or Requesenes of Catalonia, nor yet of the Rebellas or

Villanovas of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas,

Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or Gurreas of Aragon; Cerdas, Manriques,

Mendozas, or Guzmans of Castile; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of

Portugal; but she is of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage that

though modern, may furnish a source of gentle blood for the most

illustrious families of the ages that are to come, and this let none

dispute with me save on the condition that Zerbino placed at the foot of

the trophy of Orlando's arms, saying,

'These let none move Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.'"

"Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo," said the traveller, "I

will not venture to compare it with that of El Toboso of La Mancha,

though, to tell the truth, no such surname has until now ever reached my

ears."

"What!" said Don Quixote, "has that never reached them?"

The rest of the party went along listening with great attention to the

conversation of the pair, and even the very goatherds and shepherds

perceived how exceedingly out of his wits our Don Quixote was. Sancho

Panza alone thought that what his master said was the truth, knowing who

he was and having known him from his birth; and all that he felt any

difficulty in believing was that about the fair Dulcinea del Toboso,

because neither any such name nor any such princess had ever come to his

knowledge though he lived so close to El Toboso. They were going along

conversing in this way, when they saw descending a gap between two high

mountains some twenty shepherds, all clad in sheepskins of black wool,

and crowned with garlands which, as afterwards appeared, were, some of

them of yew, some of cypress. Six of the number were carrying a bier

covered with a great variety of flowers and branches, on seeing which one

of the goatherds said, "Those who come there are the bearers of

Chrysostom's body, and the foot of that mountain is the place where he

ordered them to bury him." They therefore made haste to reach the spot,

and did so by the time those who came had laid the bier upon the ground,

and four of them with sharp pickaxes were digging a grave by the side of

a hard rock. They greeted each other courteously, and then Don Quixote

and those who accompanied him turned to examine the bier, and on it,

covered with flowers, they saw a dead body in the dress of a shepherd, to

all appearance of one thirty years of age, and showing even in death that

in life he had been of comely features and gallant bearing. Around him on

the bier itself were laid some books, and several papers open and folded;

and those who were looking on as well as those who were opening the grave

and all the others who were there preserved a strange silence, until one

of those who had borne the body said to another, "Observe carefully,

Ambrosia if this is the place Chrysostom spoke of, since you are anxious

that what he directed in his will should be so strictly complied with."

"This is the place," answered Ambrosia "for in it many a time did my poor

friend tell me the story of his hard fortune. Here it was, he told me,

that he saw for the first time that mortal enemy of the human race, and

here, too, for the first time he declared to her his passion, as

honourable as it was devoted, and here it was that at last Marcela ended

by scorning and rejecting him so as to bring the tragedy of his wretched

life to a close; here, in memory of misfortunes so great, he desired to

be laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion." Then turning to Don Quixote

and the travellers he went on to say, "That body, sirs, on which you are

looking with compassionate eyes, was the abode of a soul on which Heaven

bestowed a vast share of its riches. That is the body of Chrysostom, who

was unrivalled in wit, unequalled in courtesy, unapproached in gentle

bearing, a phoenix in friendship, generous without limit, grave without

arrogance, gay without vulgarity, and, in short, first in all that

constitutes goodness and second to none in all that makes up misfortune.

He loved deeply, he was hated; he adored, he was scorned; he wooed a wild

beast, he pleaded with marble, he pursued the wind, he cried to the

wilderness, he served ingratitude, and for reward was made the prey of

death in the mid-course of life, cut short by a shepherdess whom he

sought to immortalise in the memory of man, as these papers which you see

could fully prove, had he not commanded me to consign them to the fire

after having consigned his body to the earth."

"You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than their owner

himself," said Vivaldo, "for it is neither right nor proper to do the

will of one who enjoins what is wholly unreasonable; it would not have

been reasonable in Augustus Caesar had he permitted the directions left

by the divine Mantuan in his will to be carried into effect. So that,

Senor Ambrosia while you consign your friend's body to the earth, you

should not consign his writings to oblivion, for if he gave the order in

bitterness of heart, it is not right that you should irrationally obey

it. On the contrary, by granting life to those papers, let the cruelty of

Marcela live for ever, to serve as a warning in ages to come to all men

to shun and avoid falling into like danger; or I and all of us who have

come here know already the story of this your love-stricken and

heart-broken friend, and we know, too, your friendship, and the cause of

his death, and the directions he gave at the close of his life; from

which sad story may be gathered how great was the cruelty of Marcela, the

love of Chrysostom, and the loyalty of your friendship, together with the

end awaiting those who pursue rashly the path that insane passion opens

to their eyes. Last night we learned the death of Chrysostom and that he

was to be buried here, and out of curiosity and pity we left our direct

road and resolved to come and see with our eyes that which when heard of

had so moved our compassion, and in consideration of that compassion and

our desire to prove it if we might by condolence, we beg of you,

excellent Ambrosia, or at least I on my own account entreat you, that

instead of burning those papers you allow me to carry away some of them."

And without waiting for the shepherd's answer, he stretched out his hand

and took up some of those that were nearest to him; seeing which Ambrosio

said, "Out of courtesy, senor, I will grant your request as to those you

have taken, but it is idle to expect me to abstain from burning the

remainder."

Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, opened one of

them at once, and saw that its title was "Lay of Despair."

Ambrosio hearing it said, "That is the last paper the unhappy man wrote;

and that you may see, senor, to what an end his misfortunes brought him,

read it so that you may be heard, for you will have time enough for that

while we are waiting for the grave to be dug."

"I will do so very willingly," said Vivaldo; and as all the bystanders

were equally eager they gathered round him, and he, reading in a loud

voice, found that it ran as follows.

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