บทที่ บทที่ 13 · CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER

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

CHAPTER XIII.

IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER

INCIDENTS

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But 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, Señor 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 Quintañona, 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,

Señor 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, Ambrosio 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 Ambrosio “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 phœnix 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 Cæsar had he permitted the directions left

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

Señor Ambrosio 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 Ambrosio, 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, señor, 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, señor, 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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