CHAPTER 13
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 to-
wards 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 ser-
vants 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 set-
tle 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 his-
tories 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 king-
dom 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 re-
cover 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-be-
tween and confidante therein being the highly honourable dame Quin-
tanona, 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 ex-
tending 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 over-
mastered 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 jour-
ney 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 neces-
sary 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 re-
lates 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 en-
gaged 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 disap-
pointed 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 ad-
venture 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 com-
mend 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 usu-
al 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 to-
wards 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 innumer-
able 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 op-
portunity for doing so while they are engaged in their task.”
“For all that,” answered the traveller, “I feel some doubt still, because of-
ten 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-ca-
reer they are wont to commend themselves to their ladies; and what com-
monly 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 fall-
ing 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 histo-
ry 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 le-
gitimate 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 fan-
cy 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 Man-
cha, 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 at-
tributes 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 al-
abaster, 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 Valen-
cia; Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Fo-
ces, 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 con-
versation 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 be-
lieving 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 cy-
press. 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 courte-
ously, and then Don Quixote and those who accompanied him turned to ex-
amine 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 show-
ing 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 com-
plied 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 reject-
ing 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 eter-
nal 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 rich-
es. That is the body of Chrysostom, who was unrivalled in wit, unequalled
in courtesy, unapproached in gentle bearing, a phoenix in friendship, gener-
ous 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 rea-
sonable in Augustus Caesar had he permitted the directions left by the di-
vine 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 dan-
ger; 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 friend-
ship, 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, togeth-
er with the end awaiting those who pursue rashly the path that insane pas-
sion 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 burn-
ing 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.
